Caroline Anderson - Role Play

‘Only if we can go in my car,’ she said quickly.

He grinned. ‘Mine not good enough for you?’ he teased.

She felt herself flush, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that, but it is a little — well — unconventional?’ she tried.

He grinned. ‘So she is. I’m only using her while my incredibly boring and middle-of-the-road Volvo is being serviced. Topsy usually only comes out on high days and holidays.’

‘Topsy?’ she said incredulously. Not since her brothers’ youth had she heard of a car with a name. ‘Why Topsy?’

He shrugged expressively. ‘Because of the servicing and repair bills, which, like Topsy, just grow’d and grow’d.’

She laughed softly. ‘I’ll bet. Look, I’m sorry if I was rude. It’s nothing personal, I’m just not into retro-motoring.’

He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Most women think she’s wonderful.’

‘Yes, well, I’m not most women,’ she told him repressively.

He shot her an odd look. ‘No, you’re not, are you?’ he said, his voice quiet. ‘Pity, it could have been fun. Ah, well …’ He uncoiled his legs and stood up, suddenly almost oppressively large in the small room, and ambled towards the door, whistling softly.

She glared at his departing back, and was treated to the disturbing sight of his neat little bottom and long, lean legs striding casually down the corridor, the soft cotton of his trousers tugging and easing, outlining his firm, muscular thighs with every stride.

He turned at the end and caught her watching him, smiling knowingly at her blush.

‘Coming?’

She went — against her better judgement — in Topsy. The car was in distinctly average condition, and she handled, as he put it, ‘like a bitch’, which did nothing for Abbie’s nerves. Nor, frankly, did his proximity in the little car. It was, quite simply, nothing like big enough to keep her as far away from his long, rangy body as she would have liked to be, and every time he changed gear her leg muscles contracted to pull herself further away from him.

Predictably, he noticed. ‘Why are you trying to climb out of the door?’ he asked casually.

She forced herself to appear relaxed. ‘I wasn’t — I was just trying to keep out of your way.’

He shot her an evil grin. ‘Don’t worry on my account,’ he told her, and she gave him a dirty look and turned away to stare fixedly out of the side-window, anchoring her hair firmly with one hand to stop it from flying in her eyes.

It was a mercifully short drive, thankfully, through the leafy little Suffolk town of Brocklingford to the house of his first patient.

She was a girl of twelve who suffered from autism, a disorder of behaviour affecting the ability to communicate, where everything said was taken literally — not only words, but tone and movements. Nothing emphatic, nor over-demonstrative, and certainly no physical contact that was a demonstration of affection, Leo told her, because the other and most noticeable feature of autism was an inability to form any relationship or interact normally with another person. It also involved repetitive behaviour patterns, and frustration of those patterns almost inevitably led to major tantrums.

Maxie, she was told, was not severely autistic but had ‘autistic features’ — meaning, in her case, the lack of social communication skills, and repetitive behaviour coupled with the classic shocking temper. However, she was very gifted musically and also highly intelligent, which was quite unusual.

Abbie was interested, never having had an autistic patient, but she was quite unprepared for the level of literal thinking she was to find.

Maxie’s mother greeted them at the door and told them that she had refused to stay in bed. Leo grinned, unsurprised, and followed the woman through to the back of the house.

The girl was pretty in a plain sort of way, but very distant. She was sitting in the dining-room, playing the pino with exquisite sensitivity.

‘Hello, Maxie,’ Leo said softly.

She stopped playing abruptly and looked at him with no interest at all. ‘Dr Chandler. Why are you here?’ she asked tonelessly.

‘Your mother said you hadn’t been feeling well.’

She turned away, avoiding eye contact. ‘Yes. I’ve got a headache now. Who’s that with you?’

‘Dr Pearce. She’s going to be with the practice for a year. May I have a look at you?’

She turned back again. ‘Can’t you see me?’

At first Abbie thought she was being cheeky, but then realised she had interpreted Leo’s remark quite literally.

‘Yes, but I need to look at your eyes and ears and throat with an instrument, and measure your blood-pressure with another, and then perhaps ask you some questions about your diet.’

‘I’m not on a diet.’

‘The food you eat every day is your diet. We talk about being on a diet when we really mean a reducing diet.’

‘Oh.’ She turned away again. ‘All right.’

‘Could you come over here?’

She stood, her movements wooden, and walked over to him. He looked into her eyes with the torch, then checked her ears and took her blood-presssure and temperature.

‘You’re a bit hot.’

‘It’s sunny.’

‘No, inside. You’ve got a raised temperature — I think you might have a mild virus that’s making you feel ill. May I feel your neck and under your arms?’

She nodded, and he kept his touch to the minimum. Even so, Abbie could see her shrinking.

‘Your glands are up — I think you might have glandular fever. Have you had a sore throat recently?’

‘You did have one last week,’ her mother put in, and Maxie nodded again.

‘It was very sore — it still hurts.’

‘May I see?’

He shone his torch down her throat and nodded.

‘Yes, it looks like a mild case of glandular fever, for which the treatment is rest, rest and more rest. Early nights, not too much activity, and take things easy for a while — maybe even a month. OK?’

Her mother nodded and smiled. ‘OK. I had it when I was sixteen, so I can remember what it’s like. We’ll have to have some early nights, I think.’

Leo smiled, but Maxie turned back to the piano. ‘I don’t want to rest. Goodbye, Dr Chandler.’

She began to play again, loudly, and her mother shook her head and led them out into the hall, closing the door.

‘She really ought to rest, you know,’ Leo said seriously.

‘I know. I’ll do what I can, but she’s better off playing the piano than working herself up into a steaming tantrum over it until she collapses with exhaustion.’

‘Does she do that?’ Abbie asked, amazed that the calm, almost monochromatic child they had just witnessed could throw a tantrum.

Mrs Clarke rolled her eyes. ‘Does she ever! You’ve seen her, haven’t you, Dr Chandler?’

‘Oh, yes — it’s spectacular. She’s only calm when she’s getting her own way, but she’s as stubborn as a mule. Any attempt to coerce her and she flips. Still, you manage her very well.’

The mother shrugged. ‘I don’t really. We achieve a sort of peace by letting her do things her way. Anything else is cataclysmic! It took some time to learn how to deal with her, and years after that before I could undo the harm I’d done with hugs and cuddles and abortive attempts at discipline.’

Leo nodded. ‘The school seems to have helped.’

‘Yes — me as much as her. It gives me a break from her but the holidays are just as difficult as ever.’

Leo laid a large, comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. ‘You’re doing a grand job — don’t lose heart.’

The mother gave them a weary smile. ‘Thank you. It helps to hear it.’

As they drove away, Abbie turned to Leo and shook her head. ‘How does she cope?’