Snowed in at the Practice Read online

  ‘Help me?’ wailed Tilly, abruptly letting herself into Alice’s consulting room and closing the door behind her, leaning against it for good measure. No matter how calm and professional she was as Dr Campbell, out of hours, she was still the same old Tilly Campbell from med school, who left a trail of devastation and broken hearts in her wake.

  With plenty of promises to call her mother again soon, Alice disengaged herself from the guilt-train and turned to Tilly with a smile. ‘Ten out of ten for timing. But dare I ask who you’re hiding out from this time?’

  Tilly shrugged. ‘Just, you know, a chap in the waiting room.’ Tilly’s expression brought a whole new layer to her habitual mortification about crossing paths with her romantic conquests and Alice felt a moment of disquiet.

  ‘Tills, is he here with his wife?’ she queried, wondering whether they were about to have a scorned-spouse-on-the-rampage type moment.

  Tilly blanched. ‘Worse,’ she whispered. ‘His mother!’

  Alice’s eyes widened in shocked disbelief. ‘No?’ she breathed. Surely it hadn’t come to this? Tilly’s fuck-it-all attitude to relationships was one thing, but picking off young men who simply weren’t old enough to know better was quite another. ‘Is he . . . ?’ she ventured. ‘I mean, is he still at school?’

  It wasn’t such a stupid question. Some of the sixth form boys at the local college looked like adults, and they all knew that Teddy Kingsley had a fairly relaxed attitude to underage drinking at The Kingsley Arms. Just because this lad had been propping up the bar at the weekend with a pint, didn’t necessarily mean he was of legal age.

  Tilly shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. But seeing him with his mum, I’m suddenly not so sure. He was at the bonfire thing too. Can you look him up on the computer?’

  Alice took a breath, wondering how to tell her friend that due diligence should really come before she leapt into bed with them, not after. ‘Okay,’ she said reluctantly, knowing full well this was not what patient records were designed for. ‘Who is it?’

  The awkward pause spoke volumes.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ cursed Alice uncharacteristically. She pushed back her chair and left the room only to return moments later with a smile.

  ‘What?’ Tilly said, her awkwardness making her stroppy. ‘What are you smiling about?’

  ‘It’s Matt,’ said Alice simply. ‘Matthew Giles?’

  Tilly looked blank.

  ‘You’re fine. I mean, obviously not, or you wouldn’t be shagging anything with a pulse without finding out their name, but you’re not about to end up on the sex offenders’ register. He’s twenty-one. Moved home to take care of Molly last year. He’s actually rather lovely and far too nice to be one of your sexual discards.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Yes, oh,’ replied Alice, shaking her head.

  Tilly paused. ‘He looked older.’

  ‘Don’t you think we should be talking about this?’ Alice persisted. ‘I mean, it’s a different bloke every weekend, almost. And if you didn’t even know his name . . .’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say,’ Tilly said churlishly, ‘spending all your time pining over Jamie, happy with a long-distance relationship. I’m just not in that place. I just want a bit of fun and I’m not sure there’s anything wrong with that. I’ve been doing it for years. Not everybody wants a relationship, Al.’

  ‘Not everybody does. But you used to,’ Alice said gently.

  ‘People change,’ Tilly said under her breath. She stirred herself and plastered on a smile. ‘Sorry about barging in. Just panicked a bit when I saw him – boys and their mothers, eh?’

  ‘Maybe it was timely? I mean—’ Alice attempted, before being cut off mid-conversation.

  ‘Do we have to go over this again? I like it here. But it’s hardly challenging medicine, is it? You all keep looking at me as though I’m about to bolt, but I’m still here, aren’t I?’

  ‘You are,’ Alice conceded, ‘but even you have to admit that shagging your way through half the patient roster suggests a certain ambivalence to your future here?’

  ‘Well, when you put it like that . . . Look, it’s fine. I’m fine. No laws have been broken. Crisis averted. If you can even call it that. It’s always First World problems around here anyway, isn’t it?’ She set her jaw in a way that told Alice everything she needed to know – a classic Tilly-ism of old. It meant that she knew she was in the wrong, but was prepared to go down fighting.

  Alice nodded, her defusal skills well honed. ‘You’re absolutely right. But then, you’re never going to see anything more than that, if you never take the time to look beneath the surface, are you?’ She clicked through various windows open on her computer screen until she found the one she was looking for.

  ‘Have you even been to the Pickwick Estate in all the months you’ve lived here?’ Alice challenged her friend, knowing only too well her weakness for a cause and suspecting strongly that all her risky behaviour of late had been an attempt at filling the adrenalin void that her MSF days had previously occupied.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Tilly with a raised eyebrow. ‘Another one of the stately homes around here?’

  ‘Another kind of estate; it’s social housing,’ Alice replied, refusing to rise. ‘Families living on benefits. Health problems, drug and alcohol problems. We see kids with malnutrition, mums with depression . . . and that’s just the obvious. Ask people. If you’re looking to make a difference, you could do worse than starting there.’ Alice hit print and watched as a report form churned its way out of the printer beside her before handing it to Tilly.

  ‘Why don’t you go and do this home visit, hmm? May Fowler, sixty-three. She’s raising her granddaughter, while her daughter, Keira, is in hospital having her third round of chemo for ovarian cancer. May’s arthritis is flaring up and she’s struggling with the stairs, but the Council won’t repair the lift because it keeps being vandalised. So when I can, I go to her.’

  Alice watched Tilly flush uncomfortably, May’s circumstances chiming in direct contradiction to the picture of bucolic happiness in Larkford to which Tilly still seemed so firmly, and erroneously, wedded. Of course, Alice knew only too well that the same issues affected some of their wealthiest patients too, but somehow she felt that the Pickwick Estate might appeal to Tilly’s altruism and fondness for the underdog in a way that Georgian townhouses and cute cottages might not.

  ‘Is May retired?’ Tilly asked after a moment, scanning the document in her hands.

  Alice nodded. ‘Been a teacher for forty years. In the state sector. She really is one of the good ones, Tills. Deserves better than this for her retirement. I gather she used all her savings to help Keira get by when she was first diagnosed, hence the social housing and the surrogate mum.’

  ‘You kind of imagine that if you work your whole life and do the right thing, that you get to enjoy your retirement in a lovely cottage with roses round the door, don’t you?’ Tilly mused.

  Alice said nothing for a moment, Tilly’s question only echoing her own.

  ‘Tills?’ she said, as her friend distractedly stood up to leave. ‘Let Matthew down easy, won’t you? He doesn’t have the easiest time, but he makes such a difference to all the Young Carers around here; he doesn’t deserve the Campbell Brush-off.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘I’ll talk to him. Maybe, you know, cut down on the dating for a bit. At least locally . . .’ She attempted a laugh, but its pitch was off-key and unconvincing.

  Alice didn’t feel good about it, but somehow she was hoping that, by opening Tilly’s eyes a little more to the good people around her, she might start to finally put down some roots. After all, it wasn’t just people in the war-torn corners of the planet who needed the drive and determination of doctors like Tilly. And the sooner Tilly herself realised that, Alice thought, the more likely she was to settle in Larkford. She actively chose to ignore her own vested interest in Tilly staying put, as she picked up the phone to call Jamie, her mother’s unse
ttling opinions still rattling around in her head.

  Chapter 12

  Dan knocked on Lizzie’s front door and waited, hearing the scuffle and swearing that accompanied Lizzie’s every attempt to stand up since her op. ‘I’ll be there in a— Oh, shit! Hang on, I just— Bloody hell!’ Lizzie yanked open the front door, one hand pressed firmly against her appendix scar and looking somewhat green in the face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure you should be going out and about?’ Dan asked, eyeing up his cousin apprehensively.

  ‘It’s a mental health issue at this point,’ said Lizzie fiercely.

  ‘No change there, then,’ teased Dan affectionately, reaching out a hand to steady Lizzie as she wobbled. ‘So, what am I? Your back-up, back-up plan?’ Dan asked. Not known for her patience at the best of times, Lizzie was finding her enforced recuperation somewhat of a challenge. ‘Let me guess: Will’s at work, Connor’s finally realised what a pain in the backside you are when you’re bored and Holly’s busy juggling all of your various offspring?’

  Lizzie pouted, hating her predictability. ‘Do you want to go and nosey around The Big House or not? Did you even know it was on the market? I mean, I thought they’d carry Lady Peal out of that house in a box!’

  Dan sighed; as was so often the case in Larkford, he knew more than he was able to share. If anything, he was impressed by the determination of Aggie Peal’s decision-making process. She certainly wasn’t letting the grass grow under her feet.

  And Lizzie had known full well that he wouldn’t be able to resist the chance for a snoop – his recent interest in the local property market was in danger of becoming a full-blown obsession. ‘Come on then,’ he said, avoiding her question. ‘Connor said he’d meet us there and he’ll think we’ve forgotten at this rate.’ He held out his arm for Lizzie as she wobbled. ‘I can’t believe how quickly Connor moves when he puts his mind to something. Unlike you – you slow poke.’

  The front door to The Big House was barely fifty yards away, though to look at the expression of intense concentration on Lizzie’s face, you’d think it was a mile, but as recuperative outings went, Dan had to admit this was far more enjoyable than he’d imagined. There was something rather restful about strolling along at the snail’s pace that Lizzie could just about manage, rather than dashing everywhere like a blue-arsed fly. There was a stubborn layer of frost underfoot and a recent heaviness to the blanket of cloud overhead that boded the arrival of winter, but the freshly baked bread from Pru Hartley’s bakery still scented the air, bringing a familiar comfort. It was good to be home, he decided, no matter how lovely his mini-break with Grace last weekend had been.

  He gazed at Peal Hall – The Big House – as they approached. It really was one of Larkford’s finest gems: a Georgian rectory standing squarely at the head of the town, its rear lawns rolling down to meet the grassland of Blackleigh Farm and its front door facing the Market Place. The best of both worlds. It would, no doubt, have cost Connor a small fortune, Dan realised.

  A cacophony of high-pitched barking greeted their arrival.

  ‘Jesus, how many dogs has she got in there?’ Dan asked in surprise.

  Lizzie shook her head in despair. ‘Too many. There’s a Yorkie, a chihuahua and a chorkie – no guesses where that little mongrel came from, all a bit Heinz 57. Not to mention a fluffball, a setter, oh, and a beagle, I think. They just kick off whenever anyone walks by, which is basically every five minutes. You get used to it after a while.’

  Connor pulled open the glossy front door, as though he had been poised for their arrival, its glossy myrtle paint adding yet another touch of class to the honey-coloured stone façade. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, holding out an arm to Lizzie, ‘let’s find Witchy a sofa, shall we? She’s gone that attractive green colour again.’

  Dan and Lizzie exchanged amused glances; the money had barely changed hands but Connor was already morphing into his new persona as Lord of the Manor. ‘Where’s Aggie?’ whispered Lizzie. ‘I feel a bit weird just letting ourselves in.’

  He ushered them through from the flagstone hallway into the kind of kitchen Dan had only ever seen in movies, or on the pages of a glossy magazine. It was simply stunning. The kind of place that he and Grace could only ever dream of.

  The huge Aga took pride of place, of course, throwing out heat and facing a vast Georgian dresser that reached up to the ceiling and had clearly been in situ from the very beginning. French windows stood ajar overlooking the sweeping garden, clearly planted for every season to enjoy its moment; a swathe of winter jasmine released its heavy, luxurious scent into the air.

  The scrubbed oak kitchen table, which could easily have seated twenty people, was covered in unrolled plans, their corners weighted down with pewter jugs and silver fruit. ‘Oh, how divine to see you both,’ said Aggie Peal from her carver chair at the head of the table. ‘And such perfect timing! I was just mixing a little Friday cocktail or two.’ It was obviously assumed that they would be joining her. ‘What a lucky boy you are, Connor, to have such lovely, supportive friends.’

  Lady Peal blew a kiss to Lizzie, as Connor settled her onto the kitchen sofa, shuffling a yawning Irish setter out of the way to make space. ‘Oh my darling, you do look sore. Do you want some of my pain pills?’ she offered without missing a beat. ‘I’ve got some really good ones, now.’ She caught Dan’s eye and blushed. ‘Ooops.’

  Dan shook his head, his personal affection for her only just covering his professional irritation. ‘Are you determined to move from one “Big House” to another? I hardly think pushing drugs is the best career choice at this point, Aggie,’ he said sternly.

  ‘Sorry, Dr Carter,’ she said meekly, clearly not giving two shits about the concept of serving hard time. It was some measure of how she was responding to her recent diagnosis that she really was living like there was no tomorrow. Her tomorrows, very sadly, being in short supply.

  ‘And how are the kids taking the news of the sale, Aggie?’ Dan asked quietly, as he helped their hostess by tonging ice cubes from the crystal ice-bucket on the kitchen worktop. ‘I half thought they might change their minds and move down here, once they knew what was going on.’

  Agatha sheepishly twisted a strip of lemon rind around a spoon handle. ‘Well, to be honest, Dr Carter, I haven’t exactly mentioned it. We both know they don’t want to be living out here in the sticks; the last thing I want is for them to do so under some misguided sense of obligation.’ She shuddered lightly. ‘Or worse still, play along to humour me and sell up before the grass has grown over my grave. I’d like to choose my successor, thank you very much.’

  ‘But you told them about your health?’ Dan said, wondering why he was even surprised by Aggie’s disingenuousness.

  Lady Agatha Peal just shrugged and tossed him an apologetic smile as she raised two Martini glasses in the air. ‘Cocktails, my darlings.’ She took a sip, clearly savouring the first aperitif of the evening. ‘Besides, as I was just explaining to Connor, I’ve been pining for a little European adventure for a while and since this blasted leukaemia is a bit of a lottery anyway, I thought I’d just head for Switzerland.’ She shrugged eloquently.

  Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. Dan simply gaped. ‘Aggie? Seriously? Dignitas is a bit extreme . . .’ he began, floundering.

  Her laughter brought them both up short. ‘Not like that. I just decided that if I’m to suffer through the indignities of chemo, I’d rather head for the Alps and one of the amazing clinics over there. Thanks to lovely Connor here, I can afford to shell out for a little expediency and a view to die for. No pun intended.’ She sipped her Martini gently. ‘And I always rather liked the thought of skiing,’ she added impishly, enjoying Dan’s reaction. ‘SKI-ing, darling. Spending the Kids’ Inheritance.’ She smiled affectionately at Connor. ‘All thanks to this one,’ she concluded dreamily, obviously rather enamoured with the idea of Connor and his plentiful resources taking care of her beloved money pit.

  ‘And you can blame H
olly, actually,’ said Connor. ‘She made me realise that if I couldn’t buy a lovely house with land, then I could put the package together myself. And since Lady Peal, sorry, Aggie, has kindly agreed to allow me the honour of making this beautiful house my new home, I’ve taken over the lease on the land at Blackleigh Farm. Charlotte and Henry Lansing are going to stay in the farmhouse and keep enough land for those teeny tiny ponies they seem to love so much and I get the one thing Larkford didn’t have – a country estate. Happy days indeed.’ An odd look flickered across Connor’s face as he raised his glass that Dan couldn’t quite discern.

  ‘Happy days!’ cried Agatha enthusiastically, downing her cocktail with such fervour that a trickle of Martini escaped and ran down her chin. ‘But you must remember, Connor darling, you are now the guardian for the next generation: with great property, comes great responsibility.’

  ‘Spiderman?’ queried Dan.

  ‘I rather think he stole it from me, actually,’ Agatha retorted. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes. To Peal Hall and the future!’ she toasted, only to freeze in horror. ‘Oh dear God, did you know it’s bad luck to toast with an empty glass?’ She clearly believed the superstition far more than any of her doctors’ cautions about combining alcohol and pain meds.

  What a generation!

  He’d take the Elsie Townsend and Agatha Peal approach to his twilight years any day of the week, Dan thought. It certainly made you think, he realised, sitting here and marvelling at the shelves on the dresser, which positively bristled with a lifetime of family photos – was this ever going to be his? Was he going to be able to look back and see a life well lived and a family raised, or was his sole contribution to this life going to be as their family doctor? He couldn’t get past the notion that, for him, it simply wasn’t enough.

  He smiled and laughed and joked along with his companions, but his head and heart were still in an Oxfordshire hotel room with Grace. Grace’s openness and honesty was persuasive, he knew, but part of him still wished she were prepared even to consider having a child together. A child that was truly theirs. They weren’t that old, for God’s sake. Forty-two was the new thirty-two when it came to fertility, after all.