Chapter three
“Really?” Oliver gazed around him, open-mouthed. “Really?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked, dear, and the answer is still yes.” Violet patted him on the arm, her amusement evident in her voice.
“This is mine?”
“I hope your medical skills are better than your grasp of the English language,” Malcolm interjected and heartily slapped him on the back. “I did tell you the job came with accommodation, didn’t I?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought you meant a pokey flat above the surgery not… this!”
Oliver stood at the gate, staring at the bright red front door of his new home. The cottage was smaller than the Winslow’s but it had the same picture-perfect quality to it. With the same neat little garden and lace curtains at the windows, the tiny house was right out of a storybook. And it was his. The hits just kept coming. He couldn’t believe it. His flat near the hospital would have fit in the front garden.
“Rea—?”
“Oliver, dear,” Violet effectively cut him off with shake of her head. “Ssh.” He snapped his lips shut as she pushed open the gate and ushered him ahead of her towards the door. “Now, the place is furnished, but more functional than homely, so feel free to make it your own. Some of the ladies from the church committee helped me air it out and get it ready for you.” She skirted around him and unlocked the door with the key she produced from her apron pocket. “There are clean sheets on the bed and we fully stocked the cupboards and the fridge/freezer. There’s lots of red meat, you know, sausages and such, which I hear you’re quite partial to.” Violet paused to drop him a wink as he followed her down the hall.
Oliver stopped in his tracks and Malcolm barrelled into him. “Did she—?”
“Uh-huh.” Malcolm put his hand between Oliver’s shoulder blades and urged him on. “Twitching curtains, son, twitching curtains.”
Oliver swallowed hard and forced his feet to follow Violet. He’d only been in Little Mowbury for a few hours and everyone knew he’d managed run over the village dog, and now he was pretty sure they all knew he was gay, too. How the hell was he going to adjust from living in an environment where no one noticed you, to one where everyone knew about your mistakes before you even made them? The kaleidoscope of butterflies threatened to take flight once more, but he pushed them back down—along with his balls which he could suddenly feel in the back of his throat.
Half an hour later, after arranging to meet Malcolm early in the morning at the surgery next door—which was basically another cottage—Oliver stood in his new bedroom and began to unpack the cases he’d brought in from the car. The room was very neutral, with cream walls and a dark, real wood floor that matched the colour of the dark curtains that hung at the small window. The only furniture was a king-size bed, a tiny bedside table big enough to hold a lamp, and a tall wardrobe with a chest of drawers built in. It was a very masculine room and, from the way Violet had gushed, he thought she and the ladies from the church committee had kept that in mind when they were refreshing some of the soft furnishings. He wasn’t entirely sure he would ever be able to thank them enough. Maybe he could attend one of the WI meetings and thank them personally with a—
Oliver jumped as his arse cheek vibrated and Sisters Are Doing it for Themselves echoed around the room. He growled low in his throat and grabbed his phone out of the back pocket of what he called his drivin’ jeans. What? Some people had driving shoes, he had driving jeans. He’d bought them on Camden market when he was nineteen and they had served him well—not least by the fact that he could still get into a pair of jeans he’d bought ten years ago. They were worn around the arse and the knees and the zip had been replaced three times, but they fit like a second skin and he hardly knew they were actually on. Perfect for sitting behind the wheel for hours.
Mumbling about his sister’s imminent demise, he jabbed the answer button and put her on speaker. “When did you change my ring tone?” he said, not bothering with the niceties of a proper greeting.
“Ah, grasshopper, you have much to learn,” Becky replied in a terrible imitation of a Chinese accent. “First rule of being younger brother—always take phone with you to toilet or twin will fuck with settings.”
“Thank you, Hong Kong Fooey,” Oliver drawled as he tossed another pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer. “But that ring tone? Why? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“It’s the only one I could think of with sister in it off the top of my head,” Becky replied in her normal voice. “You’d only gone for a piss so I was time restricted. Now, if you’d gone for a Winnie…”
“A Winnie?”
“Yes, a Winnie, you know, Winnie the—”
“I got it.” Oliver shook his head as if his sister could see him. A pain in the arse she might be… boring she was not. “So, did you ring to make sure I’d arrived safely, or just to discuss my bodily functions?”
“I know you got there safely, moron, you answered the phone.” Becky’s tone was that of someone humouring a small child. “Unless you’re talking to me from a ditch.”
“Not exactly a ditch.” Oliver scanned the room again and smiled. “I am standing in the bedroom of my very own picture postcard country cottage.”
“You jammy bastard!” she exclaimed and Oliver could see her now in his mind’s eye, sitting cross-legged on her red leather sofa in her one-bedroom studio flat, brown eyes alight with excitement. “How did you swing that? If I’d known that I’d never have shown you the ad. I’d have gone for it myself.”
“And if it weren’t for the teeny tiny problem of you being Becky Bradford WD, not Becky Bradford MD, I’m sure you’d have got it, too.”
“Don’t diss the window dresser, little brother,” Becky shot back. “I may not be able to treat the old biddies’ ailments, but I could sure as hell tell ‘em what shoes go with what dress.”
“Definitely a quality that’s missing in teaching hospitals today,” Oliver rebutted as he emptied a carried bag full of balled up socks into another drawer, then sent a carrier bag full of boxers to join them. “How’s Mum?”
“How do you think?” He didn’t just hear the sigh in Becky’s voice, he felt it. “She’s phoned me four times, three of which were in the fifteen minutes after you left this morning. And I’ve stopped answering her texts. That way I can be certain she’ll be fit and well to text again tomorrow.”
“Why wouldn’t she be fit and well?”
“Because I’m going to kill her if she doesn’t chill the fuck out.”
Oliver smothered a giggle and sat down on the end of the bed. “I’m sorry I left you to deal with that,” he apologised, and meant it. He loved his mother and so did Becky, but – well, let’s just say if you looked up the words smothering and protective in the dictionary, beneath them was their mother’s picture and bio.
“Meh, she’ll calm down,” Becky said brusquely. “It’ll just take a while for her to get used to her Golden Boy not being close enough to keep her beady little eye on. It’s like the time Dad painted the garage door without telling her all over again.”
“Oh God, really, that bad?”
“Yep. But enough about that. Details. I need details.” Becky swiftly changed the subject and Oliver would have been lying if he’d said he was sorry she did. But then, as much as he didn’t want to talk about his mother’s tantrum, he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to discuss his auspicious entrance into Little Mowbury. Not that he was going to get out of it. Becky had some sort of special twin-dar where he was concerned, always had. “Come on, spill the beans.”
“Okay.” Oliver sucked in some air and delivered as much information as he could on one rush of breath. “Met a farmer, ran over a dog, was threatened by the post mistress, nearly fainted in the pub, Malcolm and his wife are lovely, cottage is beautiful, start work tomorrow.” Even though he’d mixed it in with everything else, he knew exactly what she would home in on first.
“You ran over a dog?”
“Yes.”
“You ran over a dog?”
“Yes. The post mistress’ dog.”
“You ran over the post mistress’ dog?”
“Yes.”
“Wait a minute… you ran—”
“Yes!” Oliver picked up the phone, held it to his lips and yelled the response into the speaker.
“Wow.”
“A slight understatement but yes, wow.” Oliver flopped backwards onto the mattress and stared up at the ceiling. “I couldn’t have run over any old dog, it had to be Doris’.”
“Doris?”
“The post mistress, haven’t you been listening?” Oliver sighed heavily. “If it hadn’t been for Big and Tall I don’t—”
“I’m sorry, who?” Becky sounded confused. Quite rightly.
“Big and Tall is what I called him before I knew his name was Deano,” Oliver explained.
“Isn’t that a dinosaur?”
“What?”
“Deano,” Becky repeated. “The dog on the Flintstones.”
“No, that was Dino,” Oliver corrected.
“That’s what I just said.”
“No, Dino with an ‘i’. Big and Tall is Deano with an ‘e’ ‘a’. Can I continue?” Oliver asked, getting frustrated.
“If you can, please do,” was Becky’s caustic reply. The frustration was obviously mutual.
“Look, in a nutshell… I hit the dog, rushed in pub for help. Deano took dog back in pub. Doris arrived and called me a twat. She and Deano took Hugo to see Maguire, the vet in the next town and I’m waiting for Jason to come and let me know if he’s alright.”
“If who’s alright?”
“Hugo.”
“Who the fuck is Hugo?”
“The dog!” Oliver stared at the phone in disbelief. And Malcolm was concerned about his grasp of the English Language? Apparently it was hereditary.
“And is he?”
“Is who what?”
“For God’s sake, Oliver, keep up!” Becky snapped. “Is Hugo alright?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet.” Finally they were on the same page.
“I can’t let you out of my sight for five minutes, can I?”
Oliver heard what sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Are you laughing?” The bitch was laughing.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver,” she replied, mock-affronted. “I’m your twin, your other half, the one that always has your—of course I’m laughing, you pillock. It’s bloody hilarious, except for the dog part, obviously.” Her laughter had turned into great hiccupping gulps of air as she tried to breathe. “Only you, Oliver. Only you.”
“Thank you for your unwavering support,” Oliver deadpanned. “Have you finished?”
“For now.” Becky’s voice had evened out. “So the Winslows are nice?”
“Yeah.” Oliver was grateful for another change of subject. Although he was sure Becky would not be letting it go anytime soon. “Really, really sweet. Just like you’d imagine a country doctor to be. The surgery is next to my cottage and I’m meeting Malcolm there in the morning so he can introduce me to the patients who already have appointments, and any walk-ins we get. But he says the walk-ins are usually only emergencies.” He yawned widely. “We should have plenty of time to go through the practice.”
“Are you nervous?” Becky’s tone took on a softer edge and Oliver closed his eyes. She knew him too well.
“A bit,” he confessed. “But I think that’s because it’s so different from what I’m used to. In A&E you don’t really get a chance to find out anything about your patient other than what’s wrong with them right now. This is going to be a completely different kettle of fish. Christ, Malcolm’s probably seen half the village from birth upwards. I can’t imagine knowing that much about a patient. But I’m looking forward to it.”
“Ollie, you were a fantastic A&E doctor and you’re going to be a fantastic GP.”
“But most GPs have a couple of years experience in practices, honing their skills. I’m being thrown in at the deep end and there’s no rubber ring. I’m going to have to doggie paddle like a Labrador on speed just to stay afloat.”
“Oliver,” Becky said, using her big sister voice. “If Malcolm knows these people as well as you say, do you honestly think he’d have given you the job if he didn’t think you were more than able to pick up where he left off?”
“Probab—”
“There’s no probably, Oliver.” He could just see her shaking her head. “He’s not just handing over patients at the end of a shift. He’s entrusting you with his neighbours, his friends and I, for one, know you’re going to be brilliant. Golden Boy.”
“Ugh.” Oliver groaned at the use of the nickname she’d given him the first time he’d brought home a perfect end of year report. He knew she was trying to alleviate the tension, so he took the ball and ran with it. “Don’t call me that, Titless—”
“If you want to keep your bollocks, Oliver; I’d suggest you don’t finish that sentence,” Becky interrupted. “Wouldn’t want you to meet your new patients with them hanging from your ears now, would we?”
“So ladylike.” Oliver chuckled heartily. “I’m telling Mum.”
“Very mature.” He heard a ping in the background. “Ooh, that’s my dinner,” Becky declared. “I’m going to have to love and leave you, brother dear, but make sure you text me once you’ve heard from the mysterious Jason. Whose identity I have yet to deter—”
“He’s one of the chefs at the pub.”
“Is he cute?”
“Very.”
“Ooh, maybe dinner can wait.”
“’Bye, Becky.”
“Hang on a—”
Oliver ended the call with a smile on his face and the weight on his shoulders a lot lighter. Moments later he received a picture of a tennis ball followed seconds later by one of a small pair of scissors via text. He laughed out loud, but only because he knew she couldn’t actually reach his bollocks from London. Obviously, if she were closer he’d be scared, and rightly so. He stared up at the ceiling for a few more minutes, then forced himself to get up and finish unpacking his clothes. By the time he’d finished, his stomach had begun to complain about the fact that he’d put nothing in it since the bourbon cream he’d had at the Winslow’s a couple of hours ago. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see it was nearly seven.
Oliver cast his gaze around the room one more time and nodded. Everything was unpacked and in its place, just as he liked it. Not that he was a neat freak, he just didn’t like things not… to… be… ne—okay, he was a bit of a neat freak, but so would you be if you’d grown up with Becky ‘the slob’ Bradford. Satisfied with his efforts, he turned and trotted down the tiny staircase and headed to the kitchen in search of sustenance.
He had his head in the fridge trying to decide what to eat when there was a loud knock at the front door. Oliver wondered who the hell could be knocking at his door. Who knew he was here apart from Malcolm and Violet?
Everybody, dickhead. They were all in the pub when you squashed the dog, remember?
Ignoring his inner idiot, Oliver padded down the hall to open the door, his bare feet slapping on the wooden floor. He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his shirt and opened the door. His gaze widened at the posse on the doorstep. Jason he recognised, the three men with him he didn’t. But the tall, blond haired and blue-eyed hunk next to Jason had a six pack in each hand and the cutie with the curly hair and glasses held three large pizza boxes, not to mention the hottie curled around him who had something that looked suspiciously like pie—so he didn’t really care who they were, they had food he didn’t have to cook.
“Hey!” Jason said brightly. “We thought we’d welcome you to the neighbourhood.”
“Come in, come in,” Oliver replied and stepped back, opening the door wide to allow them entrance. Jason stepped over the threshold, with the others hot on his heels and Oliver pointed down the hall. “Living room is on the right.” Pizza Boy was last in. Oliver closed the door then followed him into the living-room.
“I hope you like pizza.” Jason began flipping open the cardboard boxes Pizza Boy had deposited on the coffee table, in front of the fireplace.
“I’m starving,” Oliver replied with a grin as he sat cross-legged on the floor accepted the beer handed to him. “If it came down to it I could probably eat the box.” He heaved a happy sigh when Jason revealed cheese and pepperoni. Oliver glanced at the other men, who were already chewing on hot dog filled crusts and dove in. He grabbed a slice of pizza and took a huge bite, making serious happy noises as the cheesy concoction lit up his taste buds.
“Enjoying that, mate?”
Oliver swallowed his mouthful and burped surreptitiously and mumbled an apology. “Sorry.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Jason said, doing very passable jazz hands either side of his face. “I made it myself.”
“Well when you’ve finished patting yourself on the back, maybe you can introduce us,” the hottie with the pie drawled.
“I didn’t realise your gob wasn’t big enough to do it yourself,” Jason snapped back, the light in his eyes belying the jibe.
“I would, but having a rib removed might spoil my abs.”
There were groans of disgust and Pizza Boy pushed Pie Hottie so he sprawled on the carpet, giggling like a man possessed. Oliver blinked, not entirely sure why they were all laugh—
Oh, do it yourself, rib removed… that’s funny.
“You’ll have to forgive my not so better half,” Pizza Boy said as he offered his hand to Oliver. “I’m Harry Boyd, welcome to Little Mowbury.”
Oliver shook his hand and smiled. “Thanks, nice to meet you.”
“I’m Micah,” Pie Hottie gripped Oliver’s fingers firmly. “Our paths will no doubt be crossing quite a bit.” When Oliver raised an eyebrow, Micah explained, “I’m a midwife in a small birthing centre in Wimborne, the closest town.”
“Ah,” Oliver replied. “Great. I’m all for birthing centres taking over the majority of maternity care. So much more relaxing for the mother and the baby.”
Micah’s smile widened and he tipped Oliver a wink. “You and me, Dr Bradford, are going to get on very well. We’ve got this new 4D ultrasound machine at the centre and it—”
“Honey,” Harry said with a pat to Micah’s hand. “He’s off the clock. There’s plenty of time for you two to talk shop.”
“Sorry,” Micah apologised sheepishly. “I get a bit carried away.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Oliver said with a shake of his head. “It’s good to see someone so passionate about what they do. In A&E it’s more trying to get the last patient out and the next patient in. Then they move on and you have no idea what happened after they pass through your hands. I’m looking forward to actually having a relationship with my patients.”
“Apparently you’ve already made quite an impression.” The blond hunk who’d carried the beer had a teasing smile in his blue eyes as he held out his hand to Oliver. “I’m Tom. I work with Micah at the centre and live with Jason, who is definitely my much better half.”
Oliver shook his hand and gave a good-natured groan. “Nice to meet you, Tom and, please, don’t remind me.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” Jason exclaimed. “It should have been the first thing out of my mouth. Deano called, Hugo’s fine. Some nasty bruising and lacerations but no internal bleeding and no broken bones. He’s got a few stitches and they’re just keeping him in overnight for observation. Deano said he was lapping up all the attention.”
“Oh, thank God.” Oliver had never felt such relief.
“You’re not out of the woods yet,” Micah said, taking a bite of cheesy goodness. “Doris can hold a grudge like no other.”
“I got that.” Oliver sighed and took a swig of his beer. “But at least Hugo is alright. That was my biggest fear, that I’d killed the poor bugger. I’ve never hit an animal before, or anything else for that matter. It was a bit of a shock to the system.”
“I can imagine,” Tom said gravely. “And then to have Doris bearing down on you, all ninety-five pounds of her.” He actually shuddered, which Oliver decided couldn’t possibly be good. Who was this woman?
“So what you’re saying is,” Oliver pointed his bottle at Tom, “even though Hugo’s fine, I still need to look over my shoulder for little old ladies in Scholl sandals carrying umbrellas?”
“Sounds about right,” Tom replied, looking to the others, who were all nodding like a team of bobble heads.
“Brilliant,” Oliver mumbled, crestfallen. “Maybe I should just cut my losses and head back to London before I find myself in an envelope knitted by the WI and posted to the Outer Hebrides.”
“Don’t be silly,” Micah reassured him. “Doris might be scary, but she’s as tight as arseholes, so the furthest she’d fork out for is Penzance.”
“Thanks.” Oliver’s lips twitched at the ridiculousness of the conversation. “I feel so much better now.”
“Glad to be of help.” Micah tipped him a wink and held out his bottle. “Anyway, let’s have a toast. To Oliver, welcome to Little Mowbury. May your time here be long and filled with health and happiness, and a taser to fend off vengeful pensioners.”
“Here, here.” Jason grinned and they all clinked their bottles together.
Oliver grinned and settled back against the sofa. He might not have made the most congenial entrance to village life. But he had a feeling he was going to like it here.