Chapter five
Oliver stopped and waited for Malcolm, who was heading down the street towards him, at the surgery gate. He raised a hand and Malcolm waved in response, the older man’s face lit up with warmth as he halted beside him.
“Good morning, Oliver,” Malcolm said brightly. “Hope you’re not feeling the effects of your house warming last night.”
“Wow,” Oliver countered. “You weren’t joking. Everybody really does know everything.”
“We just know Micah.” Malcolm tipped him a wink as he opened the gate and strode down the path, Oliver hot on his heels. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it. “We knew it wouldn’t take the boys long to descend.”
“Micah’s certainly a livewire,” Oliver replied as he followed Malcolm into the surgery.
“That he is.” Malcolm chuckled softly. “But he’s a good boy. Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he’s fiercely loyal with a big heart. You won’t go far wrong with Micah Lewis in your corner. And he’s the only one who can make Doris Abernathy melt like a bar of chocolate in the midday sun. She adores him, always has, no matter what she says.” Malcolm walked down the small hall, past the waiting room and into his office. “But I see you made a stop at Doris’ yourself this morning.”
Oliver swallowed a smile. The subtle approach was obviously Malcolm’s version of curtain twitching. Not that Oliver would dream of disappointing him. “Yes,” he replied. “I just wanted to try and clear the air. And to let her know I want to cover the costs of Hugo’s treatment.”
“Well, well.” Malcolm looked very interested. “And what did the old buzzard have to say to that?”
“Old buzzard?” Oliver burst out laughing. “That’s not very gentlemanly, Malcolm.”
“Pfft, you’ll hear her called a lot worse,” Malcolm rejoined. “Doris and I went to school together. The stories I could tell you would make your hair fall out. But don’t keep an old man in suspense, son, what did she say? Violet’ll kill me if I don’t get the details.”
“She accepted my offer and said I could call her Doris.”
“Well, well, well. Good for you, Oliver. You’ve arrived.” Malcolm slapped him on the shoulder and guffawed loudly. “Welcome to Little Mowbury.” He put his briefcase on the desk and clapped his hands together. “Right, Doctor Bradford. Let’s have a look round before Hilary, our receptionist, arrives and tells us off for touching her stuff.”
Oliver laughed as Malcolm air-quote the last two words. From his personal experience of the GP’s—yes, doctors get sick sometimes—the receptionists were the grease that kept the wheels of the surgery turning. Getting on Hilary’s good side from the off might not be a bad idea.
“She likes chrysanthemums.”
Oliver blinked. “Huh?” Could Malcolm read minds as well?
“Hilary, she likes chrysanthemums. The brighter the better.”
“How did you—”
“It’s what I’d do if it was my first day.” Malcolm tipped him a conspiratorial wink. “Doesn’t hurt to have a few cards up your sleeve.”
“Anything else I should know?” Oliver asked.
“She hates unpunctuality, always refresh the biscuit barrel if you take the last one and make sure you put the toilet seat down. That and the chrysanthemums should keep you going for now.” Malcolm lowered his voice, as if Hilary was in the building. “Hilary is this place’s cornerstone and we couldn’t run without her. But don’t tell her I said so. I like to keep her on her toes.” Oliver’s gaze flicked over Malcolm’s shoulder to the forty-something woman with a sharp blonde bob standing behind him. Malcolm sighed heavily. “She’s standing right behind me isn’t she?”
“Yep.”
“Did she hear the cornerstone part?”
Oliver glanced at Hilary who nodded. “Yep.”
“Did I mention I have dementia? It’s why I’m retiring.”
“Pfft,” Hilary snorted inelegantly. “Dementia my arse. You said it… I heard it… no take backs. Them's the rules. And the reason you’re retiring is ‘cause we’re sick of you.”
“Bugger.” Malcolm shrugged, knowing he was beat. “Anyhoo, Hilary, my reason for living, this is our new colleague, Oliver Bradford.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Hilary,” Oliver said politely and held out his hand.
“Likewise, Doctor.” Hilary shook his hand firmly and Oliver tried not to wince. She had quite a grip. “I hope you’ll be very happy here. We’re not as exciting as the big city, but we get by.”
“Exciting isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Oliver said and Hilary smiled.
“That it isn’t.” Hilary took off her jacket and hung it in the cupboard under the stairs, closing the door behind her. “Malcolm, put the kettle on while I show Oliver how we do things,” she instructed. “Looks like I arrived just in time to stop you from messing up my stuff.”
Oliver smothered a laugh as she air-quoted the last, just as Malcolm had. He caught the twitch of Malcolm’s lips as he wandered back down the hall towards what Oliver assumed was the kitchen. Theirs was obviously the perfect working relationship. She told him what to do and he did it. Oliver followed Hilary as she showed him what lay beyond the doors off the hall.
The surgery, Hilary told him, had used to be in the Winslow’s converted garage, but when the bungalow had come up for sale twenty years ago; Malcolm had snapped it up—much to Violet’s relief. The door at the end of the hall was, as he had already seen, the doctor’s office, with the small square kitchen next to it. Some of the kitchen, she said, had been taken to create a tiny bathroom, and Malcolm was right. She wasn’t impressed if the toilet seat was left up.
Next to the bathroom was a smaller room that Hilary told him was shared by the District Nurse and the midwife on duty from the hospital. Then she ushered him into the main room at the front of the house. “And this is my room.”
Oliver gazed around the waiting room and blinked at the scene before him. He’d been expecting stark white walls and rows of plastic seats. That was not what he saw. The room was decorated in muted greens with white woodwork and lace curtains at the bay window. And the seating was comprised of comfy armchairs and two seater sofas dotted around the room. Not a piece of plastic to be seen. A set of French doors in the corner of the far wall opened out onto a patch of green which housed a slide and a set of swings. Hilary smiled at his expression and shrugged, informing him that it kept the kiddies entertained in the summer months. The reception desk was curved and encompassed one corner of the room, behind which sat small filing cabinets and a set of neatly packed shelves.
“I’ve never seen a waiting room like it,” Oliver said in absolute awe. “It’s amazing.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Hilary seemed pleased at his reaction. She obviously took great pride in the practice. “We’ve got a couple of pre-booked appointments today, but as soon as I open the phone lines I’m inspecting an influx. Mostly from those who just want to get a look at the new doctor, so don’t be nervous.”
“I’m expecting pretty much along the same lines,” Malcolm said as he walked into the room. “It’ll give you a chance to meet some of the local colour.” He handed Oliver a cup of coffee and set Hilary’s tea down on the coaster on her desk. “I thought I’d give you a couple of days to settle in then leave you to it.” Malcolm must have seen the flicker of panic in Oliver’s eyes because he added, “If you feel comfortable with that. We’ll see how it goes.”
“Sounds good.” Oliver nodded, wondering why the hell he was so nervous. He’d worked in one of the busiest and stressful A&E departments in London for God’s sake. He sipped at his coffee and was grateful for its warmth. His mobile phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out to find a message from Becky. He apologised to Malcolm and Hilary not sure if he should open it or not. He didn’t want to seem unprofessional. The decision was made for him when Malcolm nudged him.
“Open it for heaven’s sake. We don’t stand on ceremony here, Oliver. Just put it on mute during surgery times.”
Oliver flashed him a grateful look and opened the message. It was a selfie from Becky giving him a thumbs-up while holding a piece of paper with the words “You got this!” written on it in large black letters. He showed it to them and Malcolm chuckled.
“I agree with her. You have definitely got this.” Malcolm smiled at Hilary. “Time to switch on the phones, Hilary, oh light of my life.”
“Get on with you, you silly old fool,” Hilary snapped, but Oliver didn’t miss the gleam in her eye. “Mr Breckenridge is booked in for eight-thirty and you know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” Malcolm rolled his eyes, muttered something about being bullied by the women in his life and motioned to Oliver to follow him.
Back in Malcolm’s office, Oliver settled himself in the seat Malcolm had put next to his and quickly finished his coffee as they waited for the first patient of the day.
Oliver sat back in the chair and blew out a breath. It was twelve-thirty and the morning’s surgery was over. As Hilary had surmised, it was hectic. True, the most pressing ailment they’d seen was a rather nasty infected gnat bite, but it seemed everyone had wanted to get a look at the new man in town. He’d met three members of the WI, Micah’s mum, and Mr Breckenridge, who was a force to be reckoned with. But for now the surgery was quiet—until the afternoon surgery started again at two.
“Well, what do you think?” Malcolm asked, having finished writing up the last patient’s notes.
“It’s great,” Oliver replied enthusiastically. “I really enjoyed it.”
“Thanks for distracting little Aaron for me. That gnat bite was huge. You’ve got a way with people, Oliver. After seeing you interact with them, even curmudgeonly old Mr Breckenridge, I’m even more certain I made the right choice in you, my boy.”
“Thanks, Malcolm. I hope I don’t prove you wrong.”
Before Malcolm could reply, Hilary walked into the office brandishing a piece of paper. “Deano Wells has just cut his arm on that bloody homemade tiller again. One of you needs to go out to the farm and stitch him up.”
“I swear that boy is responsible for most of my grey hair,” Malcolm grumbled. “Why doesn’t he get a new machine?”
“He’s just like his father. Why buy something new when you can fix what you’ve got with Sellotape and string?” Hilary grumbled back.
“Why don’t I go?” Oliver interjected. “I want to thank him for helping out with Hugo the yesterday, so I can kill two birds at the same time.”
“Are you sure?” Malcolm stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Deano’s not the most cooperative patient in the world and… well… he’s a big lad.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Oliver said wistfully. Obviously too wistfully by Malcolm and Hilary’s raised eyebrows as they pinned him with their inquisitive gazes. Oliver squared his shoulders. “I can handle him.”
“I just bet you can,” Hilary muttered not nearly as quietly as she might have meant to and Oliver’s cheeks flushed hotly. “This is his address and,” she leaned on the desk and began scribbling on the note, “here’s how to get there. Everything you need, a suture kit, dressings, alcohol wipes etc are in the nurse’s room. He said he was okay, but I could hear the pain in his voice, so you might want to take a shot of morphine with you. It’ll make him a little easier to manage.”
“Easier to manage?” Oliver echoed. “Why would he need to be easier to manage?”
“Run along, man,” Hilary said brusquely, neatly skirting his question. “He could be bleeding all over the farmhouse.”
“Right, yes, of course.”
Oliver raced around the nurse’s room, stuffing everything he thought he might need into his briefcase. Satisfied he was fully equipped to deal with any eventuality apart from childbirth, Oliver grabbed Hilary’s note and headed outside to his car.
The drive to the Wells farm on the outskirts of the village took him less than ten minutes with the aid of Hilary’s directions. Coming off the tarmac road to the bumpy dirt track leading up to the farm didn’t exactly do much for his teeth or suspension. He was shaken within an inch of his life by the time he braked to a stop outside the farmhouse. Not bothering to stop and take in his surroundings, Oliver grabbed his briefcase off the passenger seat and scrambled out of the car.
Oliver banged on the door and waited for Deano to let him in. And waited. And waited. And—
Where the fuck is he?
Images flashed through his mind of different scenarios behind the big oak front door; each one worse than the last. Deano had fallen on the way to the door and couldn’t get up. Or he’d hit his head on the way down and was disoriented. Or, of course, he’d sliced an artery when he cut his arm and was lying dead on the kitchen floor.
Shit! He could be bleeding out!
“Deano?” Oliver banged on the door and called Deano’s name over and over, becoming more and more frantic. “Okay! I’m coming in!” he yelled, looking around him for something to throw the front window. He’d picked up a sizeable rock and was about to hurl it at the glass when there was a deep rumbling behind him.
“What’re you doing?”
Oliver screamed—a manly scream of course—and dropped the rock, narrowly missing his own foot. He spun around and stared incredulously at Deano Wells, who towered over him with his hands on his hips.
“What are you doing?” Oliver exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be dead on the kitchen floor.”
“What?”
“Your arm.” Oliver gestured wildly at the bloody tea towel wrapped around his arm. “You severed an artery!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“You rang the surgery.” Oliver’s heart rate had finally begun to slow. “I’m here to stitch your arm.”
“You’re the new doctor?” Deano scoffed. “Dog runner over-rer extraordinaire?”
“Yes, I am.” Oliver lifted his chin. Slightly offended by the disbelief in the man’s tone. “Oliver Bradford MD.”
What are you giving him your credentials for, idiot?
“Well, Oliver Bradford MD, you’d better come in then.” Deano walked past him to the front door of the farmhouse where he paused and looked at Oliver over his shoulder. “Do you mind if I use the key?” he asked. “Less to clean up than the throwing stones method.”
“It was a rock,” Oliver said haughtily.
Deano snorted. “For you maybe.”
Oliver looked pointedly at his watch and tapped the face. “Can we move on? Afternoon surgery is at two.” He ignored the twitch of Deano’s lips, waited for him to open the front door and followed him inside.