Lamplight in the Shadows (4 page)

‘I 'ope you've got plenty of sun cream on now?' she continued with a big smile and a slightly mischievous expression.

James laughed at the joke she was clearly having at his expense.

‘Hello, Rachel. I'm glad my efforts are not wasted.'

‘Na, I dun ev'rythink you told me to. I aren't stupid, you know.'

James glanced to the front of the buggy where her twin boys sat securely fastened. Each wore a frilly white cotton hat over their ginger hair, their noses showing the unmistakeable signs of a liberal application of sun cream. A small parasol gave them an extra degree of protection from the sun. He nodded approvingly. ‘Clearly not, Rachel. Well done. I wish everyone took as much care. You're setting a good example to all your friends.'

She smiled again, feeling pleased with herself. It was not often anyone gave her praise.

‘I'm just goin' roun' to me mate's 'ouse to see 'er new babba.'

With that, she pressed a button on the handle of the dog lead and hauled the recalcitrant terrier away from the pond.

‘See yer later, Dr Armstrong.'

‘Goodbye, Rachel; take care now.'

Thoughtful, he watched as she disappeared around a rhododendron bush. It was episodes like that which gave him great pleasure. He had first met Rachel Preston two months previously when she had moved across to Bishopsworth from Hull (or ‘Ull' as Rachel would say). At the age of seventeen, she was very young to have to cope with being the single parent of twins. However, she was a sensible girl who readily sought advice at the surgery when she was not sure what to do. Only yesterday, she had brought the ten-month-old boys to James, concerned that they might have an allergic rash. It was, in fact, a mild heat rash and he had taken the opportunity to impart some sound advice on the protection of her babies from the sun. It was rewarding to know that he had been listened to. Even more than that, it pleased him that she felt at ease to speak to him outside of the surgery and in such a casual manner despite their very different social positions. He strongly believed in treating every person as a human being of equal status and it was something he worked hard at, all the while remembering the words from Rudyard Kipling's poem, ‘If':

‘If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch…'

Nevertheless, one thing still beset itself as a problem for him. He felt sure that it was going to be a long time before he got used to that Hull accent.

Rachel Preston was registered as a patient of the third partner, Dr Richard Carey, a tall, slim Englishman, whose family were wealthy landowners somewhere in Shropshire. At the age of fifty-seven, and with his dark brown hair slicked back and styled to fall slightly over the collar, he still cut quite a dash with many of the local women.

Having lived his early life on the borders between England and Wales, and then medically qualifying in Bristol, he continued to carry a west country burr to his voice. This blended well with his habitual dress of brown and green tweeds, the latter giving a clue to his great passion for horses, shooting and various other rural sports, his present favourite pastime being that of riding at Point-to-Point meetings.

Known as ‘Rick' by most of the practice staff, and as ‘Dr Rick' by many of his patients, he had continued the trend within the practice for marital indiscretions by divorcing his wife several years ago. Subsequently, a series of women had in turn occupied the passenger seat of his silver Jaguar, where they sat and watched patiently as he participated in various equestrian events. Rumour had it that at present he was having an affair with one of the practice secretaries, whose husband was one of the dwindling band of merchant seamen operating out of the Port of Grimsby.

James watched as a mallard drake flew in to land on the pond, leaving a wake that gently lapped at the lilies. From a distance, the sound of the bell from the church clock informed him that it was three o'clock. With another half an hour spare, his thoughts turned to the fourth and final partner in the medical practice.

Dr Thomas Slater was a character all of his own. At fifty-four, he was the youngest of the four doctors and, being a Yorkshire man from a village just outside Harrogate, was the closest to being classed as a local; not that the historic families of Bishopsworth, Lincolnshire, would ever have considered a Yorkshire man as such; a matter that perfectly suited Dr Slater's loyalty to the white rose of his county of birth.

With the assured suspicion of northerners in respect to all things southern, he had travelled no further than Leeds for his medical training and then settled in Bishopsworth for no better reason than the pubs sold Theakston's real ale and were well known for their folk bands.

Short, slim and with wiry, grey hair, and a Yorkshire accent mixed with a fair smattering of colloquial jargon, he was renowned for his total lack of dress sense. In Dr Slater's mind there was no problem in mixing brown jackets with blue trousers and black shoes; unless it was summer, when he preferred the sartorial elegance of rolled-up shirt sleeves and a tie worn loose at an open collar. It was not unusual to see him dressed in this way for a day at the surgery, then later in the evening be sighted in the same attire, sat on a barstool in a smoky pub playing his guitar in an amateur folk band, only then to reappear in the surgery the following day in exactly the same clothes. His down-to-earth attitude and great sense of humour endeared him to many of the local population and staff alike, and the fact that he was the only local doctor who still smoked gave him some dubious ‘street cred' amongst many of the patients.

Not being one to spend money, an old grey Volvo Estate was the only car he had ever owned, as he saw no point in changing it whilst it still started. Besides, he never travelled further than the Yorkshire Dales for his holidays. All in all, it was not surprising that his wife had divorced him some five years previously without any evidence of an extra-marital affair. His lifestyle was all the excuse she had needed.

So, there it is
, thought James; all he knew about the practice. He smiled. A more disparate and colourful bunch of doctors would perhaps be difficult to imagine. However, Drs McGarva, Hawkins, Carey and Slater seemed to work well together, even if each one was psychologically more of a single-handed practitioner working under the protective umbrella of a group practice.

With that perceptive thought, he rose from Mrs Turpingdon's bench and, leaving the ducks to paddle around the lilies as they attempted to fend off the advances of the amorous drake, wandered back into town to start his afternoon surgery.

‘There's a vacancy in a practice in Boston.'

‘Where's Boston?'

‘Lincolnshire. In the south, just above the Wash.'

‘Oh.'

It was Saturday and, true to form for the tail end of an English summer, the rain was beating down as though someone had opened a floodgate in the sky. Barminster itself held no particular attractions for a day such as this. James and Janice were ensconced within their small living room; a seemingly cosy scene, giving the outward impression, albeit mistaken, of domestic bliss and marital harmony.

Undeterred by Janice's obvious lack of enthusiasm, James continued reading from the ‘situations vacant' section of the
British Medical Journal
.

‘It says, “Full-time partner required for three-man dispensing practice in the market town of Boston, Lincolnshire, due to retirement of senior partner. The successful candidate will be eligible for the obstetric and paediatric registers and will preferably be a member of the Royal College of General Practitioners. Six-month mutual assessment. Parity in three years.” It's available from 1
^st
January 1991.'

‘What's parity?'

‘For goodness' sake, Janice, don't you ever listen to me?'

James' voice gave way to his pent-up exasperation. He had already explained to Janice on several previous occasions this and various other details regarding how medical partnerships worked. He took a deep breath and tried again.

‘Most partnerships own their surgery buildings and many will have a dispensary. The value of the buildings and the dispensary stock taken together is the value of the practice, as the law does not allow NHS doctors to sell goodwill in their businesses. An incoming partner will usually buy a share of the value of the practice over a period of three years. As his share value increases, then so does his share of the profits until, usually after three years, he owns an equal share in the business and therefore receives an equal share of the profits. That is what is called parity.'

‘But you said you wanted to go to Yorkshire.'

‘I do. Nevertheless, I haven't had much luck so far, have I? There's no harm in looking elsewhere. As long as it is a rural practice or one based in a market town. There's no way I want to be in a city practice. I just could not cope with that. I would be depressed within a few months and probably an alcoholic within a year!'

James remembered vividly the premises of a city practice he had worked in as a locum for a few sessions some months previously, on days when he was not required in Bishopsworth. It was a single-handed practice in run-down shop premises next to a tattoo artist's parlour in a slum area of Hull. There were no members of staff. Most of the patients were drug addicts or prostitutes, or both. James had been shocked to find that the medical instruments were appallingly dirty, with one particular cervical speculum (used for taking smear tests) looking as though it would be better used for planting bulbs in the garden. Exploring the absent doctor's desk, he had found one drawer full of half-bottles of whisky, whilst a second drawer had a cache of polo mints, cigarettes and matches. If that was how an inner-city doctor ended up then, even with his enthusiasm for helping the less fortunate members of society, he wanted no part of it. He felt that he surely deserved something better after so many years of hard study and personal deprivation as a student.

‘And besides, Boston is probably a bit like Bishopsworth, only next to the Wash rather than the Humber. The land is a bit flat, but at least we would still be in the countryside. I have grown to like Lincolnshire a little more since working in Bishopsworth. What do you think? Shall we have a look?'

‘Do as you want.'

‘For goodness' sake, Janice, it would be nice to know that you were happy with the idea of moving somewhere new. It isn't just my decision, you know.'

‘You'll do what you want anyway, you always do.'

‘That's unfair and not true. I always try to involve you. It's just that you don't show any interest in
anything
I do. I
have
to make the decisions in the end, otherwise nothing would happen.'

Janice shrugged and reached for a packet of cigarettes. Lighting one, she sat, legs crossed, looking at James through a screen of smoke, her upper foot tapping rhythmically in the air. Her face showed no signs of emotion. He fought down a rising desire to lose his temper. He did not like arguments as they rarely achieved anything positive. However, Janice's attitude frustrated him and it took all the power he could muster to remain calm and composed.

‘Look, I know I have asked you before, but it would help me if I understood your own views on where you would like us to settle. You have never been particularly keen on Barminster for some reason, although it is a lovely town. Just where would
you
like to be?'

Since qualifying and then marrying, his career had so far taken the two of them from Kent to Devon, then to Hull following a brief spell in the city of Lincoln, and finally to Barminster. James harboured the idea that the only real place Janice wished to be was back in her native Shropshire, although she would never admit to that. It was an idea that sent a shiver through James. The Shropshire countryside was good and so near to Derbyshire's Peak District. However, it was too close to the rest of her family. If he had difficulty with their relationship now, then geographically living on top of her family would never give him a chance to try to mould it in the way he felt a relationship should develop.

‘I don't really care.'

James threw the
BMJ
onto the floor beside his chair and looked imploringly at her.

‘What
do
you care about then? What do
you
want out of our life together? Come on, Janice, you have to be a little more open with me. After all, we are husband and wife, or at least we are
supposed
to be in the eyes of God and the law. I'm not sure that you even care about us most of the time.'

‘I do!'

‘Well you don't show it.'

For a few moments Janice stared silently at him with a look that was anything but loving. Then, in a flurry of activity, she collected together the packet of cigarettes, lighter and ashtray and stormed into the kitchen.

This is all so unfair
, he thought. He had tried to involve her as much as possible, though unfortunately that very fact may have recently lost him a partnership in Richmond, North Yorkshire. He was invited for an interview, having been short-listed (so he was later told) from eighty applicants. The invitation suggested that candidates might wish to take their spouse along. As it was not unknown for wives of potential partners to be treated to ‘trial by lunch', and not wishing to suggest that Janice was not interested, he had inadvisably let her accompany him. Sadly, she was true to form throughout the time at the practice: sullen and monosyllabic, she could not have looked more bored or unapproachable if she had tried. The senior partner had been very nice about it afterwards. He telephoned James to inform him that he had been their second choice and to wish him well elsewhere. However, his comments re Janice had been thinly veiled and James knew that she had been a negative influence on the partners. He considered it a great shame, as Richmond would have been a perfect location to work.

Holding his head in his hands for a few moments, he pondered what to do next. There was no use in trying to reason with her. She would simply stay silent and taunt him further by chain smoking. He was at a total loss as to how to deal with her attitude.
Is this how it will be forever and a day?
Looking up to stare out of the rain-lashed window, his mind turned back to the Church and to the vows taken four years previously. One particular line played through his mind as he followed a rivulet of water down the glass: ‘
for better, for worse… till death us do part…'

‘God, give me courage. Show me the way forward, I pray of you,' he whispered in a quiet, despairing voice, all the while subconsciously fingering the little gold crucifix worn around his neck.