Out of Practice (50 page)

‘No, no, don’t worry about Grover, Doctor. He’ll share my Guinness,’ the Major replied without batting an eyelid.

‘So,’ Dan began, trying to avoid Taffy’s eye as he passed him his pint, lest he succumb to unprofessional laughter, ‘how can we persuade you to come in for a check-up? Is
it the other patients that bother you? The other doctors?’ Dan took a sip of his Guinness and wiped away his frothy moustache with the back of his hand. He realised that, with all the drama,
this was the first time all week he’d felt normal, sitting in the pub on a Friday night, with a pint in his hand and a patient cornering him for a ‘quick chat’. Although,
technically, he had invited the Major to join him for a drink, so maybe he was the mug. But somehow the old boy intrigued him. More than eighty years of age and never once seen in the surgery, or
the local hospital. The veterinary centre he didn’t know about, but Kitty and Rupert, the local vets, would be in later and he could ask them then.

The Major looked around the bar and seemed a little sheepish. Was he about to reveal his long-held terror of stethoscopes? ‘You see, the thing is, Dr Carter, I don’t want to lose my
bet.’

‘Your what now?’ asked Dan, caught off-guard.

The Major gave him a slow wink. ‘In 1964, my best mate Andy and I made a bet. The first one to give in and go to the doctor’s would forfeit and the winner would get a bottle of his
father’s prized single malt. Not just any single malt, Dr Carter,’ said the Major with passion, grabbing hold of Dan’s sleeve, ‘because Andy’s dad ran a distillery on
Islay. We’re talking about Black Bowmore here. You could honestly buy a car for less and the taste . . . well, the taste I can only imagine.’

‘Just to be clear,’ said Dan, wondering how many pints of Guinness the Major and Grover had sunk before he arrived, ‘you won’t go to the doctor’s because you might
miss out on a bottle of scotch?’

The Major looked scandalised. ‘Not just
any
bottle of scotch, Dr Carter. Did you not hear me say Black Bowmore!’

Taffy couldn’t help but wade in. ‘Seriously, Major?
The
Black Bowmore? That stuff is legendary.’

‘You see!’ cried the Major, waving his hands at Dan. ‘Even the Welshies have heard of it. Philistine or not, Dr Carter, and I’m not doubting your medical credentials for
a moment, but I cannot set foot inside your surgery before Andy McLeod starts ailing, and the bastard’s as fit as a fox!’

Dan shook his head in disbelief. ‘But what if you’re really ill?’

‘Well then, either I’ll drop dead or I’ll get my whisky. Shame young George is retiring,’ he gave Dan a hard look. ‘He always understood the stakes and never minded
a quick chat off the record. And the lovely Julia often keeps me on the straight and narrow, medicinally speaking.’ The Major fell silent and supped at his pint, offering it to Grover for an
occasional slurp.

Taffy and Dan looked at each other over the top of the Major’s greying head. Taffy gave him a grin and gestured his head towards the gents’, while Dan shook his head in bemusement.
‘Go on,’ mouthed Taffy again, the laughter threatening and his eyes sparkling with mischief.

‘You young lads never make any bets, then,’ said the Major, emerging from his pint, ‘nothing ever persuaded you to stick to your guns?’

Taffy shrugged. ‘Our bets tend to be a bit more childish, to be honest, Major. Not the life-long variety. More the end of the week really . . . which reminds me, Dr Carter,’ he said,
suddenly sounding very formal and with a contrived amount of pomposity, ‘it is in fact the end of the week. Produce your egg!’

‘Sorry, did you say egg?’ interjected the Major.

Dan shook his head more and gave Taffy a look, as any remaining credibility flew out the window. ‘He bet me a round that I couldn’t take an egg with me everywhere I went for a whole
week without breaking it.’

‘And let’s not forget that I had custody of an egg too,’ Taffy protested. ‘It’s not all one-sided.’

Dan shrugged. ‘Sorry, mate, it’ll be my round then. I’m afraid mine was eggstremely flattened when I was doing cardiac resuscitation on old Jack Dollar.’

‘Ahh, that’s hardly a sporting way to win a bet, Dr Jones. The man’s practically a hero. Can you not have a do-over?’

Taffy pompously pretended to consider for a moment. ‘Well you see, the whole point of the bet, Major, was to prove a point to Dan. You won’t know this, but our Dr Carter here, as
wonderful as he may be, is in fact A Dropper.’

‘I am not,’ protested Dan. ‘My egg was in perfectly safe hands until, well, until I dropped it. Where’s yours?’

Taffy reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and unwrapped a spotty handkerchief, revealing a perfectly rounded egg. ‘Ta da!’

Dan and the Major both gaped. ‘You mean you’ve been carrying that around all week? In your pocket?’ Dan clarified.

‘Yup! I’ve been saving it for a little celebratory snack . . . First, you get another round in, then we’ll have a little check of the Major’s gammy leg and then, I think
we need to come up with a better way of proving that you are, contrary to all logic and expectation, A Dropper.’

Dan laughed despite himself and laid a twenty on the bar.

‘Same again for me, Dr Carter. Since you’re buying,’ chuckled the Major.

Taffy stood up and retrieved a small dish of salt from one of the tables, before neatly tapping his egg on the polished bar and beginning to peel it.

‘Hang on, you cheating swine. You never said we were allowed to hard boil the bloody thing!’ protested Dan as his twenty disappeared into the pub’s coffers.

‘Ah, but I didn’t say that you couldn’t,’ said Taffy, taking an enormous bite of his egg and dipping it gleefully in the salt. ‘The devil is in the details, Dan,
you know that.’

The Major just shook his head. ‘Well played, sir!’ He slowly got to his feet, careful to collect his fresh pint and his inebriated terrier. ‘And you boys call me mad,’ he
muttered under his breath, before seeking out the company of the lovely Marion for a little Guinness and sympathy.

Dan rallied almost immediately. ‘Enjoy your winnings, Taffy, my car is looking forward to its full valet service. I shall have you know that my tadpole now has its back legs.’

Taffy pulled a face. ‘You can enter it in the concert then, as Kermit the frog’s little nephew Robin – ’cause mine’s got front legs too . . . And you should see the
state of my Landy!’ Taffy shook his head. ‘Oh Dan, when are you going to realise that I’m in a different league, mate?’

Dan just shrugged. ‘We’ll see. But since you’ve got two left feet at the best of times, and we’ve got rehearsals in five minutes, maybe you should leave that twenty on
the tab for later?’

Taffy grudgingly conceded. It was one thing to look like a prat on stage – it was another to let Dan Carter outshine him in a sporting event.

‘Twenty quid says you can’t get through the whole rehearsal without falling over,’ said Taffy.

‘Deal,’ said Dan, shaking his hand. ‘Wait, hang on, that doesn’t include being pushed now, does it?’

Taffy grinned and then drained his pint. ‘Oh Dan, you always have to agree terms
before
you shake. Now, will you be standing next to me in the line-up perchance? I really fancy a
Chinese Takeaway!’

The next morning, on the other side of town, Holly was about out of chances. She’d left Milo in Bath. Literally and metaphorically. As far as she was concerned, it was
Game Over. Strike while the iron was hot and the motivation still fresh. She could be a single parent – hell, she’d basically been a single parent for the last two years, just with
another body in the house.

She could do this. It was fine. Quick, like a Band Aid, that was the answer. Try not to give in to the guilt. Try not to rehearse what she’d say to the boys.

Her night away had given her perfect clarity, as the physical and mental toxins left her body: the ultimate cleanse!

She’d caught the early bus back to Larkford, reclaimed her battered old Golf and scooped up the twins. The momentum of her actions had faltered then. She’d driven aimlessly for a
while. ‘What’s the story in Balamory?’ playing mindlessly on a loop in the car.

She couldn’t face going back home and she couldn’t very well go to Lizzie’s.

‘How many bridges can I burn in one week?’ she asked herself.

She pulled up outside the Spar. ‘Come on, boys, let’s get some breakfast.’

Being so early, there was nobody else about and Holly chatted with Marion as she ran their crusty rolls and fruit through the checkout.

‘You alright there, Dr Graham?’ Marion asked kindly. ‘You’ve got a certain glow about you, but you don’t look happy.’

Holly shook her head. ‘Oh Marion, you are such a sweetheart. I’m fine. I am. I’ll be fine.’

Marion raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, you know where we are if you need us. Everybody’s been talking about your concert idea – we’re so touched by your support, Dr Graham. I
know you haven’t lived here long, but we do so appreciate all your work.’

Holly smiled. ‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, Marion.’

Marion nodded. ‘Since it’s quiet and you’re not rushing, would you mind if I said something?’

Holly caught Ben’s banana before it hit the floor and turned back. ‘Of course, go ahead.’

Marion looked uncomfortable and intense and Holly braced herself.

‘It’s about your husband, actually, Dr Graham. I’ve been wanting to say something for a while, but there’s never the opportunity, is there?’

‘What’s he done?’ asked Holly tiredly, wondering whether he’d run up a tab, or been flirting with someone’s underage daughter. After last night, she wasn’t
sure that anything would surprise her.

Marion took a deep breath. ‘He’s been buying the boys chocolate,’ she burst out in the end. ‘Ben too. Every week. A big bar of Dairy Milk. He says it keeps them quiet and
I did try and remind him about young Ben’s allergy, Dr Graham, I really did.’

Marion looked so stressed out, Holly automatically placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.

She felt like laughing – laughing in a slightly mad, hysterical, relieved kind of way obviously – but never the less laughing.

‘Oh, Marion, I think I love you,’ said Holly to Marion’s utter bemusement.

How could Holly possibly explain the tumult of thoughts running through her head? She pulled Marion into a bear hug and scooped up the boys. Next stop Elsie’s for some common sense advice
about divorce.

Divorce.

No longer the judgemental knell of defeat, but the resounding toll of liberation.

As Holly buckled the boys into their seats, she ruffled their hair and planted kisses on their sticky little cheeks. ‘Sorry, boys. Mummy’s a bit late to the party.’

Holly wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or to cry.

She knew now with absolute clarity that her marriage was dead. Even without the prospect of Taffy Jones waiting in the wings, she wasn’t going to settle for second best. She’d rather
be on her own, on her own terms.

She’d stayed with Milo because she wanted the boys to have their father around.

What a joke!

She’d fretted endlessly about Ben’s hearing, health and behavioural issues – wondering how she could possibly do more. And all this time, Milo had been stuffing him full of
chocolate, triggering all these little allergic reactions and bunging up his sinuses.

Jesus! What kind of father would knowingly poison his own son just to get some peace and quiet?

The answer was simple and clear – the kind of father you’re better off without.

Holly slid the Golf into gear and with a sigh of relief, her conscience clear, she set off for Elsie’s.

Elsie had been delighted to see them and welcomed them in with open arms. ‘Boys, I have an enormous favour to ask. I seem to have made far too much popcorn. As a favour
to me, do you think you could help me eat some of it?’

Within seconds the boys were in the palm of her hand. When she opened a wicker basket to reveal hundreds of tiny, polished wooden blocks, they were in seventh heaven. ‘My Ginger used to
play with those for hours,’ Elsie told them, quickly flicking off the TV, which was paused on Mr Darcy coming out of the lake.

Holly quietly loved the fact that Elsie didn’t hold with convention – so she fancied a movie at nine o’clock in the morning? Well then, make some popcorn and dig in . . . They
retreated to the kitchen and Holly flicked on the coffee machine, as comfortable in Elsie’s home as she was in her own.

‘So you’ve done the deed then?’ Elsie said astutely.

Holly whirled around, flicking coffee grounds everywhere. ‘How did you . . . ?’

Elsie clapped her hands in delight. ‘Well I didn’t know – it was a guess. You just seemed a little lighter on your toes.’

Holly laughed. ‘In more ways than one.’ And she told Elsie about her night away.

Elsie lived and breathed every moment of the retelling, until she slumped back in her chair. ‘About time too,’ she said eventually. ‘It’s been bothering me for a while,
young Holly, how you seem to equate death and divorce as the same thing. I’m sure it was a tragedy to lose your lovely dad so young, but this is not the same scenario.’

‘Nope,’ agreed Holly, ladling a huge spoonful of sugar into her coffee, thrilled to finally be enjoying her favourite drink again. ‘Not the same thing at all. Took me a while
to get there, though.’

‘And am I allowed to ask about Taffy? Did he have a role in all of this?’

‘I suppose he did, in a way,’ conceded Holly. ‘But probably not the way you’re thinking. I didn’t leave Milo for Taffy. I left Milo because I needed to. For me. And
possibly for the boys too, but we’ll see how that pans out.’

Holly walked over and gave Elsie an enormous hug. ‘I’m so grateful for all your advice, Elsie. You’ve really opened my eyes these last few months.’

Elsie batted away the compliment. ‘Rot. I just made you stand up for yourself a little bit, made you ask for what you really wanted.’ Elsie wandered over to the dresser and pulled
down a small frame that was covered in dust.

The paper inside was yellowing with age, the looping handwriting flamboyant and graceful. ‘I met the most inspiring lady when I was younger. Her name was Rebecca and she didn’t let
anything stand in her way. She used to say this all the time, so I got her to write it down for me. So I’d never forget.’