Out of Practice (51 page)

Elsie passed her the frame and Holly read the quote aloud,

‘I myself have never been able to find out exactly what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. Be
true to yourself, Elsie. All love RW.’

‘Wow!’ said Holly. ‘She sounds amazing.’

‘A little bit terrifying, but yes – also amazing,’ Elsie replied. ‘So what’s the plan now?’

Holly drank her coffee slowly as she thought. ‘Wait and see?’

‘Wait and see sounds perfect. You have to have a little faith in the Universe, I believe. You’ll know what to do when the time is right. Like with Milo.’

‘Hmm, I think the situation with Milo may have dragged on a little longer than necessary though, don’t you?’ said Holly.

‘No, I don’t actually,’ Elsie said with feeling. ‘If you’d walked away sooner, knowing you, you’d have spent your life wracked with guilt. This way, by
letting everything build to a natural detonation, you can have the confidence that you made the right call – not just for you, but for the boys as well.’

Holly wondered, in that moment, whether everyone gained such clarity of vision by the time they were eighty. Did personal vision grow, she wondered, even as optical vision faded?

Holly smothered a yawn, her night in the hotel bathroom catching up with her.

‘Go and close your eyes for a moment,’ Elsie said. ‘The boys are happy with their bricks, look. That sofa over there is the perfect length for a catnap. I may even join
you.’ Elsie smiled. ‘If I don’t get my morning nap in, I’m too tired to properly enjoy my siesta.’

Elsie was asleep in moments, the boys quietly lining up rows and rows of bricks for their toy cars to drive through.

Holly laid her head back on the sofa and watched them contentedly. She was feeling a little fatalistic right now. The idea of putting her faith in a higher power was really quite beguiling.
After the concert tonight, there would be more decisions, more choices and more confrontations.

In her heart, she knew that Taffy hadn’t been the reason to walk away from Milo, but in some ways he had been the catalyst. Not as a reward, she decided, but just to remind her how it was
possible to feel. And for that alone, she was grateful. So, it might be awkward being around him for a bit, but if this concert didn’t do the trick tonight, then even that might not be an
issue.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the warm waves of sleep ebb and flow. With young children in the house, Holly had perfected the knack of dozing with one ear open. The gentle babbling
of the twins in their own little language was soothing as she let herself relax.

Her phone trilled beside her, announcing a new email, and Holly debated whether it was worth prising her eyes open. It was unlikely to be work or Milo, but with the concert only hours away,
there was a chance it was important.

She yawned and clicked on her mail folder, the words dancing before her eyes as she struggled to make sense of them.

If she believed in signs . . . Holly thought, as her mind clicked into gear.

The local representative from the Primary Care Trust was called Harry Grant. His email address was hgrant@southwesthealth – Holly’s was hgraham@southwesthealth.

With one mistyped letter, the autocomplete on Henry Bruce’s computer had sent Holly everything she needed to know. She clicked on the attachments and read through them at speed. These
figures were very different to the ones he’d sent Julia. What a snake.

More importantly, Henry Bruce seemed to be turning down a rescue package from the PCT. ‘The community of Larkford would benefit hugely from the new surgery in Framley and the medical team
here are unanimous. You have our support to go ahead with the closures and, whilst we thank you for your alternative proposals, they would only have the support of a small, although vocal,
minority.’

‘Bastard!’ hissed Holly under her breath.

Tiptoeing past the deeply engrossed building works on the carpet, Holly went into the kitchen and dialled a number on her mobile. ‘Harry Grant, please,’ she said. ‘Yes, I can
hold.’

As ‘Greensleeves’ strangled itself in her ear, Holly read through the attachment again. The rescue package, to her non-accountancy eye, looked very reasonable. They would need to
prove local support – check. They would need to move non-urgent services to the central practice – physiotherapy and the like – no problem. They would also need to cut their GP
staffing budget by . . . And this was where Holly caught her breath. Talk about a sign from the Universe!

The reduction figure was exactly the same as her own salary.

She swallowed hard as ‘Greensleeves’ morphed into Peer Gynt. She looked over at Elsie, fast asleep and snoring gently. She saw the boys hug each other with delight as their tower
tumbled down over their feet.

She wondered if she was strong enough for yet another challenge.

A little voice in her brain was most insistent though.

There were other jobs.

And hers had never been safe.

She could live here and commute to Bath or Bristol so easily. It wouldn’t be the same, but it was definitely doable.

Larkford needed The Practice, more than they needed her.

Larkford, like Taffy, had shown her what she was looking for. Elsie had helped her to realise what she wanted.

And she wanted to do this, she realised. Doing something for the greater good of the community that had brought her back to life, somehow felt right.

It felt more than right – it felt as though this was her own private mission – possibly even the reason she was here. Holly felt a quiet resolution settle in her chest. This was her
decision and this time, she was going to trust her instincts.

Maybe this Harry Grant needed to come to their concert too? Perhaps he needed to see for himself, what Holly had already discovered.

Larkford was more than a community – it was a family. A very modern family, with the best of traditions at its heart.

The music clicked off in Holly’s ear and a harassed voice picked up the line, ‘Harry Grant speaking.’

Holly braced herself, it was now or never. ‘Mr Grant, it’s Dr Graham here, from the Larkford Practice. I’d like to make you a proposal.’

Holly rushed around backstage, tripping over her feet, various props and a large Tupperware box full of worms. She began to wonder whether she was hallucinating, as she picked
up another box and came face to face with a chirruping cricket.

She looked around for clarification. Maggie was sitting curled up on a chair, as white as a ghost. ‘You know I’d do anything to support the campaign, Holly, but I’m beginning
to think I may have over-reached.’ She waved her hand at the stack of Tupperware boxes.

Holly crouched down beside her trembling colleague. ‘What exactly were you planning to do, Mags?’

Maggie gave a slightly hysterical laugh. ‘Well, you know how I can be a bit funny about things being clean, food being a certain way? Well, to challenge myself, I thought I could do a Bush
Tucker Challenge – you know, like they do on the telly.’

Holly took one look at the writhing masses in the boxes. ‘I think you’re mad.’

‘I knoooow,’ howled Maggie. ‘What was I thinking? I just wanted to really test myself, prove to everyone how committed I am.’

‘Maggie,’ said Holly calmly and sternly. ‘If you put those hideous things in your mouth, knowing you as I do, I think we’ll be
getting
you committed. This is
supposed to be fun too, you know. We’re not here to make you sick.’

Maggie’s fingers gradually began to unclench in sheer relief. ‘But that will leave a gap in the running order, won’t it?’

Holly checked the clipboard that Grace had entrusted her with, running an eye over who else might be available. She was half tempted to volunteer Taffy to eat all those vile creepy crawlies, as
some sort of karmic debt, but she figured he probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said instead. ‘I’ll think of something.’

Maggie went off to splash her face and offer some help in make-up, where her attention to detail would no doubt be better served.

Holly checked her watch and took a calming breath. She was wearing her favourite performing dress: a long column of charcoal jersey with a flowing skirt that perfectly accommodated her cello.
Other than simple diamond studs she wore no other jewellery and her eyes were smudged with dark grey kohl, hair swirled into a casual chignon at the nape of her neck, Elsie’s precious scarf
looped around her.

For all the vile things that Holly had thought about her hideous detox treatment, she couldn’t deny the results were phenomenal. This dress hadn’t fitted properly in three years and
now it lightly skimmed her curves. Her skin was bright and luminous despite running on very little sleep and industrial quantities of Diet Coke.

It was just over an hour to curtain up. Nerves were kicking in and last-minute bickers were breaking out amongst their various ‘acts’ as the reality of the situation finally dawned.
The Little Theatre was sold out. It was standing room only. They were about to go on stage in front of all their peers and patients and make total prats of themselves.

And, for all of that, Holly would be a lot more relaxed if only their compère had arrived. Julia had dropped by Elsie’s house earlier and helped lay out her clothes, Dan had spoken
to her a short while after, but still no Elsie.

Holly habitually checked her watch again, even though only thirty seconds had passed. She’d spent most of the afternoon trying to keep calm and was running out of steam.

Not only did she have to play her cello in front of an audience, despite being woefully unprepared, but she had to follow that up with a duet with Taffy Jones. How on earth was she supposed to
get through that, let alone carry a tune, when even being near him was an inhuman challenge for her nerves . . .

In the way that life throws you one problem to distract you from another, she’d also had the twins to contend with. Really, they were far too little to stay up late, but where was the
harm? Wouldn’t it be nice for them to see their mummy up on stage, playing her cello and being a strong role model, rather than the frazzled wreck they’d been treated to lately?

Thank God for Marion Gains. She was out there now, a twin on either side and a large supply of dairy-free homemade flapjacks and smoothies to help the show along. Holly had actually been quite
touched by Marion volunteering. The minute she knew there was no Milo, and by extension no Jean, on offer, Marion had been on the phone. Holly suspected that Marion rather fancied herself as a
surrogate granny, since her own family were now in Australia. Credit where credit was due though, surrogate granny was doing a much better job than biological granny ever had.

Fifty-five minutes to go, and still no Elsie.

Holly looked around her, taking in the hive of activity and knowing that her preparations were all done. Cello tuned. Guitar tuned. Co-star avoided. Children taken care of. Holly slipped off her
heels and pulled on her scruffy ballet slippers, making a command decision.

‘Dan,’ she called backstage, ‘I’m going to get Elsie, okay?’

Holly ran out of the theatre, waving at the friendly faces that threatened to waylay her. Emerging from the darkness of the theatre into the early evening sun gave the Market
Place an other-worldly feeling. The hubbub of noise behind her in the Theatre and the quiet stillness of the Market Place gave Holly the sensation of being caught between two worlds – which,
of course, in a way she was at the moment.

She breathed deeply, the wild garlic from the woodland above wafting down on the warm breeze. This was no time to get sentimental, but Holly allowed herself a few moments to fix the image
clearly in her mind.

Checking her watch again, she broke into a loping run toward Elsie’s house and prayed that the sense of impending crisis that was jangling her nerves had more to do with her duet with
Taffy, than any emerging sixth sense.

She arrived at Elsie’s house out of breath and with tendrils of hair snaking their way out of her hairdo.

She lifted the big brass door-knocker and dropped it repeatedly against the glossy green paint.

No reply.

But Holly could see movement inside. Crouching down to squint through the letterbox, Holly could make out someone walking around in the morning room. She knocked again and they froze.

‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ muttered Holly, catching her skirts up in her arms and looking around. She vaulted clumsily up to the top of the locked side gate, hovering
precariously in mid-air for a moment before landing none too elegantly and none too gently on the other side.

A sharp pain shot up into Holly’s ankle, but she ignored it. The building pressure in her chest was merely adding to the sense of imminent calamity.

Hobbling along the side passage and squeezing past Elsie’s recycling bins, Holly could hear a voice. An angry male voice.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she recognised the arrogant and snide tones of one Henry Bruce.

Picking up speed and wincing in pain, she headed for the back door and prayed that Elsie was in a forgetful mood. Finding the door locked, for the first time in history, Holly cursed and
wondered what the hell to do. Perhaps Elsie wouldn’t mind a little wanton vandalism, she thought, assessing the rocks on the rockery for throwability.

She slipped along the back of the terrace, and saw Henry Bruce striding up and down the kitchen, shouting at someone on the telephone. ‘It needs to be now, Garth. They’re all at the
concert and I can’t keep this old biddy sedated for ever.’

Holly had never been so delighted with Elsie’s erratic security as she was in that moment, with her blood boiling. The French windows that led to the dining room were slightly ajar and
Holly slipped inside.

Poking her head around the doorway to the morning room, she could see Elsie on the sofa and Henry Bruce now through in the hallway, fighting to open the massive front door.

‘Elsie,’ whispered Holly, scuttling through to her side. She pulled up short, Elsie pale face and drooping eyelids making her wonder if she’d arrived too late.