Louisa Heaton – Saving The Single Dad Doc (страница 6)

‘You do?’ Nothing could have surprised Bethan more. She’d maybe expected My knees are giving me some gip or I’m not sleeping well at night. Anything but what she’d actually said.

‘Aye, I do. And they tell you, don’t they—on the television and whatnot—that if you’re about to embark on a new training regime or exercise you should consult your doctor? So that’s why I’m here. Thought you’d better check me out so I don’t drop dead halfway around.’

Cameron laughed beside her. ‘Mrs Percy is our resident adrenaline junkie.’

Mrs Percy winked at him. ‘Well, adrenaline keeps you going, doesn’t it? I’ve seen those medical shows on TV, when someone’s about to cork it and they give them a shot of adrenaline. Brenda, I tell myself, you need some of that every day.’

Bethan nodded. Fair enough! ‘Okay...well, I guess we need to check you over, then. We’ll need to take your blood pressure, listen to your heart, take your pulse. All right?’

‘Aye, dear. You go for it.’ Mrs Percy rolled up the sleeve of her vast knitted cardigan to reveal a scrawny arm. ‘But I want a good answer, mind. I’ve got lots more living in me, and I haven’t abseiled down a building yet—or swam with sharks.’

‘You want to swim with sharks?’

‘Great white sharks! The meanest buggers of them all! Oh, aye!’

Mrs Percy’s blood pressure was normal. Which was impressive, seeing as she was talking about one of the greatest predators of all time and being stuck in a tiny cage next to one.

‘Well, you’re braver than me, Mrs Percy. I’m quite happy to keep my feet on solid ground.’

‘Och, that’s no way to live, dear. You have to be scared every day. Keeps you fresh. Keeps the blood pumping! You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Dr Brodie? What with your little foray into illness?’

Cameron gave a polite smile and nodded.

‘Illness is a mean old beast—we all know that—but it’s also the biggest wake-up call.’

‘Well, your BP and heart-rate are good. I think as long as you train sensibly and take your time there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enter the half-marathon if it’s really what you want to do.’

‘Och, that’s brilliant, Doctor. Thank you very much. This your first day, is it?’

Bethan glanced at Cameron and smiled. ‘It is. And you’re my first patient.’

‘Och, really? Do I get a prize?’

‘Just the prize of continued good health, Mrs Percy.’

Mrs Percy nodded. ‘Aye. ’tis a gift not given to all, but I’m taking full advantage of mine whilst I’ve got it. How are you feeling now, Dr Brodie?’

Cameron’s face seemed to flush slightly before he answered, and he wasn’t even looking at Bethan. ‘Much better, thank you.’

Bethan wondered what Cameron had been ill with. Probably a cold, or something. Maybe the flu? If he was back after a brief illness that might explain the dark circles.

She got up to walk Mrs Percy to the door and held it open for her.

Mrs Percy thanked her. ‘Reckon I’ll get myself a gold medal one day. Beat the clock.’

‘You win if you cross the line at the end, Mrs Percy. That should be your goal. Don’t worry about the clock.’

‘But the clock’s the whole point, Doctor. Time’s always against us.’

Bethan closed the door and turned to look at Cameron.

He smiled at her casually, guilelessly, as if he had nothing to hide, and she shrugged her worries away.

It had probably just been man-flu.

Nothing to worry about at all.

* * *

How many of his patients might give the game away?

That had been a close-run thing with Mrs Percy. She liked to talk...liked to gossip. Oddly, the people who talked non-stop never seemed to come to his surgery with sore throats or laryngitis. But a lot of people in Gilloch knew he’d had a run-in with cancer. They didn’t know all the details—he’d only shared those with direct family—but gossip and rumour were rife in a small place such as this.

He’d told everyone else it was over. He’d beaten it. Why upset them? Why put himself in a position of having everyone look at him with sympathy and pity? A dead man walking. They’d be throwing flowers at him before he was six feet under, and who wanted that?

His father had not taken the news of his prognosis well. Why would he? No one wanted to hear things like that. No parent wanted to hear that they would outlive their child, and that was exactly what he’d had to tell his own father.

‘They estimate I maybe have a year left.’

He’d almost not told him. The very idea of sitting down in the living room and having to utter those words had made him feel physically sick. He didn’t ever want to remind himself of the look on his father’s face when he had, silently wiping away his tears, his mouth grim as he looked away and gave one solitary sniff.

‘I’m going to leave the practice. I’m going to spend my time with Rosie and you, as much as I can.’

He could appreciate Mrs Percy’s outlook on life. You did have to grab every second of it. You didn’t realise how precious it was until someone told you there wasn’t as much left as you thought there was.

Everyone has a limited time. It’s just that some have more sand in their hourglass than others.

Bethan sat beside him, typing in the notes about Mrs Percy’s consultation, oblivious to his torment and secrets. Her fine fingers were flitting across the keyboard, and he noticed the way she gently bit her lower lip as she concentrated.

She’s pretty.

There was no point in telling anyone else the bad news. Sitting down and telling his family had been bad enough—he didn’t want to have to keep on repeating it. Seeing people he cared about breaking down and crying and having to be the one to comfort them. He needed his strength for himself.

So he’d lied. Told them the chemo had worked. The tumour was gone. It was all over. Life could carry on. Except he’d quite like a year’s sabbatical. Just to spend some time with Rosie. It had been a hard few months for her, watching her dad lose his hair and his strength.

Everyone at the practice had understood. They thought it was a marvellous idea, though they’d be sad not to see him every day.

He cleared the dark thoughts from his head. He didn’t need to linger on the thought of everyone else’s pain. He had a new mantra—make it all about Rosie. He wasn’t being mean. He wasn’t being selfish. But he needed to create distance from people now. They were all too close, all too friendly. He knew what it felt like to lose someone close, and it was horrible. Best to make it easier for everyone by being a little standoffish.

He liked what he’d seen of Bethan so far and she’d been right. But she did exude warmth and an easy-going nature, and he had no doubt he would have a problem keeping her away if she knew the truth. Bethan’s ease at being able to chat with her patient as if she’d known her for a long time took skill. If she found out about his glioma he just knew she wouldn’t let it go.

And hadn’t she been through this before? With her husband? What kind of cruel person would put someone as nice as her through that again?

He hated lying, but he needed to. It was self-preservation.

Cameron thought of all those people in his waiting room—all those familiar faces, all those people he had come to care for. People who would still be here after his time had come and gone.

Part of him didn’t want to go. Part of him was still rebelling at his diagnosis—physician, heal thyself—and part of him just wanted to lie down and have it all be done with.

He knew that was the depressive side of things. He had tablets for that. For the depression. His consultant had said they would help him come to terms with it. Be less of a shock to the system.

He wasn’t sure they were working. He spent far more time than he should wallowing in dark thoughts.

But who wouldn’t with a terminal diagnosis?

And why put other people through it when they didn’t have to?

It was best to just go quietly.

Let them sort it out after he was gone.

* * *

Her first morning of seeing patients was the usual kind of mix. Some were simply curious. Some turned up to see her about some spurious sore throat or trifling cough, just so they could go home and tell everyone else that they’d met Mhairi’s prodigal granddaughter.

She treated housemaid’s knee, an actual chest infection that needed antibiotics, a suspected urine infection and a clear case of pompholyx—which was an itchy, painful rash that appeared on the hands and feet. She examined two men complaining of bad backs—one with a shoulder injury after a fall in the garden onto a wooden picnic bench—and diagnosed a case of cellulitis.

She was enjoying herself immensely. Back in the job she loved. Seeing new people—people who would come to mean a lot to her.

She felt Cam’s presence behind her like a guardian angel, and he was being as good as his word, letting her be autonomous and get on with everything herself, only butting in when he had to—when there was something she wasn’t sure of on the computer, or to tell her where various equipment was stored in the consulting room.

At lunchtime, they stopped for something to eat.

‘Well, I think that was a successful morning!’ she said, smiling, happy at what she’d achieved. Happy at having been able to help people.