Go Not Gently (6 page)

‘Is it one of the phenothiazines?’ I asked, remembering what I’d read in Moira’s books and hoping I’d got the pronunciation right. ‘What dosage is she on?’

This time the smile was accompanied by a patronising tilt of the head. ‘I don’t see that such detail is of much help to the layperson in understanding our care plan.’

‘We’d like to know,’ I said. No explanation, no justification.

He cleared his throat and rustled papers. ‘Thioridazine,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five milligrams twice daily. And nitrazepam for the insomnia as required.’

‘There can sometimes be side effects, can’t there?’ asked Agnes. ‘The drugs themselves can cause confusion in some people, make things worse.’

‘Yes, on occasion. All drugs carry some risk of minor side effects. But on the whole we feel the benefits far outweigh any risks. I can assure you I’ll be monitoring the response to the medication very carefully. There’s usually a settling-down period before the situation stabilises. If I see any indication of an adverse reaction I’ll reduce or withdraw the medication. I’d be hoping to gradually phase it out anyway. As I say, it’s not something I see Mrs Palmer requiring on a long-term basis.’

‘And you don’t think any of her symptoms are due to the drugs themselves?’ I asked.

‘No, definitely not. The confusion and agitation were what indicated the need for treatment in the first place. They’ve not arisen as a reaction to the medicines, they were present before the drug therapy started.’ He placed Lily’s notes on top of the neat stack on his desk. ‘Once the situation has stabilised, as I’m sure it will, I think we’ll see substantial improvement and we’ll have a much calmer and more relaxed patient.’

He stood up and picked up Lily’s notes, batting them gently against his other hand as he waited for us to leave. Agnes went ahead of me. As she opened the door I glanced back into the room. Dr Goulden was standing at his filing cabinet putting the notes away. But it was his reflection in the mirror above the cabinet that caught my attention. His face was contorted with rage, lips drawn back, taut and white, teeth bared, eyes glaring. My stomach lurched. It was an astonishing sight. I slipped out before he noticed me looking.

It was curiosity made me return to the building. I found it hard to credit what I’d seen and wanted to nose around a bit more. I settled Agnes in the car and then claimed to have left my gloves in the waiting room. The lobby was deserted – we must have been the last appointment.

The words from the consulting room were a little muffled behind the closed door, but I could make out most of what Goulden said, particularly at such a loud volume.  ‘I do not see friends and relatives. I’m a doctor, not a bloody support group. I see patients. You make appointments for patients.’ He was furious, spitting out the words, ladling on scorn and derision. ‘Next time you decide to offer appointments to Uncle Tom Cobleigh and all just use your bloody brains, woman.’

I heard a murmur in reply.

‘Tell them you only make appointments for registered patients. Show some initiative, for Christ’s sake. Anything else, you check with me first. Got it?’

Another murmur.

‘I’ve enough to do without being at the beck and call of every silly old bat who gets a bee in her bonnet. They read an article in some half-cocked magazine and next minute they’re God’s gift to medicine. Check next time and if they’re not patients…’

I left. I’d heard enough and I didn’t want the receptionist to know I’d witnessed her humiliation.

In the car Agnes was deflated. Goulden’s certainty about Lily’s illness had put paid to any hope she might have had about misdiagnosis. And he had given us the information we asked for even though we’d had to lean on him to get it. But she hadn’t seen what I had, nor heard him just now.

‘I think he’s hiding something,’ I said, ‘he hated having to see us, he didn’t want to talk to us about Lily.’

I described to Agnes the expression I’d seen on Goulden’s face as I was leaving and the way he’d bawled out his receptionist.

‘He was beside himself,’ I said. ‘That makes me wonder, why did our visit upset him to such a degree?’

‘Perhaps he’s just a very angry man. Choleric they used to call it.’

‘I don’t like him,’ I said, ‘and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit.’

Dr Chattaway used an end terraced house for his surgery. Plastic chairs were arranged around the walls of the room. On a table in the centre were copies of People’s Friend, National Geographic and Woman’s Own. The waiting room was full. No intercom here. The doctor stuck his head round the door every few minutes and asked for the next patient. People shuffled along each time.

Gradually we moved around the room and finally we reached the inner sanctum. Dr Chattaway motioned to chairs and settled behind his highly polished desk. It was huge; they probably had to dismantle it to get it through the doorway. On the wall were framed diplomas and a photograph of Dr Chattaway in cap and gown.

‘Miss Donlan,’ he grinned, ‘how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while.’ His accent blended Indian consonants and Mancunian vowels.

Agnes explained why we’d come. He listened politely, rolling a thick fountain pen between his fingers and frowning slightly. When she’d finished he nodded once.

‘Of course I no longer have Mrs Palmer’s notes. As you know, I treated Mrs Palmer for the fall, the shoulder, and that was mending fine, but she was keen to move into sheltered accommodation. I didn’t see her again, she transferred to Dr Goulden. I’m sorry to hear she’s so poorly.’

I asked him if Lily had ever shown any signs of dementia.

She hadn’t. But neither had she had any acute illness that could have led to dementia-like symptoms. He recommended that we ask Dr Goulden to make sure there was no adverse reaction to drugs she was prescribed. ‘It’s a common enough problem,’ he said. ‘All drugs have side effects and sometimes switching to another similar drug can bring great improvements. I must say I am surprised that she is so ill. I would agree it seems very sudden and if she were my patient I would be reviewing the drugs very carefully.’

As Dr Goulden claimed he was.

There was nothing else he could tell us. I drove Agnes home and she invited me in.

We sat in the front room, peaceful and homely. It still had the original fireplace with its ceramic tiles showing dog roses and rosehips, and a picture rail ran round the room. Agnes had decorated in warm colours, gold and peach and a spicy brown. She lit the coal-effect gas fire and we pulled our chairs up close. From somewhere else in the house a clock chimed, a sound from the days before time was measured in bleeps and digital displays.

‘Is that it, then?’ She looked into the fire.

‘You can always get a second opinion – about Lily’s condition now. I think you should consider that. Or a transfer. See about her changing back to Dr Chattaway, perhaps? Talk to Charles about it, he might need to make the request.’

She nodded then turned to look at me. ‘And you. What do you think?’

‘I’m not a doctor,’ I objected.

‘But you have an opinion?’ Her dark eyes glittered.

‘I don’t know. I don’t like Dr Goulden but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know his job. I can’t make a medical judgement, and the whole thing seems to hinge on that. Maybe it just happened more quickly for Lily, maybe the drugs do need looking at again like Dr Chattaway suggested. Either way there’s not much I can usefully do at the moment. You need more medical help, not a private investigator.’

Agnes turned away, looked back at the flames. ‘I can’t believe I was wrong,’ she murmured. ‘Stubborn. How much do I owe you?’

‘I can send you a bill.’

‘I’d rather settle it now.’

‘There’s only really the doctors’ visits, a bit of research. Fifty pounds will cover it.’

She left the room. Came back with the cash. I took the bills and folded them into my bag.  ‘Thank you.’ I wanted to apologise but I didn’t know what for.

On the doorstep she laid her hand on my arm. ‘Thank you. For listening. It didn’t turn out as I hoped but it helped to have someone taking it seriously.’

‘Take care,’ I said. ‘If anything else crops up you know where I am.’

As I walked away disappointment tightened my throat. If only it could’ve turned out differently. I thought it was all over then.

And we all know what thought did.

It was only ten forty-five and Tuesday was one of the days that Jimmy Achebe had asked me to watch Tina. I drove back to the office, checked my answerphone and mail and collected the camera. I’d invested in a powerful zoom lens which meant I could get shots of people without being under their noses. Nevertheless I still felt completely exposed whenever I used it. It was beyond me how anyone could fail to spot the strange woman parked in the car snapping away with a funny-looking camera. But to date no one had come up and knocked on the window to ask me my business. The zoom meant I could furnish my clients with the proof they wanted of lies told and trust betrayed.  

Before leaving I rang Jimmy Achebe’s home number. No point in staking out an empty house. Tina answered the phone.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘is that the travel agent’s?’

‘You’ve got the wrong number.’

‘Oh, sorry.’

I stopped to buy a trendy sandwich and a drink on the way across to the Achebes’. Levenshulme – where the biscuit factory sweetens the air. I drove past the address Jimmy had given me. An ordinary terrace. Door leading straight on to the street. A quiet road. One where a strange car parked too long would have the nets twitching. I parked up on the main road where I could see down the length of their street if Tina appeared.

I’d finished my posh butties (avocado, cream cheese and chives) and my drink. I was parked near the Antique Hypermarket, full of stalls dealing in furniture, fixtures and fittings. The sort of place you could get original fireplaces like Agnes’ among the Victorian hatstands and chaise longues. I’d tagged along when my friend Diana had got old chimney pots there for her back yard. I divided my attention between Tina’s street and the comings and goings of the antique dealers.

It was one thirty when she came out. The photo I had was a good likeness. She was short and slight. She walked down to the main road and turned left towards the shops. Once she’d passed the bus stop I slipped my camera in my bag, left the car and followed her at a safe distance.

Tina bought fresh milk and bread, a chicken, vegetables.  She called in the hardware shop and browsed and did the same in a cheap and cheerful clothes shop. Then she walked back home.

Some you win, some you lose.

Sheila was on the phone, the woman about the room. I told her what we’d got available and what it cost, a bit about the setup (two adults – not involved with each other – each with a child, one dog, shared kitchen and bathroom, no smoking). She was still interested but would be away for a few days on a field trip. I told her I’d check when Ray was in and fix a time for her to come and meet us. I took her number.

I rang Swift Deliveries and left a message for Jimmy Achebe to ring Kilkenny’s after ten the following morning.

Moira’s books were still in their carrier bag in the corner so I stuck them in the car ready to drop off the next time I passed her house or the surgery.

Over tea I got some times from Ray when we could both be in to see Sheila. I rang her back while he was washing up and fixed for her to call Wednesday next week after tea. We wanted her to meet the kids but not until they’d been fed. Maddie in particular was capable of horrendous behaviour. I thought of it as attention-seeking in my better moments, and I didn’t want to give her a chance to display it with food at hand.

That evening it was my turn to get the children to bed, a long process that included baths and books and stories. I also had to arbitrate in the many disputes that arose between the pair of them. Maddie and Tom were virtual opposites in looks as well as temperament. Tom had inherited Ray’s dark curls, brown eyes and olive skin, while Maddie was dirty blonde, blue-eyed and pallid. Tom had a cheerful lust for life and experience, a sensuality that led him to wallow in mud and chuck himself all over the place. Maddie found the world an unnerving place, was cautious, suspicious of the new, and a borderline hypochondriac. She could be infuriating but I loved her with a passion that continued to startle me.

Once I’d got them in pyjamas and persuaded them to their beds, I had to check under beds, in drawers and behind curtains for scary things. Maddie was in an anxious phase and every shadow and sound had her gasping. When I’d done my atheistic version of casting out the devils and blessing the bedroom I sat in the old rocking chair in the corner of the room and began a story. They were both still awake when I finished.

‘Will you stay, Mummy?’ Maddie asked.

‘Yes,’ I sighed.

‘Till I’m asleep?’

‘Yes. Now be quiet.’

I closed my eyes and let my mind flow around the day’s work. Images floated into my thoughts and away: Agnes’ fireplace, Tina shopping, Dr Chattaway rolling his pen…

I jerked awake, a sour taste in my mouth. I could hear steady breathing from Maddie. I got up and bent over Tom, no sound at all. I touched his chin, he shuffled and sighed. I let my breath out and left them to it.