Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage (11 page)

Chapter 15

The man was large and sweaty and his body odour seemed to reach out and envelop Gaynor as he rapped his finger on the reception desk. ‘Oy. When am I going to see the doctor? I should have been seen half an hour ago.’

But Gaynor had dealt with far worse than him in the years she’d worked there and there hadn’t been a situation she couldn’t handle yet. ‘I’m afraid there has been an emergency, Mr Potts. Dr Lyle had to go out and so Dr Gilhooley is seeing his patients. Unless you’d rather reschedule for another day when you can come and see Dr Lyle?’

Mr Potts slammed his large meaty hand flat down on the counter. ‘I don’t care about excuses. I expect to be seen on time.’

Gaynor locked her fierce, brown eyes onto his bulging, bloodshot ones and leaned her head forward so she had less chance of being overheard.

‘I suggest you sit down and shut up, Mr Potts, before I have you thrown out of this waiting room and this practice. You are disturbing people in here with genuine ailments who have been waiting far longer and more patiently than you, so I think you should count yourself lucky, Mr Potts, don’t you?’

Mr Potts didn’t register that Gaynor was implying his case wasn’t genuine. Which it wasn’t. There was nothing wrong with his back but Gaynor knew she had stepped over the line in saying what she had. And so did the junior receptionist Janet, who raised her eyebrows and made a mental note to keep out of Gaynor’s way today.

Mr Potts shuffled back to his seat, grumbling under his breath. No sooner had Gaynor bent down to get an eraser out of a bottom drawer when a female voice took Mr Potts’ place at the reception desk demanding attention.

‘Shop.’

Gaynor straightened her back ready to do battle once again but this was a whole different ball game. There, standing squarely in front of her, wearing a too-small denim jacket which hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of closing over her giant bra-less bosom, was a grinning Danira Bellfield.
What the hell does Mick see in her?
was Gaynor’s initial thought. Danira’s brass-blonde hair was scraped back into a tight ponytail, pulling her eyes into slits. Her cheeks were already becoming jowly and that red colour on her youthfully plump lips looked ridiculously garish.

‘I’ve come to make an appointment,’ Danira said.

Gaynor’s second thought was that she wanted to drag Danira over the counter by that ponytail and pummel her face until it was the same colour as her lipstick.

‘I’m afraid I can’t make you an appointment as you don’t belong to this practice,’ she replied, outwardly clinging on to her composure, although inwardly she was screaming.

‘But h’I am here to register,’ said Danira with a fixed smile and a tone meant to parody Gaynor’s rounded tones, a product of elocution lessons she had taken in her twenties when Mick had become middle management and she wanted to hold her own at any of his work functions. ‘My lover and I have a house in the h’area now. It’s most important that I get hold of the morning after pill. I think you might be able to guess what we’ve been up to.’

Janet, who had been keeping her eye on Gaynor since she had sent Mr Potts back to his seat, lunged forwards as soon as she saw Gaynor’s arm shoot out. She stopped it before it made contact with Danira’s face.

‘I’ll deal with this patient, Gaynor. Why don’t you go and take your break,’ she said, sweetly and forcefully. She saw the tears in Gaynor’s eyes as she gently pushed her into the sanctuary of the small staff room. Gaynor slumped down onto a chair, her hands covering her face, taking refuge behind the shield they afforded her. It felt like an age before Janet came through and shut the door behind them.

‘Gaynor, go home,’ said Janet.

‘I just don’t believe that Mick’s moved back into the area,
my area
, with
her
,’ snarled Gaynor, none too quietly.

‘Shhh.’ Janet was aware that Gaynor was very much her senior in experience, position and years but Janet liked her. Okay, so Gaynor was frosty and not the girly-chat sort of person, but she was a good boss, brilliant at her job and she’d heard via the grapevine (i.e. the gossipy Dr Gilhooley) what was happening in Gaynor’s personal life. ‘Please, Gaynor. I’ve dealt with it. She’s sitting and waiting out there. Go out of the back door. You look really tired and you know you aren’t yourself.’

‘Oh, if only,’ Gaynor half-laughed, half-cried as she raised her head up to the ceiling. ‘If only I were someone else, anyone else but Gaynor Pollock, I might not be in this mess.’ When her eyes drifted back to Janet, it was to see her holding Gaynor’s coat and handbag out for her.

‘Go home, Gaynor. I can manage.’

Gaynor put on her coat with the weariness of a knackered pensioner and slipped the loop of her handbag over her shoulder.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said, walking slowly away and through the door. She hadn’t had a day off sick in five years but she felt as if the events of the past year had suddenly all joined together and thrown themselves at her in one big lump. As she zapped her car door unlocked, a male voice – a familiar voice – called her name. She turned, and there was Mick.

‘Gaynor,’ he said. The word hung in the air, as alone and isolated as the owner of that name felt. Mick scratched his head. His hair looked darker and was shiny and spiky. He’d had it cut in a new style meant to offset the thinning and make himself appear younger in the process.

Gaynor didn’t say anything. She opened the car door and again he said her name and took a step forwards.

Her appearance shocked him, she could see that. She didn’t have a stone and a half to lose and her cheeks were hollow. All her clothes hung loosely on her: the thin mac she was wearing looked two sizes too big. He’d bought her that mac, she suddenly remembered. He hadn’t intended to but she’d forgotten her Visa card and he’d put it on his and said it could be part of her fifty-second birthday present.

‘Gaynor, are you all right?’

The ludicrousness of the question gave her a quick shot of anger.

‘Am I all right? Am I all right?’ She opened her mouth to say more then stopped and forced herself to take a breath. He had approached her: she had his attention for the first in a long time and she didn’t want to throw it away. She sighed and the breath seemed to take all the strength she had left. ‘No, I’m not all right,’ she said, her voice a wisp, a croak.

‘We could have signed up to another surgery as we’re in the middle of two but my records are still here so . . . I thought . . . I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry, for what?’ Gaynor asked. She desperately wanted to hear him answer that he was sorry for hurting her, for dragging her through the mud, for turning her into a bitter, envious, miserable cow, so could he please come home.

‘For buying a house near you. It was the only one we liked. It was a good price.’ His voice tailed off. Even he, with his blunted sensitivities, realised these details were surplus to Gaynor’s requirements.

Gaynor wanted to take his hand, press it against her cheek. She would do anything in her power to have him come home. But he had heard her say that at least ten times now and it hadn’t changed his mind. She had shown him the full spectrum of her emotional range, all except this empty, hollow shell of herself. She felt as if someone had stuck a spoon inside her and scooped everything out.

‘We’ll sign up with the other practice. We won’t use this one. It’s wrong.’ Mick’s voice was gentle, full of sympathy. No, not sympathy but pity. Pity? She didn’t want that. Pity was what you felt for abandoned animals or homeless people, not for wives who couldn’t get over losing you. How dare he pity her, the tramp-shagging bastard.

‘Yes, you do that,’ Gaynor said, straightening her back, reclaiming some dignity. If he hadn’t looked at her as if she’d been an injured greyhound that needed putting out of its misery she might have thrown in the towel. Now she’d fight on until the fat lady sang so loudly she damaged her vocal cords. He’d be the one that people pitied, walking about with dyed spiky hair and jeans worn hanging halfway down his arse.

She could have coped better if he had died, horrible as it was to admit to herself. Being Mick Pollock’s widow would have allowed her to keep some respectability, whereas being Mick Pollock’s ex-wife because he’d run off with a Bellfield scrubber did not.

Mick made no attempt to stop her getting into her car, fumbling with the ignition key, nearly crashing into the car behind because she slipped into reverse rather than first. She did not look into the rear-view mirror and see his expression as she drove away. In her imagination, it would have been one of forlornness that he had made the biggest mistake of his life, and the sight of her there outside the surgery had forced the scales to finally fall from his eyes.

Maybe she would have turned back and drunk in the sight of him looking at her with concern, had she known it was the last time she would see Mick Pollock alive.

Chapter 16

Geraldine threw her arms around Wonk and kissed the sweet grey fur on her head.

‘Oh, it’s so good to have you home.’ Then her face fell. ‘What will happen to her if we close? Where will she go?’

‘Any sanctuary will have Wonk, she’s rich,’ said Heath, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Geraldine geed herself up. ‘What am I saying? Wonk won’t be going anywhere. We have to stay positive.’

‘Have you found homes for the animals yet?’ asked Viv, thinking Heath was insensitive at best.

‘Nope,’ he replied. ‘We were always waiting for the miracle which was going to fall on us from above. The ancient powers that be would never let this place become a housing estate, everyone kept telling me. We should all dig in our heels and everything would be okay.’ His mouth bore a smile, but his words were humourless.

‘Something will come up, I know it,’ said Geraldine. ‘It has to.’

Heath raked his fingers through the tangle of his hair, a gesture of concealed impatience, Viv thought.

‘Gerry, we are not living in a Disney film. We have to face facts that it’s starting to look unlikely and we should make plans accordingly.’

Geraldine turned and walked rapidly back to the cottage. She was upset, that was evident. Viv stood there awkwardly not knowing if she should follow. Heath was staring beyond Wonk up at the castle.

‘I know it might sound a daft question but have you asked them to come to some sort of arrangement?’ said Viv, cutting into his reverie.

‘What?’ Heath quickly turned his head towards her.

‘Have you sat down at a table with the Leightons, I mean, and . . .’

‘I know what you mean. Taken tea and cakes and asked them to rent the land back to me? No, funnily enough I haven’t. Maybe you think I should apply for a mortgage and buy it myself. Have you any idea how much this wonderful stretch of prime building land is worth?’

Viv took a stab at a guess. ‘A million?’

Heath gave a dry laugh. ‘In your dreams. So no, of course I haven’t sat down with them with a cup of tea and a packet of custard creams.’

‘Well, isn’t it worth a try, then?’

Heath’s eyes rounded and his mouth contracted to a grim line. ‘You’ve known me exactly how many minutes, Miss . . . Blackwell and—’

‘Blackbird,’ said Viv. ‘Like your name, only in English.’

‘Blackbird then.’ Heath’s cheeks were colouring with a flush of anger. ‘As I was saying . . .’ He stopped, breathed out, closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘Never mind. It’s just not worth talking about. All you need to know is that I have tried everything and it hasn’t worked, so I’d appreciate it if you just got on with the job in hand and cut the suggestions.’

‘Maybe if you let a stranger take a fresh look at things,’ Viv shrugged hopefully.

‘By
stranger
, of course you mean you.’

‘Well, yes, I—’

Heath folded his arms across his chest. ‘Remind me about your law degree again.’

‘My law degree?’ Viv was confused.

‘Yes. Or am I getting mixed up. Did we employ you for your proven record in negotiations in war zones?’

‘Oh.’ He was being sarcastic. ‘I just thought . . .’

‘You don’t need to think, Miss Blackbird,’ said Heath. ‘All you need to do is call people from the list I have already drawn up in readiness and ask if they will have any space for my animals in July. I won’t let them go until I have to and if I do have to I will thank you for your assistance and send you on your way with a nice reference so you can have some more work “experience”. Okay?’

‘You seem quite friendly with Antonia Leighton. Couldn’t she help?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Uh-oh
, thought Viv.
That didn’t go down well
, but there was nothing for it but to plough on. ‘I meant I saw you talking to her yesterday on the hill, before you arrived here, couldn’t she . . .’

Her voice died as Heath turned briskly away from her and stomped back towards the cottage. Viv followed meekly behind. The mention of Antonia’s name had obviously touched a raw nerve.
Was there anyone the Leightons didn’t have a dramatic effect on?
Viv wondered.

Chapter 17

Caro looked idly out of the window as she waited for her next client to come. Mrs Carnegie was late for her nail infill as usual, but Caro didn’t mind today. She had been non-stop since she walked in at eight-thirty and was enjoying a welcome break and a long-belated coffee.

Across the road a minibus had just parked and a group of pensioners were being off-loaded and led into the café there. Someone’s birthday, Caro guessed, as one of the last women to get off the bus was wearing a conical party hat. An old man with a stick had taken her arm to help her down the step from the bus and he waited until the next lady had climbed down safely too. A painfully thin woman with a duchess hump and a wobbly head began to alight and Caro froze. Her attention settled on the woman’s long, long black flat shoes; they looked disproportionate to the rest of her.
No, it couldn’t be.
Her mother had absurdly large feet, the relevant gene passed on to her brother but thankfully not to her. Caro studied her, moving away from the bus as if in slow motion. Her mother would be seventy-seven now: the woman across the street looked older – but then her mother had hardly lived a wholesome life.
Was
it her? Was she in a home now, near the end of her time?