Redmond now. “Bye.”
She rushed to the car park, leather skirt creaking wildly. Only when she was in her car and past the security barrier did she allow herself to break into floods of tears.
four
T hat same afternoon, in the doctor’s surgery in the centre of Dunmore, Lizzie Shanahan searched the correspondence pile for a letter to the specialist. Mrs. Pender stood in front of the desk, looking only slightly less shocked than she had the previous day when she and Mr. Pender had emerged from the surgery with the gently delivered but nonetheless startling news that Mr. Pender needed to see a specialist for further discussion on the results of his blood test for prostate cancer.
Lizzie found the letter and the attached Post-it note on which she’d written directions to the specialist’s office.
She smiled warmly at Mrs. Pender, doing her best to radiate both calmness and complete ignorance of whatever was in the letter to the specialist. Lizzie knew exactly what it said because she’d typed it and because the doctor’s receptionist knew almost as many secrets as the doctor. But the patients were better off not really being aware of that.
This patient was too worried to go along with the sanctity-ofthe-surgery façade. “I haven’t slept a wink since I heard,” Mrs. Pender said weakly. “Do you think it’s bad, since they got him an appointment so quickly?”
Lizzie, who’d been told to plead emergency on the phone to the specialist’s office because Mr. Pender’s blood test results signalled prostate cancer, felt a huge surge of pity for the woman but managed to look innocently surprised at the question.
“They may have had a cancellation, Mrs. Pender,” she said kindly, weighing up the merits of lying and deciding that the poor woman would possibly hear enough bad news from the specialist tomorrow without lying awake all night from anxiety.
Sleeplessness was a problem Lizzie knew all about. And she was aware that women worried five times more about their husbands’ health than they did about their own. Not a problem Lizzie had anymore.
“Yes, a cancellation, that could be it.” Mrs. Pender brightened at the news and went off with her letter.
Lizzie scanned the reception room. It was a quarter to five. There were two people waiting. One was an elderly gentleman who’d looked uncomfortable on being told that Dr. Morgan, the lady doc-tor, was on. The other patient was a weary-looking young woman with a small, red-faced baby on her denim lap. The baby cried non-stop, the tormented tears of teething that could reach ear-shattering decibel levels. The woman shot apologetic looks at Lizzie as the baby launched into another miserable aria. Lizzie had paid her own dues at the coalface of teething babies and gave the young mother an understanding grin in return. Lizzie had a very infectious grin. It was something to do with the combination of her wide, smiling mouth, rosy cheeks that shone through all cosmetics, and lively chocolate-brown eyes that sparkled beneath her shaggy blonde-streaked fringe.
It was ten to five when Dr. Morgan opened the surgery door and called in the elderly man. Lizzie was due to leave at five and Clare Morgan, who was the most considerate employer Lizzie had ever encountered, leaned round her office door and said: “Lock the door when you go, Lizzie. I’ll let the patients out when we’re finished.”
Lizzie smiled her thanks and began to tidy up, leaving a list of the evening’s patients for Dr. Jones, who’d be in at seven for two hours. There was no receptionist on in the evenings, and although Lizzie could have done with both the money and the time out of the house, she’d never suggested working at night too. Dr. Morgan, who’d been kindness itself since the divorce, would have been shocked at the notion of Lizzie spending all her time working. Dr. Morgan, divorced and the mother of adult children herself, was a firm believer that freshly single women had to make
She rushed to the car park, leather skirt creaking wildly. Only when she was in her car and past the security barrier did she allow herself to break into floods of tears.
four
T hat same afternoon, in the doctor’s surgery in the centre of Dunmore, Lizzie Shanahan searched the correspondence pile for a letter to the specialist. Mrs. Pender stood in front of the desk, looking only slightly less shocked than she had the previous day when she and Mr. Pender had emerged from the surgery with the gently delivered but nonetheless startling news that Mr. Pender needed to see a specialist for further discussion on the results of his blood test for prostate cancer.
Lizzie found the letter and the attached Post-it note on which she’d written directions to the specialist’s office.
She smiled warmly at Mrs. Pender, doing her best to radiate both calmness and complete ignorance of whatever was in the letter to the specialist. Lizzie knew exactly what it said because she’d typed it and because the doctor’s receptionist knew almost as many secrets as the doctor. But the patients were better off not really being aware of that.
This patient was too worried to go along with the sanctity-ofthe-surgery façade. “I haven’t slept a wink since I heard,” Mrs. Pender said weakly. “Do you think it’s bad, since they got him an appointment so quickly?”
Lizzie, who’d been told to plead emergency on the phone to the specialist’s office because Mr. Pender’s blood test results signalled prostate cancer, felt a huge surge of pity for the woman but managed to look innocently surprised at the question.
“They may have had a cancellation, Mrs. Pender,” she said kindly, weighing up the merits of lying and deciding that the poor woman would possibly hear enough bad news from the specialist tomorrow without lying awake all night from anxiety.
Sleeplessness was a problem Lizzie knew all about. And she was aware that women worried five times more about their husbands’ health than they did about their own. Not a problem Lizzie had anymore.
“Yes, a cancellation, that could be it.” Mrs. Pender brightened at the news and went off with her letter.
Lizzie scanned the reception room. It was a quarter to five. There were two people waiting. One was an elderly gentleman who’d looked uncomfortable on being told that Dr. Morgan, the lady doc-tor, was on. The other patient was a weary-looking young woman with a small, red-faced baby on her denim lap. The baby cried non-stop, the tormented tears of teething that could reach ear-shattering decibel levels. The woman shot apologetic looks at Lizzie as the baby launched into another miserable aria. Lizzie had paid her own dues at the coalface of teething babies and gave the young mother an understanding grin in return. Lizzie had a very infectious grin. It was something to do with the combination of her wide, smiling mouth, rosy cheeks that shone through all cosmetics, and lively chocolate-brown eyes that sparkled beneath her shaggy blonde-streaked fringe.
It was ten to five when Dr. Morgan opened the surgery door and called in the elderly man. Lizzie was due to leave at five and Clare Morgan, who was the most considerate employer Lizzie had ever encountered, leaned round her office door and said: “Lock the door when you go, Lizzie. I’ll let the patients out when we’re finished.”
Lizzie smiled her thanks and began to tidy up, leaving a list of the evening’s patients for Dr. Jones, who’d be in at seven for two hours. There was no receptionist on in the evenings, and although Lizzie could have done with both the money and the time out of the house, she’d never suggested working at night too. Dr. Morgan, who’d been kindness itself since the divorce, would have been shocked at the notion of Lizzie spending all her time working. Dr. Morgan, divorced and the mother of adult children herself, was a firm believer that freshly single women had to make
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