Harold was so tired he could barely lift his feet, and yet he felt such hope, he was giddy with it. If he kept looking at the things that were bigger than himself, he knew he would make it to Berwick.

11

Maureen and the Locum

The receptionist apologized; due to the installation of an automated service, she was no longer able to check Maureen in for her doctor’s appointment. “But I am standing right here,” said Maureen. “Why can’t you do it?” The receptionist pointed to a screen set a few feet from the main desk, and assured Maureen that the new procedure was a simple one.

Maureen’s fingers went clammy. The automated service asked if she was male or female, but she tapped the wrong button. It asked for her birth date, and she tapped the month before the day, and had to be helped by a young patient who sneezed all over her shoulder. By the time she had registered, there was a small queue behind her, groaning and creaking with illness. The screen flashed the words Refer to main reception. The small queue gave a uniform shake of its head.

Again the receptionist apologized. Maureen’s regular GP had been called away unexpectedly, but she could take an appointment with a locum instead.

“Why couldn’t you tell me this when I first arrived?” cried Maureen.

The receptionist offered her third round of apologies. It was the new system, she said; everyone had to check in electronically, “Even OAPs.” She asked if Maureen would like to wait or come back the next morning, and Maureen shook her head. If she went home, she didn’t trust she would have the will to return.

“Do you need a glass of water?” said the receptionist. “You look pale.”

“I just need to sit a moment,” said Maureen.

Of course David had been right in reassuring her that she could leave the house, but he had no idea of the anxiety she would suffer in making her way to the surgery. It wasn’t that she missed Harold, she told herself; but still it came as a fresh shock to find herself alone in the outside world. Everywhere around her people were doing ordinary things. They were driving cars and pushing buggies and walking dogs and coming home, as if life was exactly the same, when it wasn’t. It was all new and wrong. She buttoned her coat to her neck, and pulled the tips of her collar against her ears, but the air felt too cold, and the sky too open, shapes and colours too forceful. She had rushed down Fossebridge Road before Rex could spot her, and fled to the centre of town. The petals of the daffodils along the quayside were a crumpled brown.