Chapter Five - Verity Louise Clarke
Morningside, Edinburgh
Verity collapsed her umbrella, shook off the droplets and rested it in the corner of the waiting room, knowing she would undoubtedly need it at the end of the day. Having stomped her sturdy brogues on the welcome mat, she tousled her short, damp hair with her fingers.
‘Quick, the boss is in, look busy!’
It made her smile in the way Janice’s quips often did.
‘Morning, Janice.’
Their brilliant receptionist was a walking catalogue of cliches and catchphrases – enabling Verity to almost predict what she might come out with in any given situation. She was also a fixture, having been here for more years than Verity.
‘Morning, Tara.’
‘Morning! Coffee?’ Janice’s sidekick beamed from behind the reception desk they shared.
‘Please, Tara. That’d be great. James not in yet?
’ She wanted to talk to him about their rota, as her fiancé, Patrick, was now working nights at the hospital, and she wanted to switch some of her days.
There’d been mention of a possible trip to the coast for a beach walk and a pub lunch the week after.
Both sounded very tempting, a trip out of the city.
‘Not yet, he’s got a few childcare issues this week, Mrs Scott is in Dubai.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot.’ It amazed her how he did it, handled two small kids, a busy career and a very distracted wife.
‘This weather, eh?’ Janice shook her head, as if it was a shock to find herself in rain, in Scotland, in October. ‘I’m absolutely drookit!’
‘You need a brolly, I’ve told you before.’
‘Aye, but with my shopping bag in one hand and my ciggie in the other, how would I manage a brolly?’
‘You could always give up smoking?’ It wasn’t the first time she’d made such a suggestion, which made the woman roar as if it were that funny.
‘I’d rather get wet!’ Janice chortled. ‘Besides, you know what they say.’ Verity braced herself for a classic Janice comment. She was not left disappointed. ‘Today’s rain is tomorrow’s whisky!’
‘They do indeed.’
‘First patient is in at eight. Mr Lowther.’
‘Ah, Mr Lowther.’ She nodded her understanding and walked into her consulting room. After hanging up her mac, smoothing her tweed skirt and taking a seat at her desk, she fired up the computer. She loathed the infernal machine, which took up more of her time than actual patients.
Such was the life of a modern G.P.
It baffled her dad, Dr Rodney – only recently retired – who liked to remind her that, in his day, everything had been written by hand and stored in a paper filing system.
This, he insisted, was not only efficient and cheap to upgrade but was also very green and immune from hacking and glitches!
He made it sound idyllic, those early days at his surgery in the rural Highlands, where Verity had grown up.
As the local doctor, he had tended to generations, and he, his wife and their two daughters were known by all. Verity tried not to think about her time there, finding it too painful to revisit. Memories that had the power to take her right back to those dark, dark days of grief.
Her lovely dad, despite their life changing tragedy, spoke fondly of the community.
The vast landscape, a place of harsh weather and immeasurable beauty, where everyone pulled together to face whatever came their way, looking after each other, like family, protecting their own.
If one of Jon Morton’s cows needed help delivering her calf, or snow saw the school cut off from the road, power out, it was all hands on deck!
She’d told him that if he helped birth a cow now he’d probably get sued.
‘World’s gone mad!’ his favourite refrain, uttered usually as he shook invisible creases from his broadsheet and sighed.
Verity found it hard to disagree but would privately add the caveat that their world went mad a long time ago, on the day they lost her big sister, Gracie, who would forever be seventeen.
They’d moved away soon after, settling here in Edinburgh, starting over without the community that had felt like family.
Here in the city where they were of no particular interest, just new faces in the crowd, but, in the village they’d left, they were and always would be, the Clarkes whose wee girl was murdered.
Verity whizzed through her email, deleting great swathes of junk without reading it, mainly adverts in the form of ‘breaking news’ from various drug companies.
Conference organisers offering her early bird rates for events in far flung corners of the globe, and various procedural updates and admin demands from the NHS trust.
Her theory was that, if any of it was that important, they’d email again, or call her.
She responded better to a phone call, as only a handful of people had her telephone number, and she only called those who mattered to her.
It was a stark reminder of how few people did matter to her.
Her dad, of course, her cousin Darius, his wife Gilly.
Her best friend since high school Megan, her boyfriend Patrick, and Dottie.
Although the likelihood of Dottie calling her was very slim, being that she was a pampered whippet and all.
‘Your coffee.’ Tara breezed in and put the floral mug on her desk.
‘Thanks, Tara, I’ll return the favour in an hour or so.’
‘No worries, and Mr Lowther is here,’ she whispered, pulling a wide-mouthed face.
‘Of course he is!’ Grabbing the mug, Verity took a large gulp of coffee, not knowing when she might next get the chance. ‘You know the drill. If it looks like I’m stuck, make the call. And if he’s still here by tonight, send in gin.’
‘Got it!’ Tara laughed and closed the door behind her.
Verity didn’t like having the contingency in place, wished she could give every patient who walked through her door all the time they needed, but, alas, she was on the clock and, even though they might not know it, so were her patients.
Every day was a race, as she did her best to get through her list, make phone calls, follow up on appointments, relay results, deal with any emergencies, chase various departments at various hospitals for updates and, if she were very lucky, grab a bite of a sandwich for lunch.
There it was, the sound she heard in her sleep, the knock on her door.
‘Come in!’
‘Morning, Doc.’
‘Mr Lowther, nice to see you. Please, take a seat!’
He did as instructed while she pulled up his notes. More of a novel than notes – she idly scrolled through the familiar pages and pages, listing his various ailments from A to Z.
‘What can I do for you today?’ placing the emphasis on the word ‘today,’ hinting subtly at the fact she had seen him only two weeks ago and that he would undoubtedly pop in again before the month was out. Folding her hands on the desk top, she braced herself.
‘I’m no feeling great. The wife says I’m lookin’ a bit peely wally, thought it best to come see you.’
‘Mr Lowther, are you feeling sick or is it more like flu or do you have any particular pain? Is there an area you would like me to concentrate on? If I can get a rough idea of the issue before I examine you, that would really help. Could you be a bit more specific?’
‘No really.’ He sniffed, as if her line of questioning was inconvenient.
‘Okay, so, if you had to describe the problem, or the problem that’s causing you the most concern, what would you say?’
It was always preferable to see Mr Lowther early in the morning when her tolerance had not been eroded by the fatigue of a long day.
‘I reckon it’s all of it.’
‘All of it?’ She’d lost the thread.
‘Aye, everything you just said, I feel sick, there’s a bit of flu and generally I’m in pain. Kinda, all over.’
Verity opened her mouth to speak, but paused, quite unsure where to go next. Wondering if she dare suggest they get right to the point, and she sign him off from work. She was, quite rightly, unhappy to make the assumption or take the risk, just in case.
‘Right, well first things first.’ She reached for her stethoscope. ‘Let’s have a listen to your chest.’
After Mr Lowther’s extended stay, the morning passed quickly.
Verity nipped to the loo and hurried back to her desk. No sooner had she restored her glasses than there was the knock on her door. A quick glance at her computer told her it was Mrs Brooks, who was twenty weeks pregnant with her third child.
‘Come in!’
And so it continued…
It was at the end of the day, as she gripped the handle of her umbrella and smiled at the cleaner, that Verity noticed the man in a dark suit, holding a briefcase and standing at the bottom of the path.
It was her route to the main road and the bus stop where she would hop on the bus that would deliver her home.
She left the surgery, hoping he might move. He didn’t.
‘Dr Clarke, hello.’ His smile was wide. He looked healthy, certainly not in urgent need of medical care that she could see.
She didn’t recognise him, but that wasn’t unusual.
Having seen so many people over the years, many only briefly, it wasn’t unheard of for patients to recognise Verity while they remained strangers to her.
‘Hi,’ she replied, wondering if she should loiter and wait for James.
This too was part of her life as a G.P, having to be wary of anyone who might be a little unintentionally invasive.
It wasn’t uncommon for a toxic combination of frustration and poor mental health to erupt in anger misdirected at her.
People wanted her to have the answers. And as someone who lived without answers, she understood their irritation, but was still wary of putting herself in the line of fire.
‘I was wondering if I might have a word with you?’
‘Oh,’ instantly on guard, she looked back at the surgery door, as if she might be able to summon James with no more than a thought. ‘I’m actually in a bit of a rush; what I’d suggest is that you call the surgery first thing in the morning and make an appointment, we can—’
‘No, Verity, it’s not a medical matter.’