27
‘ H mm,’ says Amsan at lunch. ‘Did you ever treat a Verity Thomas?’
Janey starts. Lowell has been in her thoughts.
She is thinking of his handsome shaggy head, his worried smile; the pleasing heft of him.
It is a good distraction from looking at the packet of Caramel Wafer bars someone left in Amsan’s staff room, which she has stolen to pass on to her daughter as Yasmin just had a date with a man who had seemed perfect until he told her he liked to spend most weekends dressed up as a unicorn and did she have a problem with that, and needed cheering up.
Janey has spent the morning with another family who want their deaf child to sign and have turned down the operation, where she had to do the tricky balancing act of supporting their decision without having a point of view about it.
By definition she is there to help people hear, but she understands the agony completely.
And she agrees. There is nothing wrong with their beautiful, perfect baby.
And life has a way of being very tricky.
She glances at Amsan, and, slightly, the Caramel Wafers.
‘Yes, ages ago, why?’
‘She has a check-up coming.’
‘I thought she’d been discharged from the service. She doesn’t even live here.’
‘Yeah, it’s a request referral,’ Amsan shrugs, glancing at her iPad. ‘Dated two years ago.’
Janey goes a little pink. ‘Um, I know her dad. I’ll tell him.’
Something strikes her.
‘She’s not moving here?’
‘No, no, her address is miles away . . . ’ Amsan squints at the iPad. ‘Oh, lord, I think this should have been sent over.’
Suddenly there is a squeaking noise. Owen has materialised and is squeaking over to their table on his wheely chair. He obviously thinks it looks cool, but overshoots and heads straight back.
‘Hi, Owen,’ says Janey.
‘What’s this about a patient mix-up?’
‘It’s nothing, just someone who should have been transferred to another region . . . ’
‘Uh-huh,’ says Owen, stroking what is beginning to look like a deliberate beard, which is useful, but appears definitely oily. ‘And how was this done?’
Amsan hides her iPad. ‘You can’t see that, Owen.’
‘I can, actually,’ says Owen. ‘My clearance is, like, ultra-everything?’
‘But this isn’t your patient.’
‘It isn’t anyone’s patient if they shouldn’t be here.’
There’s not a lot of arguing with that.
‘TC-MED,’ says Amsan, referring to the regional IT service.
‘Uh-huh,’ says Owen. ‘And there’s a paper trail?’
Amsan stabs, uselessly, at the iPad, which has frozen up again.
‘Because you see,’ goes on Owen, relentlessly, ‘if this had been properly backed up on fax it would be in the file.’
He strokes his beard in a satisfied way, and kicks his chair back to his own table, where he is playing Dungeons and Dragons with the phlebotomists.
Amsan and Janey look at each other.
‘Don’t say it,’ says Janey.
‘He’s ri—
‘DON’T SAY IT. What are you doing this weekend?’
‘Oh, Yasmin has a date with a Sorku guy so I’m taking her to learn how to ride. I think Sorku guys might be the way forward, yeah? No new technology, old traditional ways? You should try them.’
Sorku was the benign local cult that lived in a settlement at the foot of Ben Alton, politely fending off the hordes of keen young people who arrived every year wanting to make podcasts about them.
‘Well, one,’ says Janey, ‘I think they see women over forty as witches. Even more than normal men do, I mean. And two, they have more than one wife.’
‘That could be seen as efficient.’
‘I don’t not appreciate their lustrous beards, wood-chopping bodies and carriage-driving skills,’ muses Janey.
‘But I think the vow of enforced female silence and the menstrual hut might prove a bit of a test. Oh, God. Actually, the menstrual hut probably won’t be necessary.
’ She sighs. ‘Hang on, why are they even on dating sites?’
‘What are you up to?’ says Amsan.
‘Essie’s boyfriend is coming up.’
Amsan frowns. ‘Well, you don’t need to show off.’
‘I apologise,’ says Janey, immediately. It’s really not worth getting on Amsan’s bad side.
‘Your house is very small . . . ’
‘Oh, he’s not staying with us,’ says Janey, half embarrassed, half relieved. ‘ Far too common. He’s very posh. They’re staying at Harcourt House.’ This is the smart estate country house hotel up the road.
‘My Yasmin met a posh guy on a dating app,’ says Amsan. ‘He wanted her to wear a tail and prance around like a pony.’
‘Okay, out,’ says Janey. ‘I mean it. I have to get very busy with dying alone.’