“Will the doctor be giving you the results today?”
He asks the question, but Solomon does so without taking his eyes from the road. When he first did this I thought it was rude, however I now realise that it’s just his way of being careful. It’s simply a matter of safety first, that’s all. Because I have not replied to his question, he continues.
“I hope you do not mind my enquiry?”
This time he throws a quick glance in my direction. He’s a handsome man, which makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve never asked him, but I’d guess he’s in his early thirties, although it’s difficult for me to tell. He returns his attention to the road.
“Of course I don’t mind your asking.” I pause. “The doctor said that he’d tell me today.” Again I pause, unsure as to whether I should be volunteering any more information. But I trust this man. He doesn’t expect me to be perfect.
Again he glances at me. It’s a worried glance which says, “Is there something that you are not telling me?” I say nothing as he slows down now, and then he turns into the hospital car park. There is, of course, one thing that I’ve been meaning to tell him, but I haven’t found the right opportunity. It’s about all this washing of his car. I want to tell him that in England you have to become a part of the neighbourhood. Say hello to people. Go to church. Introduce your kids to their new school. You can’t just turn up and start washing your car. People will consider you to be ignorant and stand-offish. But I’ve yet to find the proper moment to talk to Solomon about the way he flaunts himself in his driveway with that bucket of soapy water and his shammy.
Dr. Williams is a balding man of about forty. He’s at that place where men either tumble rapidly down the slope towards irreversible middle-age spread, or they start to exercise and take care of themselves in an attempt to hold on to some of their youth. My guess is that Dr. Williams isn’t sure what to do with himself. He asks me to please take a seat, but he doesn’t get up from behind his desk. I sit down and place my handbag in my lap, and then I realise that I probably look like a Sunday School teacher. Sadly, it’s too late. I’ve got butterflies in my tummy, but any change of position will suggest to him that I’m nervous, and I don’t want to give out this impression.
“I have your results, Miss Jones, and everything seems fine.” He looks me full in the face and he tries to put on that stupid little doctor smile that they all have. “But my nurse has passed on your messages, and if you say that you’re still having problems sleeping, then perhaps we should talk.” He gives me that half-sad, half-cheerful chin-up thing that they all do, and then he opens my file and takes his pen from the top pocket of his white overcoat. He clicks the knob of the pen with his thumb, then he uses the pen as some kind of a marker as he traces his way through the unbound pages.
“You’ve been through a lot recently, haven’t you?”
I look at him and wonder if he’s really asking me, or if he’s just telling me.
“Early retirement can be a problem, but you’re still teaching music, aren’t you? The piano. I mean privately.”
Why is he asking me this? It was his idea that I advertise myself in that vulgar way. Desperate woman available for music lessons.
“I’m trying to talk to you, Miss Jones. Staring at the wall isn’t going to help either of us, now is it?”
I look at his chubby face and decide that it’s my turn to give him the stupid smile.
“The death of your parents, your divorce, the death of your sister, early retirement, and then moving home, that’s a lot of pressure for anybody to have to deal with in a short space of time.” He pauses to give me an opportunity to comment, but I have nothing further to say to him. “You have to start planning a new life, Dorothy. Your sister has gone, but you’re still a relatively young woman, and there’s nothing wrong with you physically. You’ve still got a significant expanse of life ahead of you, and you must start to plan and reach out and take it. Am I making myself clear?”
Solomon and I usually have lunch in town before going back to Stoneleigh. While I’m at the hospital he tends to do a bit of shopping, although he never tells me what he buys. Mind you, I never ask him either. He’ll come back to the hospital with whatever he’s bought safely stashed in the boot of his car. Sometimes I’m already out and waiting under the green Outpatients awning, while other times I know that I’ve kept him waiting, but he never complains. He’s a volunteer driver, and the village nurse will probably have told him that he has to be tolerant if he’s going to be driving folks who are ill. Because I used to live and teach in the town, it’s usually up to me to choose the place for lunch. Once upon a time I chose the Somalian and Mediterranean Food Hall and it now seems to have become our regular, although they could keep the place a little cleaner. Still, he seems to like it.
He glances up from his lamb kebab and looks at me with his big eyes, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him.
“You have not told me about your results.”
“Inconclusive,” I say, but I continue to eat. I stuff some pitta bread into my mouth so that it is momentarily impossible for me to continue.
“I see.” He waits until I have finished chewing. “Will there be more tests?”
“I don’t think the doctor knows what he’s doing.”
“He still cannot diagnose the problem?”
“So he says.”
“This is very troubling.” He pauses for a moment and continues to stare at me. “And your sister. Did you reply to her letter?”
I put down my fork, but before the words come out of my mouth I realise that I’m about to say too much to this man.
“I haven’t read the letter yet.”
“You have not read it?” He now puts down his own fork and he looks across the table at me. “But she is all that you have now that your parents have passed on. And you say that she lives only one hour away on the coast. I have told you, I am prepared to drive you there.”
This strange man. The caretaker at Stoneleigh. The estate handyman in his free bungalow. Solomon and his second-hand car. Not even a dog. Just him alone, hiding behind those blinds, waiting for a piece of guttering that needs fixing or a door handle that has to be replaced. At nights I see him out on patrol with his torch. The Irish nurse told me that if I didn’t want to take the bus into town there were two volunteer drivers. And then one afternoon, of all people, he came and knocked on my door. My knight in shining armour with his polished chariot. And now Solomon wants to drive me to the coast so that I can spend some time with Sheila, and all I’m thinking is why doesn’t he finish his lamb kebab? There’s people in the world who are starving to death and who would do anything for a bit of lamb kebab.
In the evening I stare again at the letter on the mantelpiece. Before I open it I feel as though I ought to go and visit my parents’ grave and ask their permission. At my age I shouldn’t feel compelled to ask for their approval, but Sheila didn’t treat them well and I don’t want them to think that by reading Sheila’s letter I’m betraying them. I pour a glass of white wine and look out of the window. After a few minutes it occurs to me that it’s not so much their permission that I’m seeking, it’s more that I’m simply informing them of what’s going on. I suppose that’s it. I just want to let them know what’s what and I hope that they’ll understand. The light is beginning to fade from the sky. One of the things I like most about this house are the evenings, for you can see the sun setting on the horizon from up here. To the west there is a clear uninterrupted view straight out to where the old railway viaduct marches across the valley on its strong stone legs. A train hasn’t passed across it for over fifty years or so, and it’s some kind of a monument now. Every evening the sun sets behind this viaduct, which means that I can sit at this window with a glass of wine and watch the day come to a peaceful conclusion.