Oh, I’m not talking about romantic love, the mad hunger for someone you don’t know very well. And the feelings that constitute my working week—guilt, of course, and fear, and irritation, and a few other ignoble distractions that simply serve to make me unwell half the time—are not enough for me, nor for anybody. I’m talking about that love which used to feel something like optimism, benignity… Where did that go? I just seemed to run out of steam somewhere along the line. I ended up disappointed with my work, and my marriage, and myself, and I turned into someone who didn’t know what to hope for.
The trick, it seems to me, is to stave off regret. That’s what the whole thing is about. And we can’t stave it off for ever, because it is impossible not to make the mistakes that let regret in, but the best of us manage to limp on into our sixties or seventies before we succumb. Me, I made it to about thirty-seven, and David made it to the same age, and my brother gave up the ghost even before that. And I’m not sure that there is a cure for regret. I suspect not.
The new patient seems vaguely familiar, but I’m not feeling very sharp: the little Turkish girl I have just seen probably has something seriously wrong with her, and I have been attempting to explain to her mother, through the Turkish-speaking health visitor, why I am sending her for a brain scan. So my nerves are jangling a little, and initially I don’t have as much interest in the new patient’s skin complaint as I would wish.
I ask her to take her top off, and she says something jovial about how she hates showing disgustingly slim doctors her fat stomach, and at the very moment the jumper covers her face, I recognize the voice. It belongs to the nice lady from the church.
She stands up so that I can see the rash on her back.
‘Have you had this before?’
‘Not for a long time. It’s stress-related.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because the last time I got it was when my mother died. And now I’ve got a lot of work problems.’
‘What kind of work problems?’
This is an unprofessional question. I am always hearing that people have work problems, and I have never before shown the slightest interest, although if I am feeling especially sympathetic I might cluck a little. The nice lady, though… Of course I want to know about what is wrong with her job.
‘It’s utterly pointless, and I hate my… I hate the people I work for. Especially… Well, especially the boss.’
‘You can put your top back on.’
I start to write a prescription.
‘I was in your church last week.’
She flushes.
‘Oh. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘It’s fine. Patient–doctor confidentiality and all that.’
‘Well, anyway, you know what my problems are, then.’
‘Do I?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’
I decide that it is best to say nothing, on the grounds that what was obvious to me—her rendition of ‘Getting to Know You’ was excruciating, all reference to the current rap hits is misguided to the point of lunacy—might not be obvious to her, and I will only succeed in making the angry red marks on her back positively furious. I write her a prescription and hand it to her.
‘I enjoyed it,’ I tell her.
‘Thank you. But basically I no longer believe in what I’m doing, and I think it’s all a waste of time, and my body knows it. So I feel ill every day.’
‘Well, that’s hopefully something I can help with.’
‘Why did you come to my church? You haven’t been before, have you?’
‘No. I’m not a Christian. But I’m having a spiritual crisis, so…’
‘Do doctors have spiritual crises?’
‘Apparently they do, yes. My marriage is in big trouble and I’m very sad and I’m trying to decide what to do about it. What do you recommend?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘What should I do?’
She smiles nervously; she’s not sure whether I’m joking. I’m not. I’m suddenly consumed with the desire to hear what she has to say.
‘I’ve told you what to do about your rash. That’s what I’m here for. You tell me what to do about my marriage. That’s what you’re there for.’
‘I’m not sure you understand what the role of the church is.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘I’m not the one to ask, am I? Because I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Who has, then?’
‘Have you tried counselling?’
‘I’m not talking about counselling. I’m talking about what’s right and wrong. You know about that, surely?’
‘Do you want to know what the Bible says about marriage?’
‘No!’ I’m shouting now, I can hear myself, but I don’t seem to be able to do anything about it. ‘I want to know what YOU say. Just tell me. I’ll do whatever it is you recommend. Stay or go. Come on.’ And I mean it. I’m sick of not knowing. Someone else can sort it out.
The nice lady looks a little afraid, as she has every right to do, I suppose. I am seriously contemplating holding her hostage until she comes out with an answer, any answer, although I will not fill her in on this plan of action for the moment.
‘Dr Carr, I can’t tell you what to do.’
‘I’m sorry, that’s not good enough.’
‘Do you want to come and see me in my office?’
‘No. No need. Waste of time. It’s a yes/no question. I don’t want to spend hours talking about it with you. I’ve already spent months thinking about it. It’s gone on long enough.’
‘Do you have children?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your husband cruel to you?’
‘No. Not any more. He used to be, but he saw the light. Not your sort of light. Another one.’
‘Well…’ She is on the verge of saying something, but then she stands up. ‘This is ridiculous. I can’t…’
I snatch the prescription out of her hand. ‘In which case, I can’t help you. You do your job and I’ll do mine.’
‘It’s not my job. Please give me my prescription.’
‘No. It’s not much to ask. Stay or go, that’s all I want. God, why are you people so timid? It’s no wonder the churches are empty, when you can’t answer even the simplest questions. Don’t you get it? That’s what we want. Answers. If we wanted woolly minded nonsense we’d stay at home. In our own heads.’
‘I think you’ll do what you want to do anyway, so it won’t make any difference what I say.’
‘Wrong. Wrong. Because I haven’t got a clue any more. Do you remember The Dice Man, that book everyone read at college? Maybe not at theological college they didn’t, but at normal college they did. Well, I am the Vicar Woman. Anything you say, I will do.’
She looks at me and holds up her hands, indicating defeat. ‘Stay.’
I feel suddenly hopeless, the way one always does when two alternatives become one chosen course of action. I want to go back to the time just seconds ago when I didn’t know what to do. Because here’s the thing: when you get into a mess like mine, your marriage is like a knife in your stomach, and you know that you’re in big trouble whatever you decide. You don’t ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It’s all about survival; it’s all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in, in the hope that you might be lucky, and the knife has actually been staunching the blood. You want to know the conventional medical wisdom? The conventional medical wisdom is that you keep the knife in. Really.
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I’m a vicar. I can’t go around telling people to break up families on a whim.’
‘Ha! You think it’s whimsical?’
‘I’m sorry, but you can’t start arguing with the decision. You wanted me to say something and I’ve said it. You’re staying. Can I have my prescription now?’
I hand it to her. I’m starting to feel a little embarrassed, as perhaps is only appropriate.
‘I won’t say anything to anyone,’ she says. ‘I’m going to work on the assumption that you’re having a bad day.’
‘And I won’t say anything about The King and I,’ I say—somewhat gracelessly, given the circumstances. Our professional misconduct trials, should it come to that, are almost certain to have different outcomes, given the relative gravity of our crimes. She could argue that it is part of her brief to illuminate her sermons with highlights from the great musicals; I, on the other hand, would be hard pushed to make a case for the violent witholding of treatment until I had received inappropriate marital advice.