The Great Christmas Knit Off (18 page)

And that’s when I see his face.

Dark curly hair, emerald-green eyes behind black-framed glasses, stubbly chin … It’s him. The man from the train. And he’s not that shouty Adam from the bookshop at all! And he’s certainly not the old, traditional, country doctor in a tweedy suit that I had in mind. No, he most definitely isn’t. He’s young. And he’s hot. Fit, in fact, in a big, teddy bear, kind of a way. And I don’t know whether to cringe or laugh like a looper.

‘I’m Dr Darcy. And I really am so very sorry.’ He helps me back to a standing position before pushing a hand through his messy hair.

‘And I’m Sybs! But I guess you already know that,’ I say, picking a stray strand of faux fur from my tongue as I will my cheeks to stop flaming red like a pair of plum tomatoes.

I
t turns out that Dr Darcy’s first name is Ben. Short for, and get this, Benedict, as in Cumberbatch! For real – I spied it on one of his medical certificates hanging in a frame on the wall behind his desk. And he graduated as a doctor from Trinity College in Dublin in 2002, so I reckon he must be in his late thirties at least given that it takes years and years at university to learn to be a doctor, then there’s the GP training. And he’s now sitting opposite me with a very concerned look on his beautiful face.

‘I must apologise again. The surgery is about to have an overhaul, which is why we’re sorting out these files.’ He gestures to the jumbled heap of paperwork strewn all over the floor. ‘We’re in the process of being computerised.’ And I’m sure I spot a glimmer of an eye roll behind the lenses of his glasses. No wonder the computer has been pushed away in disgust. He’s clearly not a fan of technology at all.

‘Oh, I see.’ I do a half-smile and nod politely.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ his forehead furrows. I nod again, gathering my parka, scarf and bag into me like some kind of comfort blanket because he may be very lovely looking, and quite unassuming, and seemingly completely unlike Jane Austen’s dastardly Darcy – no, that’s more Adam’s style – but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s the doctor and well, there must be some kind of protocol that rules against having the hots for your GP. Plus, not forgetting, the message he left on the newspaper. Because why would he deliberately want to make a fool of me? And to be honest, I’ve had just about enough of men doing that recently. I cross my arms around the bundle of stuff piled up on my lap.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I mumble, unable to make proper eye contact.

‘Are you sure?’ he says, sounding concerned. ‘You didn’t hit your head on the floor did you?’ The furrow deepens.

‘Oh, no, I’m sure I didn’t. My coat kind of saved me,’ I say, quickly extracting the fur-trimmed hood from my clutch and waggling it in the air as some kind of proof of its crash-prevention qualities. There’s an ominous silence.

‘Only you seem a bit distant.’ He picks up a pen and appears to study it, rolling it between his thumb and index finger.
Is he nervous? I’m not sure.

‘Well, that’s probably because I haven’t slept properly in ages. It’s why I’m here, actually,’ I begin, instantly wondering why I don’t just ask him about the message, but he hasn’t mentioned it so maybe it’s best that I don’t, especially after what happened the last time I did over at the bookshop – or perhaps there’s a protocol about that kind of thing too, like, doctors shouldn’t leave flirty, misleading messages on newspapers for total strangers! I will myself to get a grip and calm down, but it’s not easy, especially after what Adam said earlier. Desperate! And despite Lawrence’s pep talk, which did help enormously, that ugly word is still swirling round and round inside my head. I momentarily squeeze my eyes tight shut as if to banish the dark thoughts, because I can hardly whip out my knitting in here and do a few rows now, can I?

‘I forgot to bring my sleeping pills with me,’ I say, ‘so if you can let me have a couple just to tide me over until I get home on Sunday …’ I stop talking as he’s leaning forward now, even closer to me with his elbows resting on his knees, scrutinising me almost. I lean back, and plaster what I hope is a laid-back and very ‘undesperate’ look on my face.

‘Oh, I see,’ he pauses and if I’m not mistaken, I think there’s a hint of disappointment in his voice, ‘and can you tell me why you’re having difficulty sleeping?’ He clears his throat and starts shuffling stuff around his desk. How strange; all the doctors I’ve ever met have seemed far more self-assured than he appears to be.

‘I’d rather not,’ I reply, not wanting to go into all that again, and certainly not with him, that would just be too awkward, but then I quickly add, ‘If you don’t mind.’ He is a doctor after all, even if he does seem a bit untypical. And I guess I have more in common with my mother than I ever realised – she’s very reverent when it comes to ‘professionals’, and almost fainted from sheer ecstasy when Mr Manningtree, the heart surgeon, moved into the ‘big house’ behind ours. I remember getting home from school one time just as he came flying across our shared gravel driveway with wild eyes, his waxy Barbour jacket flapping around in the wind, swinging a shotgun under his arm and performing a dramatic lock and load action. Sasha and I were rooted to the spot behind the water feature underneath the Victoriana lamppost while Mr Manningtree hunted for the fox that had ruined his lawn. And Mum had just swooned and proclaimed that we must excuse his eccentricities for the greater good as there are ‘people all over the world with beating hearts and it’s all thanks to Mr Manningtree’. Hmm, on second thoughts, maybe Dr Darcy isn’t so untypical after all. Maybe it’s a pre-requisite these days for doctors to be a bit alternative: less stuffy, and more casual – I mean, he’s wearing faded jeans, a washed-out Fat Face sweatshirt and trainers, nice ones, but still …

‘Oh, I see. Um, well, in that case it’s a bit tricky.’
Tricky? What does he mean, tricky?
I’ve never heard a doctor talk like this before, not even on
Casualty
or
ER
, and they’re pure fiction.

‘Oh,’ I mumble, unsure of what else to say.

‘I can’t really—’ He stops abruptly when there’s a knock on the door.

‘Sorry, Doctor, I forgot to give you Sybil’s paperwork.’ The receptionist darts into the room and quickly hands Dr Darcy my form.

‘Thanks, Pam,’ he smiles (a very nice smile indeed). And she backs out reverently, closing the door discreetly behind her. Dr Darcy studies my details before glancing back up at me.

‘So, Sybil, how long have you been taking the sleeping tablets for?’ he asks, sounding more professional now.

‘About six months.’

‘I see. And how do they make you feel?’

‘Sleepy?’ I venture, attempting a joke, and he definitely gets it as his mouth curls at the corners, almost into a smile.

‘And do they help you to sleep right through the night?’

‘Um, not always,’ I say, wishing he’d just give me the pills. Two tablets, that’s all I need. And my own doctor has already prescribed them so I don’t see why he’s grilling me. Surely he can just call my GP to check, or brace himself to tackle the computer to access my NHS records and then give me a prescription. I spotted a chemist in the High Street, so I’ll bomb straight over there and everything will be fine for a good night’s sleep tonight, with a bit of luck.

‘I see. And what about during the day?’

‘Well, I don’t sleep during the day, if that’s what you mean.’ I grin, but he seems to be engrossed in my paperwork now.

‘Sure,’ he says patiently, not looking up. ‘But how do you feel in yourself during the day?’

‘Bored mostly.’ And he does a surreptitious laugh, attempting to hide it behind his hand, but I spot it nonetheless. ‘Not at the moment, obviously, I mean being here in Tindledale is brilliant, and everyone is so lovely and friendly. Well, nearly everyone …’ My voice trails off as I think of Hettie’s awful nephew, and bossy Mrs Pocket, and Dr Darcy could be best friends with Adam for all I know, but he doesn’t react.

‘But in general, when you’re at work.’ He pauses to scan the form. ‘Lewisham council – what do you do there?’ He glances at me, blinks behind his glasses and I manage to make eye contact. He really does have the most amazing emerald green eyes, nestling in long, velvety dark lashes. I take a deep breath and look away to concentrate on the pattern of my patchwork handbag instead.

‘Oh, I’m a housing officer.’ I wish I hadn’t come here now, it’s clear that he isn’t going to give me the pills, and I feel ridiculous, sitting here, fidgeting like a bashful schoolgirl, barely able to look him in the eye.

‘But? I sense there’s something else?’ He raises his eyebrows and I cough to clear my throat, shifting in my seat. There’s another short silence.

‘Well, there is something. Quite a few things, actually.’ I fiddle with the tassels on my scarf, figuring it best to say something as he’s clearly not going to stop with the interrogation unless I do.

‘Go on,’ he says, nodding encouragingly and staring right at me now.

‘I’ve made some mistakes, taken my eye off the ball as it were.’ I shrug sheepishly, really wishing he wouldn’t look at me that way, as if analysing, I know it’s his job and all that, but still … And why is it so hot in here? I tug at the neckline of my Ho Ho Ho jumper – I put it on before I came out as it’s perishing cold this evening, and I have my own jeans on too, after Lawrence kindly tumble dried them while I was down at Hettie’s. It might even be below zero degrees already outside and it’s snowing hard. I glance at the window and see that it’s a sheet of fuzzy white fluff.

‘Would you say this is due to lack of concentration?’

‘Oh definitely – and dark thoughts, I get them a lot of the time because I feel so fed up,’ I tell him, remembering how hard it is to feel motivated at work, and I know I could so easily have added those noughts on to Jennifer Ford’s benefit payment. I really enjoyed today with Hettie – life would be so much better if I could do that every day – and I didn’t make any mistakes at the House of Haberdashery. Then I realise: I didn’t feel tired either, that fuggy feeling I’ve had for months now wasn’t there and I felt alive, alert, interested for a change. ‘It’s like I’m sleepwalking through my own life when I’m at work.’ I concentrate on the snow, swirling all around right outside the surgery window. I can see the twinkling lights of the High Street too, which reminds me, I must go and pick up Basil before it gets late. I mustn’t take advantage of Lawrence’s hospitality. He’s already babysat me enough this weekend.

‘Hmm, I’ve seen this a few times with these particular sleeping pills: mild to moderate depression. A mind fog, or wading through treacle, is how some of my other patients describe it.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I say, my heart sinking at the prospect of another sleepless night, as it’s obvious he isn’t giving me the prescription.

‘It could explain the problems you’re having at work too, if you’re experiencing side effects of this kind; you might find they lessen if you stop taking the sleeping tablets and that, in turn, might make you feel …’ he picks his words carefully, ‘more relaxed, which will help you to sleep.’ It’s his turn to glance away now. ‘There really are some alternative treatments that help,’ he quickly adds. ‘I’ve had remarkable results with hypnotherapy – it’s very good in treating the cause of the insomnia.’ Oh no, I can’t sit here in a trance and tell him all about being jilted, he’ll just think I’m some kind of freak. ‘How long are you here for?’ he smiles.

‘Only until Sunday,’ I say, sighing inwardly with relief at having the perfect excuse to not have to do a tell-all with him, but there’s disappointment too, at having to return to my dull, nondescript life.

‘I see, well that’s a shame. Sometimes a break, a proper rest, really helps. I could sign you off work for a week or so? You may find it’ll help get your mojo back, rather than continuing with the sleeping pills. They do have a tendency to mask the real problem.’ He starts riffling through the clutter on his desk. ‘Can’t you stay longer?’ he then adds, sounding disappointed, and then actually looks a bit flustered, as if he’s overstepped some kind of imaginary line.

‘I’d love to, but …’

Silence follows.

‘Ah, here it is.’ He plucks a leather-strapped watch from inside a brochure about breast-feeding and holds it up in the air, ‘Jesus, is that the time already? Nearly seven, so there’s no point me giving you a prescription even if I wanted to – which I don’t, for the record – the chemist is closed now.’ He sweeps a hand through his thick curls, stops talking and buckles the watch around his wrist, seemingly engrossed and perhaps relieved at having a task to occupy himself with, but I can’t be sure.

‘OK, well, um, er, thanks anyway.’ I stand up and pull on my parka. A night of knitting it is, then. I’ve just reached the door when he coughs as if to clear his throat.

‘But there is another option, something else. Something I probably shouldn’t recommend at all,’ Dr Darcy says too quickly, as if he needs to get the words out before I leave and he misses his chance, or he changes his mind, maybe … perhaps. I can’t really tell for sure; my flirtometer gauge seems to be completely askew.

‘What’s that then?’ I say over my shoulder, and he’s standing up now with one hand pushed into his jeans’ pocket and the other batting his curls away from his face.