Jobs

Barrows looked at me over his glasses, an action which I found to be irritating, for if you are wearing full-lens glasses then why not use them as they are intended? "So, Ellingham…" He had a tendency to make long pauses when speaking and it nearly drove me mad.

Get to the point, for Heavens sake echoed in my head.

"Hatali and I, and the other instructors have been discussing…" he went on.

"Yes?" I said, hoping my prompting would accelerate his words, if not his thoughts.

"Ahem, right. Have you considered staying on here?" he asked.

"And do what?"

"Teach here; we're quite chuffed with your progress and mastery of the material…"

No help from you, for some of the material and courses were child's play to me. "In what capacity?"

"You seem to be a natural healer' a good doctor. Thorough, knowledgeable, that sort of thing." He leaned forward. "You could work here and be a hospitalist – a consulting GP –at our hospital."

I sighed. This is not what I had thought might happen; for I was planning to look further afield for new employment.

He added, "We'd pay you quite well, and none of the job search far and wide for a new position. We could also offer time for research, if that's what you wanted to do."

I had not considered returning to London. My fear was that the ever present game of Chinese whispers would have spread my disgrace throughout the capital city. Returning there would only invite further comment; better to be elsewhere. "This course is about retraining physicians to be GPs. You yourself know how sparse they are on the ground in rural areas."

He smiled. "True, true. But we'd be foolish to let you get away. Look, Ellingham…"

Look at what? I didn't like Birmingham. It was smaller of course, yet somehow more chaotic than London, if that was possible. The few times I had used my car the roadways were a maelstrom of autos, taxis, and lorries. The infamous Spaghetti Junction, or more formerly the Gravelly Hill Interchange, was poorly designed, aging, constantly under repair – with lane closures – and a mess day and night. Driving thru it was like sticking a fork into your own eye for fun.

Barrows nattered on, ticking off points on his fingers as if he was selling a car or a Sunday roast dinner.

I was tuning him out, for I imagined the man would next offer me his daughter ad a cow as additional inducements.

"You're not married," he said.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You see we have access to several nice flats, all recently renovated… just right for someone like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I bristled.

His face screwed up. "I was only meaning that a flat, here in the city, versus a home on the outskirts may seem attractive to you. If you had a spouse or partner that could alter your personal calculus, when it came to making a decision about our offer."

I sighed.

He leaned forward. "And the pay would be very lucrative…" He named a figure.

The salary he just mentioned was less than half what I was pulling down in London, however that was a different time and place, I had to remind myself. "Hm."

"So, you will think about it?"

I nodded, levered myself out of his visitor's chair and got out of his office, for the air seemed to be very hot and stifling. The offer pointed out that time was growing short. My flat in Kensington offered a home, but I had no job there, nor was I likely to have.

That evening in the common area the others were discussing options for the future. Daisy sat silently off to one side, while the discussion of jobs and locations swirled around her. I held a ring binder of open positions across the country. They ranged from The Shetlands and Orkney in the North to Land's End in Cornwall. Northumbria, along with all the islands, I felt would be too cold, and Scotland I had no great affinity for. East Anglia could be a possibility, and the Cornwall tab caught my eye.

Idly I turned to the Cornwall section, having spent a number of summers there. Bude of course, up in the North and Penzance down in the toe. Falmouth might be a possibility; a fair-sized town. I closed my eyes and thought of my Aunt Joan. Joan; down in Portwenn.

I turned the page, looking for it and there it was. A vacant posting right in the village. It had been lately held by a Dr. James Sim. I looked across the room and found Daisy was staring at me.

Perhaps I twitched or made some unbidden movement for suddently Daisy crossed the room to me.

"Martin, a word?" she asked me in a soft voice.

"Yes?"

"I… I need… uhm, can I talk with you in private?"

"Well…"

She took my arm and drew me up, towing me out into the hallway. When we were some distance away from the common area, she turned to face me. "Now."

Oh God. "Now what?"

She sighed. "Look, Martin, I know that I've been pushy with you, and I apologize."

"Accepted."

She crossed her arms and looked up at me. "Every wonder why I am here?"

"I hadn't thought about it."

She took a deep breath. "I was an oncologist."

I nodded, for I remembered her saying that.

"Now, we have to move on to a new career; still in medicine but still new."

"Mm. Two weeks' time."

She took a deep breath. "I was mostly pediatrics, but also adults. Some got better through treatment, but some…"

I stiffened, sensing what came next.

She said shakily, "Yeah. Didn't make it. And every time, old or young, especially the kids… I… Finally, I had a mental breakdown."

I winced inside, keeping my expression blank.

She went on, "So, it seems to me that you had something similar happen. I mean – really? Vascular surgeon becomes a GP? Tell me another." She sighed. "As for me? Well, I lost it. Starting screaming and screaming and screaming and I could not stop. They had to dose me with Thorazine to make me stop it," she sniffed.

"An anti-psychotic?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "It was bad. Very, very bad. I imagined those dead kids were crawling out of the file cabinets." Daisy turned her head towards the chatter for the common room. "I still see them, sometimes, when I am sad, or very, very worried."

Ugly and horrible.

She added, "Spending three months in a locked treatment facility is part of my past." She was wearing s short skirt and one slim and well-manicured hand travelled down to lift the hem.

What the bloody Hell was she doing?

"Look," she said, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I need to you to look; to understand."

High up inside her thighs, I spied red scars; one on the right side and two on the left.

Self-harm. "You harmed yourself."

She nodded. "Yes, I did, and I tried very hard the third time to do a thorough job of it." The skirt dropped but now she stood straighter, her eyes boring into mine. "But they saved me. I didn't want them to, but they brought me back."

From the color of the scars they were not that recent. "So, this was in the last two years."

"Yes," she said. "Twenty-two months, one week and six days. A date I shall not forget. I am not the woman, or doctor, I was then, but here I am now. Still standing; still breathing. So, Martin, man of mystery, with an amazing brain stuffed full of medical facts, what do I do now?"

"Hm. I try not to dwell on the past," I told her. "I am sure that your counselor has told you that."

"Oh, my yes," she laughed slightly. "Get a new job, she says. Move on." She patted my arm. "And for you?"

"Yes. Move on. Start a new career," I replied. "Best we can do. A new job."

She sighed, then rose on her tiptoes, kissed me on the cheek and with a sad smile, turned and walked away.