Interview

The turboprop flight from Birmingham to Exeter and thence to Newquay seemed to be the fastest way to get down to Portwenn. The local rail station was miles way from the place so arriving to the area at an airport I could readily obtain taxi transport.

There was something about the woman; she was quite pretty, beautiful actually. But it was not the way she dressed, the long brunette hair, the smooth skinned and symmetrical ovoid face, or the slender body and limbs, or the quick and brilliant smile flashed at the ticket clerk. It was her hazel-green eyes and there was something about them..

I stared hard at her, leaning forward as she turned her face from the window, for she had been seemingly as interested as I in the passing landscape of the North Cornwall coastline, but as her gaze flicked from the window towards me and then back a few times there seemed to be and interest on her part.

As I looked at her full on, there, there it was, her pupil, different in the right eye than the left. The right eye was slow to respond to the changing light as she turned to face me. She leaned forward again, and I bent into her look for we were facing one another, separated by the emergency exit door (I was riding backwards).

Suddenly her mouth opened, and she told me, "You've got problem!" then she snatched up her handbag, leapt up from her seat and moved back a row and over to the other side of the small aircraft. She sat down, looked daggers at me, and then was clearly making it a point to NOT look at me anymore.

I flapped the newspaper in my hand and returned to my reading or tried to. 'You've got problem.' Well, she was correct, for I did, but it was not her concern.

Upon arriving in Newquay, I deplaned as quickly as possible. The crush and jostling onboard an aircraft was always noxious to me. Out of the terminal, to the taxi stand, to travel to the hotel where the interview was to be held.

The taxi driver was a fellow with a weather-beaten and lined face – likely a former fisherman or from the local quarry. He gave me a long hard look in his mirror as I told him the address. "Staying up there?" he asked me.

"No."

"Meetin' pr'haps?"

"Mind your own business."

"Right," he sniffed and then we set off. The airport was north of Newquay itself and had been an RAF base in the war. We soon were on the A39 heading up the coast, got past the town of Wadebridge, and then went off the motorway, towards west to the coast and soon a large brown building appeared on a headland.

"Hotel up ahead," the driver muttered.

I popped my neck as the car stopped, paid off the driver and got out. I looked up at the large castle-like place with the sun shining out of a blue sky. I squared my shoulders and went inside and immediately saw Chris Parsons in reception, fidgeting with his watch until he saw me.

"Dr. Ellingham!" Chris called out, then advanced holding his right hand out. I took it. "Mart," he said softly, "so good you are here. Fraid you'd missed the plane. How are you?"

"Fine." I dropped his hand. Chris was heavier than in our school days and his hair was now gone on top. Granted I had gained a stone since medical school but Chris and added two stone at least. He was only of average height, so the extra pounds sat around his middle like a broad tyre. From his thick glasses he was using bifocals now, so he had aged more than I expected.

"You're looking well," he said to me exuberantly.

"Thank you."

"We'll meet in there," he pointed through double doors, standing open, towards a large room which faced the sea. I saw a single chair facing a long table with several chairs behind it.

Chris turned me by taking my elbow and began to rattle off introductions to the people who were standing around expectantly. All the names I promptly forgot. Safe to say that they were medical people concerning the GP practices for the PCT down here. Then a woman walked in, in a hurry.

Chris turned to me after seeing her, "Oh and this is Miss Glasson, the lay member."

I had automatically extended my hand, and she had started to do the same - but it was her – the woman from the plane. She withdrew her had as soon as she saw my face as she gave me a blank stare. Oh, gawd, my heart sank, for I'd clearly upset her during the flight. Likely thought I was some sort of peeping Tom.

She looked me up and down with a blank expression for clearly she had no use for me.

"Well," Chris said, "let's all go through, shall we?"

I sat before them, all seven (well six of them at least) seeming to be charmed just my presence, even before the interview began. Parsons started off with an intro about the GP position in Portwenn and the PCT, and then described how many people there were in the area, the total number of visits the late Dr. Sim had carried out in the last year, and so forth. He was clearly pitching the position to me in the best possible terms. It was the standard gloss up job for any position of course; accentuate the positive and sweep negatives under the rug.

"Oh, and the practice is in a charming cottage overlooking Portwenn Harbor, isn't that right, Miss Glasson?" Chris then said.

Siting there cross armed, the Glasson woman bobbed her head, but answered flatly, "It is."

"Good… so," Chris stammered, "and the practice has been closed… for just only months…"

The Glasson woman cut him off. "Sorry, Dr. Parsons. Three months since Dr. Sim died," she told him. "Actually." She had a pleasant voice, plus her attractive appearance, so I had to work hard not to stare at her too much. There was something almost magnetic about her to me. Or maybe it was me drawn like a moth to her flame?

"Three?" Chris glanced at some notes in front of him. "Oh, that's right. Three months." He winced as if he had been caught out in a schoolboy lie. "And in the meantime," he went on, "patients have to travel to over Wadebridge."

Miss Glasson nodded. "A long way by bus. Not many older residents have ready transport so having a GP in the village; well, it would be good."

Chris sighed at her, as if that might make a difference about the geography. "So, Mart… uhm, Dr. Ellingham, tell us what brings you to us."

I took a deep breath. "I have just completed a training course to turn my medical attentions towards General Practice. I found the listing for the open position and am interested."

"This retraining," one of the men asked. Was it Rickards? Roberts? Richards? "Tell us about that."

"In Birmingham, a plan for established doctors to transition into other fields, general practice being one," I answered.

Chris stepped in. "Yes, as I explained in the information packet, Dr. Ellingham was the star pupil in the course, right?"

I nodded slowly.

Chris added. "Highly recommended in emergency medicine, overall health screenings, pediatrics and geriatrics. Plus, I am sure his surgical skills and experience would be highly helpful if any emergencies might arise. Am I right?"

"Of course," I replied.

"How so Cornwall? Portwenn isn't a very big place," asked the other woman on the committee. Was she the nurse person? "You are from London?"

Then I told her. "Yes. I spent a few summers here – in Portwenn. My Aunt Joan Norton lives nearby."

That at least got a tiny positive reaction from Miss Glasson. "Joan? Why, I know her, a nice woman," she answered. "Very nice. I'd call her a friend as well."

I cleared my throat. "Also… I am seeking a change from surgery. My experience in vascular surgery and general surgery, will, I am certain, lend necessary technical skill to the practice."

Then Parsons threw out, "We have all reviewed your extensive medical curriculum vitae and it is most impressive." Then he chuckled, "But, Dr. Ellingham, we're not expecting you to perform open-heart surgery, or even a hernia repair, on a kitchen table."

That prompted a good laugh from all of them.

So, all was going so well, and clearly they were impressed. Everyone but the Glasson woman, who from her stiff body language and pursing of lips, told me that she was not convinced as to my fitness.

"Any further questions?" I asked.

"Well… apart from what have we done to deserve such an eminent applicant," said Parsons and they all chuckled happily once more.

I began to stand up, for clearly the interview was at an end.

Parsons looked around the table then smiled at me, as he stood up. "Good. So…"

Miss Glasson spoke up. "Sorry. Can I just ask how you would describe your interpersonal skills?" she asked.

I sat back down, catching the cautionary look that Parsons sent my way. I tried not to sigh too audibly. "Surgeon for 12 years, ran a team of senior registrars at St. Johns. I think that speaks for itself."

Parsons was coaching me with his eyes, as if he was telling me 'Don't say too much, Mart!'

Miss Glasson smiled ominously, leaning forward, her long hair swinging as she moved. "The classic image of surgeons is that they deal with cases, rather than individuals; bodies rather than people." She said it so softly, not forcefully, but quietly and you could have heard a pin drop.

A bombshell that. There was a hidden poison there, and if I was not careful I'd get dosed by it, so I answered coolly, "My work is with the patients. That's nothing but dealing with bodies..." Oh bloody hell, did I just say that? "People."

She gave me a grim look. "If you want to be a GP in our village then social skills and a good bedside manner are really essential."

Parsons said in exasperation, "Louisa, I think that Dr. Ellingham is more than qualified."

"To alienate people, perhaps," she replied to him. "I'm sorry, but nothing I have seen so far convinces me that he is a proper replacement for Dr. Sim."

Chris looked at me with annoyance for what she had said was dangerously close to the truth. As a surgeon I did just treat bodies, yet perhaps that schism of bodies versus people had gotten me into this predicament? A surgeon afraid of blood? How horribly absurd is that? But to her point, medicine is not about making nice, it's about properly diagnosing the disorder or disease and then applying effective treatment. Otherwise, it's all voodoo and mumbo-jumbo.

Chris next said to the room, "Well, let's all just… ahem, Dr. Ellingham, if you would please excuse us? I think it's about time we put our heads together and made a decision," Chris said, reaching across from the table to shake my hand as I rose.

A quick squeeze form his sweaty palm and it was done. I swept the committee with my eyes. "Thank you for allowing me to present myself to you," I told them and then left the room.

After a few minutes, but I could hear both soft and loud voices through the closed doors, a door opened and Miss Glasson stomped out. Then Chris called out to me. "Martin? Mart?" he said as he opened the door.

Suddenly Miss Glasson was upon me in near fury. "You cross the line just once in Portwenn and…"

There it was again: that little things about her eye. I lowered my gaze to get a better look as I stepped closer to her.

She came to a halt as I stared at her face. "Would you stop that?"

I asked, "Vison a little blurred in that eye?" I pointed at her right one.

"Yes," she said self-consciously.

I touched her cheek, pulling the lower right eyelid down. "Fixed semi-dilated pupil. Bit of pain?"

She was startled. "Sometimes. Wha?"

"It's acute glaucoma," I diagnosed.

Her eyes flicked up and down. "You're kiddin'."

"No. You should see an eye specialist today."

"Martin?" Chris called me once more.

"Excuse me," I said to her, then walked towards the meeting room, but looking back at her as she was leaving (and caught her glance over her shoulder at me) just as I turned my head to the front, I drove my head into one of the doors.

Cries of alarm sounded. "Mart! My God! Dr. Ellingham? You okay?"

I rubbed the tender spot over my left eye, but the thick cranium there had caught most of the blow. "Ahm, yes," I said.

Chris's wide eyes said a lot, and then his face broke into a broad smile. "Dr. Ellingham, our new man in Portwenn!" he declared in a happy voice.

I got the job. All good. Great. Wonderful, I sighed inside. "Thank you," I told them all. So I was now to be a GP. Good.

"We… well," Chris stammered, "there was a teeny bit of dissension, call it, but we were nearly unanimous in accepting you."

"Nearly?" I asked.

Chris winced. "There was just one dissenting vote," he cocked his head towards the doorway where Miss Glasson had just departed. "Don't worry about it. Nothing to be concerned over. Don't panic."