‘I remember visiting your husband before I applied for medical school.’
‘Really? I didn’t know that,’ Elizabeth said, but of course, Eric never really discussed anything to do with the practice with her. ‘Did he encourage you?’ she asked.
‘In a way, I suppose he did. He was probably late in his career then. I’m not sure it could be considered a vocation, but compared to a lot of jobs, it was clear that he was committed, in a way that other professionals don’t really sustain as the years pass.’
‘Yes, I suppose he was.’ He certainly worked long hours or at least that was what Elizabeth had tried to convince herself of over the years. She’d turned a blind eye to far too much, but then, she’d learned early not to quarrel with Eric when he was drunk.
‘And that’s it, really, with medicine – you’re either committed or you’re not. I don’t think anyone would sign up for being a doctor based on the working conditions or the wages, but for me and I suspect for your husband, there’s the chance to make a difference.’ Lucy shrugged now and Elizabeth tried to equate this version of Eric with the one she’d lived with all those years.
‘Well, I’m not going to lie and tell you that if you were to come here it would be easy. Eric always said that being a GP was the hardest job in the world, and God knows, the practice isn’t exactly a money-making machine.’ It was as near the truth as Elizabeth could face telling. ‘Still, the village is nice, the people are decent and I have a feeling that if you decided to fill in, just for a week or two, at least you’d know one way or another.’ She picked up a piece of sponge cake and popped a crumbling end in her mouth. Life was too short to eat sandwiches when the sun was peeping through the grey clouds outside and the leaves were dripping slowly onto the puckered ground beneath.
‘Let’s take a look then.’ Lucy got up, as if unexpectedly energised with the idea of the surgery. ‘It’s years since I was there last.’
‘Oh, dear, I’m not sure how it’s going to look to you so,’ Elizabeth said, regret tinting her voice.
It’s a funny thing, looking at a familiar place through the eyes of someone new; Elizabeth thought she knew every single inch of her home and the surgery. She had cleaned the place from top to bottom for too many years to count, scrubbing away not just the scuff marks and dust of daily inhabitation, but the imperceptible translation of sickness and misery that she blasted with disinfectant, antibacterial cleaners and stoic rubber gloves. Now, today, with the unforgiving spring afternoon sunshine picking out chipped paint and time-worn tiles, it seemed her life’s work counted for very little. The rooms were dated and archaic. They belonged to another age, a time when Eric had qualified, when the GP was expected to sit behind his desk and pronounce his words of wisdom with little more than a stethoscope or a thermometer in his arsenal. The walls held charts that looked as if they could belong in a museum. The blinds that had stuck closed many years earlier had a tatty, neglected air about them. Even the doors creaked onerously as they were opened; it seemed they too were ready to hand notice in.
This was how Elizabeth saw the consulting rooms – cramped, miserable and inadequate – and for all Lucy Nolan’s kind words, she knew too that the condition of them spoke volumes about the way her husband held himself and his patients’ regard. It was all too much. ‘We shouldn’t have come here,’ she said quietly, closing the door on Eric’s consulting room. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a silly idea. Whoever takes over a practice in Ballycove will have to open a whole new set of consulting rooms…These will never do.’ And then something else struck her. This idea, the notion that she could somehow keep the practice going had been her only hope. And now, it was dashed. ‘It was silly of me to even think…’ a small tear escaped her ‘…that anyone would want to set up here…’
Lucy Nolan was used to working in a modern hospital with electronic gadgets and state-of-the-art equipment – Eric didn’t even own a computer.
‘It could be very homely…’ Lucy said, but they both knew her words – no matter how kindly chosen – simply could not gloss over the fact that this place was a dump.
‘It’s pathetic,’ Elizabeth said and felt an avalanche of frustrated tears rise up behind her eyes. ‘I can see that now, even if I couldn’t before.’
‘It would need a lot of work, if it was to be a long-term arrangement,’ Lucy said gently. She walked over to the little cubbyhole that passed for a reception desk. ‘Don’t tell me that old Mrs O’Neill is still here.’ She smiled fondly.