Page 97 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘Parkinson’s disease?’ she asked again.

‘Yes, your father—Oh!’ The woman’s eyes widened and her face paled. ‘You didn’tknow?’

Mutely, Freya shook her head.

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’ She looked distraught as she eased herself out of her seat. ‘I’d better fetch the practice manager.’ She took a few steps, then looked back. ‘I really am sorry. I should never— Oh, God.’

Freya waited, in a daze. Her mouth was dry, but her palms were damp, and there was an ache in her chest.

Parkinson’s disease?

Snippets, like short videos and snapshots, kaleidoscoped across her mind’s eye: the way he’d glossed over the fall; the way he was visibly uncomfortable whenever she spoke to a member of the medical profession; his continual insistence that she should return to London and that he could manage on his own. Her father hadn’t wanted her to know.He’d deliberately kept it from her.

But other people knew. The medical staff at the surgery and the hospital, obviously. The pharmacist knew and probably the rest of the staff there. And the people from social services; did they also know? Is that why they’d been so insistent on her dad having a stairlift? But who else? Was her father’s condition common knowledge in Duncoorie? Dideveryoneapart from her know that he had Parkinson’s?

‘Ms Sinclair?’ A woman in her forties with a severe bob and horn-rimmed glasses emerged from a side door. Behind the counter, the receptionist hovered, wringing her hands and biting her lip.

‘I’m Helen Barclay, the practice manager. Would you like to follow me? We can have a chat in private.’ She led Freya into a treatment room and closed the door.

Freya stared at her wordlessly.

‘I understand you weren’t aware of your father’s condition,’ Ms Barclay said, sitting down at the desk. ‘Please, take a seat.’

Freya remained standing.

The woman nodded to herself and pursed her lips. ‘I’m sorry you found out this way. It must be a shock.’

‘You could say that.’

‘Kayleigh should never have disclosed that to you. Patient confidentiality is a major concern. On behalf of her and the practice, please accept our apologies. She is distraught, as you can imagine. Of course, if you feel you’re not able to accept our apologies and wish to take matters further, you have the right to complain to the—’

‘How long has he had it?’ Freya broke in. She didn’t give a toss about Helen Barclay’s concern that the practice had disclosed confidential information, or that she might put in a formal complaint. Freya’s only concern was her father.

The practice manager took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that. Patient confidentiality—’

Freya barked out an incredulous laugh. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’

‘I reallyamsorry, but two wrongs won’t make a right. You need to discuss this with Mr Sinclair.’

Without another word, Freya turned on her heel and left. She heard her name being called but didn’t stop. She had to get out of there now, before she broke down.

She began walking, not caring where her feet took her; all she knew was that she couldn’t go home. Not yet.

Freya eventually found herself at the loch, at the very spot where she and her father had scattered her mother’s ashes. It seemed fitting.

Perching on a rock, she sat staring out across the water. While she didn’t know much about Parkinson’s disease, she knew it was serious. She also knew that she needed to learn about it fast, before she confronted her father.

Freya took out her phone and after finding a reputable website, she began to read. What she learnt rocked her to the core. Phrases circled in her head like crows over carrion: ‘progressive disorder of the nervous system…’; ‘causes parts of the brain to weaken and die…’; ‘gets worse over time…’

The list of symptoms was long and varied, but she began to pick out the ones her father was displaying and that she’d ignored or had put down to other things, such as the tremor in his hand, and the way he’d slowed down significantly, his frequently blank expression, his sleep issues, the tendency to lean forward as he walked, and his small, hurrying steps that she’d attributed to his fractured hip. His occasional memory lapses and irritability, she had assumed to be a result of frustration at being incapacitated, and resentment that he was dependent on her. And there was the fall itself. People with Parkinson’s disease had a higher risk of falling.

The realisation that he’d probably suffered falls previously, although less serious, hit her. The realisation that he would undoubtedly suffer more falls in the future made her want to cry.

The hope she’d had that he would regain his mobility in a matter of weeks was dashed against the rocks of her newfound knowledge. His fractured hip was mending well, but his world was falling apart and had been for some time. Parkinson’s wasn’t something that developed suddenly. He’d had it for a while and he’d kept it from her.

Her stomach clenched, bile rising into her throat, and she leant to the side and vomited, the spasms tearing through her until she was completely empty.

Weak and drained, she stared bleakly at the mess and began to cry.

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