Page 3 of The Affair
Devan let out a pained sigh. ‘Honestly, Connie, Ican’t deal with this right now. I feel as if I’m going to explode.’
She looked up into his face. He was blinking rapidly, his mouth twisting, his fists now thrust deep into his trouser pockets. She was hesitating, not knowing what to do, when a man approached them, holding out his hand to Devan, a big grin on his face. He was in his mid-thirties, she thought, blond and broad and blandly tidy in beige chinos. She heard Devan groan quietly.
‘All I need,’ he muttered.
‘The legendary Dr Mac!’ the man said, pumping Devan’s hand up and down. ‘Such a pleasure to see you again.’
Connie had no idea who he was.
‘Will Beauregard,’ he said, turning to her with his hand held out and the same cheerful grin, as he waited for Devan to respond.
Devan, Connie could see, was settling his features in a gargantuan effort to be nice. ‘William,’ he said, producing from the depths of his soul his very best smile – the one that had stunned people into submission so often in the past but now looked frayed at the edges. ‘A pleasure indeed.’
So this is one of the new GPs, she thought. The two doctors had taken over the practice since Devan’s retirement. His back problem had been cited as the reason for him going, but really it was because he couldn’t cope any more with the pressure of a single-GP practice in this day and age. He’d had two permanent locums who worked part-time alongside him and aloyal support team, but it was still too much. For years Connie had witnessed the strain he’d been under – her husband put his work before anything else. She’d thought at the time that he’d welcome being free of such a massive responsibility when he was still young enough, at sixty-one, to do all the things he’d never had time for. But so far it hadn’t worked out that way.
After a few short weeks, when he was on a ‘school’s-out’ high, Devan had begun to sink. As the days went by he did less and less, his initial enthusiasm for retirement turning into a listless rant about petty stuff: someone stopping across their parking space for ten minutes, the noise of a hedge trimmer, the next-door neighbour’s climber invading the trellis on their side of the wall. This wasn’t the Devan Connie knew. These petty fixations were ageing him. The vital, charming doctor had turned into an old man overnight. He’d always been so enthusiastic, so full of energy, it never entered her head that he wouldn’t embrace retirement with the same verve – maybe, after a break, take on some consultancies or volunteer, write articles and contribute to journals and websites, as many of his colleagues did when they left the health service. Devan had mentioned these options over the years, although never in direct relation to himself.
‘How’s it going? You know you can always be in touch if you or Rob need help with anything. It can be a little overwhelming at first,’ he was saying to Will, assuming the tone of elder statesman.
Will smiled his thanks. ‘Our only problem is thepatients all want to be seen by the brilliant Dr Mac. We both feel like the poor relations at the moment.’
Devan gave a self-deprecating laugh, although Connie noted the gratified flush on his cheeks. ‘They complained enough when they had me,’ he joked.
Ting, ting, ting … The spoon tapping insistently against Tim’s glass interrupted further conversation and Connie turned to see that the cake had been brought through and placed on a round, polished walnut table in the centre of the room. It was a towering three-tier confection of chocolate icing, raspberries and white chocolate flakes, two sparkler candles in the numbers six and four adorning the top tier.
Tim, his arm round the shoulders of his timid wife – seeming, to Connie, as if he were crushing the very life out of her – began to expound on her virtues, as he did every year, and Connie switched off. She laughed when everyone else did, but surreptitiously she was eyeing the new doctor standing at her side. It was strange, after thirty years, to imagine someone else in the role that Devan had inhabited so authoritatively for so long. He was, as Beauregard suggested, a legend in the area, his diagnostic nous, dedication and impeccable bedside manner vastly appreciated by the sick and dying.Where has that man gone?she wondered sadly.
Connie and Devan walked the mile home across the field and down the steep lane to their house in silence. It was chilly and grey. Although the squall had passed, the wind was still strong across the Levels.
‘William bloody Beauregard,’ Devan muttered sourly, as they tramped on. ‘Sounds like something out of the American Civil War. Wasn’t there a General Beauregard who got killed for doing something brave and foolish?’
Connie laughed. ‘He seems OK. The solid, cheerful sort.’
‘He won’t be cheerful for long,’ Devan harrumphed.
She grabbed his arm, gave him a squeeze. ‘Stop it, will you? You’ve had a really good career out of that surgery.’ Her husband was silent. ‘And there’ll be two of them,’ she added.
Still no response. Then Devan said, ‘I think he’s a bit of a smug twat, if I’m honest.’
Connie snatched away her hand. She was worn out from trying to sympathize with him. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Be a miserable old bastard. Will was only being friendly. You could tell he really respected you and your reputation.’
Later that night she lay in bed alone. She’d had a long talk with her daughter as soon as Devan declared he was going to the pub after supper. The Skittle House – ‘Skittles’ to the locals – was on the corner of the main street, the publican a Yorkshireman called Stacy, friend to them both.
‘Are you worried?’ Caitlin had asked, after Connie had filled her in about her father’s mood. ‘He sounded very grumpy when I called him last week. Said he was really missing you.’
Connie sighed. ‘So he keeps telling me. But whenI’m here, he does nothing but avoid me. All he seems to want to do is stare at his phone, watch sport and drink too much. He’s at the pub right now, despite boozing all day at the Hutchisons’.’
‘And he won’t consider antidepressants?’
‘Well, no … because he’s not depressed, is he? According to his own expert medical opinion, your dad’s merely “adjusting” to a big life change.’
‘Well, I suppose he might have a point. It’s not even a year since he stopped working.’
Connie had sighed, aware that Devan’s distress dated much further back than that. ‘I know, but …’
‘Poor Mum. Must be hell, having him so grouchy all the time.’ Caitlin paused. ‘I hope he’s not being mean to you.’
‘God, no. Your dad would never be mean,’ Connie said firmly, anxious to dispel her daughter’s concern. Although she’d almost rather hewasmean – that he’d say something she could really get her teeth into and they could have a good old-fashioned row. They’d always been good at rowing, and even better at making up. Instead, the constant drip, drip of dyspeptic sniping and lack of motivation dragged her down so much that she was beginning to dread being in his company for any length of time.
