Pulse(68)

‘Thank you.’

I wasn’t yet completely at full fitness but I wasn’t going to tell him that. To say that I was slightly wary of this conversation would not have been an exaggeration. The last time he’d spoken to me he’d been spitting blood with anger.

‘Er,’ he said.

I realised that he was embarrassed – I could tell from his voice. Clearly, he could also remember our last encounter.

I remained silent. I wasn’t going to help him out.

‘Chris?’ he said finally.

‘Yes.’

‘Would you be interested in acting as a medical officer at the upcoming April meeting on Wednesday?’ He said it in a rush as if trying to rid himself of the words as quickly as possible.

‘At Cheltenham?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course at Cheltenham.’

Did I detect a hint of irritation?

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Last time you spoke to me, you told me in no uncertain terms that you didn’t ever want me to act for you again. In fact, you shouted at me to get out of the jockeys’ medical room and stay out.’

‘Yes. Well, er, I may have been a trifle hasty.’

It was as close to an apology as I was likely to get.

‘Short, are you?’ I said.

‘No,’ he said firmly, too firmly. ‘Nothing like that.’

I didn’t believe him, and I was right.

‘What with Easter being so late this year, it’s just that some of the usual team are away on holiday with their children and I thought you might like to step in.’

So he was short.

But I didn’t care about the reason why. I was just pleased that he wanted me at all. I was even off duty at the hospital until Friday night and therefore available.

‘I’d be delighted to,’ I said.

‘Great,’ he said, the embarrassment finally banished. ‘I was talking to Rupert Forrester earlier and he said that he’d seen you giving evidence at an inquest this morning. It seems that he was impressed.’

Was he telling me it had been the racecourse managing director’s idea to ask me to act rather than his? Maybe he was, but I wasn’t bothered. I’d thought my days as a racecourse doctor were over and now I was looking forward to them again.

‘Who was that?’ Grant asked as I disconnected. He had come back in from the kitchen with a glass of red wine and had caught only the tail end of the conversation.

‘Adrian Kings,’ I said. ‘Senior medic at the racecourse. He wants me to act as a medical officer on Wednesday.’

I could tell that Grant wasn’t pleased. ‘Wasn’t he very rude to you last time? I’m surprised you agreed. And, to be honest, I’d much rather you didn’t do it. In fact, I would prefer it if you never went near that damn place ever again.’

‘But I drive past it going to work every day,’ I said flippantly.

‘You know what I mean.’

He knew better than to try to order me not to act as a racecourse doctor, persuasion rather than proscription always being the best method, but there was definite worry etched on his face.

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to reassure him. ‘Maybe I wasn’t ready when I went back last time. But I’m better now. And all that other stuff is firmly behind me.’

Little did I realise that it was also still firmly out in front, and it was about to come head-on at me like a runaway train.





25


There was a real spring in my step as I walked in through the racecourse entrance on Wednesday morning.

Things had been going well at the hospital and I had rediscovered my enthusiasm for emergency medicine. True, I was still being monitored by other consultants, but I had been given more and more responsibility and, best of all, I hadn’t once had to go and hide in the linen cupboard.

At home, things hadn’t been quite so good.

The twins were doing well at school and seemingly unaffected by their mother being ill. However, relations with Grant had recently clearly been on the slide. He had confided in one of my girlfriends from the village that he was fed up at always having to be careful around me in order not to cause an upset.

The girlfriend had reckoned that he was telling her in the hope and expectation that she would pass it on and she had done so almost immediately.

Whereas in the months before Christmas, my reaction might have been one of panic and dread, I was now more calm and pragmatic. I was even able to speculate on whether Grant had really told my girlfriend because he fancied her. Maybe, in spite of what he had said, he actually wanted me to starve to death so that he’d be free to pursue her.

I knew I’d annoyed him by insisting that I was going back to act as a racecourse doctor. Had I gone too far? But I hadn’t realised how much those days meant to me until I thought I’d had them taken away forever.

Even at breakfast that very morning, he had still tried to dissuade me.

‘I couldn’t possibly let them down at this short notice,’ I’d said. But I had no intention of letting them down at all because I loved it so much.

In order to remain on the approved list, I had to act as a racecourse doctor for a minimum of eight days per annum and, due to my illness and absence, I would struggle to fulfil the requirement for the current year if I only worked at Cheltenham. Hence, I already had plans to make myself available to other local courses, such as Worcester, Hereford and Stratford.