Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (4 page)

‘Don’t you two have jobs to go to?’ I snap, pulling a tenner out of my purse.

‘I’m gigging tonight sweetie and she,’ says Casper while pointing to Georgie, ‘is slumming again, isn’t that right sugar lips?’

‘I actually rescheduled an important meeting to have lunch with you two pains in the arse,’ she responds blowing him a kiss.

‘Ooh I love it when you talk dirty.’

I sigh, grab my bag and kiss them both on the cheek.

‘I must run. I love you both and I know you mean well. I’m just not ready for Prince Harry yet.’

I turn to the door, trip over Mrs Randall’s handbag and step on her dog’s tail. There is a yelp from the dog and a scream from me.

‘You’re not ready for the corgis either it seems,’ calls Casper.

Things can only get better, I just need a positive attitude and everything will be all right. That’s right isn’t it?

From: Lady Blanche Fairfax-Mason

To: Alice Lane

Subject: Your application

Dear Alice,

Thank you for your application. You are more than qualified for the post. We have had a good response to the advertisement and we have now shortlisted applicants for interviews. Would you be able to meet me at Claridge’s for afternoon tea at 3 p.m. on Tuesday?

Kind regards

Lady Fairfax-Mason.

Claridge’s, good heavens, is she serious? I hope she’s paying because I certainly can’t. It will cost her an arm and a leg if she is interviewing all the applicants there. We won’t all be there together will we? What was I thinking of applying for a job way out in the sticks? I pick up the phone to call Georgie for advice when my office door is flung open and a tearful Dawn stumbles in followed by Karen and a surge of
Opium
perfume. Oh no, just what I don’t need. I hastily close my email programme and drop the phone back onto its cradle.

‘I’m not being funny, do you know what I mean, but at the end of the day that Mr Ramsbottom should be struck off or whatever you do w
ith rude patients,’ fumes Karen. ‘Look at the state of her. I mean, it’s not funny is it? She’s beside herself aren’t you Dawnie?’

I’ve just about had all I can take of Karen. I know I’m not as tolerant as I could be but I feel like the reception staff are really pushing me lately. The over
powering smell of Karen’s perfume reminds me I need to have a word with her about it. Several other receptionists have complained it gives them headaches.

‘I really would appreciate it if you would knock first Karen. I could have been on the phone, patient confidentiality and all that.’

I point to a chair.

‘Do you want to tell me what happened Dawn?’ I ask gently.

She blows her nose noisily and wipes her eyes, smearing mascara across her cheeks. She perches her petite body onto the chair and attempts a smile.

‘Well
…’ she begins in a soft voice.

‘He’s still out there giving it some I tell you,’ interrupts Karen. ‘I tell you something
, if I was the practice manager …’

Dawn’s expression
shows she is grateful that Karen isn’t the practice manager.

‘If you
were
the practice manager,’ I correct, ‘and you’re not are you? I am.’

Dawn gives Karen an astonished look and Karen turns red in the face.

‘Well as it happens, you’re not either are you? Mrs Francis is and …’

‘While she is not here I deputise, which means I am currently the practice manager.’

Karen lifts her eyes to meet mine.

‘Well, you’d better
do something then hadn’t you, otherwise we’re all going on strike and you can’t run this place without us,’ she says bluntly while nonchalantly studying her manicured nails.

‘Hang on Karen
…’ interjects Dawn in a pleading voice.

‘We’re sick of the Ramsbottom types abusing us. I’m not being funny but when all is said and done we’re people too. Isn’t that right Dawn? It’s not our fault Di has gone home is it? We get it all taken out on us. That’s the size of it, isn’t it Dawn.’

‘One of the practice nurses has gone home?’ I say, trying not to show my surprise while wondering what it is we are discussing the size of.

‘Yeah, she’s got an upset stomach or something. Didn’t you know?’

Well, obviously not. Is that a smirk on Karen’s face? Dawn looks mortified. Her mascara streaked eyes widen and she looks at me pleadingly. I so wish I had lashes like Dawn. They are so long and full and I imagine a doddle to flutter. I’ve got those stupid wispy things that one layer of mascara just seems to glue together rather than lengthen. I’ve tried those eyelash curler things but when you’ve got zero eyelashes like mine you spend most of your time curling your eyelids. Not something I would recommend.

‘I don’t w
ant to go on strike or anything Alice. But he said the ‘F’ word and there is no call for that is there and …’

She stops at the s
ound of light tapping. Mark, one of the doctors, pops his head around the door. Karen seductively licks her lips and pushes her chest out and I can’t help wondering when she last had a bra fitting. It’s amazing how many people seem to be lopsided once you’ve had your eyes opened. Oblivious to her seductive pose Mark turns straight to me.

‘You do know it’s manic out there. There is only one receptionist and Marcia has had to go home, one of her kids has gone down with measles. I did email you to reshuffle some of the appointments as James and I can’t see everyone, and
…’

He looks at Dawn
’s tear-streaked face.

‘Is everything okay? Only we need someone else out there. Can you reschedule something Alice, and for tomorrow too. Maybe get a locum.’

‘No one told me Marcia went home.’

‘A patient has been very rude to Dawn,’ adds Karen.

Mark rolls his eyes.

‘How about if we discuss it after we’ve got through this crisis? I’ll leave it with you Alice.’

Without waiting for a response he leaves my office. Bloody hell is there anything else I can do this afternoon? Alice reschedule, Alice book a locum, Alice hold off a strike, Alice sort out Mr Ramsbottom. I am surprised I was not asked to sort out world peace in my coffee break.

‘I’m so sorry that Mr Ramsbottom was rude to you Dawn. Take a little break and have a cup of tea. I will phone him this afternoon. Is that okay? I really should sort out these appointments otherwise we’ll have even more irate patients. Karen, would you mind covering while Dawn has a break? I’ll sort out these appointments and then I’ll come and help.’

Karen pouts.

‘I was leaving early today. I did tell you. It’s my brother’s birthday.’

My phone rings and I answer it eagerly. Anything is better than a confrontation with Karen. It is Mark.

‘I’m not being difficult Alice, but can we get this mess sorted, and quickly please?’

‘Also …’ continues Karen,

‘Of course Mark. I’ll just finish slicing myself into pieces and I’ll be with you,’ I say, barely able to control the anger in my voice.

I slam down the phone. That wasn’t it though. That wasn’t the straw that broke the camel’s back, although it came close. What did break the camel’s back was Mark’s email which pinged on my screen at exactly five-thirty. In his ten-page missive, which waffled on about the NHS and its strengths and weaknesses, although in my mind finding strengths in this health centre is more difficult than finding Wally in a
Where’s Wally?
book. He also gushed quite nauseatingly about how all the wonderful staff at Cranford’s health centre made it the success that it was. So successful in fact that he went on to tell us who the partners were laying off and whose hours would be cut. Surprisingly it wasn’t the sodding practice manager who, in theory, does more work than me but in practice only does bloody half. So, of course, it is yours truly who gets her hours reduced from forty to thirty. At this rate I’ll be lucky if I can even afford a room-share in Battersea. The last thing I wanted was to move down to Cornwall and become some royal household servant, but it was becoming quite clear my nerves and disposition were not up to dealing with the likes of Karen and Mark for much longer, and certainly not on a pittance of a salary. It felt like no one wanted me any more. I’d lost my fiancé and now my job. With a heavy heart I replied to Lady Fairfax-Mason’s email.

From: Alice Lane

To: Lady Fairfax-Mason

Subject: Interview

Dear Lady Fairfax-Mason,

Thank you very much. I look forwarding to meeting you at Claridge’s on Tuesday, 3 p.m.

Yours sincerely
,

Alice Lane.

‘I’m meeting Lady Fairfax-Mason for afternoon tea,’ I say grandly, while feeling anything but.

‘Follow me madam.’

I am so nervous. In fact I had sat in Casper’s car for ten minutes trying to build up my courage to go in. I step through the revolving doors into a world that exudes luxury and am mesmerised by the numerous photographs that adorn the walls portraying the rich and famous that had visited. I wonder if Georgie was right when she had said it will be Princess Diana all over again. I am escorted past the sweeping staircase to a beautifully prepared table adorned with green and white china. I am so intent on looking that I do not notice the elegant immaculately dressed woman who stands to greet me. I do however smell her soft intoxicating fragrance.

‘Alice Lane, it is lovely to meet you at last. Thank
you so much for coming.’

Her voice is as clear as crystal and as soft as silk.
Her perfectly manicured hand clasps mine and then gestures for me to sit down. I look curiously around for the other applicants. Out of nowhere a menu miraculously appears and I lift my eyes over it to get a better look at Lady Fairfax-Mason. I’m no fashion expert but even I know that the simple two-piece floral suit she is wearing isn’t off the peg from Debenhams, and that the sparklers in her ears are most certainly the real thing. Her complexion is flawless and expertly made-up.

‘I thought it would be much nicer for us to have afternoon tea here rather than in my room. A much nicer ambiance don’t you think?’
she says casually.

My God, is she staying here? The farmhouse must be enormous and with an army of staff if she can afford this. There is no way I am going to land this job.

‘You’re staying here?’ I ask stupidly.

‘I always do when I’m in Englan
d. I’ll have my usual thank you Chester,’ she says to the waiter who seems to materialise from somewhere but I couldn’t for the life of me tell you where. It’s rather like being a volunteer in a Paul Daniels act. One minute they are there and the next gone. I look at the choice on the menu and wonder what
her usual
is. She smiles indulgently at me.

‘The Earl Grey here cannot be matched. Shall I order for you, unless of course
…’

I nod and she quickly and expertly voices our order before relaxing in her seat and studying me.

‘I live in Sydney,’ she volunteers.

‘Sydney Australia?’

‘It’s the only Sydney I know, unless you know of another.’

I feel myself blush.

‘I presumed you lived on the farm …’

She looks astonished.

‘I leave the farm to my son, Edward. It must be very rewarding, working for the NHS,’ she says, making it sound like UNICEF. ‘Helping people like that. I have great admiration for people like you.’

Christ, she makes me sound like Mother Teresa. And she most certainly hasn’t met Mr Ramsbottom. I can tell she has never had to wait in an NHS surgery waiting room.

The tea arrives, along with an assortment of finger sandwiches, scones, Marco Polo jam, cakes and pastries.
 Already I am thinking I should ask for a doggy bag.

‘So when can you start?’ she asks.

I choke on my cucumber finger sandwich. What the hell happened to the interview, and what happened to all the other applicants? Did they somehow get spirited away along with the waiters? I listen to the pianist play ‘It had to be you,’ and wonder if I am in a dream.

‘Start?’ I hear myself echo.

She wipes her fingers delicately on her serviette and sips from her teacup while eyeing me curiously over the rim.

‘Your r
ésumé is impeccable, outstanding in fact. I can’t help wondering why the erm …’ she clicks her fingers.

‘NHS,’ I offer at the same time that a waiter materialises.

‘Ah, yes that’s it. Oh, we are fine Chester thank you,’ she says dismissing him.

‘Why these NHS people are letting you go so easily.’