Secrets to Keep (3 page)

The room the surgery was housed in appeared to be far smaller than it actually was due to the amount of furniture in it. The large old oak desk he was sitting at had years of use evident on its surfaces. The huge bookcase to one side of him was crammed with ageing, musty-smelling medical journals, while a table behind him held five large wooden boxes, each divided into four drawers, and each drawer rammed to overflowing with patients’ records dating back to God knew when. How many records were in respect of people still actually alive was debatable. He’d
skimmed a look through them on first arriving and noted the ages of some of the patients and the date of the last entries. At some point they must be overhauled. He had besides an examination couch, a washstand and bowl, a cupboard full of medical supplies, and a table on which was displayed an ancient microscope and some gruesome-looking old medical instruments.

A thick, dark brown dado rail divided the walls into two, the bottom half painted brown, the top half cream, which had turned to dark yellow after decades of Doctor McHinney’s dedicated smoking habit. He had obviously had a penchant for a drink, too, judging by the number of empty whisky bottles Ty had discovered in the dank, cobweb-filled cellar, along with a half-filled bottle in the desk drawer. Ty didn’t smoke himself, but since arriving in his new post had taken to having a glass of malt before he retired to bed, in the hope it might help him gain a better sleep than the fitful and disturbed rest he’d experienced since his life-changing experience two years ago.

It became immediately apparent to Ty on his first surgery that James McHinney had been revered by his patients. He suspected that as long as he himself remained in this post – which as matters stood for him would be until he, too, was carried out in a box – he would never match up to Doctor Mac in the locals’ eyes. Not that Ty cared what they thought of
him. His only desire was to deal with their medical needs, which he would do his best to serve, and not to allow himself to become any further involved with them than that.

A faint murmur of voices filtered through to him, coming from the waiting room across the corridor. Ty heaved another despondent sigh. He had been called out twice on emergencies during the previous night, so what sleep he had managed to get had not proved beneficial. He had taken a twenty-minute break earlier during which he had gobbled down a hastily put-together sandwich. He had been out on house calls since, had just returned from the last one in fact, and was hoping that evening surgery would be a light one so he could catch up with sorting out the surgery, something that up to now the demands on his time hadn’t allowed … but the noise level coming from the waiting room was warning him otherwise.

From what he’d observed of the locals while dealing with their medical needs in the week he had been in this post, he’d come to the conclusion that they were an uneducated lot, obviously not averse to living in what seemed to be appalling conditions, some of the houses so dirty farmers would have considered them unfit for pigs, or they’d have done something about it. Some of the people whose houses he had visited didn’t even practise the most
basic hygiene. The majority of the women looked far older than their years, slovenly in both their appearance and housewifely duties, while their menfolk appeared interested only in the local pub and collaring the bookie’s runner for their bets. And it was debatable if many of the undernourished, barefoot, raggedly dressed children he’d encountered to date would actually reach adulthood, considering the way their parents were raising them.

The way James McHinney had operated financially was of grave concern to Ty. If he carried on the way his predecessor had, then he was deeply worried he wouldn’t be able to meet his bills each week. Thankfully a couple of local factories had paid him a retainer each year to care for their workers’ medical needs, so at least Ty could count on that money still coming in, but he had been under the impression that the bartering system had died out in Britain in the Middle Ages. Out of all the patients he’d seen up to now, though, nearly three quarters had paid in kind with goods or promise of manual labour, turning a deaf ear to any requests for hard currency instead. Not to be thwarted, before he’d departed on his morning rounds today, Ty had penned a very clear notice and pinned it on the wall of the waiting room, advising them that in future only cash would be accepted in return for his services.

The din emanating from the waiting room rose
several decibels, heralding more arrivals. He visualised them all packed into the small room, squashed together on the unyielding wooden bench spanning three of the walls. The stench from their collective body smells would be nauseating. Ty sighed again as he took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it. Evening surgery started at six. It was eight minutes to. He could sit here for those eight minutes, keeping them all waiting as he savoured this little bit of time to himself. Or he could make an early start and get it over with. He decided to make the early start.

His first patient was a shrunken, dirty, toothless old woman whose visit was for him to lance a nastylooking carbuncle on her chin. While he got his instruments and dressings together, he was forced to listen to her list all the remedies she had tried, including stabbing a sewing needle into it. He doubted she’d thought to sterilise it first and the result had been to worsen it, not cure it. The pus that oozed out of the carbuncle was a vile shade of green and yellow, the stench of it stomach-churning. Having dressed the residual gaping hole and scrubbed his hands with carbolic soap, using the jug and bowl on the marble-topped table, Ty sat back down in his chair and opened his mouth, preparing to tell the old crone the fee for his work, when she pre-empted him by pulling out a battered Peek Frean biscuit tin from
her old shopping bag, putting it on his desk before him and saying, ‘Thanks fer sorting me out, Doctor. The pain I was suffering was worse than I’ve ever experienced and, believe me, I’ve suffered more than me fair share of aches and pains in me life, ’specially when I trapped me hand in the mangle and broke four of me fingers.’

She sucked in her cheeks as she pulled a pained expression. ‘That hurt like the blazes, let me tell yer, and at the time I had eight kids to feed and a bleddy wastrel of a husband who was out of work more times than he were in, so no money to spare for the likes of yerself. Had to strap it up meself.’ She held up her hand, showing him her four misshapen fingers. She then pushed the tin towards Ty. ‘Doctor Mac used to love my Welsh cakes.’

He eyed her sharply. ‘Madam, I am not Doctor McHinney and …’

Before he could utter another word, eying him sardonically, she cut in, ‘No, yer not, more’s the pity. He actually made yer feel welcome when yer came in to see him, not like yer was intruding, and he chatted to yer about this and that while he was seeing to you. It’s like being in a morgue, being seen to by you. Still, if that’s how yer are, that’s how yer are. We ain’t a choice around here who we get to be our doctor, just mortally grateful we’ve got one to come to when we need to.’ Getting up from her chair, she
scuttled out with the agility of a woman half her age.

Ty stared blankly after her. He didn’t care what she thought of him personally. He had successfully dealt with her ailment, but the old woman needed to consult an optician about her eyesight as she obviously hadn’t seen the very clear notice in the waiting room, informing her that payment in kind was no longer acceptable. He knew where those Welsh cakes were going and it wasn’t into his stomach, not if the dire state of the maker of them was anything to go by.

He picked up his pen in order to write notes on the old lady’s record card. It had taken him precious time to find this. His predecessor might have been revered by his patients for his doctoring skills and his compassion towards them, but keeping records in alphabetical order seemed to have been beyond him. The door opened unexpectedly then and a thickset man dressed in work clothes came in, shutting it behind him, taking a seat on the chair to the side of the desk and looking at Ty expectantly.

Respectfully taking off his flat cap, he announced, ‘Evening, Doctor. I’ve come to see you about me arm.’

Ty eyed him steadily. Had the people in these parts no manners? He’d been taught that it was polite to knock before entering an occupied room, and to wait for a response from the occupant before invading
their privacy. He tersely announced, ‘I’m not ready for you yet. I’ll call you through when I am.’

The man pulled a bemused expression. ‘Oh! Well, in Doctor Mac’s day, when one came out of the surgery, the next went in. Anyway I’m here now. I don’t mind waiting while yer finish what yer doing.’

Ty minded. Patients’ records were private and he was not going to risk anyone peering over and possibly seeing what he was writing, then feeling at liberty to relay that person’s medical problems to all and sundry. Fixing the man with his eyes, he reiterated slowly, ‘I’ll call you through when I’m ready to see you.’

The man stared at him, taken aback for a moment, before he slapped his cap back on his head and rose, saying, ‘As you wish, Doctor.’

It took Ty less than thirty seconds to finish writing up the old lady’s notes. He then put the record card on an ever-growing pile on top of the drawers, his intention being to go through all the records as soon as time allowed him and re-file them correctly. He got up from his desk, opened the door and crossed the corridor, taking a deep breath before he opened the door to the waiting room, preparing himself for the smell that would hit him. Those chatting inside immediately fell silent and everybody sat looking at him. He could tell by their faces that they thought him wrong for insisting the patient who had
entered the surgery unbidden should return to the waiting room, but Ty didn’t care what they thought. He ran his own surgery his way, and that was the end of it. Keeping their records secure was important to him. He announced in a clear voice, ‘Next.’

The man he had sent back to await his summons rose, taking off his cap. ‘Well, as you know, that’d be me, Doctor.’

Back in the surgery, Ty asked the man’s name, which he gave as William Bates, and got out his records, which again took him precious minutes. He eventually found them tucked in a pile in the drawers labelled G,H or I. Taking a quick look at William Bates’ past history, which was hard to decipher as James McHinney’s handwriting had been very spidery, it appeared that the last time he had sought medical help was fifteen years previously, when he had fractured his leg after being clipped by a runaway cart while crossing a road. Either he’d a hardy constitution and had not been ill again or he’d resorted to home remedies for any ailment since then. Ty knew that many locals did so and this practice infuriated him. Did these people not have the intelligence to realise that resorting to quack cures, instead of trained professional advice, could prevent many initially minor ailments from becoming much worse, possibly life-threatening – and being allowed to become so purely in order to save the doctor’s fee?

‘What can I do for you, Mr Bates?’ he asked.

‘Well, it’s as I told yer before, Doctor. It’s me arm. I nicked meself at work this morning and I’m needing a stitch or two.’

William Bates didn’t look the kind of man to come here if an ailment could be dealt with at home, so Ty suspected that the word ‘nick’ was being used wrongly in this case. Bates eased off his jacket to reveal an arm wrapped tightly from elbow to wrist in a grubby piece of cloth saturated with dried and fresh blood. Without seeing the actual wound, Ty could tell by the amount of blood visible that what lay beneath was definitely no minor injury needing a couple of sutures. What he discovered, though, when the cloth was removed, was far worse than he’d expected. The gaping gash was bone-deep and at least six inches long. Ty just hoped that no infection had gained hold between the time Bates had done it and his arrival here or there was a severe risk the man could end up losing his arm.

While deciding how best to proceed with treatment, Ty asked, ‘How did you do this?’

Bates’ face darkened thunderously and he spat, ‘Through the bloody owner being too tight fisted to get a fault fixed on me machine. Months it’s been broke. All he cares about is his profits, to keep his family living the grand style they live in. Doesn’t care a jot that his workers are risking their lives, or can
hardly keep themselves and their families on what he pays. Some workers are lucky as their bosses pay their doctors’ fees for injuries at work. But the bastard I work for sees his employees as easily replaceable.’

Ty’s previous life hadn’t bought him into contact with the likes of lowly factory workers, but a close friend of his father’s had been a factory owner and the man always seemed to be complaining of how lazy and incompetent his workers were, never satisfied with their pay and conditions, not at all grateful that if it weren’t for the likes of himself, providing them with the means to earn a living, then they and their families would all be in the workhouse or on the streets. His father’s friend had been justified in his complaints about his workers, it seemed to Ty, judging by this man’s attitude. Then something he’d said struck home. ‘You did say you did it “this morning”? Why didn’t you go straight to the General to get it seen to or else come to me then?’

Bates looked at Ty as though he were stupid. ‘And lose me pay for not finishing me shift?’

Ty was struck dumb. His injury must be excruciatingly painful yet this man had been prepared to endure the pain and face the consequences of delaying treatment, sooner than lose any pay. Obviously the loss of his beer and gambling money was far more important to him than the prospect of losing a limb!