It made her smile in the way Janice’s quips often did.
‘Morning, Janice.’
Their brilliant receptionist was a walking catalogue of cliches and catchphrases – enabling Verity to almost predict what she might come out with in any given situation. She was also a fixture, having been here for more years than Verity.
‘Morning, Tara.’
‘Morning! Coffee?’ Janice’s sidekick beamed from behind the reception desk they shared.
‘Please, Tara. That’d be great. James not in yet?’ She wanted to talk to him about their rota, as her fiancé, Patrick, was now working nights at the hospital, and she wanted to switch some of her days. There’d been mention of a possible trip to the coast for a beach walk and a pub lunch the week after. Both sounded very tempting, a trip out of the city.
‘Not yet, he’s got a few childcare issues this week, Mrs Scott is in Dubai.’
‘Oh, yes, I forgot.’ It amazed her how he did it, handled two small kids, a busy career and a very distracted wife.
‘This weather, eh?’ Janice shook her head, as if it was a shock to find herself in rain, in Scotland, in October. ‘I’m absolutely drookit!’
‘You need a brolly, I’ve told you before.’
‘Aye, but with my shopping bag in one hand and my ciggie in the other, how would I manage a brolly?’
‘You could always give up smoking?’ It wasn’t the first time she’d made such a suggestion, which made the woman roar as if it were that funny.
‘I’d rather get wet!’ Janice chortled. ‘Besides, you know what they say.’ Verity braced herself for a classic Janice comment. She was not left disappointed. ‘Today’s rain is tomorrow’s whisky!’
‘They do indeed.’
‘First patient is in at eight. Mr Lowther.’
‘Ah, Mr Lowther.’ She nodded her understanding and walked into her consulting room. After hanging up her mac, smoothing her tweed skirt and taking a seat at her desk, she fired up the computer. She loathed the infernal machine, which took up more of her time than actual patients.
Such was the life of a modern G.P.
It baffled her dad, Dr Rodney – only recently retired – who liked to remind her that, in his day, everything had been written by hand and stored in a paper filing system. This, he insisted, was not only efficient and cheap to upgrade but was also very green and immune from hacking and glitches! He made it sound idyllic, those early days at his surgery in the rural Highlands, where Verity had grown up.
As the local doctor, he had tended to generations, and he, his wife and their two daughters were known by all. Verity tried notto think about her time there, finding it too painful to revisit. Memories that had the power to take her right back to those dark, dark days of grief.
Her lovely dad, despite their life changing tragedy, spoke fondly of the community. The vast landscape, a place of harsh weather and immeasurable beauty, where everyone pulled together to face whatever came their way, looking after each other, like family, protecting their own. If one of Jon Morton’s cows needed help delivering her calf, or snow saw the school cut off from the road, power out, it was all hands on deck!
She’d told him that if he helped birth a cow now he’d probably get sued.
‘World’s gone mad!’ his favourite refrain, uttered usually as he shook invisible creases from his broadsheet and sighed. Verity found it hard to disagree but would privately add the caveat that their world went mad a long time ago, on the day they lost her big sister, Gracie, who would forever be seventeen.
They’d moved away soon after, settling here in Edinburgh, starting over without the community that had felt like family. Here in the city where they were of no particular interest, just new faces in the crowd, but, in the village they’d left, they were and always would be, the Clarkes whose wee girl was murdered.
Verity whizzed through her email, deleting great swathes of junk without reading it, mainly adverts in the form of ‘breaking news’ from various drug companies. Conference organisers offering her early bird rates for events in far flung corners of the globe, and various procedural updates and admin demands from the NHS trust.
Her theory was that, if any of it was that important, they’d email again, or call her. She responded better to a phone call, as only a handful of people had her telephone number, and she only called those who mattered to her. It was a stark reminder of how few people did matter to her. Her dad, of course, her cousinDarius, his wife Gilly. Her best friend since high school Megan, her boyfriend Patrick, and Dottie. Although the likelihood of Dottie calling her was very slim, being that she was a pampered whippet and all.
‘Your coffee.’ Tara breezed in and put the floral mug on her desk.
‘Thanks, Tara, I’ll return the favour in an hour or so.’
‘No worries, and Mr Lowther is here,’ she whispered, pulling a wide-mouthed face.
‘Of course he is!’ Grabbing the mug, Verity took a large gulp of coffee, not knowing when she might next get the chance. ‘You know the drill. If it looks like I’m stuck, make the call. And if he’s still here by tonight, send in gin.’
‘Got it!’ Tara laughed and closed the door behind her.
