It wasn’t the most auspicious start to her holiday. A whole week off work, away from dreaming up campaigns for rheumatoid cream and thrush pills and a whole week without having to train eager young pharmacists on the merits of the latest wonder drug. It had seemed so promising. She hadn’t planned for much other than car-crash telly, a coffee or two with friends and of course, her daily runs around Lloyd Park with Sam.

 

And now, sitting on a moulded blue plastic seat screwed to the ground and embellished with guilty looked fag burns, she was in agony and facing a three hour wait to see anyone with even a whiff of a medical degree. Sam looked at her, his big brown eyes apologetic. She was number 32 in the queue. Behind a dishevelled drunk man with a badly cut eye; behind two scrawny young men in flammable looking white tracksuits sporting matching injuries and looking at each other suspiciously and behind a young Asian woman, sitting neatly in a corner sobbing quietly to herself, her hair covered.

 

She watched the reception nurses behind the reinforced glass, looking bored and fed up already. It was midday on Saturday morning and A&E of Mayday Hospital was almost full. Her ankle throbbed. Sam continued to look at her sorrowfully, the wag of his tail conveying his Beagly guilt.

 

She heard shouts behind her as the automatic doors swished to allow in another casualty. She barely registered the flailing arms as the unwilling patient made her feelings about being here well known to the unlucky paramedic. The other inmates (for that’s what it felt like in the gloomy room) turned to look, pleased to have a distraction other than the amateur peeling NHS posters on spotting heart attacks and strokes.

 

Mel closed her eyes. She couldn’t be bothered. She’d get this thing x-rayed, then be on her way to carry on the rest of the week as planned. She resolved to get another lead, one that wasn’t so inclined to wrap itself round one’s legs as a soppy Beagle ran circles in excitement at seeing his friend, the Dalmation.

 

She became aware of movement next to her, she was jostled and her reverie was interrupted by a great bellow that defied it’s originator. She glanced over and saw the most recent patient had been parked in a wheelchair next to her. A tiny old lady, sweet-faced yet pouting at the indignity of being sat in public in her nightdress.

 

“I’m not having it,” insisted the old lady to no one in particular. “It just won’t do. Won’t do. Won’t do.” She shook her head, her hair a cloud of finest white cotton wool. She smelled faintly of urine and Yardley’s Lavender talcum powder. The old lady pulled her coat around her. “I am not dressed for company. No. No company.”

 

Mel smiled. The woman reminded her of her gran back in Lancashire. She hadn’t seen her in months. She missed her apple pie at the memory. A nurse appeared in front of the woman, her practical blue uniform tight across her ample West Indian bosom, her face kindly and well intentioned. She bent at the knees to talk to the elderly patient. Mel noticed the nurse was wearing Crocs. She shivered involuntarily with distaste, glancing down at her own designer running shoes. Or shoe, since the other one no longer fit on her swollen foot.

 

“Louisa,” shouted the nurse. “You’re in hospital. You’ve had a fall. You need to be quiet, like a good girl.”

 

Mel winced at the patronising words. The woman was sixty years older than the nurse if she was a day, yet she was being spoken to like a child. She looked over in sympathy at Louisa.

 

“Have we met?” The old lady seemed to rise in height in her seat, her posture becoming straight backed and prim. “I don’t believe we have. I’m Mrs. Cavendish.” The old lady emphasised the title and held out her small hand, wrinkled and spotted with age, in a manner that put her firmly at the top of the pecking order – despite the bruised face, the dirty nightie, the exhausted looking girl by her side, face in hands. The nurse rolled her eyes and walked away, shaking her head at what her training had come to.

 

Mel smiled. She liked this lady. She really was like her granny. A bit like herself too if she admitted it. She would probably have given the nurse short shrift if she’d deigned to speak to her like that too. OK, she was only doing her job, but really.

 

Mrs. Cavendish was quiet now. She was taking in her surroundings and was wondering where she was. There were an awful lot of people here. Was it a party? It didn’t look like her house. She turned to the young man next to her. He wore shorts and had a dog by his feet. He reminded her of Albert. Maybe it was him! Maybe all these years later he’d come back for her. Dearest Albie. She knew he wouldn’t forget. She turned to Mel, grinning widely despite her top set still being in the glass on the bedside table. “Albie, is that you?”

 

Mel jumped sky high as the woman’s crepey hand gently rested on her arm. Oh my God, she thought. She thinks I’m a bloke! She automatically took her hand to her hair, neat and short and brusque. It’s the hair that does it, it’s always the hair. She momentarily recalled the surprising kiss that started a brief and confusing affair with Rachel, who had also initially made that mistake. There had been no one since.

 

She looked into the old lady’s eyes. They had begun to sparkle, the colour of emeralds, alive with hope and excitement. She smiled back, hoping that for once she looked warm and friendly. And thinking of her Gran up North, she said hello.