‘And you don’t have to wear the traditional ceilidh dress,’ Carenza cajoled, ignoring her protest completely. ‘Only, wear something nice. Evening attire?’ She asked this like Alice might not know what she meant. ‘Your best frock will do.’ She eyed Alice’s sweater, jeans and winter boots: her Saturday comfies. ‘Probably.’
‘I might be busy that night,’ Alice tried. ‘When is it?’
‘What? When’s Burns Night?’ This was accompanied by another look of pained disbelief. ‘The twenty-fifth of January, of course. His birthday.’
Alice searched her brain for anything that could prevent her from taking part, but the truth was she had her evenings completely to herself. Already, she’d fallen into a routine of finishing up at the surgery by seven, seeing to the last of the patient phone calls and pharmacy sign-offs, and she’d head back to her flat for a bite to eat and a bath, before hitting her textbooks again, brushing up on symptoms and conditions she’d come across during consultations that day and had found herself hazy on their finer points, or which she’d never learned about in the first place. Old study habits died hard and she’d often worked on until midnight this first week.
‘Super!’ Carenza crowed, seizing her victory. ‘Seven for seven thirty at the Cairn Dhu Hotel ballroom. I’ve already taken the liberty of emailing the surgery with your lines. See that you practise them. Cheerio for now. Oh, and…’ She stopped in her tracks. ‘The kilt hire shop also has a range of perfectly serviceable ceilidh frocks, not that we insist on you wearing one, but… well, I’ll leave that with you.’
In a swirl of blonde hair and expensive perfume, she was gone, off to pin down her next victim, no doubt, leaving Alice aware of the grumbles of, ‘That Carenza’s a blinkin’ menace,’ from one of the women in the café corner, and the look of sympathy from Sachin (who’d practically hidden under his triage desk when Carenza appeared).
Alice staggered the few feet to the exit, surprised to find herself wondering if Cary Anderson had seen her being ensnared. Would he be watching her now? Why did she care if he was?
She fixed her eyes on the world beyond the repair shop doors and hurried away.
16
Gracie had prepared the tea and the orange juice, and Alice had re-read the NHS guidance on stroke rehabilitation in adults, and the chairs were set out in her consulting room in readiness, but still, Alice was apprehensive, even as she sat under the warm glow of the new floor lamp she’d bought with her birthday cheques.
‘Don’t worry,’ Gracie was saying. She evidently knew everything, even Alice’s secret reservations about hosting this clinic. ‘The patients you’re seeing have all been transferred to community care or early supported discharge from hospital and have been meeting with Dr Millen for months. They’re used to coming here now.’
‘Remind me why Dr Millen can’t continue with the stroke care group?’ Alice said, flicking through her session plan one last time before everyone arrived.
‘Handover has to begin somewhere,’ Gracie said, and because Alice didn’t want anyone to wheedle out of her that she had no intentions of staying here until she was in her seventies like Millen, she kept her eyes fixed on her notes.
‘So you know who everyone is today, aye?’ Gracie was saying, not even trying to hide her lack of confidence in Alice.
‘I’ve read all their notes.’
Gracie thought for all of a second before sighing and closing the door, swiftly coming to sit down in front of Alice. ‘It’s not for me to talk about patients, but…’
Alice couldn’t help but feel relieved. She fixed her attention on Gracie. ‘Spill.’
‘So, there’s Mr Forte. Clyde.’
Alice found him in her notes. ‘Uh-huh?’
‘He had a big seventieth birthday do at the hotel in the summer. Next day, bosh! A stroke.’
Alice read from her papers. He’d been left with dysphagia, impaired swallowing function, which made taking his medication difficult. He’d also struggled with post-stroke fatigue. ‘I know about him,’ Alice said.
‘Did you know his wife passed away in September?’
Alice lifted her eyes. ‘I didn’t.’
‘Rosie Forte. It was unexpected, and his recovery took a nosedive, as you’d expect. He must have dropped two stone since then and only really leaves his house to get his messages and to come here once a month.’
‘Oh.’
‘He likes custard creams best.’ Gracie bobbed her head towards the refreshments table and a plateful of his favourites.
‘Got it.’
‘It’s the wee things that matter.’
Alice nodded. She’d sat in on rehab clinics before but they’d been largely impersonal, and not a regular thing at all, so she hadn’t got to know any of the patients. ‘I suppose in Cairn Dhu you come to learn these things about the community?’
Gracie was in full delivery mode, so didn’t pause. ‘And then there’s Kellie Timmony.’ She was leaning forwards now. ‘Poor lassie got the fright of her life a year ago when a stroke struck her at thirty. She’s only a few months older than me; same class at the school. She was working away in Kirkaldy at the time, and nobody at her office job wanted to believe somebody so young could possibly be having a stroke, so they delayed calling an ambulance.’
