Alice knew what he was saying. She’d lost it, turned unwell in public. She’d scared him.
‘Well,’ Cary said, softly. ‘Whatever happened, it frightened you, I could see that much. And I got to thinking, when I saw Bonnie putting up her signs today outside her office, I’d bring you one of her leaflets.’
‘For talking therapy?’
‘Aye.’
‘For me to try out? Listen, Cary, I work for the NHS. I can easily find a counsellor if I want to.’
‘Doyou and your doctor friends reallymake use of counselling services?’ He said it so plainly, it rocked her.
‘Maybe not as much as we should,’ she confessed.
She thought of all the wonderful, conscientious people she’d worked with, who’d done the same training as her, seen the same awful things, held people’s hands as they underwent the most traumatic days of their lives, only to go home, eat, shower, nap and come straight back for their next shift. None of them struggled as much as her, she’d concluded. It occurred to her they might be pretending to be fine, too. So many people were pretending out there.
Alice, like all NHS medical staff and students, had access to free and confidential services and information, a round-the-clock counselling line, and a peer-support service. They were even offered a few free sessions of therapy with a counsellor.?She’d never made use of any of them. Had her colleagues? Most of them seemed to clear their heads by training for marathons, doing yoga, hillwalking with their partners and dogs, or planning lovely holidays. She had done none of that with Bastian.
‘But there never seems to be enough time,’ she continued. ‘You don’t understand. We know our limits, we’ve been specially trained?—’
What happened next winded her: the gentle, soft, wouldn’t-say-boo-to-a-goose Cary Anderson interrupted her. ‘Listen, Alice. We waited a long time for our new doctor, and now that you’re here in Cairn Dhu, we want to look after you. We want you to be happy and well and safe with us.’
She tried to find a suitable reply but all she could do was move her mouth, exasperated. She heard her dad’s voice telling her,don’t forget to breathe, or you’ll find yourself gulping like a goldfish and fluffing your lines.
‘And doyouhave a therapist?’ she said, on the attack and desperate to win this thing.
‘I do.’
Alice’s bubble burst. ‘You do? But you’re so… well adjusted.’
Cary let her think about what she’d said. He was kind of infuriating when he was in the right, and so reasonable with it.
‘I speak to someone every few months,’ he told her. ‘Like a wellness MOT. It costs money, but I’m fortunate to have that money, and I see it as an investment in myself.’
She wanted to tell him not to interfere, to say he was being just like her dad, the person who she knew, deep down, she wasactuallyangry with, but a little livid streak of indignation was burning within her and she hated that it was Cary Anderson, of all people, who’d stoked the fire, and by being so bloody nice as well.
‘Look, I can’t get into this now. I have patients to see to and a project to run.’ It was haughty. It was childish. But it was the best she could do.
She left Cary standing by the compost bins as she stormed away.
* * *
The photograph, when it appeared in the online newspaper story, captured the whole day perfectly.
Standing around the bare trunk and branches of one of the Aspen trees, boots on spades, were the new doctor, the palest of the lot with a set look of determination on her face, next to the mountain ranger, his hands stained with wet mud, caught scowling towards the grinning Murray McIntyre, spotlessly clean even down to his Hunter wellies, and with a puppy he held close to Finlay’s cheek. Kellie (who had outstayed her planned thirty minutes by over two hours) and Mr Forte posed with their spades too but with their arms interlinked in camaraderie. Mhairi Sears and Cary Anderson bookended the group, since Livvie didn’t like having her picture taken, so instead stood behind the photographer shouting at Finlay to ‘buck up’ and to ‘fix that torn face’. Mhairi was captured smiling down at Jolly who was very much living up to his name with both hands in the mud at the foot of the tree, happily filthy with streaks of earth over his rosy cheeks, mouth open in a squeal of delight, and hidden behind him, barely visible, was Shell, there but not quite there, the way she liked it, making bunny ears behind Jolly’s head, which he thought had to be the wittiest thing anyone had ever done, andjust likehis best friend to think of it, she was so fantastic. Cary maintained a dignified stance on the end, looking down the photographer’s lens but not quite able to smile, his look of wistful regret captured forever.
The accompanying headline would read:
Successful Launch for the Cairn Dhu Social Prescribing Garden Scheme: Fun Was Had by All.
24
Burns suppers, for those unversed in these rituals, are a strange mixture of solemnity and sentimentality (things the Scots do very well), with quite a lot of food, whisky and poetry, some staunchly nationalistic, some deeply romantic, and oftentimes a wee bit racy (again, things the Scots excel in).
January the twenty-fifth offers a reprieve from dreich winter nights stuck at home, a few hours’ partying, and the opportunity to remember what it means to love this place.
The idea is to celebrate, to toast, to birl and skirl on the dancefloor, to have a good ‘greet’ if needed (that is, a cathartic sob on a friendly shoulder), and to generally hoot and holler and have a right good hoolie!
Alice, however, was not of the Burns Night persuasion. When she’d felt like celebrating, she’d chosen summer drinks parties in the city, a nice bar or restaurant, all chrome and charcuterie boards, cocktails served by handlebar-moustached hipsters. Nights out for her most definitely didn’t involve singing the praises of a haggis.
