Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [38]
‘But he’s not my doctor.’
‘Do you know, the other day, he said, “I’m everyone’s doctor”. I wonder what he meant.’
Liz Bartholomew came into the staff room to find Dr Smith staring at the kettle, a look of unabashed concern on his handsome face. In front of him he had carefully placed a tiny china cup and three tea bags; he had brought over the Tupperware box that held the sugar, and a bottle of milk; he had filled the kettle with water. . .
Liz sighed. He’d forgotten to turn on the kettle. Again.
She came over to him and switched on the kettle at the wall. Dr Smith’s face broke into a childlike grin when the little red light illuminated at the base of the kettle; he acknowledged her help with a curt nod, but seemed not to 64
be embarrassed by his need for assistance. That was Smith all over – brilliant one moment (his lengthy qualifications had been one of the first things she had noticed about his typewritten curriculum vitae), almost an idiot savant the next. Smith watched the bubbles through the glass sides of the kettle with a childlike fascination.
‘Good morning, Dr Bartholomew,’ he said, without looking her in the eye. ‘I trust you are well?’
Liz paused – how best to respond? With honesty, or with socially acceptable niceties? As she watched Smith staring at the boiling water she realised that he might have many failings, but an overreliance on social mores was not one of them.
‘To be honest, I’m feeling a hit under the weather.’
Smith looked up suddenly, the intensity of his eyes almost taking her by surprise. Perhaps that was why Smith avoided eye contact for extended periods –
he knew only too well the effect he could have on people. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, and she knew that he meant it. ‘Can I get you something? I know just the thing for colds and sundry emergencies. I’ll need a fresh lemon, a pint of dry sherry, four banana leaves, an ounce of pure red saffron. . . ’ He looked around him eagerly, but saw only discarded magazines and congeal-ing coffee mugs. ‘Or perhaps I could just find some paracetamol,’ he added, apologetically.
‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ said Liz, collapsing on to a sprawling armchair. She knew that she and Smith were on their own, but, even so, she glanced around the room as if searching for spying devices or concealed listeners. ‘I suppose,’
she said at last, ‘I’m just feeling that my life is running away from me. Do you ever feel like that?’
‘Frequently,’ said Smith. ‘And it’s hard enough to keep a track on one life, let alone. . . ’ His words trailed away, distracted as he was by the kettle coming to the boil.
‘You’re talking about your students?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Smith, pouring the boiling water over the tea bags.
‘You do seem very close to them – almost protective,’ observed Liz.
‘Well,’ said Smith, ‘the phrase “mature student” – it can be a bit of a mis-nomer!’
‘Oh, indeed,’ said Liz, thinking of her own time at medical school. Perhaps medical college was unusual, but many of the students that she could remember with alcohol or study problems were indeed in their twenties or thirties.
They had switched to medicine later in life, and seemed to revel in both the freedom and excitement of their new position, whereas – if anything – some of the students in their late teens were boring to a fault.
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She remembered well her own feelings of optimism: back then anything seemed possible, and she did not know where she might end up, or what branch of medicine she might specialise in. She’d made some good friends at medical school, people that she shared the very essence of her life with. For all the hard academic work and never-ending hospital shifts, every day felt fresh and vibrant.
But now, she knew exactly where she was, what was expected of her, what she’d be doing this time tomorrow, next week, next year. . . Her life was not so much measured out in coffee spoons, like Prufrock, but in pages ticked off in a Filofax, and a drawer full of identical white M&S knickers. She had everything she had ever wanted from life – a loving husband, a steady