‘I don’t know. It felt like a long time but—’ I know how time can play tricks. ‘A minute, two?’
He pauses. ‘How many people work on this helpline, would you say?’
‘I don’t know. Shouldn’t you ask them?’
‘Just a guess,’ he says. ‘An estimate.’
I twist my mouth. ‘Fifty?’ Maybe more. Not everyone can hack it for long, they’re always looking for new volunteers. And of course we’re not full-time.
‘How many are normally on, would you say?’
‘I don’t know – three?’ I like it on a Saturday night, when it’s just me and Alma: that’s quite enough sociability for me.
‘And how often do you shift there?’
Now I see where he’s going. ‘I know, I’ve thought about this myself. It was so fortunate I picked up. Just think … If I’d missed that call. But – I guess it could have been anyone,’ I finish.
‘Yes. Quite the coincidence, really,’ he says. ‘And is it always that quiet – just you on your own?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘not at all, but Saturday nights, that’s when they can get away with just the two of us. It’s not a very big set-up, the helpline. There’s a call-waiting system.’ We don’t normally need to use it.
He nods. ‘That’s what the charity told me.’ So he has been checking up. On me?
‘So have you found the call?’ I say.
‘We’re still looking into it.’
‘Because I had a thought …’ I tell him about the pregnancy test that might have been Sophie’s; that her friend Holly’s mentioned it to me.
‘And you think a pregnancy scare would … what? Have made her run away?’
‘It sounds stupid, put like that,’ I say. I can feel my face heating up. ‘No, I don’t. I just thought I should – let you know. In case it had been a factor.’
‘Ah, well, of course. It’s good to know,’ he says, his voice neutral. ‘But I would suggest that you don’t try to take investigations into your own hands. That’s rarely … helpful.’
‘OK, well. It was just a chat, really, I—’
‘Thanks, Mrs Harlow.’ And he hangs up.
I’m still annoyed when I head out – the phone call distracted me, and then I realised I had to rush. But the GP surgery’s not far, just the other side of Vale Dean, in Amberton. I’m not supposed to go too long without a check-up recently.
Maybe that was the biggest shock of all: realising that life doesn’t stop. That you have to keep on keeping on, and not just in that stiff-upper-lip way I’d vaguely imagined: managing a smile while people offer you sympathy. I mean in the way of just keeping up with all the tasks and chores that life offers: bills, insurance claims, keeping food in the cupboards, doctors and dentists and the rest of it.
‘Kate,’ says Dr Heath, as I sit down in the chair by his desk, ‘you look so tired.’
‘Oh thanks,’ I say. ‘Never tell a woman she looks tired!’ I sound like some coy auntie at a Christmas party. ‘It always means you look terrible.’
‘No,’ he says. His pleasant face is serious. ‘I don’t mean that.’
‘No, of course not, I was just joking.’
He’s nothing special, Dr Heath – tall, glasses, that no-colour hair that’s not fair or dark – it’s not that. I just don’t like having a male doctor. Not for the first time, I think I should ask to switch to a GP who’s not my age. Someone nearing retirement, or straight out of medical school. Preferably female.
Or maybe it’s not that. Maybe he just knows too much about me.
‘So how are things?’ he says, interrupting my thoughts.
‘All right,’ I say slowly, avoiding his gaze, looking at the photo he has framed over his desk: a glittering night-time cityscape. He lived in Sydney for a while, he told me once: I think he understands why I can find village life difficult. ‘I’m still using the pills.’
‘And how’s that working?’
‘They help, definitely. I had a couple of bad nights, recently.’
‘Bad nights?’
I take a deep breath. ‘There’s been a lot going on. I’ve told you that I work at this helpline, sometimes?’ He nods. And then I explain, quickly, about Sophie’s call to the helpline. I try not to sound too emotional about it. I’ve got to seem reasonable, in front of him.
He listens, frowning in concentration. ‘Of course, well, I can see why you might be struggling. That’s understandable.’ He looks at his computer screen. ‘And you’re not mixing the medication with alcohol in any way? You’re absolutely sure about that?’
‘Nope. All fine.’ I shake my head for emphasis. There is nothing like denying you have a problem to make it sound like you have a problem.
‘OK. Well, for now, if you still think you need them, I’m happy to renew your prescription.’ It’s anxiety and insomnia, officially. A fun combination. ‘But you shouldn’t really be waking up on your dosage.’
‘You see, I was trying to cut back.’
‘Perhaps for now, while you’re feeling under pressure, you need that crutch. Why don’t you stick to the prescription, and then we can see about tapering off, sensibly, in due course.’
I can feel myself sag with relief. He’s always been supportive, even after – everything.
‘But the side-effects?’ I ask. ‘I read that you shouldn’t be on them for more than a few months and’ – I can feel myself growing pink – ‘it’s been a bit longer than that.’
He shakes his head. ‘Nothing that you need to worry about.’ He glances at the screen. ‘But it says here in your notes that I referred you to a grief counsellor. Remind me, are you still seeing her?’
He knows I’m not, but is too polite to call me out. ‘We’re taking a bit of a break at the moment.’
‘Kate …’ He looks at me over his glasses. ‘Medication is one thing, but it’s important to tackle the root of the problem. If that counsellor didn’t work, there are others, you know, you might just not have had the right chemistry. There’s a waiting list, but it’s certainly worth referring you. Shall I?’
‘Well, why not.’ I add, slightly sourly: ‘But the root of the problem is hard to get to, isn’t it? She’s not come back.’
‘I can’t imagine … but I’m always here to help.’
Maybe it’s because he’s not someone I’m close to, something in me can unlock. ‘I just feel like I’ve failed, in every way. I failed her, as a mother. And I’m still failing her, even now. Because I haven’t found her.’ I can feel the tears welling up, never that far from the surface.
He leans forward, his blue eyes concerned behind the glass. ‘I know.’ I’ve told him before. And nothing ever changes. ‘I just think if we can get you to some … acceptance of the situation – your new reality – you might feel a little better. I know it won’t make it right. But you might feel more at peace with what’s happened, if that’s the way to put it. That’s why I really feel returning to counselling might help.’
I don’t want to accept it, I want to scream. I will never accept my daughter going away; you shouldn’t ask me to. I told you: she just phoned me.
‘OK,’ I say. I’m already regretting my outburst. So I shift in my seat and do the British thing. I change the subject. ‘OK. Also, I wanted to ask …’ I take a deep breath. ‘If Sophie had had a pregnancy scare before she ran away, would you have a record of that?’
He sits up straighter. ‘And what makes you think she was pregnant?’
‘Oh, I don’t. Not really. Just something her friend said.’
But it’s been preying on my mind all morning. What if, what if. What if it was more than a pregnancy test, if that result wasn’t what she told Holly. The trauma of going through that alone. A procedure. That could explain a lot, perhaps …
‘Well,’ he says. ‘That’s not necessarily something her doctor would know about.’ He pauses. ‘Patient confidentiality is important, of course. But I think you can understand that perhaps she’d be unlikely to raise it with me, as her family’s doctor.’
He raises his eyebrows at me. I get what he’s saying: she didn’t tell him anything. ‘And there are a lot of other options. Young people’s services. Clinics.’
‘Of course.’ I knew it was a long shot. I start getting my stuff together, aware that my ten minutes must be up.