Mrs Heartsink—or was it Heartsick?—for the rest of that busy day, and when she went into the waiting-room to call for her she was able to pick out the woman quite easily, because she had focused her thoughts on her so exclusively.
She was fairly tall, elegantly dressed, with dark hair greying slightly and swept up into a neat bun. She looked like a businesswoman, and Polly wondered if she had been forced to give up her career to move here with her husband, and she wondered why they had moved. Then she remembered that the woman’s previous GP and not Matt had described her as a heartsink patient, and she dismissed that idea. Her problem, whatever it was, was longer-standing than that. And Matt was right—it showed in her eyes.
‘Come on through, Mrs Robinson,’ Polly said with a smile, and seating the woman, she picked up a blank well person card to fill in the details. First, after the name, was marital status.
‘I just have to ask a few routine questions, Mrs Robinson. Have you ever been to a well-person clinic before?’
At the woman’s headshake, Polly said, ‘Well, it’s all quite simple and routine. We establish your history, and test all the usual things like blood pressure, cholesterol and so on. Right. What’s your marital status?’
‘Married,’ she answered shortly. Polly thought she detected a twinge of bitterness.
‘Occupation?’
‘I used to be manager in a travel agency until we moved.’
‘Oh!’ Polly said. ‘How lovely! Did you go anywhere exciting?’
‘Once or twice. Nowhere that special. My husband runs his own business, and getting time off is difficult.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Polly agreed. ‘I know several people like that, and they work harder for themselves than they ever would for anyone else. Perhaps we ought to have a look at him too, just to make sure that he isn’t overdoing things and doesn’t have any problems with blood pressure. This isn’t just a clinic for women, you know.’
‘He won’t come,’ Mrs Robinson told her. ‘He says doctors are a waste of time.’
‘But that’s rubbish,’ Polly said briskly. ‘Without doctors you probably wouldn’t be alive now, so he can’t say that.’
‘He can,’ Mrs Robinson assured her, and sighed heavily. ‘Sometimes I wonder why they bothered with me.’
Polly frowned. Mrs Robinson was her last patient, and she felt they needed a cup of tea, to break the ice, but she didn’t want to do anything which might seem unusual and put Mrs Robinson on her guard. She pressed on.
‘Any current medical problems? I gather you saw Dr Gregory yesterday.’
She shook her head. ‘I thought I had a chest infection, but he said I was clear. Must have been a bit of a wheeze.’
‘Any drugs or allergic reactions?’
‘No.’
‘What about your parents? Any history of heart disease, diabetes, stroke, that sort of thing?’
Again she shook her head.
‘What about you? Do you smoke or drink?’
‘Drink, occasionally; I haven’t smoked since—well, since my op. I always watch my weight. Glamour is very important in the travel business, and I kept a close eye on myself when I was working.’
‘Do you miss your job?’
Mrs Robinson shook her head again. ‘No, not really. I miss my friends. It’s a bit lonely.’
Polly agreed. ‘I’ve only been here a week and a bit, and it takes a little getting used to. There must be something you could join—perhaps you’d tell me if you find anything!’
They laughed together, for the first time, and Polly felt the ice creak, if not break. She went over the immunisations, recommended a series of tetanus injections, and then reached the tricky bit.
‘Do you do regular breast examinations, Mrs Robinson?’ Polly asked, and waited while the silence stretched out.
‘Sometimes.’ The reply was strained, quiet. Polly watched her unobtrusively.
‘You’re cleared now, aren’t you?’
‘So they said.’
‘What about contraception? You aren’t on the Pill, are you?’
‘No.’ The reply this time came quickly and was abrupt. Polly glanced through the notes.
‘Have you still got an IUCD?’
‘A coil? Yes.’
Polly made a note on the card. It was like getting blood out of a stone, she thought.
‘Periods still regular? No change in flow, or longer gaps, anything like that?’
She seemed to relax a little, as if they had got off a difficult subject. Not for long, Polly thought grimly.
‘No changes,’ Mrs Robinson said. ‘I just tick on, as regularly as clockwork. It’s quite reassuring.’
Polly thought she must mean that she was relieved not to be pregnant, and at forty-eight that was understandable.
‘When did you have your last cervical smear, Mrs Robinson?’
Immediately she stiffened up again. ‘Eight years ago, but I don’t need one.’
Polly frowned. ‘Eight years is a long time, you know. It’s a very simple procedure, and it doesn’t hurt at all. I can do it for you, so there’s no need for Dr Gregory to be involved unless you would rather he did it?’
‘I don’t want it done.’
She was emphatic. Polly pressed on. ‘Really, you know, it’s quite routine. All women from puberty to late old age are at risk to a certain extent, but certainly anyone who is sexually active should have it done—and by sexually active, I don’t mean carrying on like rabbits! Anyone with a partner is included, however much their sex lives may have slowed down, or even stopped.’
She didn’t reply, but something in her stance alerted Polly. She reached out and took the woman’s hand.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘He hasn’t touched me, you know,’ she blurted. ‘Not since I had the operation.’
Ah! Polly thought. Here we go. ‘Why? Is he afraid to hurt you?’
Her high, thin laugh cut Polly to the quick. ‘He doesn’t care about that. He just doesn’t want to touch me any more—he calls me—an udderless cow.’
‘Oh, dear God,’ Polly whispered, her soft heart torn apart by the pain and anguish in those simple words. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around the woman and rocked her against her shoulder as the tears fell, released at last after all this time.
‘He
