for, but we’d support you becoming a GP, if that’s what you wanted.’
‘But it isn’t what I want.’
His mother rubbed her temples. ‘Then what do you want, Barnabas, because quite frankly you’re testing our patience.’ She paused when the coffees arrived, waiting until the bar manager had disappeared inside before continuing. ‘We didn’t object when you announced you were taking a gap year, did we? Neither of us felt it was ideal, but we supported you. Well, you’ve had a break, it’s time to get back to work.’
He looked at his mother. ‘I already work. I’m not sitting around twiddling my thumbs.’
‘Singing in a pub and teaching tourists to surf is not proper work, and you know it.’
On the word ‘proper’, Barney recalled Charlotte Saunders’ dismissal of his employment status with equal derision. She hadn’t been impressed by his lack of a suitable career either. ‘Do you know how insulting that is? A lot of people in this area work in the tourist industry. It’s a perfectly legitimate way to earn a living.’
Alexa Hubble showed no signs of remorse. ‘I agree, for someone who hasn’t spent seven years using public resources training to be a doctor.’
He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I get that you’re disappointed. I am too. I stuck with the programme because I didn’t want to quit. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down, but I can’t help how I feel.’
His dad placed a hand on his wife’s arm, preventing her responding. ‘So how do you feel, son?’ He was no doubt trying to be sensitive, even though he probably wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into his only child.
Barney shrugged. ‘I’m not sure medicine is for me. The stress, the long hours—’
‘Long hours?’ His mother cut him off. ‘Your generation has it easy. When your father and I trained, we worked a hundred-hour week.’ She stopped talking when her husband squeezed her arm, silently conveying that she wasn’t helping.
Henry nodded for Barney to continue. ‘Go on.’
What was the point? They wouldn’t understand; they were made differently to him. When confronted with a patient, they saw a medical problem that needed solving. It was science, factual, they were able to remain emotionally detached. When faced with the same scenario, Barney just wanted to scream, cry, and run away. These were not traits that would make him a good doctor.
He had a sudden flashback from his early days on the wards. It was late one evening and his shift was due to finish. When his bleeper went off, he’d briefly considered ignoring it, letting whoever was on next pick it up. But his morals wouldn’t let him do that, so he’d headed off to the ward. On arrival, he’d heard the nurse say to the patient, ‘It’s okay, the doctor’s here now,’ which had only increased his panic. The patient was Mrs White, a seventy-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer. Her body was a bag of bones, her skin sallow and bruised. She was in severe pain, the agony of dying etched on her face. ‘Please,’ she’d said as he’d neared. ‘Please help me.’
He’d been frozen to the spot. The nurse had looked at him expectantly, willing him to ease the woman’s suffering. But how could he? Medical training covered disease, medication, and fixing broken bones. It didn’t tell you how to respond to a dying patient who just wanted the torment to end. Helping people had been the motivation for becoming a doctor. He liked the idea of fixing problems, but he’d quickly discovered that there wasn’t always a cure. No one had covered that on his course.
‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.
When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’
He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.
The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’
Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’
‘No more time, Barney. We’ve been patient enough.’ His mother dropped a cube of sugar in her black coffee. ‘You need to stop prevaricating and focus on your career. We haven’t spent thousands of pounds supporting your education to see it go to waste.’
He bristled. ‘If it’s about the money, then I’ll pay you back—’
‘It’s not about money,’ his dad interjected. ‘It’s about wanting you to succeed in life.’
‘And what about being happy, Dad? Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘Happiness is overrated,’ his mother said, and then caught the look on her husband’s face and stopped stirring her coffee. ‘What I mean is, happiness will come later. You need to put in the hard work first, build your career. Once you’re established, you can meet a nice girl, settle down and have a family, content in the knowledge that you can provide for them. Trust me, we know.’ She forced a smile at Henry, who smiled back … once he realised what was required of him.
The idea of meeting a nice girl conjured up another image of Charlotte Saunders. Why, he wasn’t sure. ‘Nice’ wasn’t a word that immediately sprang to mind when thinking about her. And why was he thinking about her? ‘I wish more than anything I shared your commitment to medicine, really I do. But I don’t think it’s for me.’
‘Then work harder,’ his mother barked. ‘You don’t just give up on seven years of medical training.’ She lowered her voice when she realised people were looking. ‘I blame your mother,’ she said, directing her comment at Henry. ‘I knew encouraging him to play around with non-academic interests was a bad idea. But would you listen? Now look where it’s led!’ She pointed at her son. ‘A wasted talent. Letting everybody down.’
A mist of red fog descended. He knew his mother didn’t mean it. She was just worried he’d go off the rails like his cousin had done, ending up unemployed and alcohol dependent. But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake. They just needed to get off his case. He was twenty-seven, for fuck’s sake. He could make his own decisions. ‘I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment to you,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You don’t need to tell me I’m letting you down, I see it on your faces every time I look at you.’
‘Your mother doesn’t mean—’
‘Yes, she does. She means every bloody word, and she’s right. I am a let-down. But you couldn’t be more disappointed in me than I am in myself.’ He dug out ten quid from his wallet and threw it on the table. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my shift starts in half an hour. Have a safe journey back to London. I’m sorry you didn’t get the outcome you were hoping for.’
He stormed off, ignoring his parents’ protests and curious glances from the other punters. He didn’t need anyone telling him he was inadequate. Not some snooty designer from London, or his mum and dad. He was perfectly aware he was a screw-up.
