Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?. Claudia Carroll

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СКАЧАТЬ the chaos of Grand Central Station at rush hour. Because the surgery is in an extension at the side of the house and is open for business from early morning, by eight am, without fail, the house is always wide awake and buzzing.

      I do not befeckinglieve this. The one morning I didn’t want to oversleep. My cunning plan was to get up at the crack of dawn and wake Dan before he did his usual disappearing act, so I could grab my chance to bring him up to speed on the latest development in my life. Before half the village descended on us, that is.

      But by the sounds of it, I’m already too late. I’m up in our bedroom, frantically pulling on jeans and a warm woolly jumper and from downstairs I can already clearly hear Andrew Leonard stomping around, letting himself in with his own key like everyone else seems to.

      Andrew is Dan’s father’s old veterinary partner, by the way and at seventy-five years of age, he’s still going strong and working every bit as hard as he did twenty years ago. He and Dan always start the morning surgery together and so Andrew, a widower who lives alone, has got into the habit of calling here for breakfast beforehand most days. And by the sounds of it, he’s with James, the practice’s new intern as well.

      As I hurriedly pull on a pair of boots, I can hear the two of them chatting away and clattering open the kitchen cupboards, before Andrew shouts up the stairs at me that there’s no milk for the tea and would I please mind running out to get some?

      Next thing I hear old Mrs Brophy. the practice’s elderly and very cranky receptionist, clattering in and yelling up at me that if I’m going to the shops anyway, would I mind picking up a few sticky buns for the tea as they ran out yesterday when I wasn’t there to do a run to Tesco?

      Oh God, oh God, oh God. This is what happens when I’m missing for one single afternoon and when I oversleep on one single morning? Dear Jaysus…

      ‘AND WILL YOU GET SOME TEA BAGS WHILE YOU’RE AT IT TOO, ANNIE?’ she screeches upstairs at me and I call back down that I’m on my way. Mrs Brophy, I should tell you, has worked here since old Dan Senior’s time and point blank refuses to let me help her out with the surgery’s paperwork in any way whatsoever. Honest to God, even if I as much as answer the phone and take an appointment when she’s in the house, she feels threatened and, I’m not kidding, will actually go into a sulk about it that can often last for days on end. I’ve been here ever since Heaven started, she’ll snap at me, and I do NOT need your help, thank you.

      Nor does she have any intention of retiring in the foreseeable future and believe me, every carrot you can think of has been dangled at her to entice her off in that direction – a Mediterranean cruise, a week’s spa break in a five-star hotel, you name it. But no, nothing doing. She gets offended if I even offer to give her a hand and there’s no budging her to leave either; a classic catch twenty-two. She’s also chronically hard of hearing with the result that anyone ringing up the house or surgery tends to holler down the phone at whoever answers, just in case it might be her.

      A sudden, disconnected thought flashes through my mind: how weird it is that I should feel so completely isolated and lonely in this house and yet I’m constantly surrounded by other people.

      Anyway, I scrape my hair back into a ponytail and race to the bathroom, where Dan’s just stepping out, washed, shaved and ready for the day. Perfect chance for me to nab him, because I know only too well that once he launches into his day’s work, trying to hold a one-on-one conversation with him will be pretty much like trying to nail mercury to a wall.

      ‘Dan, before you go downstairs, I really need to…’

      ‘Hey, you were out so late last night. Where were you?’

      ‘Yeah, I know, I had to go to Dublin…I phoned you, didn’t you get my message?’

      ‘You left a message? No, never got it. My phone must have been out of coverage. Oh rats, that reminds me, I think I must have left my mobile in the car last night…’

      Absolutely zero interest in why I had to go to town, not even a raised eyebrow, nothing. He’s thundering down the main staircase now, taking two steps at a time in that long-legged way that he has and I’m racing just to keep pace with him.

      ‘The thing is, Dan, I have to talk to you and it’s really important…’

      ‘Sure, sure, yeah…MRS BROPHY? DID PAUL FORGARTY CALL ABOUT THE RACEHORSE WITH THE BROKEN FEMUR?’

      I’m not joking, that is the actual decibel level you have to speak to Mrs Brophy at.

      ‘You see, I got a phone call from my agent in Dublin yesterday…’

      ‘MORNING, DAN,’ says Mrs Brophy, sticking her head around the kitchen door. ‘WHERE DID YOU DISAPPEAR OFF TO YESTERDAY, ANNIE? THERE’S A LOAD OF SHOPPING NEEDS TO BE DONE.’

      ‘DON’T WORRY, MRS BROPHY, I’LL GET TO IT…’ I yell back, before trying to grab Dan’s arm. ‘Look, something’s come up that I really need to talk to you about, before you rush off to start work…’

      ‘YES, PAUL FOGARTY RANG; HE SAYS WOULD YOU MIND CALLING OUT TO HIM AT SOME POINT TODAY, WHEN YOU’RE ON YOUR ROUNDS,’ Mrs Brophy cuts in.

      ‘TERRIFIC, WILL DO,’ says Dan, rubbing his eyes exhaustedly and dropping his voice a bit when he sees that between Andrew, James and Mrs B, we’ve got a kitchen-full of guests.

      ‘Morning all,’ we both say together, as I wonder how in hell I can try collaring him again.

      ‘Ah, there you are, Annie love. Any chance of one of your lovely juices?’ Andrew grins at me over his Irish Times and I grin back and say, yes of course, it’s on its way.

      Juicing every morning is a little ritual I’ve had, ever since I discovered, a long time ago, that it was the only way I could make sure Dan was getting some kind of vitamins into him, given the number of mealtimes he’d end up skipping when he was out doing farm calls. Except these days, because our kitchen is like a bus station more often than not, I end up making juices for everyone else as well. So I head to the pantry, grab some apples, fresh carrot and ginger and get chopping, while Dan fills Andrew in on the difficulties he had delivering a calf late last night.

      ‘ANNIE, DID YOU NOT HEAR ME TELLING YOU TO GET TEA BAGS?’ Mrs Brophy snaps at me, on her way to open up the surgery with our new intern in tow.

      ‘YES, ON THE WAY,’ I smile back at her through gritted teeth, tempted to tell her that not only did I hear her, half of County Waterford did as well. Quick as I can, I feck the veggies into the blender as Andrew continues to quiz Dan about the intricacies of dystocia in cows.

      (Loosely translated as a tough birth, for eejits like me.)

      ‘Any superfetation during the pregnancy?’ asks Andrew, peering over the top of his newspaper, with eyebrows exactly like one of the Marx Brothers.

      ‘No symptoms. But just to be on the safe side, I did prescribe a course of…’

      ‘…Anti-inflammatories. Good, good, that should do the trick. But no harm for you to pop out there on your rounds and check in again.’

      ‘Yeah, of course…don’t worry, I’ll make a point of it…’

      ‘And what about Fogarty’s racehorse?’

      ‘Hard to tell, I don’t anticipate any long-term damage, but СКАЧАТЬ