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Authors: Simon Cheshire
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the
Hadlington Courier
, that I
could
be a serious journalist, and that I wasn’t playing around. I suppose, looking back, I had what my mum would have called a chip on my shoulder.
About three hours later, when Mum, Dad and I were having our tea around the table in the dining room,I discovered that both Mum and Dad had kept their appointments with Dr Greenhill, earlier in the day. I looked back and forth between them, resting my knife and fork on my plate.
“And what happened?” I said.
“At the surgery?” said Dad, cutting up a roast potato. “Nothing. What d’you mean?”
“What did Dr Greenhill do?”
“Do?” he said. “Nothing. We chatted.”
“About what?”
“It’s private,” said Mum. “Patient confidentiality.”
“About what?” I insisted.
Dad shrugged. “General health stuff. My medical history. A chat.”
“Did she examine you?” I said. “Prescribe you anything?”
“Don’t be nosy,” said Dad.
“Did she?”
“Don’t be nosy, Sam,” said Mum.
Dad chuckled. “She really is a striking woman, that Caroline Greenhill.”
Mum tutted gently and shook her head. “Haven’t the fitters done a good job on the carpets.” She rubbed her socks against the freshly laid floor.
I was so wrapped up in my own concerns that it didn’t register with me at the time, not properly, but both of them seemed in a slightly odd mood. Slightly fuzzy, as if they’d had a few drinks, yet fully alert. It’s hard to describe. It seemed as if their thoughts were always on something else, somewhere else, as if they were wrapped up in an inner problem that needed immense thought.
If only I’d taken more notice of it, there and then.
“I tell you what,” said Dad, “It’s nice to find a GP who takes the time to do regular check-ups for her patients.”
“It is.” Mum nodded.
“What do you need regular check-ups for?” I exclaimed.
“It’s recommended,” said Mum, as if I was asking a stupid question.
“Who by?” I said.
“We’re not getting any younger, you know,” said Dad. “It’s time we looked after ourselves.”
“You’re only just over fifty,” I said. “You’re not exactly senile.”
“I saw Mrs Gifford earlier,” said Mum. “They have check-ups with Doctor Greenhill, too, and so do theDaltons. How are you getting on with Emma?”
“Emma?” I blinked. “Fine.”
That shut me up.
“That’s nice,” said Mum. “I hear she’s a lovely girl.”
Days went by in a blur. I really was very busy with homework. There was more to catch up on than Liam had estimated. Most of it was relatively straightforward, but some of the science and maths were brain-numbing.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened for a while. Because there were no further developments, and nothing more I could add to the news report I was compiling in my head, my nervousness abated slightly, as nerves usually do.
My uneasiness about the Greenhills began to slip to the back of my mind, just a little. I think what encouraged my gradual change of heart was that Emma was just so … well, normal.
I stayed friendly with her. Perhaps I should say she stayed friendly with me. We talked about this and that, as if nothing had happened and nothing unusual was ever likely to happen, but I didn’t goout of my way to be part of her circle, or anything like that. I have to admit, if I’m being honest, I was pleased – no, not pleased: delighted, and flattered – that her popularity reflected back on me, so that many more people started to say ‘hi’ to the new kid.
Recording it all now, I feel ashamed for falling in line like that, but being accepted and liked by my peers had a powerful pull. I was drawn to Emma, there’s no denying it.
I did try to act casual with her, even uninterested, because I still didn’t know what to make of her. On the one hand, she never wavered from being the most-admired girl in our year group, if not the whole school. She was her regular, lively,
Hadlington Courier
, that I
could
be a serious journalist, and that I wasn’t playing around. I suppose, looking back, I had what my mum would have called a chip on my shoulder.
About three hours later, when Mum, Dad and I were having our tea around the table in the dining room,I discovered that both Mum and Dad had kept their appointments with Dr Greenhill, earlier in the day. I looked back and forth between them, resting my knife and fork on my plate.
“And what happened?” I said.
“At the surgery?” said Dad, cutting up a roast potato. “Nothing. What d’you mean?”
“What did Dr Greenhill do?”
“Do?” he said. “Nothing. We chatted.”
“About what?”
“It’s private,” said Mum. “Patient confidentiality.”
“About what?” I insisted.
Dad shrugged. “General health stuff. My medical history. A chat.”
“Did she examine you?” I said. “Prescribe you anything?”
“Don’t be nosy,” said Dad.
“Did she?”
“Don’t be nosy, Sam,” said Mum.
Dad chuckled. “She really is a striking woman, that Caroline Greenhill.”
Mum tutted gently and shook her head. “Haven’t the fitters done a good job on the carpets.” She rubbed her socks against the freshly laid floor.
I was so wrapped up in my own concerns that it didn’t register with me at the time, not properly, but both of them seemed in a slightly odd mood. Slightly fuzzy, as if they’d had a few drinks, yet fully alert. It’s hard to describe. It seemed as if their thoughts were always on something else, somewhere else, as if they were wrapped up in an inner problem that needed immense thought.
If only I’d taken more notice of it, there and then.
“I tell you what,” said Dad, “It’s nice to find a GP who takes the time to do regular check-ups for her patients.”
“It is.” Mum nodded.
“What do you need regular check-ups for?” I exclaimed.
“It’s recommended,” said Mum, as if I was asking a stupid question.
“Who by?” I said.
“We’re not getting any younger, you know,” said Dad. “It’s time we looked after ourselves.”
“You’re only just over fifty,” I said. “You’re not exactly senile.”
“I saw Mrs Gifford earlier,” said Mum. “They have check-ups with Doctor Greenhill, too, and so do theDaltons. How are you getting on with Emma?”
“Emma?” I blinked. “Fine.”
That shut me up.
“That’s nice,” said Mum. “I hear she’s a lovely girl.”
Days went by in a blur. I really was very busy with homework. There was more to catch up on than Liam had estimated. Most of it was relatively straightforward, but some of the science and maths were brain-numbing.
Nothing out of the ordinary happened for a while. Because there were no further developments, and nothing more I could add to the news report I was compiling in my head, my nervousness abated slightly, as nerves usually do.
My uneasiness about the Greenhills began to slip to the back of my mind, just a little. I think what encouraged my gradual change of heart was that Emma was just so … well, normal.
I stayed friendly with her. Perhaps I should say she stayed friendly with me. We talked about this and that, as if nothing had happened and nothing unusual was ever likely to happen, but I didn’t goout of my way to be part of her circle, or anything like that. I have to admit, if I’m being honest, I was pleased – no, not pleased: delighted, and flattered – that her popularity reflected back on me, so that many more people started to say ‘hi’ to the new kid.
Recording it all now, I feel ashamed for falling in line like that, but being accepted and liked by my peers had a powerful pull. I was drawn to Emma, there’s no denying it.
I did try to act casual with her, even uninterested, because I still didn’t know what to make of her. On the one hand, she never wavered from being the most-admired girl in our year group, if not the whole school. She was her regular, lively,
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