Read Online The Disappearance of Emily Marr by Louise Candlish - Free Book Online
Authors: Louise Candlish
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tell you their secrets, aren’t you?’ I said, for this was the second time I’d found myself treating a casual conversation with this man as a confession. I was struck by the absence of embarrassment on either of our parts. ‘But in a very tactful way, I mean. No offence.’
‘It’s my job, I suppose,’ Arthur said. ‘You learn to discover the information you need to know.’
I tried not to ponder whether my relationship status was information he ‘needed’ to know; he himself was married, after all. ‘Of course, you’re a surgeon at St Barnabas’, you must deal with every type of person and get told all sorts of secrets.’
‘I certainly do. I don’t always want to know them, however.’
I smiled. ‘Do you use euphemisms, like Dad’s doctors do? I bet you’ve never actually used the word “death” with your patients, have you?’
For the first time in my company, he laughed, a spontaneous chuckle of delight that made me giggle too. ‘Well, since I’m mostly correcting squints, the subject doesn’t tend to come up.’
I pulled a face at my mistake. ‘I suppose someone might encounter complications with the anaesthetic?’
‘That’s true, but the anaesthetist will have outlined the risks of that with the patient. I just concentrate on solving the vision problems.’
It was all too easy to imagine him at work: he’d be utterly unflustered, focused to the point of severity. He’d probably known from an early age what he would become and trained at the top medical schools – unlike someone like me, who had not been to university and was as easily distracted from jobs as she had been in falling into them. I was not climbing any ladder, only stepping on to the nearest unoccupied rung of the next one along, determined not to notice how close to the ground I remained. (Maybe mine was a vision problem, too.) Pulling myself back from such thoughts, I blurted, ‘I’ve never had an anaesthetic. I can’t imagine what it’s like.’
‘That’s something to be pleased about, believe me. You’ve obviously never needed surgery.’
‘No. Have you?’
He smirked, raising his eyebrows only fractionally. ‘Maybe I ought to know you a bit better before I reveal that sort of detail.’
It was one of the most bizarre conversations I’d ever had with anyone. Confiding in him about my father, telling him my relationship was a sham, asking if he’d had surgery! With anyone else I would have considered that I’d made a fool of myself, but with him I felt as if I’d been only direct and agreeable. It seemed a thing of wonder that two people could lead such different lives, one so accomplished, the other so unremarkable, and yet still have so much to say to each other, still feel a powerful connection. It was a connection I did not yet like to name, though I must have known what it was, of course, and it had nothing to do with sharing a postcode.
We reached the park gate and he held it open for me. The park would be locked at any minute, we were probably the last to leave. Back under street light we quickened our step, soon at my end of the Grove, at the gateless path of 199. The windows of my flat were dark: Matt was out. I lingered with Arthur, nearly suggested he come up for a drink, almost but not quite willing to ignore the mental picture of my kitchen, the sink stacked with last night’s dinner dishes, Matt’s cycling gear strewn about, the laughable lack of anything to drink but cheap lager. ‘I’d love to invite you in for a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘but the place is in such a state, I’m embarrassed for you to see it.’
Arthur’s smile, mild but rueful, implied that such an invitation would not have been turned down. ‘If you’d ever laid eyes on my elder son’s bedroom, you’d know I’ve seen a lot worse.’
I pictured his home at the opposite, smarter end of the street, the family waiting, a wife eager to inspect her pottery. With the exception of the son’s pit, the house
‘It’s my job, I suppose,’ Arthur said. ‘You learn to discover the information you need to know.’
I tried not to ponder whether my relationship status was information he ‘needed’ to know; he himself was married, after all. ‘Of course, you’re a surgeon at St Barnabas’, you must deal with every type of person and get told all sorts of secrets.’
‘I certainly do. I don’t always want to know them, however.’
I smiled. ‘Do you use euphemisms, like Dad’s doctors do? I bet you’ve never actually used the word “death” with your patients, have you?’
For the first time in my company, he laughed, a spontaneous chuckle of delight that made me giggle too. ‘Well, since I’m mostly correcting squints, the subject doesn’t tend to come up.’
I pulled a face at my mistake. ‘I suppose someone might encounter complications with the anaesthetic?’
‘That’s true, but the anaesthetist will have outlined the risks of that with the patient. I just concentrate on solving the vision problems.’
It was all too easy to imagine him at work: he’d be utterly unflustered, focused to the point of severity. He’d probably known from an early age what he would become and trained at the top medical schools – unlike someone like me, who had not been to university and was as easily distracted from jobs as she had been in falling into them. I was not climbing any ladder, only stepping on to the nearest unoccupied rung of the next one along, determined not to notice how close to the ground I remained. (Maybe mine was a vision problem, too.) Pulling myself back from such thoughts, I blurted, ‘I’ve never had an anaesthetic. I can’t imagine what it’s like.’
‘That’s something to be pleased about, believe me. You’ve obviously never needed surgery.’
‘No. Have you?’
He smirked, raising his eyebrows only fractionally. ‘Maybe I ought to know you a bit better before I reveal that sort of detail.’
It was one of the most bizarre conversations I’d ever had with anyone. Confiding in him about my father, telling him my relationship was a sham, asking if he’d had surgery! With anyone else I would have considered that I’d made a fool of myself, but with him I felt as if I’d been only direct and agreeable. It seemed a thing of wonder that two people could lead such different lives, one so accomplished, the other so unremarkable, and yet still have so much to say to each other, still feel a powerful connection. It was a connection I did not yet like to name, though I must have known what it was, of course, and it had nothing to do with sharing a postcode.
We reached the park gate and he held it open for me. The park would be locked at any minute, we were probably the last to leave. Back under street light we quickened our step, soon at my end of the Grove, at the gateless path of 199. The windows of my flat were dark: Matt was out. I lingered with Arthur, nearly suggested he come up for a drink, almost but not quite willing to ignore the mental picture of my kitchen, the sink stacked with last night’s dinner dishes, Matt’s cycling gear strewn about, the laughable lack of anything to drink but cheap lager. ‘I’d love to invite you in for a cup of tea,’ I said, ‘but the place is in such a state, I’m embarrassed for you to see it.’
Arthur’s smile, mild but rueful, implied that such an invitation would not have been turned down. ‘If you’d ever laid eyes on my elder son’s bedroom, you’d know I’ve seen a lot worse.’
I pictured his home at the opposite, smarter end of the street, the family waiting, a wife eager to inspect her pottery. With the exception of the son’s pit, the house
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