5 Books For Eveline

10

The Second Book

10

Briar had spoken little as the taxi cab arrived, transported them back into town and stopped outside the house. Even after all the time she had lived there, since her release from the hospital, she still could not call it 'home'. It was and it wasn't. A relic. A hand-me-down from people that she couldn't remember. Only their faces and names and a few details of their personalities garnered from the objects she had found while clearing out the house.

As soon as Purdy stepped out of the taxi, it veered away, without even a goodbye or a wave from her fellow treasure hunter. Purdy appreciated that. Better that than an awkward silence while Briar tried to work out how much Purdy remembered of her. Nothing. Purdy remembered nothing. A face and a name. Nothing more.

Sleep did not come, that night, the pain in her hip rising and falling like tidal waves. Throbbing and pinching throughout the dark hours, where no position upon the bed gave her comfort. She tried to read the second book, but could not focus, the words blurring and merging into one, mottled black mass upon the page.

Reaching the maximum dose for her painkillers, she had to suffer until the morning and then placed a call to the local doctor's surgery, where she now sat, head bowed, in the waiting room. The forced silence within the waiting room pressed upon her. A strange feeling, considering she preferred silence in most circumstances, but this silence held unasked questions and too many side-long glances.

She had seen the other patients, awaiting their appointments, and she could name every one of them. Each one had looked at her, recognition passing across their faces, falling away as they realised she had no greeting for them. The polite muffling of coughs. Parents whispering to impatient children. The rolling flick of pages as people read magazines months out of date that they would never read at any other time.

Each patient waited until called by the practice manager, then slipped away, into the adjoining corridor, heading for treatment rooms and surgery number one, or two. Others would arrive, taking the place of those that had moved on. Uncomfortable silence passing on like a virus, growing and multiplying. And Purdy, staring at her feet, trying not to wince as her hip sent lightning strikes of pain throughout her body.

When called, she struggled to stand, seeing the slight shift of people near her, ready to offer a supporting hand, which she ignored. Knuckles turning white as she gripped the head of her walking stick. Making pain filled steps, through the door to the dim-lit corridor to the surgery room of her doctor.

"Purdy. Please, sit." The doctor, Michael Chesterton, late middle-aged, General Practitioner here for fifteen years. He never cared that she didn't want to talk of her past. "I won't ask what the trouble is, I can see it all over your face. Overdoing it, probably."

"I just need something for the pain." She kept a tight hold of her walking stick, the skin of her knuckles so smooth, she could imagine the bone poking through. "I don't need chit-chat."

"You never do. You used to. Couldn't keep you quiet. But now ..." He gave a sigh. With a pen in hand, he looked through her notes on his computer screen, then pointed towards the examination bed on the other side of the room with the pen. "Strip from the waist down and do your best to climb up. I'll give you a quick exam."

Embarrassed, Purdy stood and began to unfasten her jeans. Even with a sit-down bath installed in the house, she hadn't managed to have her usual morning shower, using moist wipes to clean herself, instead. After the exertions of the day before, she hoped she didn't smell. With great effort, she managed to slip on to the bed and Doctor Chesterton came to stand by her side.