Dr Aldington had been Helen and Malcolm’s GP for the last fifteen years. He was only in his late fifties but looked venerable. Especially when compared with his GP colleagues at the practice. None of whom, according to Helen, looked old enough to drive, let alone practise medicine.
But she had remembered thinking the same of young Dr Aldington when he had replaced elderly Dr Grant, who had died suddenly one afternoon while seated at his desk. Thankfully, he had done so between appointments.
Malcolm was in with Dr Aldington and Helen was in the waiting room. She stared first at the white featureless walls, then the grey neat carpet, then the blank-faced youth staring at his phone, then at the pile of magazines, and finally at the flat-screen television playing a loop of ads promoting blood-thinning medicine, incontinence pads, cough mixture, fungal cream and the like. No windows. No natural light. Helen didn’t like the new premises. Neither did Dr Aldington, for that matter. He had been rather comfortable in the Georgian townhouse the practice had occupied for one hundred continuous years. The young doctors had all voted for the change.
The door to the passage that led to the consulting rooms opened and Dr Aldington followed Malcolm out. The doctor smiled reassuringly on seeing Helen’s anxious expression. Malcolm walked straight to the counter and spoke and laughed with the receptionist. Helen overheard him make another appointment before Dr Aldington spoke to her.
‘He’s fit as a fiddle. We’ll run a few tests, of course, but as far as I can tell you have nothing to fear. His mind seems as sharp as ever.’
This was not the news Helen was wanting. His tears that morning had shocked her. Surely he was unwell. Not himself.
Walking with Malcolm back to the tube she wondered whether Dr Aldington had been duped. Malcolm could turn it on when he wanted. As when he spoke to Max. But what would Dr Aldington say if he saw him now?
She stole a look at his face as he walked beside her. All the light had gone out. She knew so well the faces he would present when angry, when sulking, when despairing, proud, anxious, calm and tired. Each in their way had some hidden architecture to them, some frame holding the flesh in place. Glancing again at his face but staring too long and hard, for Malcolm turned to look back at her, she was saddened to see no such architecture there. The flesh of his face hung slackly from the bone but his eyes were afire.
Her head filled with questions, but she was too frightened to speak. What if he answered them? What if he told her he was dying? What if he told her he no longer loved her? What if it was Alzheimer’s? What if he told her he was going to take his own life?
He said nothing and turned back to focus on the footpath ahead of him.
As they descended to the tube, Helen made no effort to wipe away her tears. She followed Malcolm to their platform, where they both sat on a free bench to wait the four minutes for their train.