Parking the car behind the surgery, next to the special waste bins, Spencer and Dad noted that the clinic doors were closed and the surgery was dark.
‘Sylvie’s not here yet,’ Dad said. ‘That’s unlike her. Okay ... I guess it’s up to me to open up this morning. Spence, reckon you could give me a hand?’
‘Sure. What do you have to do first?’ he asked as they approached the reinforced glass doors.
‘Remembering the PIN for the alarm would normally be the first thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Spencer, not looking at him.
Dad rummaged through his wallet. ‘I’ve got it written down here somewhere, in case of times like this.’
Spencer peered in through the glass. He saw the influenza posters on the walls, the brochures for parents—Dealing with Tantrums, Healthy Lunch Boxes, Coughs and Colds, Language Development. There was a laminated sign next to the reception desk that said: Our doctors aim to run on time. Please advise reception staff if you have been waiting for more than 20 minutes. Thank you. Skippers Cove Medical Clinic.
‘Six-four-seven-nine. See? Ready for all contingencies.’
‘Even if in a slightly ... disorganised ... way.’
‘Well, they could have chosen a better PIN. You couldn’t have a number much harder to remember than that,’ Dad grumbled, punching it into the keypad next to the doors.
‘It is meant to keep people out, Dad. I think it’s called a security system?’
‘Yeah yeah yeah, Mr Sensible. I think they missed you in the Mr Men books, mate. What’s happened to you kids these days? You’re all too bloody sensible, that’s what! You need to embrace risk,’ he said. ‘I grew up in the sixties ... we knew about risk-taking back then, I can tell you.’
Spencer shook his head. You had to love how Dad could turn his own brain fade into a lecture about someone else’s failings. No wonder he drove Mum mad. Incompetence in the Doc—if even acknowledged—was rare, and fleeting.