A Man for Others
Theres a familiar October chill blowing in through the wide open window, carrying with it the biting tang of bonfire smoke, the dampness of autumn, and that peculiar and unshakeable gloom that seems to seep into folks bones this time of year. It settles like fog, urging everyone to huddle by the hob in the kitchen, wrapped in a favourite flannel shirt, clasping steaming mugs of tea to ward off the cold.
Were all waiting for the first snow. Its as if something thrilling and new arrives with itthough snow falls every year, and before long were all longing for it to disappear, yet we still await its return as though its a promised relief. From what, exactly? Well, perhaps from the black, gnarled twigs of the lime tree outside Alices window, or from the aching damp, the endless sniffles, and the colds that come with the season.
Alice was taught early on that once the first frost bites, everything gets better. So her mum, Helen Davies, always said.
Everyone laughs at me, but I know! Helen would say with a grin. Theres nothing worse than cold and rain. You go round peoples houses, and you can see it in their eyesdespair, like a shadow. You try to cheer them up, have a natter, a giggle, but all you get is, No good, Helen! Whats the use? But as soon as the snow falls, the lot of them come back to life. Theyve survived the in-between. They make it to spring.
Helen Davies was the local GP. She knew all her patientstheir names, their family histories, who they lived with, what they worried about. Take, for example, Arthur Foster, a man with a weak heart who lived in the next building: a lonely widower, though he has a daughter, Jennyalways so stiff and buttoned-up, as if wearing an invisible trench coat. Helen figured it was the memory of Jennys father. Whenever Jenny visited, she was all business, sharp and guarded, like she was on parade.
Helen knew why. Not that Jenny didnt care deeply for himquite the opposite. If shed let herself feel everything, itd break her. And so Jenny put on a show of calm, making things easier for her dad, who hated being a nuisance, as he always said.
Sorry, Jen, dragging you out again, making a fuss! Forgive your old man!
Jenny would look at Helen apologetically. Please dont think anything of it! I love Dad, its no bother at all! Its justmy husband, he doesnt understand. They bicker all the time. So I pop over when hes out at work and
Helen always brushed it off. No need to explain, love! Give me that toweloh, look at your Christmas cactus, already blooming! Absolutely stunning, isnt it?
Jenny would look at the plant, startled. Dad loves that old thing. Mum planted it. I worry itll dieso old now
Helen and Jenny would exchange a look. The flowers old age was not nearly as worrying as a persons, and then theyd head to the sitting room, where Arthur, in his checked shirt and woollen socks, sat quietly folding his hands on his knees. Helen would get to work, examining him with deliberate cheer, suggesting an outing to the village hall for a playtickets she couldnt use anyway, always busy with courses.
Arthur would protest, but Helen pressed on, conquering his reluctance with practiced kindness. She handed over the tickets. Jenny, you can bring him, yes? The show starts at seven. Get there earlytheres an exhibition, too, with photographs of streets and gardens, just like your dad likes.
Jenny hesitatedher strict husband wouldnt approve, and shed pay for it later in an argument, maybe worse. But shed go anyway. Years ago, her husband Nick lent them the money for Arthurs surgery when the NHS queue was endless. Jenny felt bought and owned by him ever since, and Helen saw right through it.
Helen didnt meddle with peoples marriages; she had her own burdens. Those tickets to the play were given to her by an old friend, Antonia, who worked at the village hall box office and had snatched up the best seats for Helen and Alice. But Helen passed them on, giving, almost reflexively, to a frail old man and his anxious daughter.
The next day, Antonia rang, voice tinged with irritation. Hel, what was the point in bending over backwards for those tickets, only for Arthur and his timid daughter to go instead? Did Alice mind?
Alice was more than upset; she shouted at me, accusing me once again of loving my patients more than my own daughter. It had always been like thiswork first, Alice second. Shed ask, Was I just an afterthought, Mum? Why have me at all?
I shrugged it off after the call, but the guilt lingered. The thing is, Alice didnt need meshe was strong, healthy, unlike those in pain or lonely. Shed manage. Once everyone else was alright, I promised, Id finally focus on her, bake ginger biscuits, and be the mum she deserved. But when? Always there seemed to be someone who needed help more.
Alice is twenty-seven now, out of university, not a doctor, heaven forbid! She works and barely comes home, her friends giving her all the attention I couldnt. She still rails against me, scoffing when I hand her a prescription to deliver to a neighbour, or complain she missed another concert or school performance because I was stuck helping someoneor worse, ferrying old Mrs. Cranfield home from hospital, kindness Alice saw as a slight.
That argument ended with Alice slamming the kitchen door so hard it jarred the skirting board loose. Id flinch, rubbing my bruised shin, thinking, maybe shes rightmaybe I do deserve it.
But people need people, I always thought. Thats what matters.
Then, one day, everything changed. I heard from AntoniaAlices mother had collapsed at work, heart attack, taken in an ambulance to St Thomass, the closest hospital. Alice ran off, bristling with blame, excusing herself from work.
Her boss, Mr George Richardson, caught her in the corridor. Whats the matter, Alice Turner? Do you need to go home? Of course, take my cartell my driver where youre going.
But Alice wouldnt hear of it, dashing out to catch the bus, waiting in the rain, finally walking the last stretch, legs aching. At the hospital, they checked her details, shuffled her from one desk to another.
No visiting yet, shes in intensive care, said a kindly registrar, Mrs DArcy. My own husband works for the ambulance service. We hardly see each othersometimes folks in this job lose themselves in caring for others. My children know: its just how it is.
Alice found herself climbing the stairs, whispering, If I count all the steps right, Mum will be okay. Silly superstition, but right now, that felt like hope.
On the landing, she ran into JennyArthurs daughter. Why are you here? Alice snapped, then broke down as Jenny hugged her, and they sat together, talking about the journey over, slowing both their racing minds.
Jenny’s reason was simpleher father had been admitted too. The women comforted each other, speaking quietly amidst the humming hospital corridors. Jennys husband Nick soon appeared, shouting, red-faced, dragging Jenny home by her arm, berating her for catching germs instead of resting.
After he left, Jenny confessed shed married him out of gratitude, convinced shed be nobody on her own. Alice tried to comfort her, both of them watching the muted coloured glass catch a rare shard of sunlight and send it dancing onto the linoleum.
Your mum is special, Jenny said at last. She understood peoplenot just their aches and pains, but their grief, loneliness, all the things no medicine can fix.
Alice found herself agreeing, even through her resentment. Maybe… It was always her patients first. I never really got through to her. Sometimes, Id wish doctors weren’t allowed families. Wouldnt life be simpler?
Jenny smiled with weary wisdom. Even the strongest need a refuge. We all need someone.
Their conversation was cut short by the tragic newsArthur had slipped away on the ward. Jenny wept quietly.
Alice barely remembered leaving with Jenny, somehow making it home through the black London night. She sat up all night at the kitchen table, window open to the world, a pile of cigarette butts before herher mum had recently picked up the habit.
Best tidy up before Mum comes back, Alice muttered, but didnt move. Closing the window, grabbing a shawl, felt pointless. If Mum didnt come home how would Alice even live?
Mum, Im not ready Please, dont go. You always took care of everyone else, cant you think of me now? She broke down, weeping with none of the restraint of a film starjust messy, childlike tears.
The late-night silence broke with a ring. Alice grabbed the phone, surprised to hear her bosss voice. Alice? Sorry, its George. Hows your mum? Is there anything I can do, anything at all?
She, sniffing, replied, Are you still working late?
Im home, but I couldnt sleep, I was thinking about you. If you need company, just say.
And so he came round, made her a cup of tea with honey and lemon, closed the window, checked the radiators, and insisted she try and sleepYoull need your strength for tomorrow.
George Richardson was older, tall and gangly, always packing everyone off to country weekends for fresh air, cycling to work with embarrassing gusto, playing Father Christmas at the office party. Alice liked him, as did nearly every woman in the office.
When he showed her the snow falling outside, she remembered how her mother always said, Snow makes everything right.
By morning, George was gone, and Alice was alone again, woken by the phone. This time, it was good news: her mother had woken, was stable. Alice scribbled down instructions for what to bring, hurrying to get ready as snowflakes chased each other down outside.
Snow, that blank canvas, hope for a brighter futureArthur wouldnt walk on it again, but maybe he was smiling down from somewhere. Jenny would recover; shed have a son in summer, finally freed from Nick. The little boy would look just like his grandfather, a spitting image.
Helen Davies would cradle the child and laugh, one more soul in the world. And as Alice prepared for her own weddingto George, of all peopleHelen marvelled. Maybe with him, Alice would find a warmth she herself could not give. Jenny was right: every person needs another. People need people. I know that, now, better than ever.
