**The Matchmaker**
Margaret Wilkins felt a sharp pain in her chest and called for a doctor. It wasnt that she was terribly illjust dreadfully lonely, with no one to talk to.
The doctor who arrived was new, someone Margaret had never seen beforea young, slender woman with red-rimmed eyes. A long cucumber peeked out of her bag.
“Come in,” Margaret invited her inside.
The doctor, flustered, left the bag with the cucumber in the hallway, kicked off her boots, and stepped into the living room. Margaret had never known a doctor to remove their shoes in a patients home, and she immediately warmed to the young woman.
“Your heart?” the doctor asked softly, sitting beside Margarets bed.
“That wretched thing,” Margaret confirmed. “Hammering awaysometimes in my heels, my knees, even my ears. And in places Id be too embarrassed to mention.”
The doctor, frowning, pressed her stethoscope to Margarets back and chest, her thin fingers adjusting the earpieces.
“My knees,” Margaret suggested. “Its pounding there. Maybe you should listen?”
The doctor shook her head firmly.
“Arrhythmia,” she declaredthen suddenly burst into tears so violently that Margaret startled.
“Is it that bad?” Margaret gasped, her heart now thundering like a pneumatic drill.
“Oh, not youme,” the doctor sobbed. “Youll be fine with some pills, but me I”
Margaret perked up instantly. Finally, someone to talk to! Her heart settled right back into place.
“Husband troubles?” she asked briskly, fastening her dressing gown.
“I dont even have a husband!” the doctor wailed. “Thats the whole problem!”
“So, a boyfriend dumped you,” Margaret guessed.
“Ill write you a prescription,” the doctor sniffled, wiping her face with her sleeve and pulling out a crumpled notepad.
“Never mind the pills,” Margaret cut in. “Come to the kitchen. Well have tea.”
“Im on duty,” the doctor protested weakly, scribbling something down.
“So am I,” Margaret retorted and marched off to brew some chamomile.
The doctor trailed after her, miserable, stethoscope still dangling from her ears.
“Take that thing out!” Margaret ordered, setting out jam, biscuits, and chocolate-covered marshmallows.
The doctor yanked out the stethoscope and dissolved into fresh tears.
Up close, Margaret could see how young she really wasfreckled nose, chapped hands, eyes full of despair.
“Out with it,” Margaret commanded, sitting down with satisfaction.
“Ive written you a prescription,” the girl in the white coat sobbed. “Good stuff!”
“Forget the pillswhats got you in such a state?”
“A-a-allergies,” the girl lied unconvincingly, sipping the scalding tea.
Margaret glanced at the thermometer outside.
“Bit late for that, love. Its springten degrees out there!”
“Late?!” The girl blinked through tears. “Well, then it must be nerves.”
She shoved an entire marshmallow into her mouth.
Seizing the moment, Margaret blurted, “Let me diagnose you. Youre crying because your man left you for someone else, right?”
“Yeff!” the girl nodded, marshmallow squishing between her teeth, and promptly unleashed fresh tears into her tea.
“Aha!” Margaret crowed, thrilled at her accuracy. “And the other womanyour best friend, Ill bet?”
“Sisder!” The girl swallowed the marshmallow and inexplicably stuck the stethoscope back in her ears.
“Your actual sister?!” Margaret gasped, clutching her chestthough her heart was now perfectly steady, eager for the drama.
“Stepsister,” the girl sniffled, sipping her tear-streaked tea. “But might as well be real.” She listened to her own heartbeat through the stethoscope, then pulled it out. “Ive got arrhythmia too. Got any valerian?”
“Of course!”
Margaret jumped up and fetched a homemade tincturea secret recipe known only to her, her grandmother, and a Welsh mystic. The stuff loosened tongues, lifted spirits, and made even the most reluctant consider marriage. She poured the doctor a shot.
The girl downed it without fuss, her face brightening instantly. Without prompting, she spilled everything.
“I loved Paul. Paul loved me. Three whole years! He was finishing his thesis, said once he got his postgraduate flat, wed marry. Have kids, buy furniture, take out a car loan. Paul studies nuclear fusionno metal can withstand it! Tungsten was his last hope, but even that failed If it hadnt, hed have graduated by now, got that flat. We loved each other, went to films, kissed in stairwells, sat in cafésall proper-like. I treated patients in my free time; Paul hunted for metals that wouldnt melt. Thenwham! My baby sister swans in. Gorgeous! Trained at a performing arts school. Paul took one look and forgot all about fusion. Even tungsten! Started babbling about how he sang and danced like Ed Sheeran. I knew then. Love at first sight. Wild, reckless, blind. My sister loved that he was writing a thesis. Dropped out of school, moved here under his nuclear-fusion safety net. I shouldve fought for him, for that flat, the furniture, the car But all I had was shifts, shifts, shifts!
“Yesterday, Paul proposed to her. She said yes. I nearly hanged myself. As physicists sayalmost plasma-coated the vacuum pump. Now Im the third wheel in this showbiz-nuclear mess.”
The doctor jammed the stethoscope back into her ears and, with detached calm, devoured all the raspberry jam.
Margaret rubbed her hands gleefully and dashed to fetch her laptop.
“Wow,” the doctor murmured, eyeing the gadget with surprise. “Whats that for?”
“Were finding you a husband!” Margaret tapped away with hacker-like speed.
“Oh no!” The doctor leapt up. “Please! Internet love isnt for me!”
“Loves love,” Margaret muttered, scanning the screen. “Here42, divorced, no kids, works at a bank, loves travel, pork pies, and dogs.”
“He can keep the dogs. Im terrified of them! Cant bake, hate travelling. And 42? Practically a pensioner!”
“Fine, next. Thirty-three, single, corporate manager, loves brunettes, blondes, redheads. Hobby: sex. Tired of flings, wants one steady partner. Hmm, no, he wont do.”
“Wait,” the doctor spluttered. “Are you a matchmaker? Whered you get these candidates?!”
“Professional matchmaker,” Margaret said proudly. “Two weeks without workthats why my hearts acting up. Bloody recession. No ones marrying anymore, too scared of commitment. Even dumping mistresses to save money. And then you show upheartbroken, arrhythmic, allergic, stethoscope in ears! Heaven sent you to me!”
“Look, I dont need”
“Your name?”
“Mary. Well, Marion.”
“Mary-Marion, you must wash that physicist right out of your hair!” Margaret typed furiously. “Ah! Here25, San Francisco, millionaires son, villa, yacht, handsome!”
The doctor peeked over her shoulder.
“Ugh! He looks like an orangutan!”
“But hes rich! Villa! Yacht! Handsome! Better than scraping metals with fusion!”
“I dont want a millionaires son. His dad croaks tomorrow, and Im stuck with that ape! I dont speak Americanhowll I work there?!”
Margaret glared over her glasses.
“Never had such a picky client. Millionaires usually get snatched up!”
The doctor flushed, poured herself another shot, gulped it, and said, “Can I pick my own?”
“Not how its done,” Margaret frowned. “My job.”
“Come off it,” the doctor grinned. “Your jobs tea and chatter. Let me choose.”
She grabbed the laptop.
Never had Margaret met such a wilful client. Never had tearful doctors picked their own husbands.
Five minutes later, the doctor stabbed the screen.
“This one! Perfect!”
“Have you lost your mind, Mary-Marion?!” Margaret gasped. “Hes a joke listing! For laughs!”
“No, hes perfect,” the doctor insisted. “Thirty, single, reindeer herder. Names Michael.”
“Reindeer herder?! Hes a Sami! Lives in the tundra!”
“Exactly,” the doctor said stubbornly. “I want the tundra. Him or no one.”
Margaret sighed, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Mary-Marion asked.
“To fetch your reindeer herder.”
“The tundra?!”
“Nope. Next-door neighbour.”
“The millionaires son is your neighbour too?”
“No, my friends neighbourshe lives in America.”
“Wait! I was joking!” The doctor panicked, grabbing her cucumber bag.
But Margaret, first out the door, locked her in.
“Help!” the doctor yelped.
“Helps coming,” Margaret promised.
Ten minutes later, she returned with Michael, flowers, and champagne.
The doctor was at the window, sobbing, stethoscope pressed to her chest.
“Michael,” the herder introduced himselfand handed her a Sami diamond.
“Marion well, Mary. Or mouse. Whatever,” the doctor mumbled, examining the gem under the lamp.
“Mouse is good,” Michael murmured. “I love white mice.”
“I cant take this,” she said firmlythen pocketed it.
“Please,” Michael begged. “Ive got more.”
Margaret, sensing she was intruding, slipped out.
Outside, dusk had fallen. The bench by the house was empty.
She sat, listening to her heartno pain, just curiosity.
Would those two work out?
Michael had been a joke listingan economics student from Lapland, visiting his aunt, beloved by the whole building (mostly elderly ladies who needed odd jobs done). He fixed the unfixable, healed the unhealable, and could talk for hours over endless tea. The kindest soul Margaret had ever metbut a Sami, so surely hed only want a Sami wife. Shed added him to her database as a gag: *Look, even reindeer herders!* Michael knew and didnt mind.
Yet here he wasdiamond, champagne, and *Lets jump out the window together!*
From the open window, laughter and clinking glasses drifted out.
Margaret smiled, crossed herself, and spotted old Dorothy from upstairs walking her poodle.
*Someone to talk to!*
“Michaels not the bachelor I thought! And that doctorher fiancé dumped her! Now Michaels giving her diamonds, calling her mouse, shes talking about jumpingabsolute madness!”
Dorothy gasped, spitting sunflower seed shells into a newspaper cone.
Margaret recounted the saganuclear fusion, the millionaires son, the doctors stubbornness.
“and now theyre drinking champagne,” she finished.
“Not anymore. Theyre jumping out your window,” Dorothy said dryly.
Margaret yelped. “I locked them in!”
“Sit! Theyve found a way. Skinny thingsslipping right through the bars!”
Sure enough, the doctor clambered out, cucumber bag in hand, and called, “Come on, Sami-Michael! Its not high!”
Michael wriggled through and tumbled onto her. They rolled on the grass, laughing, playfully punching each other.
“Well, thats that,” Dorothy sighed. “Whats your fee?”
“Let them marry first,” Margaret grumbled. “What if he bolts back to Lapland, and she runs to her physicist?”
The doctor suddenly jumped up. “Ive got a call! An old man next doors ill!”
“Well go together,” Michael said. “I can cure anything.”
“Dont be daft! Hes got a hypertensive crisis!”
“No such thing!”
“There is!”
“Not for reindeer herders. For him, its loneliness. Cured with tea, vodka, dominoes, and long chats. Youll need my help.”
Arm in arm, they left.
Margaret called the old man. “Dont let them in! Hell bore them to death!”
The man chuckled. “Too late! Mary-Marions making tea, Michaels playing cards with me.”
“*I* set them up,” Margaret bragged.
“Bravo! Whats your cut?”
“After they wed.”
“Who marries these days? Theyll shack up.”
“Not these two. Sami take weddings seriously.”
A distant shout of *”Gin!”* came through the phone before the line went dead.
Margaret settled back, heart quiet, no longer craving conversation. Just knitting and a telly show.
A week later, the doctor called.
“How are you, Margaret?”
“Fine,” Margaret said cautiously.
“My physicist had a row with my sister,” the girl announced.
Margarets blood pressure spiked. *So thats why Michael vanishedback to Lapland, heartbroken*
“He crawled back, said hed found the one metal that withstands fusion: himself! Claims he never loved her, only me! Sisters gone. Pauls grovelling with flowers.”
“I see,” Margaret muttered, bracing for a stroke.
“But I told him where to stick his fusion!” The doctor giggled. “Michael and I leave for Lapland in a month. Renting till then.”
“Lapland?! Its freezing!”
“Burning hot,” the doctor corrected knowingly.
“I offered you San Francisco,” Margaret laughed.
“San Franciscos for the old and poor. Whats your fee?”
“A couple of little Sami,” Margaret cackled, crisis averted. “Ill love them like my own!”
**Life Lesson:** Love often arrives in the most unexpected formssometimes through a locked door, sometimes with a cucumber in hand. And the best matches arent made by logic, but by the hearts stubborn, joyful insistence.
