The Happy Family by Jackie Kabler (electric book reader txt) 📕

any problems that need to be sorted out. The irony of this hasn’t escaped me. Me, the practice manager, checking on everyone’s welfare when I’m only just managing to hold onto my own wellbeing and sanity by my fingertips. What a weekend. Eloise was still barely speaking to me when Jacob brought the children home last night and this morning wasn’t much fun either. Robin was still icily polite when she turned up to do the school run.

At least when I got to work I was greeted by a wide smile and a hug from Ruth who’s in high spirits today, having been told by her son yesterday that he and his young family are hoping to fly over from Canada for a visit in June or July. Deborah, on the other hand, is still definitely not herself.

‘That’s great news, Ruth,’ she said quietly, as Ruth bounced around the staffroom. Then, head down, she shuffled out of the door and headed off down the corridor, not looking back. I stared after her for moment, then turned to Ruth.

‘Right, enough of this,’ I said. ‘Come on, Ruth. You must know what’s up. I need to know – on a professional level if nothing else.’

Ruth stopped skipping up and down the room and, pink-cheeked, shook her head.

‘She’s fine, honestly,’ she gasped, then clutched a hand to her throat and waved the other at me, signalling that she needed a moment to get her breath back.

‘Really? I don’t think so,’ I said.

Ruth gulped in some air.

‘Just feeling her age, you know. Now, I need to get reception sorted,’ she said, and scampered off, leaving me feeling puzzled and a little left out.

What is it they aren’t telling me? And why aren’t they telling me? We’ve always told each other everything …

The sense of being sidelined, of not being trusted with whatever is clearly going on, has made today’s low mood even lower, but I force myself to keep going, deciding at lunchtime to pop across the road to see Nadia.

‘Hey Nadia, how are you?’

She’s been reading but she’s already put her book down, having spotted me crossing the road, and she smiles her gap-toothed smile. She’s still working her way through the novels I gave her, I notice with pleasure. The Clocks is her current read. There’s a slightly more pungent odour wafting from her today and I wonder yet again if there’s anything more that I, we, the surgery, could be doing for her.

There’s always someone worse off than you, isn’t there? I may be going through a bit of a bad patch at the moment but at least I have a roof over my head, I think.

I hand her the little foil-wrapped parcel of biscuits I’ve liberated from the jar in the staffroom and she nods appreciatively.

‘Thank you, Beth, that’s kind of you,’ she says, and I feel a little shiver of pleasure that my small good deed has clearly made a difference. I perch on the step next to her and we chat easily for a few minutes, me telling her about Finley’s ankle and his remarkably speedy recovery, her telling me about the woman she slept next to in the hostel last night who sang Abba songs in her sleep. It’s a pleasant few minutes, and I find myself enjoying her company and mentally speculating again about the circumstances that led to such a genial, intelligent woman living like this, all alone in the world.

By the time I get back to my office I feel brighter, but the feeling doesn’t last long. There’s a note on my desk from Gabby, asking me to pop in and see her as soon as I can. I sigh, wondering if there’s some new surgery crisis to deal with, and wondering how on earth I’m going to cope with it on top of everything that’s going on at home. By the time I reach her room there’s already a knot in my stomach, and when I see the expression on her face my chest tightens.

‘Beth … something very worrying has been brought to my attention,’ she says.

She points to a piece of paper sitting on her desk, a note of some sort. I glance at it, puzzled, then look back at her.

‘What … what is it?’ I ask.

‘I’ve had a letter. An anonymous letter. And, well, it’s about you, Beth.’

‘About … me?’

My voice sounds weird, too high, even to me. She nods.

‘It’s making some rather worrying allegations. We need to talk, I’m afraid.’

No, please no. Oh God, no, no, no …

My stomach heaves.

This is it, isn’t it? Finally. It’s over. It’s all over …

‘Beth? Are you OK?’

My knees buckle and suddenly Gabby is rushing out from behind her desk, telling me to sit down. I sink into the chair, my breathing fast and shallow, my legs shaking. I have a pain in my chest now too, as if something heavy is sitting on it, pinning me down. Suddenly my vision blurs and the room starts to spin around me. My hands are tingling, and there’s a roaring in my ears. What’s happening to me?

‘Gabby … help me …’ I gasp.

‘Beth, oh gosh, calm down, all right? Breathe, come on. Deep breaths.’

She crouches in front of me, holding my hot, damp hands in her cool, dry ones, and I breathe, breathe, until the trembling begins to ease and my heart rate slows a little, my vision clears, and the pain in my chest subsides.

What was that? What’s wrong with me?

‘I’m all right, thank you,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry …’

‘It’s OK. I think you just had a bit of a panic attack. Do you get them often, Beth?’

Gabby stands up, moving behind her desk again, then seemingly changes her mind about sitting down in her big leather chair and perches on the edge of the polished oak tabletop instead.

I shake my head.

‘No … never. I mean, I get anxious, don’t we all, but no, nothing like that. I’m sorry.’

She shakes her head but I