The Matchmaker
Margaret Willoughby’s heart had been troubling her, so she called a doctor to her home. It wasnt that she was seriously unwellshe just had no one to talk to.
The doctor who arrived was new, someone Margaret had never seen beforeyoung, slender, with red-rimmed eyes. Sticking out of her bag was a long cucumber.
“Come in,” Margaret invited the doctor inside.
Flustered, the young woman left the bag with the cucumber in the hallway, slipped off her boots, and followed Margaret into the sitting room. Margaret had never known doctors to remove their shoes in a patients home, and the gesture immediately endeared the girl to her.
“Your heart?” the doctor asked softly, perching on the edge of the bed where Margaret had settled.
“That wretched thing,” Margaret confirmed. “Thumping awayin my heels, my knees, my ears even places Im too embarrassed to mention.”
The doctor frowned, her thin fingers adjusting the stethoscope as she listened to Margarets back and chest, her plucked eyebrows knitting together.
“My knees,” Margaret suggested. “Theyre thumping something awfulmaybe have a listen?”
The doctor shook her head firmly. Knees were not part of the examination.
“Arrhythmia,” she declaredand then burst into tears so violently that Margaret panicked.
“Is it that dire?” Margaret gasped, feeling her heart hammer like a jackhammer.
“Not yoursmine!” the doctor sobbed. “Youll take pills and be fine, but me Im”
Margaret suddenly brightened. The chance for conversation loomed so brightly that her heart settled at once.
“Husband trouble?” she asked briskly, tightening her dressing gown.
“I dont have a husband!” the doctor wailed. “Thats the problem!”
“Ah. A boyfriend, thendumped you.”
“Ill write you a prescription.” The doctor wiped her face with her sleeve and pulled a crumpled form from her pocket.
“Never mind the pills,” Margaret cut in. “Come to the kitchen. Lets have tea.”
“Im working,” the doctor sniffed, scribbling something illegible.
“So am I,” Margaret retorted and marched off to put the kettle on.
The doctor trailed after her, miserable, stethoscope still dangling from her ears.
“Take that thing out!” Margaret scolded, setting out jam, biscuits, and chocolate-covered marshmallows.
The doctor yanked the stethoscope free and burst into tears again.
Now Margaret saw how young she really wasfreckles on her nose, chapped hands, eyes full of despair.
“Right, out with it,” Margaret commanded, settling at the table.
“I wrote you a prescription,” the girl in the white coat blubbered. “Very good medicine!”
“I dont need medicine. I need to know why youre crying!”
“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 doctor hiccuped. “Then its nerves!”
She shoved a marshmallow into her mouth. Seizing the moment, Margaret fired her diagnosis.
“Youre crying because your man left you for someone else. Right?”
“R-right!” The girl nodded tearfully, marshmallow squishing in her cheek.
“Oh!” Margaret rejoiced at her accuracy. “And the other womanyour friend, Ill bet?”
“Sister!” The girl swallowed the marshmallow and plugged her ears again.
“Your own sister?!” Margaret clutched her heartthough it beat steady now, eager for the drama.
“Stepsister,” the doctor sniffed. “But close enough.” She listened to her own heartbeat through the stethoscope and sighed. “Ive got arrhythmia too. Got any valerian?”
“Course I have!”
Margaret fetched a homemade tincturea recipe known only to her, her grandmother, and a wise old healer from Yorkshire. It loosened tongues, lifted spirits, and stirred a powerful desire for marriage.
She poured the doctor a glass. The girl downed it, brightened, and spilled her story unprompted.
“I loved Peter. He loved me. Three years, we were devoted! He was finishing his PhDonce he got his university flat, wed marry. Have a baby, buy furniture, lease a car. He researches nuclear fusion. No metal can withstand his experiments! Tungsten was his last hope, but even that melted. If it hadnt, hed have his degree and flat by now. We went to cinemas, kissed in doorways, cafésthe works! I treated patients; he hunted for indestructible metal. Thenout of nowheremy sister swooped in. A singer! Trained at the Royal Academy. Peter took one look and forgot fusion existed. Started raving about singing like Ed Sheeran. I knew thenlove at first sight. Blind, reckless, shameless. My sister dropped out and moved here, latching onto his promising future. I shouldve fought for him, for our flat, our life but Im always on call!”
She took another gulp.
“Yesterday, Peter proposed to her. She said yes. I nearly hanged myself. As physicists sayalmost crashed the plasma reactor! Im the third wheel in this nuclear-singing circus!”
She jammed the stethoscope back into her ears and devoured the raspberry jam with a hollow smile.
Margaret rubbed her hands and fetched her laptop.
“Blimey!” The doctor gaped at the elderly womans tech-savviness. “Whats that for?”
“Were finding you a husband!” Margaret typed with hacker-like speed.
“No, please!” The doctor bolted up. “I cantnot like this!”
“Doesnt matter how you find love,” Margaret muttered. “Just find it. Look42, divorced, no kids, banker, loves travel, sausage rolls, and dogs.”
“Let him love dogs without me! Im scared of them. Cant bake, hate travelling. And 42? Hes practically retired!”
“Next then. Thirty-three, single, corporate manager. Loves brunettes, blondes, redheads. Hobby: sex. Tired of flings, wants one steady partner. No, hes not right either.”
“Are you a matchmaker?!” the doctor gasped.
“Professional. Been out of work two weeksthats why my hearts playing up. Global crisis. People wont commit. Even mistresses are too expensive. Then you show upheartbroken, arrhythmic, allergic, and wearing a stethoscope! God sent you to me!”
“I dont need”
“Your name?”
“Maisie. I mean, Marina.”
“Maisie-Marina, you must make that physicist regret everything!” She typed furiously. “Here! Forty, widowed, owns a vineyard in Provence. Yacht, mansion, gorgeous!”
The doctor peeked. “Ugh! He looks like a walrus!”
“But hes rich! Vineyard! Yacht! Gorgeous! Better than nuclear fusion!”
“I dont want rich! What if he inherits nothing? I dont speak Frenchhow would I work there?”
Margaret peered over her glasses. “Never had such a picky client. Millionaires usually snap them up!”
The doctor flushed, poured herself another shot, and declared:
“Let me choose.”
“Not how it works,” Margaret huffed.
“Please! Youre splendid at tea and chatter, but Ill pick my own man.”
With a sigh, Margaret slid the laptop over.
Five minutes later, the doctor jabbed the screen.
“Him!”
“Have you gone mad? Hes a joke listing! A prank!”
“No, hes perfect. Thirty, single, sheep farmer. Names Mike.”
“Sheep farmer?! Hes Scottish! Lives in the Highlands!”
“Exactly. Its him or no one.”
Margaret sighed, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To fetch your Scotsman.”
“The Highlands?!”
“No, next door. Hes my neighbour!”
“Whatthe millionaires neighbour too?”
“No, my friends. She lives in France.”
“Wait! I was joking!” The doctor grabbed her cucumber bag.
But Margaret locked her in and returned ten minutes later with Mikeflowers and champagne in hand.
The doctor was at the window, sobbing into her stethoscope.
“Mike,” the farmer introduced himselfand handed her a Scottish sapphire.
“Marina. Well, Maisie. Or mouse. Whichever,” she stammered, studying the gem.
“Mouse,” Mike murmured. “I like white mice.”
“I cant accept this.”
“Take it. Ive more.”
Margaret discreetly slipped out.
Outside, the bench was empty. She sat, listening to her heartnot aching now, but buzzing with curiosity.
Would Mike and Maisie-Marina work out?
Shed listed Mike as a joke. He studied economics, lived near Inverness, and had no plans to marry. Visiting his aunt, hed become the buildings handymanfixing sinks, hanging curtains, listening to old ladies tales. He repaired the unfixable, forecasted economies, and talked for hours over endless tea. The kindest soul Margaret knewbut Scottish. Surely hed only want a Scottish lass?
Yet here he wassapphire, champagne, and talk of jumping out windows!
Through the open window, laughter and clinking glasses spilled out. Of course. Mike fixed everything.
Margaret smiled, crossed herself, and spotted old Mrs. Thompson walking her poodle.
Someone to gossip with!
“Youll never believe it! Mikes not the bachelor we thought! Her physicist left her for her sister! And Mike gave her a sapphire! Called her mouse! Theyre talking about jumping out windowsfirst floor, mind!”
“Goodness! The new doctor?!” Mrs. Thompson gasped, pulling out roasted peanuts.
Margaret spilled every detailnuclear fusion, the vineyard millionaire, the doctors defiance in picking her own man.
“Theyre drinking champagne now,” she finished.
“Not anymore. Theyre drunk and climbing out your window,” Mrs. Thompson observed.
“Oh! I locked them in!” Margaret jumped up.
“Sit! Theyve found a way. Lookskinny as rails, slipping right through!”
The doctor wriggled through the window bars, cucumber bag in hand, and dropped down.
“Come on, Mike! Its not highno parachute needed!”
Mike slithered out and tumbled onto her. They rolled in the grass, laughing and punching each other like children.
“Well, thats that,” Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Whats your fee, Margaret?”
“After they marry. They might just flirt and part wayshim to his sheep, her back to her physicist…”
“Oh!” The doctor suddenly leapt up. “Ive a house call! Old Mr. Wilkins next door!”
“Ill come,” Mike offered. “I can cure anything.”
“Dont be daft! Hes got a hypertensive crisis!”
“No such thing!”
“There is!”
“Not for shepherds. For regular folk, maybe. Your Mr. Wilkins is lonely. Thats cured with tea, whisky, dominoes, and long chats. Youll need help.”
Arm in arm, they walked off.
“Oh! Id better call Mr. Baxterhe calls doctors just for company!” Margaret hurried inside.
“Marry him yourself,” Mrs. Thompson called after her.
“Not likely! Hes not Scottish!”
A week later, the doctor called.
“How are you, Margaret?”
“Fine, thank you.”
“My physicist had a row with my sister,” the doctor announced.
Margarets heart lurched. So thats why Mike had vanishedheartbroken, fled to Scotland
“He came crawling back. Said hed found a metal that withstands fusionhimself! Claims he never loved my sister, only me!”
“Oh dear,” Margaret whispered.
“But I told himI dont care. Mike and I are moving to Scotland next month!”
“Scotland?! Its freezing!”
“Its warm,” the doctor laughed. “Youve no idea how warm!”
“I offered you Provence,” Margaret chuckled.
“Provence is for the old and poor. Whats your fee for a successful match?”
“A couple of wee Scots,” Margaret cackled. “Ill love them like my own!”
