Margaret Williams had a funny turn with her heart, so she called the doctor for a home visit. Not that she was properly poorly, but she fancied a chatthere was no one else to talk to. The doctor who turned up was new, never seen her beforeyoung, skinny as a rake, with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. Sticking out of her carrier bag was a massive cucumber.
“Come in, love,” Margaret invited the young doctor inside. The woman shuffled in awkwardly, left the cucumber bag in the hallway, kicked off her boots, and followed Margaret into the living room. Margaret had never known a doctor to take their shoes off in a patients house, and right then, she took a liking to the poor thing.
“Your heart?” the doctor asked softly, perching on the edge of the sofa where Margaret had flopped.
“Thats the one, the little blighter,” Margaret confirmed. “Thump-thump-thump. In my feet, my knees, my earshonestly, you wouldnt believe where else.”
The doctorfingers like twigspulled out her stethoscope and listened to Margarets chest and back, frowning so hard her over-plucked eyebrows nearly met.
“My knees,” Margaret hinted. “Proper drumming away in therefancy a listen?”
The doctor shook her head firmly. No knees today.
“Arrhythmia,” she announcedthen burst into tears so hard Margaret nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Blimey, is it that bad?” Margaret gasped, feeling her heart hammer like a jackhammer.
“Not youme!” the doctor wailed. “Youll be right as rain with some pills, but me? ImIm”
And just like that, Margaret perked right up. A proper chinwag was on the cards, and her heart settled down like it had never been poorly at all.
“Husband giving you grief?” Margaret asked, fastening her dressing gown.
“I dont have a husband!” the doctor sobbed harder. “Thats the problem!”
“Ah, boyfriend dumped you, then,” Margaret guessed.
“Ill just write you a prescription,” the doctor sniffed, wiping her face on her sleeve and fishing out a crumpled prescription pad.
“Hold your horses, love,” Margaret cut in. “Lets have a cuppa first, eh?”
“Im working,” the doctor hiccuped, scribbling something illegible.
“So am I,” Margaret said tartly and marched off to the kitchen to brew some chamomile tea.
The doctor slouched in after her, miserable as sin, stethoscope dangling from her ears like some mad professor.
“Get that thing out your ears!” Margaret barked. She pulled out biscuits, jam, and chocolate-covered marshmallows from the cupboard.
The doctor yanked the stethoscope free and burst into tears again.
Now Margaret really looked at herproper looked. Freckles on her nose, chapped hands, eyes like the world had ended.
“Right, spill,” Margaret ordered, settling at the table.
“I wrote you a prescription,” the girl in the white coat bawled. “Proper good stuff!”
“Dont care about your pillswhy the waterworks?”
“A-allergy to cold,” the girl lied unconvincingly, scalding her lips on the tea.
Margaret checked the thermometer outside.
“Bit late for that, pet. Its a balmy ten degrees out there!”
“Late?!” the girl wailed. “Ohmust be nerves, then.”
She stuffed a whole marshmallow in her mouth.
Seizing her chance, Margaret fired off:
“Right, my diagnosisyoure howling cause your fella ran off with someone else. Am I right?”
“Mhmm!” the girl nodded, marshmallow squishing between her teeth, fresh tears plopping into her tea.
“Ooh!” Margaret clapped. “And the other womanyour mate, is she?”
“Sishter!” The girl swallowed the marshmallow and stuck the stethoscope back in her ears for no reason.
“Your actual sister?!” Margaret clutched her chestthough her heart was fine now, downright giddy for the drama.
“Stepsister,” the doctor hiccuped, sipping tear-flavoured tea. “Might as well be blood, though.” She listened to her own heart through the stethoscope, then pulled it out. “Ive got arrhythmia too. Got any valerian?”
“Course!”
Margaret fetched her secret tincturerecipe known only to her, her nan, and a shaman shed met at a festival once. One sip, and youd be chatting, laughing, and halfway down the aisle.
She poured the girl a shot.
Down it went. Instantly, the girl brightened up and spilled her guts without prompting.
“I loved Pete, Pete loved methree years, dead serious! He was finishing his PhD, we were gonna get married once he got his postdoc flat. Kids, a sofa on finance, a car on lease. Pete does nuclear fusionmelts metal like butter! Tungsten was his last hope, but even that couldnt hack it. If it had, hed have graduated by now. We were happy! Cinema dates, snogging in stairwells, cafésthe lot. I treated patients between shifts; Pete hunted for un-meltable metal. Thenout of nowheremy baby sister turns up. Gorgeous! Studying pop music. Pete took one look and forgot all about fusion. Started babbling he could sing like Ed Sheeran. I knew then. Love at first sight. Passionate, stupid, blind. My sister loved that he was writing a thesisdropped out, moved in under his nuclear future. I shouldve fought for him, for our flat, our finance sofabut I was all work, work, work!”
“Yesterday, Pete proposed to her. She said yes. I nearly topped myself. In physicist-speakalmost imploded the plasma reactor. Now Im the spare in their popstar-nuclear love triangle.”
She jammed the stethoscope back in her ears and demolished the raspberry jam with a detached smile.
Margaret rubbed her hands and fetched her laptop.
“Blimey!” The doctor gaped at the tech-savvy pensioner. “Whats that for?”
“Finding you a man!” Margaret tapped away like a hacker.
“Oh no, please!” The doctor jumped up. “Im not doing online dating!”
“Loves love, however you find it,” Margaret muttered, squinting at the screen. “Righthere. Forty-two, divorced, no kids, works in a bank, loves holidays, cheese scones, and dogs.”
“He can keep the dogs! Im scared of em. Cant bake, hate travelling. And forty-two? Practically a pensioner!”
“Scrap him, then,” Margaret agreed. “Nextthirty-three, single, sales exec, loves brunettes, blondes, redheads. Hobby? Dating. Tired of flings, wants one dynamic relationship. Nah, hes no good.”
“Oi!” the doctor spluttered. “Are you a matchmaker or what? Whered you find these candidates?”
“Professional matchmaker,” Margaret said. “Two weeks without workthats why my hearts playing up. Bloody cost-of-living crisis. No ones marrying, no ones datingeven dumping mistresses to save cash. Then you turn upheartbroken, arrhythmic, allergic to coldwith your stethoscope in your ears! Im your guardian angel!”
“Listen, I dont need”
“Whats your name?”
“Lisa. Well, Liana.”
“Lisa-Liana, you need to wash that physicist right out of your hair. Now!” Margaret typed furiously. “Aha! Here we go. Favourite name: Liana. Must be tall, model figure, blue eyes, dimples. Nah, tosser. Next! Twenty-five! Lives in LA! Millionaires son! Own villa, yacht! Fit!!” She rubbed her hands.
The doctor peeked over her shoulder.
“Ugh! Hes hideous! Looks like a gorilla!”
“But hes loaded! Villa! Yacht! Fit!! Better than nuclear meltdowns!”
“Dont want a millionaires son,” the girl huffed. “Dad croaks tomorrow, and Im stuck with a sugar baby! I dont even speak Americanhowll I get a job in LA?!”
Margaret glared over her glasses.
“Never had such a picky client. Most girls claw for millionaires!”
The doctor pinkened, poured herself another shot, downed it, and said:
“Can I pick my own?”
“Not how it works,” Margaret grumbled. “This is my job.”
“Your jobs tea and tall tales. Ill find my own bloke. Give us that laptop!”
Never had Margaret had such a fussy client. Never had a doctor sobbed in her kitchen.
Five minutes later
“Here!” the doctor jabbed the screen. “This one!”
“Lisa-Liana, are you mad?!” Margaret gasped. “Hes a joke listing! Just for laughs!”
“Nope. Perfect. Thirty, single, alpaca farmer. Names Mike.”
“Alpaca farmer?! Hes Scottish!! Lives in the Highlands!”
“Exactly,” the doctor said smugly. “Highlands or nothing.”
“Lisa-Liana,” Margaret sighed, threw on a shawl, slipped on her slippers, and headed out.
“Where you going?”
“To fetch your alpaca farmer.”
“The Highlands?!”
“Nah, next door. Hes my neighbour!”
“Waitis the LA millionaire your neighbour too?”
“No, hes my pals, from California.”
“Stop! I was joking!” The doctor grabbed her cucumber bag.
But Margaret, already out, locked her in.
“Help!”
“Helping!”
Ten minutes later, she returned with Mike, flowers, and fizz.
The doctor was weeping by the window, listening to her own lungs through the stethoscope.
“Mike,” said the alpaca farmer, handing her a Scottish garnet.
“Lianawell, Lisa. Or mouse. Whatever,” she mumbled, inspecting the gem under the lamp.
“Mouse,” Mike said softly. “Love white mice.”
“I cant take this,” she said firmlypocketing it.
“Take it!” Mike begged. “Got loads.”
Margaretsensing her cueslipped out. Outside, she sat on the bench, listening to the laughter inside.
Mike fixed everything, healed everything, talked for hours over tea. Sweetest lad shed ever met. Shed only listed him as a jokewhod marry a Scotsman? But here they were, giggling, drinking, threatening to jump out windows.
Next week, the doctor called.
“Hows your heart, Margaret?”
“Fine, ta.”
“My physicist ditched my popstar sister,” the doctor said breezily.
Margarets blood pressure spiked. Mike mustve fled back to Scotland
“Pete came crawling back. Said hed found the one metal that withstands fusionhimself! Turns out he never loved herjust me!”
Margaret braced for heartbreak.
“But I told him to sod off!” the doctor laughed. “Mike and I are moving to the Highlands next month!”
“The Highlands?! Its freezing!”
“Its roasting,” the doctor said knowingly. “Youve no idea, Margaret.”
“I offered you LA,” Margaret cackled.
“LAs for has-beens.”
“So my matchmaking fee?”
“A couple of wee Scots,” Margaret laughed. “Love em like my own!”
