Ethel clutched the lab results in her fist, the thin sheets damp with the sweat of her palm. The corridor of the town health centre was a river of bodies, impossible to wade through.
Ethel Harris! shrieked the nurse, voice echoing off the linoleum.
Ethel rose, slipped into the consulting room. Dr. Alice Morgan, a solidbuilt woman with eyes that had seen too many night shifts, snatched the folder from Ethels hands and flicked through the pages.
Take a seat, she said, her gaze gliding over the results as if they were mere weather forecasts.
Everything looks fine. Have your husband checked.
A chill ran down Ethels spine. Victor? But he was
At home, Margaret Harris was hacking cabbage for a stew, the knife moving with a ferocity that seemed to slice at invisible foes.
So, love, any news? she asked without looking up.
Everythings alright with me, Ethel muttered, pulling off her coat.
Then why? Margaret finally lifted her eyes, a flash of worry cutting through the steam.
My husband needs a checkup.
The knife halted midair. Margaret straightened, as taut as a violin string.
What nonsense! My sons fine! Its always the doctors who cant read a simple pulse. Women used to give birth without any of these tests.
Ethel drifted into the sitting room. On the sofa lay two socksone navy, one jet black. She slipped them into the laundry basket without thinking, a tiny ritual that had, over three years of marriage, become a metaphor for their fragmented life.
Victor staggered in late, a shadow of fatigue.
Whats with the funeral face? he muttered, collapsing into the armchair.
Victor, we need to talk.
What about?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed, then flung them onto the coffee table.
And? he snapped.
You need a checkup.
Why on earth? Victor leapt up, pacing the cramped room. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He did look robustbroad shoulders, dark hair thick as a hedgerow. Yet health, Ethel knew, was not always skindeep.
Victor, please
Enough! he roared. If you dont want children, just say so! Why all this drama with the doctors?
The clatter of slippers came from the kitchen. Margaret lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly it seemed to fill the house.
I want children more than anything, Ethel whispered, voice trembling like a candle flame.
Then why arent they here? Are you hiding something? Have you had abortions? Margarets accusation struck like a cold wind.
It hurt. Ethel recoiled.
How could you?
Victor snarled, How am I supposed to? Three years, no results, and now the doctors say Im He clenched his fists, words choking off.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a battering ram.
Victor, dont listen to her! Its all idleness. Work more, stop gallivanting to the doctors.
Ethel stared at her husband, who turned his back to the window.
Victor, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered between teeth. One thing I know: a healthy man never visits a doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly.
Exactly, son. This isnt a mans businesstrotting to hospitals.
Ethel felt something inside snap, a taut string finally giving way.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next morning felt like a battlefield. Margaret pounced on every flaw: salt overpoured, pot not rinsed, dust on the dresser. Ethel clenched her teeth, silence her shield.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying home at all? Margaret sneered over dinner. Get a job instead of chasing doctors.
Victor chewed his meatball, eyes fixed on the plate.
I work, Ethel replied.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with it?
Its about you trying to make Victor look sick! No children, youre to blame! Its always been that way!
Ethel rose, her legs wobbling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, eyebrows raised. You eat and then bolt?
Im tired, Ethel murmured.
Tired? From what? Three days a week isnt a load!
Victor finally looked up, a flicker of pity in his gaze, then fell silent.
That night Ethel lay listening to Victors snoring, a sound that once soothed her like a lullaby, now a grating reminder of his stubbornness.
At dawn she packed a battered old rucksackjust a couple of dresses, underwear, a small makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Margaret called from the kitchen, cup in hand.
To my mothers.
For how long?
I dont know.
Victor emerged from the shower, hair slick, and spotted the bag.
Ethel, whats that?
Its what you see.
Youre serious?
What else? You wont see a doctor, your mother blames me for everything. Why am I still here?
He leaned close, voice low:
Dont be foolish. Where will you go?
To Gran. Roses cottage.
To this hole? Its only a mile away!
In a tight spot, but not a grievance.
Margaret snorted.
Fine, let her go. Shell learn how nice it was here once she lives with an old woman.
Victor shot a angry glance at his mother, then said nothing.
Ethel lugged the rucksack to the door.
Ethel! Victor called.
She turned; he stood in the hallway, hair damp, eyes wet with indecision.
When will you come back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed behind her.
Gran. Rose gasped at the sight of her granddaughter, rucksack in tow.
Ethel, love! Whats happened?
Ive quarreled with Victor. Can I stay?
Of course, dear. Its a bit cramped
Its fine, Gran.
The flat was tinyone bed, a table, two chairs, an ancient televisionbut spotless, scented with vanilla from Roses baking.
Tell me everything, Rose said, turning the kettle on.
Ethel poured out the whole story; Rose listened, her silvered head nodding.
Oh dear Men are like that. Proud, and admitting somethings wrong feels like a death sentence to them.
Do I have to wait forever for him to finally go to a doctor?
No, youve done right by leaving. Let him think.
The first days were quiet. Ethel made a makeshift bed in the corner, helped Rose with chores. Victor called occasionally, but she let the phone ring.
Later Rose complained of chest pains. An ambulance whisked her to the local NHS hospital.
Dont worry, love, Rose whispered as the paramedics lifted her, Im old, things happen.
In the ward Rose improved. Ethel visited daily, bringing homecooked meals and news.
Hows Victor? Rose asked one afternoon.
Nothing much. Hes shouted into the phone a couple of times.
Did you answer?
The first time, yes. The second, no. Whats the point of hearing the same story?
Has he finally gone to a doctor?
Unlikely.
The hospital corridors swarmed with visitors. Ethel headed for the exit, nearly colliding with a young doctor in a crisp white coat, blond hair, kind eyes.
Excuse me, she whispered.
No trouble. Who are you looking for?
My gran, in Ward Seven.
Oh, Mrs. Rose Whitfield! Lovely patient. He introduced himself as Dr. David Clarke, cardiologist.
Ethel thanked him, noticing his long fingers, neatly trimmed nailshands that seemed meant for holding steadier futures.
He lingered, offering updates on Roses condition. Ethel felt a strange pull toward his presence.
The next day he lingered a bit longer, the day after that again. Ethel began arriving early, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Ethel, the doctor is curious if youll be here today, Rose said one evening with a mischievous grin.
Curious?
He asks, Hows your granddaughter doing? Hes a good lad, and single.
Ethel blushed.
Gran, what are you on about?
Youre almost free. That Victor of yours
Im married.
Ha!
A week later David was transferred to another ward. On his final day, he stopped by the corridor and faced Ethel.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
Ill miss you too, she admitted.
He handed her a card.
If you need anything or just want to talk.
Their fingers brushed as she took it.
Thank you.
And also David hesitated. Youre beautiful, and a touch sad. I hope that changes.
Rose was discharged, grew stronger at home, yet Ethel still feared leaving her alone.
Victor called now and then; sometimes Ethel answered, sometimes she let it go to voicemail. The last call ended with him shouting, You behave like a spoiled girl! She hung up and never lifted the handset again.
A month later a strangers voice rang out:
Ethel? This is Davids mother. He gave me your number
Is something wrong?
No, nojust that tomorrow is his birthday, and hed love to see you. Could you come?
Ethel hesitated, but Rose, listening at the kitchen door, waved her on.
Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
The birthday was a small celebration. David was attentive, never overbearing. When he walked her to the door, he said,
Id like to see you again. May I?
Yes, she whispered.
They began to see each other, gently, without questions or demands. Sometimes Ethel spent the night at his flat.
Then, unexpectedly, she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? David asked when she told him.
Yes, she laughed, the sound bright as sunrise.
A year later Ethel pushed a baby carriage along a leafy lane. David walked beside her, joking, while their son, Mickey, snoozed in the pram.
Ahead, Victor and Margaret Harris walked together. Seeing Ethel, they froze, rooted to the spot.
Ethel kept her pace, head held high, neither quickening nor slowing. In Victors eyes she read the whole spectrumpain, regret, understanding.
Margaret tugged Victors sleeve.
Come on, Victor.
But he stood still, gazing at the carriage, at Ethels contented smile, at David, and realizing too late the road hed missed.
