**The Matchmaker**
Martha Whitcombes heart was acting up, so she called the doctor for a home visit. Not that she was in dire straitsshe just had no one to talk to.
The doctor was new, someone Martha had never seen beforeyoung, painfully thin, with red-rimmed eyes. Sticking out of her bag was a suspiciously long cucumber.
«Come in,» Martha invited, ushering the doctor into her flat. The woman awkwardly left the cucumber-laden bag in the hallway, kicked off her boots, and shuffled inside. Martha had never seen a doctor remove their shoes in a patients home before, and this small act of humility instantly endeared the girl to her.
«Heart trouble?» the doctor asked softly, perching on the edge of Marthas bed.
«The blasted thing,» Martha confirmed. «Thumping awaysometimes in my heels, sometimes my knees, even my ears. And then places Id rather not mention.»
The doctor, delicate fingers clutching her stethoscope, listened to Marthas back and chest, frowning all the while and wrinkling her freckled nose.
«Knees,» Martha hinted. «Its really hammering in my knees. Fancy a listen there?»
The doctor shook her head firmly. Knees were off the menu.
«Arrhythmia,» she declaredand then, to Marthas horror, burst into violent sobs.
«Oh dear, is it that bad?» Martha gasped, feeling her heart now pounding like a jackhammer.
«Not you*me*!» the doctor wailed. «Youll pop some pills and be fine, but me *Im*»
Marthas spirits soared. A conversation was brewing, and her heart, thrilled at the prospect, immediately settled.
«Did your husband upset you?» Martha inquired briskly, tightening her dressing gown.
«I dont *have* a husband!» the girl howled. «Thats the problem!»
«Ah. Boyfriend dumped you, then?»
«Ill prescribe you some tablets.» The doctor wiped her tear-streaked face with her sleeve and pulled out a crumpled prescription pad.
«Hold your horses,» Martha cut in. «Lets have tea first.»
«Im *working*,» she sniffled, scribbling something illegible.
«So am I,» Martha retorted and marched to the kitchen to brew some chamomile.
The doctor trudged in, miserable as a wet weekend, inexplicably wearing her stethoscope like headphones.
«Take those out of your ears!» Martha snapped, pulling jam, biscuits, and chocolate-covered marshmallows from the cupboard.
The doctor yanked them out and burst into tears again.
Now Martha saw her properlyjust a slip of a girl, really. Freckles on her nose, chapped hands, and utter despair in her eyes.
«Out with it,» Martha commanded, settling at the table.
«I wrote your prescription,» the girl blubbered. «Goo-oo-ood ones!»
«Bother the tablets. Why the waterworks?»
«Allallergies!» she lied unconvincingly, blowing on her scalding tea.
Martha stood and checked the thermometer outside.
«Bit late for allergies, love. Its springten degrees out there!»
«Late?!» she wailed. «Then its nerves!»
She shoved a whole marshmallow into her mouth.
Seizing the moment of silenced protest, Martha fired off:
«Let *me* diagnose you. Youre crying because your bloke left you for someone else. Am I right?»
«Mmm-hmm!» She nodded furiously, marshmallow squishing, and unleashed fresh tears straight into her tea.
«A-ha!» Martha crowed. «And the other womanyour best friend, Ill bet?»
«Sisssster!» The doctor swallowed the marshmallow and, for reasons unknown, plugged her ears with the stethoscope again.
«Your *own sister*?!» Martha clutched her chestthough her heart was now beating cheerfully in anticipation of drama.
«Stepsister,» she sniffed, sipping tear-seasoned tea. «But basically the same.» She listened to her own heartbeat with the stethoscope, then removed it.
«Ive got arrhythmia too,» she announced gloomily. «Got any valerian?»
«I do!»
Martha sprang up and fetched a homemade tincture whose recipe only she, her grandmother, and a particularly tipsy Cornish mystic knew. One sip loosened tongues, lifted spirits, andincidentallymade people *desperate* to get married.
She poured the doctor a shot.
The girl downed it, brightened instantly, and spilled her life story unprompted.
«I loved Peter, Peter loved methree whole years! He was writing his thesis, going to get a flat at the grad dorm, then wed marry. Kids, an IKEA dining set, a car on financethe works! Peter studies nuclear fusion. No metal can withstand his experiments! His last hope was tungsten, but even *that* melted! If it hadnt, hed have his doctorate by now. We were happy! Cinema, stolen kisses in stairwells, cafésproper romance! I treated patients between dates; Peter hunted for indestructible metals. Then*wham*my baby sister swans in. A *stunner*. Trained at some performing arts college. Peter took one look and forgot fusion *and* tungsten. Started babbling about being the next Ed Sheeran. I *knew*. Love at first sightreckless, brainless, shameless. Lizzie liked that my Peter had job prospects. Dropped out, moved here to ride his nuclear-fusion coattails. I *should* have fought for him, for our flat, our future but between shifts and house calls»
Cutting to the chase: Yesterday, Peter proposed. Lizzie said yes. Martha nearly hanged herself.
«Now Im the third wheel in this nuclear boyband.»
The doctor jammed the stethoscope back into her ears and, grinning oddly, demolished a jar of raspberry jam.
Martha rubbed her hands and fetched her laptop.
«Blimey!» The doctor gawked. «Youre tech-savvy for your age!»
«Were finding you a husband,» Martha declared, typing like a caffeinated hacker.
«Noooo!» The doctor leapt up. «Not *online dating*!»
«Loves lovewho cares how you find it? Here: Forty-two, divorced, no kids, banker. Loves travel, pork pies, and dogs.»
«Let him keep the dogs! I cant bake, and I hate travelling. And *forty-two*? Practically a pensioner!»
«Scratch that. Next: Thirty-three, single, corporate manager. Brunettes, blondes, redheadsno preference. Hobby: *intimacy*. Tired of flings, wants one steady *adventure*. No, maybe not him either.»
«Are you a *pimp*?» the doctor spluttered. «Whered you get these candidates?»
«Matchmaker,» Martha corrected. «Professional. Two weeks without clients*thats* why my hearts playing up. Bloody recession. No ones marrying, no ones even *affairing* anymore. Then *you* turn upheartbroken, arrhythmic, allergic to honesty, wearing a stethoscope as earrings? Heaven-sent!»
«I dont *need*»
«Your name?»
«Emily. I mean, Emma.»
«Emily-Emma, you *must* teach that physicist a lesson!» Marthas typing intensified. «Aha! Here we go. Favourite name: *Emma*. Must be tall, modelesque, blue-eyed, with dimples. Pfftas if! Next! Twenty-five! Son of a millionaire! Owns a villa in *Bermuda*! Total *hunk*!»
The doctor peeked at the screen.
«Ugh! He looks like a startled walrus!»
«But hes *rich*!» Martha protested. «Villa! Yacht! Hunk! Beats scraping metals in a lab!»
«I dont *want* a millionaires son,» she sulked. «His dad croaks, then Im stuck with *him*! And I dont speak Bermudianhow would I work there?!»
Martha glared over her glasses.
«Never had such a picky client. Most claw at millionaires like cats to catnip!»
Blushing, the doctor poured herself another shot of mystic hooch, downed it, and suggested:
«Can *I* pick?»
«Against protocol,» Martha huffed. «*My* job.»
«Rubbish! Your jobs tea and tall tales. *Ill* choose.» She grabbed the laptop.
Never had Martha met such a wilful client. Never had a doctor sobbed into her keyboard.
Five minutes later
«*Him!*» She stabbed the screen.
«Are you *mad*, Emily-Emma?!» Martha gasped. «Thats a *joke* profile! For *fun*!»
«No, hes perfect,» she insisted. «Thirty, single. Reindeer herder. Names *Mike*.»
«*Herder?!* Hes *Sámi*! Lives in the *Arctic*!»
«*Good.* Arctic or bust.»
Martha sighed, threw on a shawl, and headed for the door.
«Where are you going?!»
«To fetch your herder.»
«The *Arctic*?!»
«No, next door. Hes my neighbour.»
«WaitI was *kidding*!»
She lunged for her cucumber-laden bag, but Martha, quicker, locked her inside and vanished.
Ten minutes later, Martha returned with Mikeflowers, champagne, and all.
The doctor was weeping by the window, stethoscope dangling.
«Mike,» he introduced himselfand handed her a Sámi-carved amber pendant.
«Emma well, *Emily* Or mouse. Whichever,» she stammered, inspecting it.
«Mouse,» he murmured. «I like white mice.»
«I cant take this.» (She pocketed it immediately.)
«Please,» Mike begged. «Ive got loads.»
Recognising her cue, Martha slipped out.
Through the open window, laughter and clinking glasses soon drifted. Martha smiled, blessed the sill, and rejoined old Mrs. Higgins from upstairs, walking her corgi. Mike stayed for tea, then dinner, then every evening after. The cucumber in the hallway, it turned out, was never a cucumber at alljust a walking stick carved to look like one, a gift from Mikes grandmother. Martha never asked. Some mysteries, she decided, were better left seasoned with silence.
