**The Matchmaker**
Mildred Hawthorne had a pain in her chest and called a doctor to her home. Not that she was terribly unwell, but there was simply no one to talk to.
The doctor was newyoung, thin, and with red, teary eyes. From her bag poked out a long cucumber.
«Come in,» Mildred invited the doctor inside.
Flustered, the doctor left the bag with the cucumber in the hallway, took off her boots, and stepped into the living room. Mildred had never seen a doctor remove their shoes in a patient’s home before, so she immediately took a liking to the young woman.
«Heart trouble?» the doctor asked softly, sitting beside the bed where Mildred had settled.
«That wretched thing,» Mildred confirmed. «It wont stop poundingin my heels, my knees, my ears and places Id be embarrassed to mention.»
The doctor, her delicate fingers clutching a stethoscope, listened to Mildreds back and chest, frowning all the while.
«My knees,» Mildred prompted. «Listen to my kneestheyre thumping something awful!»
The doctor shook her head firmly. Knees were not part of the examination.
«Arrhythmia,» she announcedbefore bursting into tears so violently that Mildred gasped.
«Is it really that bad?» Mildred clutched her chest, feeling her heart hammer like a jackhammer.
«No, not yoursmine!» the doctor wailed. «Youll take some pills, and youll be fine. But me oh, me!»
Mildreds spirits lifted instantly. A chance for a proper chat was too good to miss.
«Husband trouble?» she asked briskly, fastening her dress.
«I dont *have* a husband!» the doctor sobbed harder. «Thats the whole problem!»
«Ah, boyfriend dumped you,» Mildred deduced.
«Ill write you a prescription.» The doctor wiped her face with her sleeve and pulled out a crumpled prescription pad.
«Never mind the pills,» Mildred interrupted. «Lets have some tea instead.»
«But Im working!» the doctor sniffled, scribbling something illegible.
«So am I,» Mildred said firmly and marched to the kitchen to brew some Earl Grey.
The doctor trailed in, miserable, inexplicably wearing the stethoscope in her ears.
«Take that thing off!» Mildred scolded, setting out jam, biscuits, and chocolate-covered marshmallows.
The doctor yanked out the stethoscope and burst into tears again.
Now Mildred really saw herjust a girl, really. Freckles on her nose, chapped hands, and utter despair in her eyes.
«Well, out with it,» Mildred ordered, sitting down with satisfaction.
«I wrote you a good prescription,» the girl in the white coat sobbed. «A really good one!»
«I dont need prescriptions. I need to know why youre crying!»
«Allergies!» the girl lied unconvincingly, then burned her tongue on the hot tea.
Mildred stood and checked the thermometer outside.
«Bit late for allergies, love. Its springten degrees out there!»
«Late?!» The girl sobbed harder. «Fine, then its nerves!»
She grabbed a marshmallow and stuffed it whole into her mouth.
Seizing the moment, Mildred fired off:
«Right, *my* diagnosis. Youre crying because your bloke ran off with someone else, yes?»
«Yeth!» the girl nodded, marshmallow squishing in her cheeks, tears dripping into her tea.
«Aha!» Mildred crowed. «And this ‘someone else’bet she was your friend?»
«Sisther!» The girl swallowed the marshmallow and jammed the stethoscope back in her ears.
«Your *sister*?!» Mildred clutched her chestthough her heart was now beating steadily, thrilled at the drama.
«Stepsister,» the doctor sniffed, sipping tear-streaked tea. «But might as well be blood.» She listened to her own heartbeat with the stethoscope. «Ive got arrhythmia too. Got any valerian?»
«Of course!»
Mildred fetched a homemade tincturea recipe known only to her, her grandmother, and a Cornish druid. It loosened tongues, lifted spirits, and made women keen to marry.
She poured the doctor a shot.
The girl downed it, brightened instantly, and spilled her story without prompting.
«I loved George. George loved me. Three years, we were devoted! He was finishing his thesis, meant to get a flat at the university, then wed marry. Have kids, buy furniture, take out a car loan. George studies nuclear fusionno metal withstands it! Tungsten was his last hope, but even that failed. If it hadnt, hed have defended his thesis by now. We went to the cinema, kissed in doorways, sat in caféseverything proper. I treated patients in my spare time; George hunted for metals that wouldnt melt. Thenout of nowheremy baby sister swans in. A *singer*! Stunning! George took one look and forgot all about fusion. Started babbling about singing like Ed Sheeran. I knew thenlove at first sight. Reckless, blinding, shameless. Fancying herself a star, my sister dropped out of music school and latched onto Georges ‘promising future.’ I shouldve fought for him, for our flat, our furniture, our car loanbut I was always on call! Yesterday, George proposed to her. She said yes. I nearly hanged myself. Georges physics pals would say I ‘nearly overloaded the plasma containment field.’ Now Im the third wheel in this pop-star-nuclear mess.»
She jammed the stethoscope back in her ears, devoured an entire jar of strawberry jam, and smiled vacantly.
Mildred rubbed her hands and fetched her laptop.
«Blimey!» The doctor yanked out the stethoscope. «Whats that for?»
«Finding you a husband!» Mildred typed furiously.
«No, please!» The doctor leapt up. «Im not one for online dating!»
«Doesnt matter how you find lovejust that you do! Here42, divorced, no kids, works in a bank, loves travel, sausage rolls, and dogs.»
«Let him love dogs without me! Im scared of them! Cant bake, hate traveling. And 42? Hes practically retired!»
«Fair enough. Next33, single, corporate manager, loves brunettes, blondes, and redheads. Hobby: sex. Tired of flings, wants one steady partner.» Mildred scowled. «No, hes no good either.»
«Are you a *matchmaker*?!» the doctor gasped. «Whered you get these ‘candidates’?»
«A professional matchmaker,» Mildred said proudly. «Two weeks without workthats why my hearts acting up. Bloody recession. No ones marrying or even datingtoo scared of commitment. Even dumping mistresses to save money! Then *you* turn upheartbroken, arrhythmic, ‘allergic,’ and wearing a stethoscope like earmuffs! Heaven sent you to me!»
«I dont need»
«Whats your name?»
«Emma. Well, Emily.»
«Emma-Emily, you *must* put that physicist in his place!» Mildred typed faster. «Ah! Here we go. Favourite name: Emily. Must be tall, model figure, blue eyes, dimples. Ugh, scratch that. Dimples? Ridiculous! Next25, lives in *Los Angeles*. Millionaires son! Owns a villa and a yacht! Handsome!»
The doctor peeked at the screen.
«Ugh! He looks like a *gorilla*!»
«But hes rich! A villa! A yacht! Handsome! Better than faffing with metal alloys!»
«I dont *want* a millionaires son! His dad croaks tomorrow, and Im stuck with that ape! And I dont speak Spanishhowll I work in LA?!»
Mildred peered over her glasses.
«Ive *never* had such a picky client. Most claw at millionaires like starving cats!»
Flushing, the doctor poured herself more tincture, gulped it, and said:
«Can I pick my own?»
«Thats *my* job,» Mildred huffed.
«Oh, come off it! Your jobs plying clients with tea and chatter. Let me try!»
Grudgingly, Mildred handed over the laptop.
Five minutes later, the doctor jabbed the screen.
«*This* one!»
«Have you gone mad, Emma-Emily?!» Mildred cried. «Thats a *joke* profile! Just for laughs!»
«No, hes perfect. Thirty, single, *sheep farmer*. And his names *Mike*.»
«Sheep farmer?! Hes *Welsh*! Lives in the *middle of nowhere*!»
«Perfect,» the doctor said stubbornly. «I want countryside. Him or no one.»
Mildred sighed, threw on a shawl, and headed for the door.
«Where are you going?» the doctor asked.
«To fetch your sheep farmer.»
«To *Wales*?!»
«No, he lives *next door*. My neighbour!»
«And the millionaire from LAyour neighbour too?»
«No, *my friends* neighbour. She lives in America.»
«Wait! I was joking!» The doctor grabbed her cucumber-filled bag.
But Mildred, locking the door behind her, left her no choice.
Ten minutes later, she returned with Mike, flowers, and champagne.
The doctor was weeping by the window, listening to her own heart.
«Mike,» the sheep farmer saidand handed her a Welsh gold ring.
«Emily well, Emma. Or mouse. Whichever,» she stammered, inspecting it.
«I like mouse,» Mike murmured. «Ive always fancied white mice.»
«I cant take this!»
«Please. Ive got more.»
Sensing her cue, Mildred slipped out.
Outside, the evening air was crisp. The bench by the house stood empty.
Mildred sat, listening to her own heartno longer aching, but buzzing with curiosity.
Would Mike and Emma-Emily work out?
Would love blossom?
No one to talk toagain.
Shed only added Mikes profile as a joke. He was studying economics, lived in rural Wales, and had no plans to marry. He stayed with his aunt during term and was beloved by the whole blockmostly elderly ladies needing odd jobs done, plumbing fixed, or just company over endless cups of tea.
Mike could fix anything, cure any gloom, and talk for hoursdrinking three kettles dry. Truth be told, Mildred had never met a kinder soul. But he was *Welsh*so, in her professional opinion, only a Welsh girl would do.
Yet here they weregold rings, champagne, and threats to jump out windows!
Mildred crept to her window. Laughter, clinking glasses, lively chatter.
No surprise. Mike fixed the unfixable. A depressed doctor? Easy.
His merry eyes, broad smile, farmers generosity, and uncanny intuition made him irresistible.
Smiling, Mildred crossed herself and returned to the benchwhere Gladys from Flat 3 was walking her corgi.
*Finally*, someone to gossip with!
«Mikenot such a confirmed bachelor after all! And that doctor*her* fiancé dumped her! Now Mikes giving her *gold*! And shes flirting shamelessly! Wants to jump out the window, and he says hell join her! Calls her *mouse*!» Mildred gushed.
Gladys gasped, spitting sunflower seed shells into a newspaper.
«Theyre drinking champagne now,» Mildred finished.
«Not anymore. Theyre *jumping*,» Gladys said, nodding at Mildreds window.
The doctor was climbing out, cucumber bag in hand. She dropped down, yelling:
«Come on, Mike! Its not high! No parachute needed!»
Mike slithered out, tumbling onto her. They rolled in the grass, laughing, pounding each other like kids.
«Well, thats that,» Gladys sighed. «How muchll you charge em?»
«After theyre wed,» Mildred muttered. «What if he goes back to Wales, and she runs after her physicist?»
Just then, the doctor yelped:
«My shift! An old man next doorhes ill!»
«Lets go together,» Mike said. «I can cure anything.»
«Dont be daft! Hes got *hypertension*!»
«No such thing!»
«There *is*!»
«Not for sheep farmers. But loneliness? Now *thats* a disease. Cured with tea, whisky, dominoes, and good chat. Youll need my help!»
Arm in arm, they left.
Mildred called old Mr. Thompsonwarned him not to spoil their fun with his «crisis.»
«You marry him yourself,» Gladys said. «Save doctors the trouble.»
«Me? Never!»
«Too proud?»
«Hes not *Welsh*,» Mildred sniffed and hurried inside.
A week later, the doctor called.
«Howre you feeling, Mildred?»
«Fine,» Mildred said cautiously.
«My physicist ditched my sister,» the doctor announced cheerfully. «Crawled back, saying Im the only metal that withstands his fusion. But I told himIm off to Wales with Mike next month!»
«Wales?! Its *freezing* there!»
«Its *hot*,» the doctor said knowingly. «Youve no idea, Mildred!»
«I offered you *LA*!»
«LAs for has-beens. Nowwhats your fee?»
«A couple of little Welsh babies,» Mildred cackled. «Consider them delivered,» the doctor laughed, and hung up.
Mildred placed the phone down, smiled at the empty chair across from her, and poured two cups of teaone for her, one for no one.
The bench outside sat untouched, the corgi had wandered off, and the air smelled of rain and distant sheep.
She picked up her tincture bottle, shook it gently, and whispered to the silence:
«Next case.»
