Give me another chance, the girl pleaded, pulling a dainty handkerchief from her tiny pocket and dabbing at her nose. It was white with a pale blue trim and tiny flowers in the corners.
Andrew Yates, the senior lecturer, watched her with a halfsmile. How touching, he mused. Im not exactly the type who swoons over a womans tears.
No point in trying now, he said, eyes glinting. Maybe next year, love. In the meantime, how about a spot as a hospital orderly? The works dirty and hard, but youll get a glimpse of what goes on behind the white doorsthink of it as a backstage pass to the miracle theatre. He gestured grandly at the college courtyard, where rows of students imagined themselves in pristine white coats, gleaming instruments, spotless corridors, patients looking up at them with pleading eyes.
He leaned closer, chuckling at the freckles dusting Blythe Redfords cheek. The suns practically kissed you, love.
His mind drifted to his wifes upcoming birthday, the country cottage, the pond teeming with chub and perch, and the buzzing beehives that seemed to argue with him every summer.
Blythe raised an eyebrow. Youre laughing?
Its just you, the sunshine, and the fact that today my wifes birthday. Well be off to the cottage, where the fish jump at your command and the bees hum in protest while I try to teach them manners.
She winced. This is all a bit odd. Ive prepared, yet Im fumbling in front of the exam board, clutching my ticket with sweaty hands.
Andrew cleared his throat. Blythe, youre absolutely stunning. He tried to sound sincere. How about an icecream? Its scorching out here. He tugged at his shirt collar, clutching his battered briefcase. Dont think Im taking you to a fancy restaurantjust a simple cone. Here, take this. He rummaged under his wool blazer, pulling out a crumpled £2 note. Buy us both a scoop and meet me on the bench.
Blythe shrugged, her eyes narrowing. What flavour?
Whatever you like, and make it quickotherwise Ill be stuck with a soggy spot where I should be a sanitary aide. Off you go!
She scurried off, her tiny legs pattering toward the icecream van.
Andrew watched, shaking his head. What a child, really.
He settled on a bench, pulling from his coat pocket a huge, hideously chequered handkerchief in garish bluegreen. He dabbed his forehead, grimacing. Its dreadful to be sweaty, tired and old, especially next to a freckled young thing. Not that Im keen on flirtingGod forbid! I love my wife more than life itself. I never eye students. Its just sad to watch a life pass by while Im stuck admiring someone elses springtime.
Blythe returned, clutching a paperwrapped vanilla cone. Your icecream?
He stared at her empty hands. You were supposed to get two, remember? He widened his eyes dramatically, resembling a fish hed hoped to catch in his pond. Nothing! Youre told what to do and you ignore it! You
Her voice wavered. No, I understand! Ill get another right now. She darted back to the van, purchased a second cone, and plopped down beside his briefcase.
Enjoy it, he commanded. Then we part ways. I have a wife to ferry to the cottage, luggage to load, parcels to pack.
She licked the cone, grimacing at the overly sweet, cloying taste. Its terrible, she muttered.
Andrew huffed. You think youre lost? Youre staying with your aunt, arent you? Shes expecting relatives from the north today, so I suppose youll be on your way soon.
Where do you live? he asked, still chewing.
It doesnt matter. Just give me another chance, please. Ill even retake the exam if youll let me.
He raised a finger. You cant have a jumbled head and still operate on peopledont start cutting out spleens instead of appendixes!
She pouted. You cant just swap organs like that!
Its absurd, he snapped. Leave, Blythe Redford. My wife is waiting.
He stood, tipped his hat, and stalked off down the park path, never looking back. Blythe, still in her redandwhite cap, sighed and remained on the bench, stashing a tiny suitcase beneath the shrubbery, as if it were a childs toy.
Ive really made a mess of things, she whispered, eyes brimming. No one believed Id become a doctor
In the halfrural village of Redford, split by a winding Broad into tidy terraced houses and thatched cottages, nobody expected a sprightly girl like Blythe to ever graduate from medical school and stroll the local clinic in a crisp white coat. The clinics chief, Dr. Nigel Fothergill, was a gaunt man with a reddened nose, swollen cheeks, and a permanent scowl. He believed in the miracle of brandysoaked poultices and hoarded whatever spirit he could find.
Blythe had prepared for the entrance exam, but flubbed biology and genetics. She blamed fate.
Meanwhile, Andrew Yates vanished from view, leaving Blythe still perched on the bench, handclutched to her icecream stick.
She thought of a cold drink, retrieved her tiny suitcase from the shrub, and hurried toward the bus stop, hoping to catch the early train before darkness fell.
Fear of the night haunted her: every rustle seemed a ghost, every owl a demon, a legacy of her chatty grandmothers bedtime tales. She shivered under a blanket, ears strained for the creak of a fence, the snap of a twig, the cluck of a hen, the crow of a rooster, the bark of a distant dog.
Her grandfathers snoring from the next room rumbled like a motor, oddly comforting.
The next day, a lanky lad named Tom appeared, grabbing her suitcase. Blythe startled, then recognized him.
What are you doing here? she snapped. You didnt think Id get into med school, did you?
Tom grinned. Ive had your back since day one. My aunt called, said you were coming back, so I waited. He pulled her into a warm hug, and she clutched his shirt, a sudden wave of tears flooding her eyes.
He leaned in and kissed her, a clumsy, earnest peck that made both of them laugh.
Glad youre back, he murmured, wiping her cheek. Well sort everything out.
Andrew Yates, now slightly greyer but still spry, shuffled through the admission lists, muttering names like Redford, Redgate, Redcliffe He stopped at Blythe Redford, Daisy .
Nurse Tess, a tired but kind woman, approached with a fresh pot of tea and biscuits.
Heres your water, Dr. Yates, she said, handing him a glass.
He stared at Blythe, now in a nurses uniform, eyes sparkling. You! Youre the one Ive been looking for these two years!
She placed a finger on his lips. Ill be back next year, I promise. Ive already started as an orderly, learned a lot, and Ill return as a doctor.
He groaned, This place is a dump! Mold, drafts, nothing proper.
Tess soothed him. Dont shout, Andrew.
He flopped back onto the bench, clutching his crumpled £2, muttering about chub, perch, and birthday cakes.
Later, as the evening drew in, Andrews wife, Tess, and a few friends gathered on the cottage veranda, grilling sausages and humming along to a radio.
Suddenly, Andrew clutched his chest, turned a pale shade, and collapsed.
Tess, frantic, called for help. The local ambulance, a rusted van, sputtered away toward the Redford clinic, a threestorey building with peeling paint and cracked plaster.
Inside, a bewildered Dr. Fothergill swaggered in, halfawake, smelling faintly of whisky.
Whos the emergency? he barked.
Andrew Yates! Hes having a heart attack! shouted a constable.
Fothergill stumbled to the bedside, lifted a glass of water, and offered it to Andrew.
Redford Redford? Andrew whispered, his freckles trembling.
Just a little water, the nurse said gently.
He sipped, eyes flickering with recognition. Blythe he croaked.
She leaned in, placing a hand on his forehead. Im coming back, Doctor. Ill fix this place, I promise.
He smiled faintly, Youll be the one to finally sort out this mess, wont you?
She nodded, determined.
Later, the village folk gathered, gossiping about the strange night, the broken ambulance, and the peculiar doctor who seemed more a relic than a healer.
Andrew, now resting in a quiet ward, glanced out at the sunrise filtering through the thin curtains. He thought of his wife, the cottage, the fish, the bees, and the little girl with a freckled nose who had chased after an icecream cone and somehow, against all odds, might one day save the whole of Redford.
