Victoria gripped the test results in her fist, the paper slick with sweat. The hallway outside the women’s health centre was a bottleneck of patients.
Victoria Hargreaves! a nurse called.
She rose, slipped into the consulting room. The doctora fullfigured woman with weary eyestook the folder from her, flicked through the pages.
Sit down, she said, giving the results a detached glance.
Everything looks normal. You should have your husband examined.
A chill ran down Victorias spine. Tom? But he
Later, at home, Margaret, her motherinlaw, was chopping cabbage for a stew, the knife moving as if she were felling foes.
Any news, dear? Margaret asked without looking up.
Im fine, Victoria mumbled, pulling off her coat.
And why then Margaret finally met her gaze, a flash of worry in her eyes. Tom needs a checkup.
The knife halted over the board. Margaret sat up straight, like a taut string.
What nonsense! My son is perfectly healthy. Its you doctors who dont understand anything. Women used to give birth without any tests.
Victoria retreated to the sitting room. A pair of socks lay on the sofaone blue, one black. She absentmindedly shoved them into the laundry basket. In three years of marriage those socks had become a metaphor for their lifemismatched, never forming a pair.
Tom came home late.
Whats with the gloomy face? he grumbled, flopping into his armchair.
Tom, we need to talk.
About what?
She handed him the papers. He skimmed them, then tossed them onto the coffee table.
So what?
You need to be examined.
Why on earth? Tom sprang up, pacing the room. Im a healthy man! Look at me!
He did look robustbroadshouldered, dark hair thick as a thicket. Yet health isnt always evident on the outside.
Please, Tom she pleaded.
Enough! he snapped. If you dont want kids, say it straight! Why this drama with the doctors?
From the kitchen came the clatter of slippers. Margaret lingered in the doorway, breathing so loudly each inhale seemed to echo.
I want children more than anything, Victoria whispered.
So why arent there any? Are you hiding something? Had an abortion perhaps?
The accusation struck like a blow. Victoria recoiled.
How could you
How could I? Three years together and nothing! And now some doctors say Im? He stopped, fists clenched.
The door burst open. Margaret stormed in like a locomotive.
Tom, ignore her! Its all idle talk. Youd be better off working more and visiting doctors less.
Victoria glanced at Tom, who turned toward the window.
Tom, do you really think I
I dont know what to think, he muttered through clenched teeth. One thing I know: a healthy man doesnt go to the doctor.
Margaret nodded triumphantly. Exactly, son. Its not a mans business to be hopping around hospitals.
Victoria felt something snap inside her, a taut wire finally breaking.
Fine, she said evenly.
The next day the battle began. Margaret hawked at every little flawsalt overpoured, pot not rinsed, dust on the dresser. Victoria clenched her teeth and kept quiet.
Maybe you shouldnt be staying at home at all? the motherinlaw sneered over dinner. Get a job instead of fretting over doctors.
Tom chewed his meatloaf without looking up.
I work, Victoria reminded him.
Three days a week isnt work, its a hobby.
What does my work have to do with this?
It has everything to do with it! My sons fine, and you want to paint him sick! When there are no children, its the womans faultalways has been!
Victoria rose from the table, legs trembling.
Whats wrong with you? Margaret asked, puzzled. You eat and then run off?
Im tired, Victoria said softly.
Tired? From what? You work three days a weekno one knows the strain!
Tom finally met her eyes. A flicker of pity passed through, but he said nothing.
That night Victoria lay listening to Toms snore. Once it soothed, now it grated, an irritant shed never noticed before. How could she have missed his stubbornness?
Morning found her packing a battered old rucksackjust a couple of dresses, some underthings, a makeup bag.
Where are you off to? Margaret stood in the kitchen doorway, cup in hand.
To Grans.
For how long?
I dont know.
Tom emerged from the bathroom, spotting the rucksack.
Vicky, whats this?
Its what you see.
You serious?
What else? You wont get checked, your mother blames me for everything. Why am I still here?
He stepped closer, voice low. Dont be daft. Where are you going?
To Gran Rosies cottage.
To this little shack? Its only a mile away!
Its cramped, but Im not offended.
Margaret snorted. Right. Let her go. Shell learn how nice it was for us back then.
Tom shot his mother a sharp look but said nothing.
Victoria slung the rucksack over her shoulder and headed for the door.
Vicky! Tom called.
She turned. He stood in the hallway, hair damp from his shower, looking lost.
When will you be back?
When you finally see a doctor.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Gran Rosie gasped at the sight of her granddaughter with a bag.
Vicky! Whats happened?
Weve had a row with Tom. Can I stay here?
Of course, love. Its tight, but well make do.
The flat was tinybed, table, two chairs, an ancient TVbut spotless and scented with vanilla; Gran loved to bake.
Tell me whats wrong, Gran said, setting the kettle on.
Victoria poured out everything. Gran listened, nodding slowly.
Oh dear Men are something else. Proud, and admitting a problem feels like a death sentence to them.
Do I have to wait forever for him to finally see a doctor?
No, you made the right choice walking away. Let him think.
The first days were quiet. Victoria set up a foldout cot in a corner, helped Gran with chores. Tom called now and then, but she let it ring.
Soon Gran complained of chest pains. An ambulance rushed her to hospital.
Dont worry, love, Gran whispered as they lifted her onto the stretcher. Im old, things happen.
In the ward, Gran improved. Victoria visited daily, bringing homemade soup and news.
Hows Tom? Gran asked one afternoon.
Nothing much. He 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 complaints?
Maybe he finally went to a doctor?
Unlikely.
The corridor was crowded with visitors. Victoria headed for the exit and nearly collided with a young doctor in a white coatblonde, blueeyed, with a kind smile.
Excuse me, she said.
No trouble at all. Who are you looking for?
My Gran, in ward seven.
Oh, Miss Eleanor Finch! Shes a wonderful patient. Im Dr. Dennis Clarke, cardiologist.
Dennis, she replied, shaking his hand. Nice to meet you.
He reassured her, speaking calmly about Grans condition. Victoria watched his handslong fingers, neat nailssteady and reliable.
Thank you for your care, she said.
He lingered, returning the next day, then the next. Victoria began arriving early, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Gran, the doctor asks if youll be coming today, she heard him say one evening, a mischievous grin on his face.
Asked? He wants to know how your granddaughter is doing? Gran replied. Good lad, and single too.
Victoria blushed. Gran, what are you on about
Nothing. Your Tom is practically free, isnt he? This Dennis
Im married.
Ha!
A week later Dennis was transferred to another department. On his final day he stopped by the corridor.
Ill miss you, he said simply.
And I you, Victoria admitted.
He handed her a slip of paper. If you ever need anything or just want to talk.
She took it, their fingers brushing.
Thanks.
And one more thing he hesitated. Youre very beautiful, and a bit sad. I hope that changes.
Gran was discharged and grew stronger at home, but Victoria still feared leaving her alone.
Tom called now and then; sometimes she answered, sometimes not. The last call ended with him shouting that she was acting like a spoiled child. She hung up and never lifted the receiver again.
A month later a strangers voice rang out: Victoria? This is Denniss mother. He gave me your number Is everything alright?
No, no! Hes having a birthday tomorrow and would love to see you. Could you come?
Victoria hesitated. Gran, eavesdropping, waved her on. Go on, love! When was the last time you had fun?
The birthday went well. Dennis introduced Victoria to his friends, was attentive but never overbearing. As she left, he said, Id like to see you again. May I?
Maybe, she whispered.
They began seeing each other, slowly, gently. He never pried, never demanded explanationsjust was there. Sometimes she spent the night at his flat.
Then the unexpected happened: she discovered she was pregnant.
Will you marry me? Dennis asked when she told him.
Of course, she laughed, tears of joy spilling.
A year later Victoria pushed a stroller down the park lane. Dennis walked beside her, cracking jokes. Their son, Milo, cooed in his sleep.
Ahead, Tom and Margaret rounded the corner. Seeing Victoria, they froze, rooted to the spot.
Victoria kept her pace, head held high. In Toms eyes she read pain, regret, understanding.
Margaret tugged Toms sleeve. Come on, Tom.
He stood there, staring at the stroller, at Denniss smiling face, at the life Victoria had built, and realised too late the mistake hed made.
