Harley 13

Mary and Fiona followed behind Ms Reynolds, or Catherine, now that they were better acquainted, up the stairs to the consulting rooms. Catherine had already phoned ahead, so they were expected and they had already placed what little luggage they had in the basement flat. The bag with the money in it went under Fiona’s bed, as if it belonged there among all the ostentation and dull eyed paintings of surgeons and sons of surgeons and doctors, whole families and their dogs, stowed beneath ground.

‘There are no pictures of women.’ Mary had raised her eyebrows, ‘The Scuddies are probably kept upstairs in a locked drawer.’

Catherine hooted with laughter. ‘You Scotties have such a sense of humour. I’m sure we’re going to get on famously.’

Mary pulled out her packet of cigarettes out of her bag, but then quickly put them away. ‘I’m trying to cut down.’

Fiona pouted. She had being feeling left out of things. ‘Well I’m not. Give me one.’

Fiona’s misgiving grew as they climbed the stairs. Her hand brushed against the deep mauve lacquer of the banister to keep it from shaking too much.

Catherine gave two short knocks on the Dr Briasby’s office door, as if it were some childhood secret code, before pushing the door open and breezing in. Mary and Fiona followed in her wake. The surgically white walls of Dr Braisbly’s practice, in comparison to the more neutral tones of the rest of the house, made Mary feel that every movement she made was amplified by the high windows as if it was strobe lighting. Men’s throaty laughter still hung in the air.

‘This is Dr Walker.’ Catherine’s smirked and her hand waved generally in his direction.

Dr Walker was perched on an office chair, kneading and stretching his neck, like a prize-fighter and yawning.

‘Glad to meet you,’ he said, all clipped vowels, a bored officer class tone, openly inspecting Mary, looking her up and down and tilting his head. ‘And glad to meet you too,’ he added, his eyes lingering on Fiona who stood behind Mary.

‘This must be our new houseguests.’ The other man stood behind Dr Walker’s chair, his bum half-on and half- off the mahogany desk. His voice had a lazy drawl to it, with an accent that was difficult to place, but he was used to being heard. And seen. His black hair was not too long and not too short, as fashionably cut as his shoes, his suit, and his features. The way that he smoked a cigarette with the smoke curling in front of him, just so, spoke of a life made open and easy. ‘I’m Dr Braisby.’ He bounded across heartily shaking hands with Mary and Fiona, ‘but just call me Robert, but not in front of the clients,’ and there was that laugh again, hanging in the air.

‘I’m Mary.’ She looked him in the eye and nodded curtly.

Fiona, despite her reticence, got lost in the light touch of his burnt sugar smell and almond shaped eyes. After she had introduced herself she needed a jolt from Mary, to remind her to take her small hand back from his manicured fingers He took this in his stride, as if he was used to that kind of thing.

‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.’ Dr Walker cut-in, rather abruptly, making himself heard and seen once more as if he’d just popped into view. ‘And if you ever need anything,’ his eyebrows raised a little and there was a sman in his voice, ‘just let me know. You will tell them how nice I am, won’t you Catherine?’

‘How would I know that?’ Catherine looked to Mary and then Fiona and back again at the grinning horse teeth of Dr Walker.

‘It’s very nice to meet you.’ Mary said, exchanging glances with Fiona.

‘Yes. It’s very nice to meet you,’ echoed Fiona, looking at Dr Walker, but her eyes dwelling on Dr Robert Braisby .

‘Well. That’s that.’ Catherine clapped her hands together as if they were in infant class and ushered them to the door.

‘Wait,’ Dr Walker was lolling on his chair, ‘haven’t we got a consultation with one of you girls? We might as well do it just now. Don’t you think Robert?’

Robert shrugged. ‘Suits me. That is,’ he looked at Fiona, ‘if it suits you?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fiona’s feet danced in indecision and she looked at Mary.

‘That will be fine. We’ll just be outside.’ Mary squeezed Fiona’s hand.

The office door shut quietly behind them and Mary felt a sudden need for a cigarette. ‘How long will they be?’ Lighting up and handing one to Catherine, she added, before receiving an answer, ‘is Garlic breath always like that?’

Catherine said noncommittally, ‘boys will be boys,’ before doing a little twirl with her shoe and breaking into a grin. ‘You know what they’re like. They go to an all boy private school. Then they go to medical school. They never really grow up.’

‘Yeh, but it makes you think. Mary hesitated before putting the cigarette in her mouth. ‘All those men going to University to learn how to gawp at women’s vaginas.’ She held her breath and words came out in a rush of smoke: ‘Do you think they sewed in secret, stitching girly doll’s legs together, before pecking their mum on the cheek and rushing off to cub-scout swarries and dreaming of the glorious day when they can operate on the real thing?’

‘I’ve never quite thought of it in that way,’ admitted Catherine laughing and patting her on the arm. ‘I think it’s about time you met our psychiatrist Dr Newton. I’d love to hear what he makes of you.’

‘Shouldn’t we wait on…?’Mary nodded in the direction of Dr Braisby’s office.

Catherine’s long legs were already taking her up the carpeted hall before she answered. ‘Don’t worry. It’s a formality. I’ve already told them all about you.’ Her hands pecked on the door. They heard a little shuffle and the door opened slowly.

Dr Briasby was a teddy bear of a man, all dimples and chuckles and although he was dressed very formally with in a tweed suit, he noticed Mary sneaking a look at his carpet slippers. ‘Oh that, ‘I’m a martyr to my feet.’ They found themselves laughing with him. ‘Mary. I can call you Mary can’t I?’ He looked at her with an avuncular twinkle, ‘some of my patients can be rather demanding. And if you’re living here, and working here.’ His voice trailed off. ‘Ah I see,’ he said as if speaking to himself and smiling at Catherine, ‘you haven’t discussed that aspect of it yet and I’ve rather put my size 9s in it. That won’t do. Won’t do at all.’ He leaned across to Mary; his eyebrows, crescent moon ledges, which shot up in bewilderment. He chuckled as his hirsute hand came out of his white shirt and waved about as if casting a spell, before failing to make an impression and pawing her in the knee sympathetically, ‘but they’ll love you. Yes. They’ll love you.’ They were still smiling when they left his office.

They passed Dr Braisby’s office without a glance. Mary imagined it would be the mirror image of Dr Walker’s office, with the emphasis on mirror and they were half way down the mudstone carpeted corridor to Mr Bouch’s office when Mary remarked ‘he’s funny, isn’t he?’

Catherine bridled and turned to face Mary. ‘What do you mean by funny?’

Mary picked her words carefully. ‘He’s nice. I mean he’s nice and funny.’

The small muscles in Catherine’s face relaxed at little, as if a little air had been pumped into her face to make it less severe. Her tone was as neutral as the mask of her face. ‘You don’t mean homosexual?’

‘Homosexual.’ Mary’s face split into a Cheshire cat grin as she toyed with the word. ‘I’ve never met a homosexual.’

Catherine studied her face for a fraction of a second and shook away her misgivings. ‘I sometimes forget how very young you are. This is Mr Bouch’s office.’ Her fist was poised to knock on the door and she took a deep breath, her face set in solemnity before knocking.

‘Come.’

Mr Bouch was waiting for them. He sat behind his ship of a desk, unmoving as grey granite, two chairs set equidistant in front of it for them to perch on. ‘So,’ he said to Mary, ‘you come from Glasgow?’ The words came from deep inside him, like an echo, but the accent made Mary smile.

‘Dr Bouch. You come from Glasgow yourself,’ Mary said excitedly.

‘It’s Mr Bouch. I studied in Glasgow, Aberdeen and Chicago,’ each word was pronounced like a geography lesson.

‘But Dr Bouch. You are from Glasgow aren’t you?’

‘No. And it’s Mr Bouch, not Dr Bouch.’ His gaze shifted to Catherine. She squirmed in her chair, as if she hadn’t properly prepared Mary, and had somehow failed them both.

‘I’m sorry, Dr Bouch. I mean Mr Bouch. It’s just if I’d ever been to medical school I would never get sick of people calling me Doctor. And my mammie would be that proud she’d probably make me wear a stethoscope to bed at night. And she’d have all my degrees on the wall, like posters. She’d be that proud.’

There was a thaw in Mr Bouch’s face and the flicker of a smile and Mary knew that she’d said the right things. It was still a relief, however, when Mr Bouch’s door was shut behind them and they stood outside, like two schoolgirls ready to burst into peels of laughter.

‘We’re in,’ said Mary.

‘You’re in.’ Catherine smiled. ‘I think he likes you.’

‘I don’t think he likes anybody.’ Mary guffawed and covered her mouth. ‘I can’t wait to tell Fiona.’