The Ride-4

Continued from Part 3 The Ride -3 | ABCtales

They were in Solly’s - a backstreet boozer just north of the container port. The riverside district was called Waterloo, another piece of the alternative Liverpool universe. Frank eyed the pint of bitter from a small local brewer dubiously (bathtub brewers, or airing cupboard comedians, he often called them) but Lisa had practically finished hers. “What’s that?” she said, pointing a long finger at the bell-push on the wall next to the seat.

“Table service!” said Frank. “A Merseyside tradition. It’s dying out now, though”

“You push that, you’ll get a load of abuse from him behind the bar,” said the dumpy middle-aged woman at the next table. “That right, Michael?” nodding to the guvnor.

“Oh, aye. Well, depends. If you’re an old, broken down fella like your hubby here, we might make an exception, like…”

Lisa stood up and ordered an extra pint, not waiting for Frank to finish his. ‘An ‘auxillary’, as Frank called it.

Sitting down again, she said: “Actually, Frank. I wasn’t completely honest with you that last time. I didn’t actually go to the Walker Art Gallery…”

“Didn’t think you had…”

“But I did go to the Vines. Your recommendation.”

“Good choice.”

“It was only eleven o’clock but it was open so I went in. Just an orange juice…”

“Of course.”

“It’s true! But, anyway, there was a young woman, just a girl, already in there. She had a cat in a basket. She started talking to me. Didn’t make a lot of sense … ”

“You need a day or so to get your head round the accent.”

“No! I mean, she didn’t seem rational, not the full shilling. Kept asking me if I thought her cat was OK. And then she opened the basket…”

“She let the cat out of the bag…”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. The poor thing went running around the bar, hiding behind the benches, under the tables, completely freaked out…”

“The cat or the woman?”

“Well, the woman didn’t seem too far off that stage either. Anyway, I helped her round up the cat, eventually. God, it was such a thin little thing, you could feel all the bones in its spine. And then I got on my phone, found the address of the NHS walk-in centre and marched her down there…”

“And they agreed to see her?”

“Yes! The receptionist said they were too busy, that she’d need to make an appointment. But I put on my best posh bird voice, towered over her…”

“You’re good at towering…”

“…and I told her that she was a serious self-harm risk and that there’d be consequences if someone didn’t pull their finger out. As an ex-GP, I knew what I was talking about. That receptionist was hard work, I can tell you. But I said I knew people in the Press …”

“Namely the editor of Logistics and Shipping Quarterly. But I bet you got your way. I’d certainly wouldn’t argue if I had five-foot ten of Dr Lisa Thurloe looming over me.”

“Five foot eleven, nearly. Anyway, one of the doctors agreed to see her, pretty much there and then. We got her assessed, and she’s in the system. And there’s a couple of local mental health charities – I rang them and they’re on her case too.”

“So that was your good deed for the day, then.”

“And when we’d finished at the mental health clinic, we grabbed a taxi up to Huyton – the woman lives up that way – and we went to the PDSA; you know, the Peoples’ sick animals place…”

“Another beaten-up receptionist?”

“No! They were lovely! Couldn’t do enough for the poor little thing; half the staff came round to look, stroking and kissing it. It’s on an intensive feeding regime and antibiotics.”

“I always chuckle when I see a road sign to Huyton.”

“Has it comic potential?”

“It’s just that the boss of the publisher had to do jury service once. Spot of gang violence out on the estates. One of the women in the dock said to a guy that was giving evidence: ‘I’ll send a crooo down from ‘Uyton to batter ye.’ It’s become an office catch-phrase.”

“Right. Anyway, one reason why I came up to Liverpool again – apart from to see you, dear Frank, of course – was to check on the woman, see how she was getting along. That’s where I’d been yesterday morning, before I turned up at your common lodging house.”

“And?”

“She’s much, much better. Doing fine; getting proper professional help for the first time in her life, I should think.”

“And the cat?”

“Cat’s thriving. Completely different animal.”

“Healthy cat, healthy mind…”

 

“Excuse me.” The woman from the next table. “I know, I shouldn’t be earwiggin’, like, but did you say you was a GP, like?”

“Ex-GP. But yes…”

Frank tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling. Letting on that you were a doctor was never wise when you were off-duty, permanently off-duty in Lisa’s case.

“It’s just that, that. I know, I should have gone to my doctor with it but I just never seem to find the time, and getting an appointment, it’s impossible.” The woman leaned forward and whispered something in Lisa’s ear.

Lisa stood up, reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves. She motioned the woman towards the door of the Ladies.

 

“I can’t believe I just saw that,” said Frank. “Hope you don’t mind her using your toilet as a consulting room.”

“Ah, she’s alright!” said Michael, polishing a glass and replacing it on the gantry. “We’ve seen stranger things that that in here, I can tell you.”

“I’ve been on at her to see the doc for weeks,” said the woman’s husband, a short, stout man  bundled in an overcoat, despite the warmth of the late August evening. “Hope yer wife can sort her out, like…”

 

The women emerged about 15 minutes later.

“Look, I would say, ninety percent certainty – ninety-five – it’s just a cyst. But you really should go to the doc, just to be sure. You’ll do that tomorrow. Won’t you?”

The woman nodded.

“I’ll make bloody sure she does, mate! We’ll be straight down there, on the dot of eight thirty. Won’t take no for an answer. We’ll camp out on that reception desk if we have to…”

 

They finally emerged from Solly’s at just after ten-thirty, though not before Lisa had given the landlady advice on varicose veins, diagnosed possible trigger-finger in a gaunt elderly chap and any number of pains, bad backs and mystery wheezes. “Any chance of a sick-note for termorra, Doc!” called someone. Several people produced their phones to show Lisa pictures of rashes and lumps.

 

“Last time I take Saint Lisa anywhere,” said Frank as the pedalled away, side by side towards Kensington. “Do you think it wise telling that first woman it was probably nothing? I mean, now that you’ve reassured her, I bet she doesn’t go, whatever her hubby says.”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, now that I’ve managed to set her mind at rest, she’s going to be more relaxed about it. People are funny; thinking they’re going to get bad news is often the reason for not getting help. Anyway, my professional opinion is that it almost certainly was just a cyst.”

“You’re forgetting, you’re no longer technically a professional…”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. Fifty-five really is too young to be retired…”

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Concluded in Part 5 The Ride -5 of 5 | ABCtales