Smugglers Inn wasn’t busy. One of the regular bar staff laughed when he walked in, confirming his suspicions that he’d made a fool of himself last night. He went over to the bar and ordered three coffees, not wanting to tempt fate by putting food in his stomach. They opted to sit outside. Fresh air and a pleasant view might ease the trauma of the lecture he felt was coming his way.
He selected a table near the grassy bank. The bushes and trees rose upwards to where the posh hotels overlooked the sea, giving a nice contrast to the crashing waves ahead of them. The tide ebbed and flowed, inviting him to come in and play. It was tempting, but even he wasn’t up for a surf today.
They’d barely sat down when his mother said, ‘Your father and I would like to know when you will be returning to your studies?’ There was never any preamble with Alexa Hubble, she always cut to the chase.
He couldn’t blame her. The first either of them had known of his quitting medicine was after he’d purchased a one-way ticket to Cornwall. It was cowardly and unfair of him, and they had every right to be angry. After all they’d done for him, all the sacrifices they’d made, paying his living expenses, providing a monthly allowance, ensuring his time spent studying was as easy as possible, he’d left without a proper explanation. He’d hurt them, confused them, and left them severely out of pocket. He was a rotten son.
He took a long breath, hoping the cool June air might ease his headache. For nearly a year, he’d avoided answering questions about his return. He’d given excuses, employed all kinds of delaying tactics, hoping time would enable him to reach an answer, but he was no nearer resolving the issue of what to do about his career than when he’d left London.
It was time to stop fudging and answer honestly. ‘I’m not sure I want to return.’
His mother stilled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
He sighed. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear. I’d hoped time out would clarify things for me, but it hasn’t. I’m more confused than ever.’
His mother looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language.
His dad frowned. ‘What’s there to be confused about? You’ve successfully completed your medical degree and the two-year foundation programme. The hard part is done. All you need to do is select a specialism.’ He made it sound so simple.
‘But that’s just it, I don’t want to specialise.’
‘Nonsense.’ His mother dismissed his words with a wave of her hand. ‘Of course you want to specialise. If you can’t decide which direction to take, then we’ll help you. We have openings on the postgraduate medical diploma at Hammersmith, but you’ll need to commit soon if you want to secure a place this coming autumn.’
‘I can get you onto the cardiology or orthopaedic programmes at St. George’s,’ his dad added, looking hopeful. ‘Just give me the nod and it’s done.’
Barney felt the weight of expectation crushing him. His parents had supported him, encouraged him, used their influence to secure him decent placements, and how had he repaid them? He’d thrown in the towel. ‘I appreciate your efforts, really I do—’
‘Even if you choose general practice,’ his dad said, cutting him off. ‘It’s not what your mother and I had hoped for, but we’d support you becoming a GP, if that’s what you wanted.’
‘But it isn’t what I want.’
His mother rubbed her temples. ‘Then what do you want, Barnabas, because quite frankly you’re testing our patience.’ She paused when the coffees arrived, waiting until the bar manager had disappeared inside before continuing. ‘We didn’t object when you announced you were taking a gap year, did we? Neither of us felt it was ideal, but we supported you. Well, you’ve had a break, it’s time to get back to work.’
He looked at his mother. ‘I already work. I’m not sitting around twiddling my thumbs.’
‘Singing in a pub and teaching tourists to surf is not proper work, and you know it.’
On the word ‘proper’, Barney recalled Charlotte Saunders’ dismissal of his employment status with equal derision. She hadn’t been impressed by his lack of a suitable career either. ‘Do you know how insulting that is? A lot of people in this area work in the tourist industry. It’s a perfectly legitimate way to earn a living.’
Alexa Hubble showed no signs of remorse. ‘I agree, for someone who hasn’t spent seven years using public resources training to be a doctor.’
He couldn’t argue with that. ‘I get that you’re disappointed. I am too. I stuck with the programme because I didn’t want to quit. I knew I’d be letting a lot of people down, but I can’t help how I feel.’
His dad placed a hand on his wife’s arm, preventing her responding. ‘So how do you feel, son?’ He was no doubt trying to be sensitive, even though he probably wanted nothing more than to shake some sense into his only child.
Barney shrugged. ‘I’m not sure medicine is for me. The stress, the long hours—’
‘Long hours?’ His mother cut him off. ‘Your generation has it easy. When your father and I trained, we worked a hundred-hour week.’ She stopped talking when her husband squeezed her arm, silently conveying that she wasn’t helping.
Henry nodded for Barney to continue. ‘Go on.’
What was the point? They wouldn’t understand; they were made differently to him. When confronted with a patient, they saw a medical problem that needed solving. It was science, factual, they were able to remain emotionally detached. When faced with the same scenario, Barney just wanted to scream, cry, and run away. These were not traits that would make him a good doctor.
He had a sudden flashback from his early days on the wards. It was late one evening and his shift was due to finish. When his bleeper went off, he’d briefly considered ignoring it, letting whoever was on next pick it up. But his morals wouldn’t let him do that, so he’d headed off to the ward. On arrival, he’d heard the nurse say to the patient, ‘It’s okay, the doctor’s here now,’ which had only increased his panic. The patient was Mrs White, a seventy-seven-year-old woman with terminal cancer. Her body was a bag of bones, her skin sallow and bruised. She was in severe pain, the agony of dying etched on her face. ‘Please,’ she’d said as he’d neared. ‘Please help me.’
He’d been frozen to the spot. The nurse had looked at him expectantly, willing him to ease the woman’s suffering. But how could he? Medical training covered disease, medication, and fixing broken bones. It didn’t tell you how to respond to a dying patient who just wanted the torment to end. Helping people had been the motivation for becoming a doctor. He liked the idea of fixing problems, but he’d quickly discovered that there wasn’t always a cure. No one had covered that on his course.
‘How much longer?’ Mrs White had asked him. ‘Why doesn’t the Lord take me? I’m ready to go.’ Tears had filled her eyes, mixed with desperation and pleading.
When the nurse had leant across and whispered to Barney, ‘Shall I call the palliative care team?’ he’d grasped the suggestion like being tossed a life jacket at sea. Help was on its way, but then Mrs White had said, ‘Will you stay with me, Doctor? I don’t have anyone else.’
He’d sat with her for several hours, holding her hand, even though she’d slipped into a morphine-induced coma. When Mrs White died later that day, Barney had twenty-nine minutes left before the start of his next shift.
The sound of his mother dragged him back to the present. ‘We’re still waiting for an answer.’
Failing to find the right words, he reverted to avoidance. ‘I need a bit more time.’
‘No