‘She’s not sure. But she wants to give the place a trial run.’
‘Shouldn’t we be the ones to offer her the trial run?’
Olly was quite territorial about their practice. It had been in the James family for some time. His own father, and Patrick’s father, Dermot, had run it before him. The fact that his father had sought a female locum also annoyed him. His father was probably trying to matchmake again. Find Olly a wife, who would then provide them all with the next line of doctors for the village of Atlee Wold.
‘We can but see. She’s a charming girl. I think you’ll like her,’ his father said, with a twinkle in his eyes that was obvious in its implication.
‘Dad, you’d make an awful Cupid.’
His father frowned in wry amusement, his brow furrowing into long lines across his weathered forehead. ‘Why?’
‘Because the wings wouldn’t suit you and I’m not sure I’d want to trust you with a bow and arrow.’
‘Don’t know what you mean. Besides, you’ve got no worries there, son. She won’t match any of the criteria on your “perfect wife” list.’
Olly laughed. Everyone joked about his list. Even if he didn’t. There was a serious point to it, after all. If a woman were to be his wife, then she’d need particular qualities. The wife of a country doctor had to have certain standards. Respectability, loyalty, charm, an inner beauty and a calm head on a solid pair of shoulders. Someone who could hold the fort and rear the children. Okay, it might make him seem a bit Victorian in his thinking, but what was wrong with wanting a dependable woman?
‘Good. I’d hate to think you were Cupid in disguise. Like I said, with your eyesight the arrows could end up anywhere.’
Patrick helped his son pack up, switch off all the lights and then make sure his call bag was stocked with anything he might need for the night. Then, despite the snow, despite the cold, and despite his tiredness, Patrick and Olly got into Olly’s four-wheel drive and set off for the village hall.
It really wasn’t very far. Less than a mile. But the snow was thick and still falling. The towns and busy roads in the cities might have grit and salt, but here in Atlee Wold, a Hampshire backwater, they seemed to be lacking everything except table salt from the village shop, which the locals had put out. Some had even put out kitty litter to grit their pathways. Those that were able to shovelled the pathways of those that weren’t.
Theirs was a strong community, where people helped each other out where they could. But Olly really hadn’t expected that there would be nowhere for him to park in the village hall car park! Or that the pathway would be so well trampled by the many feet that had passed that he could actually see the pavement.
Or that there’d be the beat and throb of loud exotic music clearly heard from some distance away.
‘Well, I’ll be …’
He parked his four-wheel drive by a tall hedge and when he pushed open his car door to get out it sent down a spray of snow on top of him. Some of it went down the back of his neck and top and he shivered as the icy crystals tickled his spine.
‘Ugh!’
Patrick laughed. ‘Looks like a full house.’
‘You don’t have to be so delighted.’
The village hall was lit along its gutters with old Christmas lights that hadn’t yet been taken down, and from the windows bright yellow light flared. There was the sound of Indian music, loud but muffled, emanating from the building itself, with an earthy beat.
Olly shook his head with disbelief. How had a complete stranger managed to rabble-rouse an entire village to do belly dancing? He might have expected the hall to be full if it was a gardening class or crochet, bingo or a knitting circle, but belly dancing?
Part of him just couldn’t wait to meet this Wonder Woman. An image of her was building in his head. She was a GP, so she had to be somewhat sensible. Someone middle-aged and quite strait-laced who did belly dancing because it was just something different? Perhaps she had to fight for attention and this was her way … As his father said, not a woman to threaten his list of the attributes a ‘perfect wife’ ought to have.
Belly-dancing instructor was nowhere on the list at all!
Shaking the snow from his shoulders, he entered the village hall after his father. There was a small foyer that they went into first, with a tuck shop to one side. Then there were two large rooms in the village hall and one was in darkness. From the other the music blared.
‘You ready?’ His father had to raise his voice to be heard.
‘Of course I am!’ he called back, pulling open the door.
But he stopped in his tracks when he saw the woman leading the class. His dad even bumped into him from behind.
Olly gaped open-mouthed at the new locum GP.
This is not what I expected.
She was petite—elfin, almost—with a graceful, slim, but womanly figure which he couldn’t help but notice due to her clothing. Or what there was of it. Her dark, almost black hair was cut short at the back, but at the front it was long and multicoloured—cyan blue, purple and pink streaks fell across her face. Her arms were layered with bangles and she had a red jewel in her belly button and she twirled and swirled and sashayed as she led the class in ‘undulation one’.
‘All right, Olly?’ his dad asked, staring at his son in amusement.
How can this woman be a GP? She doesn’t look like one.
But what was a GP supposed to look like? There was a shimmery wrap around her waist, tightly sheathing her perfectly curved bottom, and it tinkled and glimmered as she moved. Then, as she pointed her tiny feet, he noticed tattoos and nail polish and toe rings, before his eyes rose back up to her face to see large brown eyes, rosy cheeks and a cheeky smile.
Patrick leaned in closer to his son to whisper in his ear. ‘Close your mouth. You look like a hungry hippo.’
Olly did as he was told and swallowed hard. This wasn’t a GP. She looked like a pixie. An imp. Or a fairy. Yes, that was it—a fairy.
If she turns around I’ll see she’s got wings on her back.
But there were no wings. Just another tattoo. He couldn’t make out what it was from this distance …
And the hall was full! Here were people and patients that he knew well. People who suffered from arthritis and hip problems and knee problems. And here they all were, shaking their booty with the best of them, smiles plastered across their faces.
They must be off their meds.
Or their heads.
One of his patients, Mrs Macabee, noticed him from her position midway down the class. ‘Ooh, hello, Dr James! Fancy seeing you here! Are you joining us?’
He watched Mrs Macabee tilt her hip up and down, up and down. He blinked his head to clear the image, remembered what he was there for and then smiled politely. ‘Sorry, Mrs M, I don’t dance—and besides, I’m here on business.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard.
‘This is business?’ She laughed as she followed their new GP in her instructions.
He simply couldn’t believe it. Here was half the village, packing out the small hall—young and old, self-respect be damned, all kitted out with hip scarves and coin-edged skirts, shaking their backsides and waving their arms about.
The music was catchy, though, and he was unaware that his foot had been tapping to the beat until it suddenly stopped and everyone started clapping