timid ones, unsure and tentative. His first knock was so soft I wasn’t sure I had heard anything. For good measure I did call out, ‘Come in’ and the door handle moved slightly. I called out again, my eye on the handle.
There was a second tap and the door opened wider. A man was hovering on the threshold, a plump man with a suet pudding face and thick, bottle-bottom glasses.
‘ Mr Pritchard?’
‘ Yes. That’s right. I am he.’
A monotonic local accent, a wordy, pedantic way of speaking and an irritating, nasal voice. Not a good start.
‘ Come in,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’ One gets used to directing the proceedings.
He closed the door behind him and perched on the edge of the seat.
His trousers were too tight, plump thighs straining against the stitching. Navy blue with a grey stripe. Remnants of earlier days before his legs had encased themselves in wads of fat. Either that or from a charity shop. There were plenty of those in Larkdale. His shirt also looked either vintage seventies or charity shop, yellowed Bri-nylon, frayed at the cuffs. Over that he wore a brown, tweed jacket.
I gave him an encouraging smile. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Pritchard?’
As I moved through the preliminaries I was scrutinising him. There were no obvious signs of disease. He was pale but not breathless, sweating slightly but the surgery was overheated. Maybe he was a candidate for an early coronary. I wouldn’t have swapped his cholesterol level for mine. There was a lardy look about his face. And I couldn’t imagine him taking much exercise. He was the sort of heavy hipped, amorphous man who had not been born to be an athlete. He had been put on this earth to pick away at details in front of a small, unobtrusive desk, sitting at the back of a dark, poky office.
I also noted that he was nervous and needed prompting so I asked him again. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
He wriggled his glasses up his nose and gave an ingratiating smile. Even that didn’t do him any favours. He had bad teeth.
‘ I... wondered if you’d mind taking my blood pressure.’
Ten years, I thought, since you last consulted a medic and you’ve come in today to have your blood pressure checked? I was honour bound to ask him a few more searching questions.
‘ Have you been having problems? Headaches, tiredness, spots before the eyes?’ Again that smile. He shook his head.
‘ No aches or pains?’
Another shake of his head. Another smile. Another glimpse of brown, irregular teeth.
So with nothing to go on I asked him to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve.
His top lip was beaded with sweat as he asked me which one.
‘ Let’s try the one nearest the sphyg, shall we?’ It was recognisable medical jollity, of the type they do teach at medical school.
Rolling up his sleeves made the doughy fingers tremble so much I would have offered to do it for him had it not been for a nauseating smell of body odour. And now I knew another fact about Mr Pritchard. He was not fussy about personal hygiene. It took him ages to tuck the sleeve up his arm, one slow pleat after another while I tried to stem my impatience. I was unaccountably anxious to end the consultation. Eventually the manoeuvre was complete, the sleeve displaced well above the elbow and he rested the limb across my desk so I could wrap the cuff around it and pump up the bulb. Slowly I let the cuff down, my eyes fixed on the column of mercury until it reached the bottom. Then I unhooked the stethoscope from my ears.
I might have known the level would be raised. The signs had all been here. Fat, lazy, greedy. The trouble was it was not up enough for me to commence treatment. A few lifestyle changes should be enough. But he was only fifty-four years old and age would exacerbate it. I needed to probe into his family history.
‘ Are your mother and father alive and well, brothers and sisters?’
‘ I have no brothers or sisters.’ He coughed. ‘I am an only child. My
There was a second tap and the door opened wider. A man was hovering on the threshold, a plump man with a suet pudding face and thick, bottle-bottom glasses.
‘ Mr Pritchard?’
‘ Yes. That’s right. I am he.’
A monotonic local accent, a wordy, pedantic way of speaking and an irritating, nasal voice. Not a good start.
‘ Come in,’ I said. ‘Sit down.’ One gets used to directing the proceedings.
He closed the door behind him and perched on the edge of the seat.
His trousers were too tight, plump thighs straining against the stitching. Navy blue with a grey stripe. Remnants of earlier days before his legs had encased themselves in wads of fat. Either that or from a charity shop. There were plenty of those in Larkdale. His shirt also looked either vintage seventies or charity shop, yellowed Bri-nylon, frayed at the cuffs. Over that he wore a brown, tweed jacket.
I gave him an encouraging smile. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Pritchard?’
As I moved through the preliminaries I was scrutinising him. There were no obvious signs of disease. He was pale but not breathless, sweating slightly but the surgery was overheated. Maybe he was a candidate for an early coronary. I wouldn’t have swapped his cholesterol level for mine. There was a lardy look about his face. And I couldn’t imagine him taking much exercise. He was the sort of heavy hipped, amorphous man who had not been born to be an athlete. He had been put on this earth to pick away at details in front of a small, unobtrusive desk, sitting at the back of a dark, poky office.
I also noted that he was nervous and needed prompting so I asked him again. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
He wriggled his glasses up his nose and gave an ingratiating smile. Even that didn’t do him any favours. He had bad teeth.
‘ I... wondered if you’d mind taking my blood pressure.’
Ten years, I thought, since you last consulted a medic and you’ve come in today to have your blood pressure checked? I was honour bound to ask him a few more searching questions.
‘ Have you been having problems? Headaches, tiredness, spots before the eyes?’ Again that smile. He shook his head.
‘ No aches or pains?’
Another shake of his head. Another smile. Another glimpse of brown, irregular teeth.
So with nothing to go on I asked him to remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve.
His top lip was beaded with sweat as he asked me which one.
‘ Let’s try the one nearest the sphyg, shall we?’ It was recognisable medical jollity, of the type they do teach at medical school.
Rolling up his sleeves made the doughy fingers tremble so much I would have offered to do it for him had it not been for a nauseating smell of body odour. And now I knew another fact about Mr Pritchard. He was not fussy about personal hygiene. It took him ages to tuck the sleeve up his arm, one slow pleat after another while I tried to stem my impatience. I was unaccountably anxious to end the consultation. Eventually the manoeuvre was complete, the sleeve displaced well above the elbow and he rested the limb across my desk so I could wrap the cuff around it and pump up the bulb. Slowly I let the cuff down, my eyes fixed on the column of mercury until it reached the bottom. Then I unhooked the stethoscope from my ears.
I might have known the level would be raised. The signs had all been here. Fat, lazy, greedy. The trouble was it was not up enough for me to commence treatment. A few lifestyle changes should be enough. But he was only fifty-four years old and age would exacerbate it. I needed to probe into his family history.
‘ Are your mother and father alive and well, brothers and sisters?’
‘ I have no brothers or sisters.’ He coughed. ‘I am an only child. My
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