Hattie Beresford's Appointment

Hattie Beresford’s Appointment

The waiting room was full. People coughed, sniffed and one man could be heard drawing mucus up from labouring lungs, before depositing his cache into a grimy, discoloured handkerchief. He had the grace to look around apologetically, as he did so.

           Across the aisle Hattie sighed, hoping her appointment with Doctor Scanlan would be called soon. She’d fought hard to get it, the next one available being in three weeks time – imagine! Did they think people planned their illnesses? No, Madame, the next time you can be ill is February twenty-third, would 3.30 suit? She couldn’t help smiling though. It didn’t really matter, did it? Because – and it was a big because – in a few hours time, she’d lean across the perfectly laid table for two, and inform her boyfriend of six months that they were about to be parents – oh, joy! She just knew Greg would be delighted.

           In her mind, he’d rise slowly from his chair, in her miniscule apartment, all the time his eyes growing moist with happiness and come round to her side of the table. He’d kneel down, take her hands in his, and bury his head in her lap, where he’d cry with absolute abandon. Later, as they’d lie in her huge, marshmallowy bed – all eight grey and yellow colour-coordinated cushions having been thrown to the floor, in a neat and tidy heap, naturally – they’d make plans. 

           But first, she’d tell him that she thought it was a good idea for them to have a mini-break together. Just a tiny one. Maybe a long Bank Holiday weekend? A two-nighter in a cosy country house hotel, then? Oh, God – she’d settle for just an overnighter – anything, if it meant being able to get away with the love of her life. Away from the prying eyes of her nosy neighbours; away from the whispered comments which suddenly stopped when she entered the little office kitchen in work; away from her friends who said she was stupid. And, anyway, they’d never been able to snatch any meaningful time away together – pressure of work, Greg said – so, this time, she’d insist. She hugged the thought to herself, feeling warm with anticipation at Greg’s reaction over their romantic dinner later that evening. There was just the small matter of having the pregnancy confirmed first. Where was that doctor?

           Hattie looked idly around the waiting room. She definitely wouldn’t paint any of her walls that awful shade of … wet mushroom. It clashed violently with the orange, hard-plastic chairs lined up in rows of six and, quite obviously, nailed to the floor. As if anyone would want to steal them – God forbid! They reminded her of discarded pumpkins after Halloween night.

           Electrical wires looped haphazardly across one wall, all heading towards the one, lonely socket, low down in the far corner of the room. Admittedly, someone had tried their best to corral them together with several rounds of black sticky tape. Yellow and black notices shouted out the dangers of the snaking flexes, telling people ‘Do Not Touch’ and ‘Beware – live wires’ as if they were naughty, unpredictable infants liable, at any moment, to do something utterly silly. Where was Health & Safety when you needed them? Granted, the building was new and still undergoing some work.

‘But,’ she’d heard the Receptionist tell the patient before her, ‘we’ve opened way too early. Can’t you see the dust? It’s still swirling around everywhere, look! It’s amazing we’re not all gone down with silicosis!’ the thin-lipped woman sniped, pounding the patient’s details into the computer keyboard.        

           While Hattie couldn’t see the dust motes that were presumably choking staff to death, she could see an assortment of posters clinging to the mushroom walls. One asked if Hattie had had her winter ‘flu jab – a bit late in the middle of February. Another warned her of the dangers of obesity – she consciously drew in her tummy and pushed her chest out, correcting her slumping posture on the rock-hard seat. Another – and at this Hattie looked surreptitiously around to see if anyone could see her reading it – asked when was the last time she’d had an STD test – really? She lowered her eyes, hoping no-one could see the beetroot flush climbing up her neck towards her dimpled cheeks and decided instead to think lovely thoughts. Like the first time Greg had spoken to her – oh, joy! She’d floated home from the office that day on a cushiony cloud of love – and diesel fumes from the buses which insisted on invading her space close to the bicycle lane she was in.

           She’d only joined the company two weeks before – as Personal Assistant to Mr. Arnold Shepherd, owner of Wise Words Card Company. ‘There’s no occasion one can’t celebrate with words, Hattie,’ he’d told her on her first day. ‘Weddings, funerals, birthdays, baptisms, bar mitzvahs and, dare I say it, even divorces now!’ he boomed. No, never one to miss an opportunity was Mr. Shepherd. He’d even taken on a super-clever young lad who ran their on-line business too. ‘Dragged Wise Words into the 20^thcentury he has!’ laughed her boss

           The super-clever young lad was constantly in Hattie’s office. For someone so intelligent he needed a lot of reassurance, Hattie thought. He asked her opinion on the new website he was designing – what did she know of websites, Hattie wondered? He asked after her weekend – what did she do, where did she go? What was her favourite film? Her favourite actress? What had she watched on TV on Saturday night? Everyone else, except Hattie, could see he was interested in her. But then not many people were as disconnected to, or inexperienced in the world of romance as Hattie was.

           And then, on her tenth day, Greg Ainsworth walked in to see Mr. Shepherd.

           From then on Hattie beamed every time she saw his tanned, handsome face peer around her office door. ‘Boss available?’ he’d ask. He told her later it was just to see her walk around the desk and enter Mr. Shepherd’s office to enquire if he was free. And he was always free for Greg. But then, he was his uncle.

           And after a month he’d asked her out – very hush-hush, of course. She couldn’t believe it! Greg – who could have any woman on the planet – asked her, Hattie Beresford, spinster of the Parish – out on a date. Oh, joy! Her life was beginning, at last.

           Of course she’d known he was married. Mr. Shepherd often asked after Letitia, his wife, when Greg would drop up to his office. But, on their very first date together, which they’d spent in her apartment, he’d told her of his very unhappy marriage situation. Sure, Letitia was a lovely woman. But no-one, absolutely no-one, would believe how unhappy his life really was behind the closed doors of their extremely large Victorian house, nestled in a leafy suburb not too far from the office. She knew how pretty it was because she’d cycled past – just out of curiosity, as one does. 

           Greg could never be accused of speaking badly of his wife. But it was always there, under the surface, the implied criticism of her behaviour, her cruel and constant barbs to him. They had no children, so there was no impediment to his leaving her. Except – and Greg grew sad when he referred to it – her total reliance on alcohol. Again, never actually spelled out, but a hand miming a tippling glass and the rolling of eyes, was enough for Hattie. 

           ‘You poor man,’ she’d said quietly, stroking his head gently, which just happened to be lying against her bare breasts, his blond hair tickling her nipple. They made love. And Hattie totally understood why they could never go to restaurants together, to see her favourite film at the Odeon, or walk hand-in-hand of an evening along the towpath down by the canal.

           Her friends, Tess and Dana, said she was stupid. He was leading her on, they told her. So she gave them up. And happily spent her evenings – when Greg could get away – cooking his favourite meals, pouring him a glass of his favourite wine as they watched TV for a stolen hour or so. And they’d make love. They always made love. He’d told her he and Letitia hadn’t slept together for years. And she knew it was true. Because he couldn’t get enough of her. Even if it was sometimes hurried, sometimes a little brutal. But, she sighed to herself one night as she heard the click of the lock behind him, it’s all in the name of love, isn’t it? And it won’t always be like this. 

           And, here she was, on the verge of having her happiness confirmed. She’d need to move to a larger apartment, one with a room for the baby. It might be a little tight, financially, but Greg would be there too, so they’d manage.

           ‘Hattie Beresford?’ the sour-faced Receptionist called. Hattie approached the desk, where a sample bottle was pushed in her face. ‘A good flow, please, then bring it back here. If I’m not here, just leave it on the desk – carefully,’ she instructed, as if talking to an imbecile. 

           Red-faced, Hattie walked towards the Ladies, clutching the offending item against the breasts Greg loved so much. 

           ‘She’s going to do a wee, Ma,’ she heard a toddler say from the floor. Those who weren’t already aware of what she was about to do, now turned their heads, following her progress.

 At least the toilet was empty, Hattie thought gratefully, as she scuttled inside. It was a cramped little room, not much bigger than a large cupboard, making movement difficult. But, finally, it was done and Hattie was screwing the top back on the plastic bottle, when there was a loud thump on the door.

           ‘There’s other people out here, you know,’ said a man’s voice, gruffly.

           ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Hattie said, frantically grabbing her belongings while attempting to unlock the door at the same time. ‘No need to shout,’ she said quietly as she passed a very large, perspiring red-faced man.

           Back out in the waiting area, Hattie almost collided with a figure coming in from the car park, as she headed over to the reception desk. The Receptionist was no-where to be seen. Hattie waited. As did the other lady.

           Within seconds footsteps could be heard marching down the corridor towards the waiting room.

           ‘Ah, Mrs. Ainsworth,’ the woman said, greeting the other woman. ‘Here for your twelve-week checkup? How have you been? Doctor Scanlan will be with you in a while. Why don’t you take a seat?’

           ‘Gladly,’ the woman replied, ‘my back is killing me,’ the pretty petite blonde said smiling, one hand pressing into her slim back, the other massaging the large bump protruding from her scarlet wool swing-coat. Greg’s wife was like an advertisement for healthy living – glowing skin, shiny hair and beautifully manicured hands. And her smile – Hattie would never forget her smile.

           And shy Hattie Beresford, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, felt a blinding rage take hold and a coldness clench her heart. The voices around her faded, becoming fuzzy. But her eyes, like flint, never wavered from the other woman. She held out  her hand.

           ‘Hi, Mrs. Ainsworth, I’m Hattie Beresford – your husband’s lover,’ and she couldn’t help leaning back, her hand slowly stroking her not-yet protruding stomach. At the same time, she reached over the high counter of the reception desk, placing the container in front of the sourpuss receptionist. 

           Except – and this was a big except – somehow she’d managed, in her haste from the toilet, to leave the top slightly open. She watched, mesmerised, as a puddle of yellow urine, like diluted golden syrup, spread slowly across the file-filled desk, before dripping in slow-motion rivulets onto the woman’s black leather brogues.

           With a determined flick of her head, Hattie turned, walking slowly away from the dazed faces of the two women – and smiled. 

2005 words