Questions of Trust A Medical Romance - By Sam Archer Page 0,4

and diet, to which Mr Biswas stuck more or less religiously depending on his frame of mind. More recently, however, the elderly man had begun to succumb to the long-term complications of the disease, and as a result his vision was deteriorating, his kidneys were functioning at a fraction of their optimal capacity, and the nerve fibres in his feet were failing to provide adequate information to his brain about sensations such as pressure and pain.

It was this last complication that was of most concern to Tom. His patient had come in for a routine check, and his cheery manner and ready smile was at first reassuring to Tom, suggesting that all was well. But when he unwrapped the dressing from around Mr Biswas’s left foot towards the end of the consultation, his heart sank. The ulcer on the man’s heel, previously mending well, had now reverted to an ugly crater.

‘Everything all right, doc?’ Mr Biswas asked.

Tom glanced up at him ruefully. ‘Afraid not.’

‘Not the ulcer again?’

‘Yep.’

There was nothing for it. The wound needed immediate swabbing, cleaning, dressing and covering with oral antibiotics, at least until the culture from the swab came back in a few days to reveal the nature of the infection. Tom knew for a fact that the practice’s nurse had left early for the day, and his fellow doctor, Ben Okoro, was busy with other patients.

Tom moved swiftly through the building, gathering the materials he needed, glancing as discreetly as he could at his watch. Five twenty-five. He’d need to finish sorting the wound out in ten minutes, tops, if he was going to make it to the nursery before it closed. Those ten minutes included getting the notoriously talkative Mr Biswas out the door without being rude to the poor man.

As Tom worked briskly, he was struck by his patient’s complete lack of reaction when he prodded and poked the wound. Most people would have hit the roof with the pain, but it was an indication of just how advanced the peripheral neuropathy was in the elderly man’s foot that he seemed not to feel a thing.

‘All done,’ said Tom, as measuredly as he could, dropping the various bits of waste into their particular containers. He scribbled a prescription – like many doctors, he’d started his career with impeccably neat handwriting which had over the years degenerated into a childish and almost illegible scrawl – and surreptitiously checked his watch again.

Five forty. He wasn’t going to make it.

A thought struck him. ‘Who brought you here, Mr Biswas?’

‘My son,’ said the old man. ‘He’s driving round the block. He couldn’t find parking.’

Tom tried not to let his dismay show. He’d have to wait with his patient until the son arrived, because he needed to talk to him about the importance of dressing his father’s wound regularly in a certain way.

Tom helped Mr Biswas with the crutches he’d supplied him – fortunately the man had used them before – and guided him slowly out into the waiting room. A couple of patients looked up from their magazines, smiled and nodded at him. Dr Okoro’s patients, whom under other circumstances Tom might offer to see on his colleague’s behalf. But not today.

At five forty-seven by the clock on the wall, the door to the surgery opened and a young Asian man came in, out of breath as if he’d been running. He stopped when he saw Tom and his father.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late. Had to park down the hill in the end.’

Tom had a quick word with him about the dressings, then hesitated. ‘If you’re parked down the hill... Mr Biswas, I’ll give you both a lift to your car.’

The elderly man shook his head.

‘Doctor, you are in a hurry. You have been very patient with me. Please, go. My son can bring the car up and keep it running while I come out.’

‘Mr Biswas, it’s really no problem –’

‘Thank you, we will be fine.’

Burning with guilt, Tom thanked him, pulled on his coat, said goodbye to Davina the receptionist and hurried out. Had it really been so obvious that he was in a rush? Had he appeared impatient? It wasn’t Mr Biswas’s fault, after all, that Tom was on a tight schedule.

As he dashed to his car, a three-year-old Ford station wagon, he speed-dialled the nursery on his mobile phone. It was answered before the first ring finished.

‘Megan? Tom Carlyle here, Kelly’s dad. Look, I’m really sorry. I’m running a bit late.’

He pictured rather than heard