Not long after lunch I collected Agnes and we drove over to Dr Goulden’s surgery. It was part of a large detached house. Brass plaques on the gatepost and front door showed it also housed Jason and Evers, Architects, and Mowbray Insurance Services. The front gardens had been tarmacked over for parking. Dr Goulden used the downstairs rooms. Reception and waiting room to the left, consulting room to the right.
The receptionist clicked us off on the computer and directed us to the waiting room. Three women were already there. No one spoke to anyone else or made eye contact.
Agnes leant over to whisper to me. ‘When we go in,’ she said, ‘I’ll explain what we want.’
I agreed. ‘You do the talking.’
We were another tedious twenty minutes waiting. I leafed through Marie Claire and Vogue. Gradually each of the three women was summoned by the buzzer and the illuminated sign inviting ‘Next patient please’, and disappeared. Then it was our turn.
Dr Goulden welcomed us with a bright smile.
‘Mrs Palmer.’ He shook Agnes by the hand and gestured to the seat at the side of his desk.
‘I’m Miss Donlan,’ said Agnes. ‘We’ve come about-’
‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted, the smile replaced by a puzzled look, ‘but I seem to have the wrong notes here.’
‘No, they’re right,’ said Agnes, sitting down. ‘We’ve come about Mrs Palmer.’
‘Aah.’ He regained his composure and fetched an extra chair over from the far corner of the room for me.
‘So,’ he held his hands open to Agnes, ‘how can I help?’
While she explained the situation and her worries I studied Dr Goulden. He was probably in his early thirties, with a square face, thick blond hair, pale blue eyes, sandy freckles. Tall, big-boned. He was impeccably dressed in blue striped shirt, dark blue suit and tie. He probably had to shop at Long and Tall or whatever that specialist shop is called. He sounded solid middle class, no trace of a regional accent. He listened attentively, his head cocked to one side just so you’d know he was listening attentively.
When Agnes had finished he said, ‘I’d just like to clarify a few points. You are a friend of Mrs Palmer’s and this is…’ He looked at me.
‘A friend of the family,’ said Agnes, ‘Sal, Sally.’
I winced visibly. People have a habit of softening my name. But I’ve never been a Sally. Sal was a pet name my dad used. My real name’s Sarah but I’ve been Sal as long as I can remember. Sally makes me feel like a six-year-old.
‘Mmm,’ Dr Goulden didn’t sound all that keen, ‘Mrs Palmer’s son is actually listed as next of kin.’