You know, mate, life really can throw anything at you. Back at our local childrens surgery, we had this cardiologist, Edward Mills charming fellow, silvering hair, kept himself in shape, a proper athlete type, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye and the sort of gentlemanly looks women notice, if you know what I mean. Every summer, just like the rest of us, hed head off for a month or two to volunteer as the doctor at the kids summer camp keeping an eye on the kitchen, weighing the children, checking bunk drawers for dodgy snacks, dabbing cuts and scrapes with antiseptic… you know, unless something more dramatic happened, god forbid.
He mustve been around thirty-eight or forty that year, full of beans. Anyway, Edward once shared this gem with us, and Ill never forget it.
It was 1985 and we had that massive anti-drinking campaign all over Britain you know, proper puritanical. Getting caught drinking at work wouldnt just get you a telling-off; youd be sent home on unpaid leave, dropped miles down the council flat queue, or even sacked outright. People meant business.
So, there Edward was: last shift, last August night at camp. Typical end-of-summer shenanigans kids wide awake, sneaking from bunk to bunk, doodling moustaches with toothpaste and green antiseptic on their mates, the young counsellors pretending to chase them but really just having a sneaky glass of cider or wine for the sake of tradition, not so much for the drink. I mean, Edward wasnt being a stick-in-the-mud either hes a doctor, not a hermit! Night passed by fine, everyone was packed up and safely herded onto buses by sunrise, sent off home to their parents at the steps of the local Civic Theatre, all present and accounted for.
After all that, Edward and the remaining staff had a quick tipple and then headed home. His family had a fine spread waiting the camp shift was over, and, straight after lunch, he and his wife, Susan, were off to spend their holiday with his mum in Brighton for that glorious September sun… Paradise, right?
Except, suddenly, it all hit him… sleepless night, cheap wine, boiling summer weather, the bus rattling his brains… he just passed out in the bushes on the edge of the city square.
By this point, everyone else from the camp had gone home, except for Anna the camp nurse who just happened to spot him. She tried to wake him, tried hauling him up, but he was completely out, dead to the world, snoring away happily. Anna knew full well that if anyone else saw Edward in such a state with the current booze witch-hunt hed be out on his ear faster than you could say Unemployment Office. But she was a good sort, didnt abandon him.
Luckily, Anna lived just around the corner, on Victoria Road, number 84. With a bit of help from passers-by, she half-hoisted, half-dragged him back to her place in their old four-bed flatshare. He must have at least been able to stumble along, because she got him onto her bed and left him to sleep it off.
Two hours later, Edward woke up, not because he was sober, but because that white wine was making an urgent bid for freedom. He tried to get up, mumbling and stumbling, and Anna just about rugby-tackled him, shushing him with her palm over his mouth. He was desperate. Anna whispered frantically that her neighbours were absolute nightmares, ready to turn a drama out of a stray crumb on the carpet, and as a single woman, if the old biddies next door saw a man in her bedroom, itd be her reputation in tatters, no question.
Edward, of course, sympathised, but it didnt help his need to pee. He told her in no uncertain terms that he was running out of time body at DEFCON one. Lucky for him, Anna was a proper nurse: she fetched a bucket, left him to it, and then discreetly whisked it away.
He started feeling vaguely human again, but then the next horror dawned: he was hours late. He should’ve been home, zipping up suitcases, as his wife, in-laws, and a battalion of relatives all waited at the table by now, theyd be ringing round hospitals and police stations! Nightmare fuel.
Trying not to panic, Edward explained the situation to Anna as quietly as possible he absolutely understood her living arrangement, but if he didnt make it home soon, her nosy neighbours would seem like kittens compared to his own mother-in-law.
Anna thought quickly: one neighbour was out, the other could be lured off to buy bread, and the third shed distract in the kitchen with camp stories. Edwards job? Walk out shoes in hand, tiptoe as quietly as a ghost, no slamming doors and escape. The plan started brilliantly: one neighbour gone, another rattling pans in the kitchen, Anna raising a racket with the kettle for cover.
Edward slid along in socked feet, shoes dangling from his fingers, trying to become invisible as he headed for the battered old front door. He gently moved the bolt but then, a huge screech from the back! Someone had returned early, and right on cue, this unmistakable, boisterous, throaty voice boomed out from behind him: Well hello there, Dr Mills!
He fumbled his shoes, dropped them with a clatter, scuffed them onto his feet, flung open the door, and, without looking back, called over his shoulder, Good afternoon, Mrs Belinda Abraham! He didnt need to look it was his mother-in-laws closest friend, and he knew the whole episode would be retold with every embarrassing detail… I mean, running through corridors with your shoes in your hands, sneaking around like a burglar!
He finally made it home half an hour later before any phone calls had arrived and everyone was equal parts excited and worried: Eddie, we were this close to calling the police! Get in here, mate, the taxi to the airports waiting! Family chaos, as always.
They went off to Brighton for holiday but, the whole time, Edward was jumpy. He was terrified the phone would ring and itd all come out. He didnt want to go near the beach or relax; he just waited for the roof to fall in. Three or four days in, his mother cornered him in the kitchen, sussed him out he confessed the whole mess.
She just sighed, Well, son, I do believe you as the song goes but, honestly, I doubt anyone else will. Theres nothing I can do to help, but enjoy the holiday. Ill handle any phone calls, no one but me will answer. Back home, youll just have to deal with the fallout. Try and get some rest, eh?
A month later, they were flying back home, and you can only imagine the dread. All the ways he imagined being confronted, the shouting, the awkward scenes… By the time the plane landed, Edward couldnt move his legs went to jelly. They were last off the plane, Susan all bronzed and radiant, her parents waving like mad at Arrivals. Where have you two been?! We were just starting to worry! Susan, you look amazing! Eddie, are you ill? You look pale, mate. Lost a bit of weight, havent you?
Edward stared at their sickly sweet faces, wondering how hed ever adored them… Full performance: home, food, toasts, questions but nothing about Mrs Belinda. He thought, fine, play your game, I can wait.
A month passed. He lost a stone, developed an arrhythmia, barely slept, zombified all day at work. Couldn’t touch a drop without feeling poisoned. The November holidays rolled in more family gatherings, wine and roasts, everyone piling round the table with the mother-in-law planted across from him.
He finally snapped, leaning over his plate and almost shouting, So, Mum, how’s your friend Mrs Abraham doing these days, by the way?
Her answer so dry, so solemn broke him. He burst out laughing, actually: hysterical, howling, knocking elbows and glasses everywhere, falling off his chair as he cackled and shook with relief and pent-up nerves. They had to splash water on him before he could sit back up, pour another drink, and finally, joyfully, eat a proper meal.
No one else really understood why hed reacted with such wild giggles to his mother-in-laws sad reply: Oh, Eddie, the very day you two left for holiday, poor Belinda had a mini-stroke and lost her speech…
And that, my friend, is just how it goes sometimes. Life always finds a way to outdo your imagination.
