Margaret Harris wiped dust from the photo frame, showing her younger self smiling beside colleagues in her crisp white coat. Back then, life felt wide open, brimming with hope that she’d be a brilliant doctor, saving lives and earning gratitude.
“Mum, not that old photo again?” Her daughter’s voice drifted from the hall. “Put it away. Why torture yourself?”
“Not your business, Eleanor,” Margaret mumbled, her hands shaking regardless. “Go wash the dishes.”
Eleanor came in, sitting beside her on the sofa. “Mum, seriously? It’s been forever. You’re the only one who remembers.”
“Don’t remember?” Margaret gave a bitter little laugh. “Jane Ellis certainly does. Ran into her at Tesco yesterday, wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Maybe she didn’t see you! Or forgot her glasses. Mum, you’ve got to stop beating yourself up!”
Margaret placed the frame back, turning towards the window. Fine rain fell outside, as dreary as her mood. Funny, she used to love rain, saying it washed troubles away…
It began thirty years ago when Margaret was a GP at the Blackwood Health Centre. Young, eager, she tried helping every patient, working twelve-hour days. Colleagues respected her, patients adored her, the Lead GP held her up as an example.
One day, Edith Brown came in. An elderly widow, often complaining of heart pains. Margaret was used to her visits; Edith lived alone, no children, and the GP was her main company.
“Doctor, love,” Edith fretted, settling heavily into the chair. “My heart’s been dreadful. Up all night, thought I wouldn’t see morning.”
“Let’s have a listen,” Margaret pressed the stethoscope to Edith’s chest. The beat was steady, regular. No issues. “Edith, sounds fine. Could stress be bothering you?”
“Oh, doctor! The pain’s sharp as a knife!” The old woman clutched her chest. “Could you give me an injection? Maybe admit me? It’s frightening being alone!”
Outside, the queue for afternoon appointments was gathering. Time was tight, and her young son was home with fever. Margaret rubbed her temples wearily. “Edith, I’ve checked thoroughly. Heart sounds normal, pressure’s fine. Take some valerian root and get proper sleep. Call an ambulance if it gets worse.”
“But Doctor…”
“Sorry, I have a full list. Goodbye.”
Slowly, Edith stood. She gave Margaret one last hopeful look, but the doctor was already calling the next patient. Edith sighed and shuffled out.
Margaret forgot all about it. Home meant caring for her sick boy, her husband late from work, chores piled high. Next day was another clinic: patients, paperwork, rushing.
Then came the call from the ambulance service.
“Margaret Harris? Edith Brown saw you yesterday. She suffered a massive heart attack. We couldn’t get her to hospital in time…”
The phone clattered to the floor. The room spun. Impossible. Yesterday, Edith’s heart was strong…
“Mum?” Little Eleanor asked fearfully nearby. “What happened?”
“Nothing, love, nothing,” Margaret whispered, tears already falling.
Word spread fast in a small town like Blackwood. The Lead GP summoned Margaret.
“What happened with Edith Brown?”
“Marianne, I examined her! Everything was normal! Heartbeat fine, just her usual age-related…”
“Family is lodging a complaint with the NHS trust. Alleging refusal to admit her.”
“Family? She had no one!”
“A niece, apparently. Lives in Sheffield now. Quite the forceful woman – works for the Crown Prosecution Service. Margaret, you’re a good clinician, but this is serious. An investigation is unavoidable.”
The inquiries lasted months. Margaret faced committees, gave explanations, Edith’s notes were scrutinized. Colleagues drifted away. Rumours flew through the centre.
“Heard Margaret Harris might lose her licence?” murmured Nurse Claire Miller. “Said she ignored the old dear, sent her packing.”
“Nonsense!” protested another doctor. “Margaret’s meticulous!”
“It happened! Jane Ellis told me – she was in the queue! Heard Edith beg for an injection, and our Margaret refused.”
Each day added fresh rumours: Margaret drunk in clinic, Margaret snapping at Edith, Margaret barely glancing at her. Truth vanished amidst whispers and gossip.
Her husband tried to support her, but saw her crumbling – sleepless, thin, snappish. At home: silence or tears.
“Meg, maybe see someone? A counselor?” he suggested gently one evening.
“I’m not mad!” she flared. “I just can’t grasp it! She was truly fine!”
“Medicine isn’t perfect. These things happen. You weren’t to blame her heart gave out.”
“But what if I was? What if I missed something? Should I have admitted her?”
Six months later, the panel ruled: no medical negligence found, but recommended increased vigilance with elderly patients. Margret was cleared officially, but her reputation was shattered forever.
Working at the centre became unbearable. Colleagues avoided her gaze; patients reacted strangely – some too scared to see her, others booking explicitly to see “that doctor who killed the old lady.”
“Marianne,” Margaret pleaded, “can I transfer? Another clinic?”
“Margaret, the situation’s delicate. Best wait. Time heals.”
But time didn’t heal. Each day echoed that tragedy. Margaret became terrified of elderly patients, ordering referrals for every minor complaint. Colleagues mocked:
“Our Margaret sends everyone to hospital now. Worried she’ll lose another.”
A year later, she resigned. Found a job at a private clinic where her past was unknown. But it didn’t last – whenever an elderly patient came in, her hands shook, her voice wavered. Her doctoring career ended.
Margaret returned to work as a lab assistant at the same health centre. Salary plummeted, status crumbled, but she didn’t make life-or-death choices anymore.
“Mum, why go back there?” Eleanor objected later. “They all remember!”
“Where else? My training’s medical. I can’t be a doctor now.”
“So retrain! It’s not too late for a fresh start!”
“Easy to say. Suppose I fail again? No, better stay somewhere familiar.”
Colleagues reacted variably – pitying glances, quiet scorn. Jane Ellis, who’d overheard the fatal consultation, was Senior Practice Nurse now. She never missed a chance to remind Margaret.
“Remember Edith Brown, Margaret? Sent her packing,” Jane would say within earshot. “Poor woman knew she was dying, and you dismissed her.”
“Jane, stop that,” some colleagues urged, but she was relentless.
“Stop? Doctors must answer for errors. It’s why folks lose faith.”
Margaret stayed silent, clenching her jaw. At home, she told her husband, but he’d wearied of it.
“Meg, stop blaming yourself. You did all you could. Anyone could have that heart attack.”
“But what if they couldn’t? What if admitting her saved her?”
“What if not? You can’t live tormented by ‘what ifs’.”
Yet Margaret couldn’t let go. She pored over medical texts, studied pre-infarction symptoms, desperate to pinpoint her error. The more she read, the clearer it became: Edith showed no classic warning signs.
Still, the guilt clung. It hurt most meeting townsfolk who remembered – turning away, pitying stares, muttered gossip.
“Mum, let’s move,” adult Eleanor urged. “A new town, where no one knows.”
“Move where? Who’d want me? I have work here, the flat.”
“It’s lab work! You’ve got your degrees, you’re delivering blood samples!”
“But it’s safe.
And there she sat, staring at that young face in the white coat while the rain tapped harder against the glass, a prisoner of that single afternoon thirty years back she just couldn’t step free from.
