If Only We’d Met Sooner…
Valerie arrived at the surgery right on time, collected her records from reception, and headed upstairs. Outside Room 12, every chair was taken by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill was a man—tall, calm, and noticeably younger than the others.
“Are you all here for Room 12?” Valerie asked hesitantly.
“Room 12, love. You’ll be behind that gentleman by the window,” one woman replied.
“But I’ve got an appointment slip,” Valerie said, fishing it from her pocket.
“So’ve we all,” croaked a wiry, silver-haired old chap.
Catching the man’s curious glance, Valerie wandered over. “You’ve got a slip too? What time’s yours?”
“Half nine,” he answered cheerfully.
She blinked. “Then why are you still queueing? Your slot’s long gone. Did you miss it?”
“*We* weren’t late—came early, even. The doc’s the one running behind,” the old chap cut in. The group erupted into grumbles about “typical NHS inefficiency.”
“What’s the point of appointments if it’s first come, first served?” Valerie huffed.
“Fancy complaining? Waste of time. First, some ‘war veteran’—more like seventy, same as me—waltzed straight in. Then the practice manager shoved her mate ahead. Forty minutes of ‘consulting,’ my foot. Free healthcare for you,” the old man groused.
“At this rate, we’ll be here till closing. Do I need another slip tomorrow?” Valerie appealed to the man by the window.
“Relax, he’ll see everyone—quick as a wink, mind. He’s human too. Knows the system’s rotten but can’t fix it.” The old man wagged a gnarled finger. “Their motto? ‘Don’t like it? Go private.’”
“But that’s not right—” Valerie’s indignation bubbled like a neglected kettle.
“Save your breath. Won’t change a thing, and you’ll only upset yourself,” the man said philosophically.
She lingered, torn between a two-hour wait or leaving.
“Orthopaedics is always a nightmare. One specialist, dozens of us. He’ll send you for an X-ray, where there’s *another* queue. Then back here with the results…” The old man sighed. The chorus of agreement swelled.
*Maybe I should just go,* Valerie thought—but stayed rooted, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked. She looked at him but said nothing. “Is it serious, then?”
“Suppose everyone here thinks theirs is.” With a last glance at Room 12, she pushed off the sill and strode toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned—he was limping after her.
“Changed your mind too?” she asked, oddly comforted by his company.
“Ever tried private?” she ventured.
“Same doctors, just £200 a pop,” he shrugged.
Outside, he nodded at the bus stop. “You waiting?”
“No, I’ll walk. Clear my head.” She marched past it.
“Mind if I join you?”
“You’ll struggle. Should’ve waited for the bus,” she said, slowing despite herself. *Persistent, isn’t he?*
“I recognised you. We got our slips together Monday, then shared the 243 home. You live near me—same stop.”
“You *followed* me?” Valerie flushed. *Absolute nutter.*
“Coincidence.”
They walked in silence, Valerie matching his hobbled pace. Two stops later, they boarded a bus. At their shared stop, he gestured to a block of flats. “That’s me. Let me walk you home?”
“How’s the leg? Painful?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy joining our lot tomorrow? Social club at the community centre. They’re a laugh.”
“Not my scene. Your mates, not mine,” she said, desperate to shake him off.
“Shame. I’m ex-theatre—well, nearly. ‘Bright future,’ they said.” He chuckled at her sceptical look.
“What stopped you?” *Here we go—the sob story.*
“Love. Fell hard for the prettiest girl in drama school. One night on Tower Bridge—lights on the Thames, all romantic—I confessed.”
“And?” Valerie’s curiosity got the better of her. They’d reached her door, but she lingered.
“‘Prove it,’ she said. Made me climb the suspension cables. Reckoned I’d look heroic. Got halfway up, froze, and fell. Smashed my leg. Career over.”
“Did she visit you in hospital?”
“Apologised, then married a classmate. Ended up on *EastEnders*. I started a club for washed-up talents like me. We sing, read poetry—good crack. Coming?”
“Maybe. What time?”
“Six at the centre. Ask for Neville Whitcombe. Everyone knows me.” He gave a theatrical bow.
Valerie said she’d think about it. As she entered her building, she glanced back—he was still watching.
Next evening, curiosity won. The centre’s group was surprisingly polished—guitar duets, soulful readings, even a chap reciting his novel. Then Neville sang. His velvet baritone brought her to tears.
“Bloody criminal he never made it big,” whispered a member.
“Enjoyed yourself?” Neville asked later on the bus.
“You’re *good*. Proper West End material.”
“Fame’s overrated. That girl wasn’t worth the fall, anyway.”
They took weekly park strolls. Neville recited his poetry; Valerie drank it in. He was open about his past—failed marriage, regrets—but never pried into hers.
At her birthday bash, Neville wowed her friends with roses and guitar solos.
“Mum, where’d you find *him*?” her daughter hissed in the kitchen.
“Orthopaedics queue.”
“Knee playing up again?”
“Forgot all about it,” Valerie admitted, blushing.
“Ooh, you’ve got it bad! Even *I* got goosebumps. Ask him out!”
“Ten years sooner, maybe…”
“Rubbish! He’s smitten. You invited him *here*!”
Valerie *had* noticed his glances—the ones that made her heart flutter. She’d never expected to feel this giddy at her age.
Then he vanished. No calls, no texts. His phone was dead. Panicked, she went to his flat. A neighbour broke the news: “Ambulance took him. Heart trouble, they said.”
His son answered the door. “Dad spoke of you. Wished you’d met sooner.”
Valerie’s chest tightened. “Is he—?”
“Gone. Funeral’s tomorrow. He wanted you there.”
She barely remembered the journey home. At the funeral, his group mourned their “brightest star,” promising to publish his poems.
Weeks later, her knee aching again, Valerie returned to Room 12. The same crowd waited. She stood by the window—just as Neville had—then left.
On the street, she heard uneven footsteps behind her. Walking on, she talked to him softly. Passers-by stared, but she didn’t care. She knew he’d always be there.
