Eleanor Elizabeth Hamilton wiped dust from the photograph frame capturing her younger self in a white coat beside colleagues. Youthful, smiling, brimming with hope. Back then, she felt her entire life lay ahead, convinced she’d be a splendid doctor who saved lives and earned gratitude.
“Mum, dwelling on the past again?” Her daughter’s voice echoed from the hall. “Put those photos away now. Why torture yourself?”
“Not your concern, Catherine,” Eleanor murmured, though her hands trembled. “Go wash the dishes.”
Catherine entered the room, sitting beside her mother on the sofa. “Mum, how much longer? Years have passed, yet you cling to this guilt. No one remembers that incident except you.”
“Not remember?” Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “Henrietta Phyllis Clarke remembers. Met her at the grocer’s yesterday; she wouldn’t even turn her head. Pretends not to see.”
“She probably didn’t notice! Or forgot her spectacles. Mum, please, stop punishing yourself!” Eleanor returned the frame to its place, turning towards the window. Fine rain drizzled outside, as dreary as her mood. Once, she’d loved the rain, claiming it washed away sorrows…
It began thirty years prior when Eleanor worked as a local GP at the Chesterfield Health Centre. Young and energetic, she strived to aid every patient, working twelve-hour shifts. Colleagues respected her, patients cherished her, the Practice Nurse Manager cited her as exemplary.
That day, Edith Margaret Brown attended her surgery, an elderly woman frequently complaining of heart pains. Eleanor was accustomed to her visits, knowing the widow lived alone with no children, finding solace only in her doctor.
“Doctor dear,” Edith fretted, settling onto the chair, “my heart pains are frightful. Lay awake all night, thought I might pass.”
“Let’s have a listen,” Eleanor applied her stethoscope. The heartbeat was steady, no irregularities audible.
“Edith, all seems well. Perhaps something has caused you stress?”
“Oh, Doctor! The pain’s sharp as a knife!” The elderly woman clutched her chest. “Might you give me an injection? Or arrange hospital? So frightening alone!”
Outside the surgery, the next day’s queue grew; time was desperately short, and her young son awaited at home with a fever. Eleanor wearily rubbed her temples.
“Edith, I’ve examined you thoroughly. Heart functions normally, blood pressure fine. Take your valerian and get proper rest. Call an ambulance immediately if it worsens.”
“But Doctor…”
“Apologies, many patients remain. Good day.”
The woman rose slowly from the chair, casting a hopeful glance at Eleanor, already calling the next patient. Edith sighed and shuffled away.
Eleanor instantly forgot the consult. Home required tending her feverish son; her husband worked late; demands were immense. Next day brought another surgery – patients, paperwork, bustle.
Then, a morning call from the ambulance service.
“Eleanor Elizabeth Hamilton? Edith Margaret Brown consulted you yesterday. She suffered a massive heart attack. We couldn’t reach the hospital…”
The receiver clattered from Eleanor’s grasp. The room swam. Impossible. Yesterday… the heartbeat was regular…
“Mum? What’s happened?” asked little Catherine, playing nearby with dolls.
“Nothing, darling,” Eleanor mumbled, tears already streaming.
News swept Chesterfield swiftly. The Practice Nurse Manager summoned Eleanor.
“What transpired with Mrs. Brown?”
“Margaret Isobel, I examined her; all seemed normal! Steady rhythm, only age-related complaints…”
“The family lodges a complaint with the regional health trust. Claim you declined admission.”
“What family? She had none!”
“A niece in Derby, apparently. A forceful lady, works in Crown Prosecution Service. Eleanor, I know you’re capable, but this is grave. An inquiry is necessary.”
The investigation stretched months. Commissions demanded Eleanor’s account, studied Edith’s notes. Initially supportive colleagues grew distant. Rumours swirled, hushed whispers.
“Heard they’ll revoke Eleanor’s registration,” Nurse Gladys Phyllis remarked. “They say she dismissed the old dear.”
“Nonsense!” a colleague retorted. “Dr. Hamilton’s meticulous!”
“So it seems,” Gladys insisted. “Henrietta Phyllis told me – she heard it in the queue. The woman begged for an injection; Eleanor refused.”
Tales mushroomed daily – Eleanor drunken at work, rude, neglectful. Truth vanished amongst speculation and gossip.
Her husband offered support, witnessing her unravel. Eleanor slept poorly, grew thin and irritable; silent or weeping at home.
“Eleanor, perhaps see an analyst?” he carefully suggested one evening.
“I’m not unhinged!” she snapped. “I simply fail to understand! All truly seemed normal!”
“Medicine isn’t exact. You’re not culpable.”
“Might I be? Might I’ve overlooked something? Perhaps hospital admission was crucial?”
Six months later, the inquiry concluded: no negligence evidenced, yet advised heightened vigilance with elderly patients. Officially cleared, Eleanor’s reputation remained forever sullied.
Working at the Health Centre grew unbearable. Colleagues’ glances spoke volumes, patients altered – some feared appointments, others booked specifically to see “that doctor who killed the old lady.”
“Margaret Isobel,” Eleanor appealed, “might I transfer to another parish? Or department?”
“Eleanor, circumstances are delicate presently. Best await settlement. Time heals.”
Yet time brought no healing. Each day recalled the calamity. Fearful of elderly patients, Eleanor over-referred, prescribed excessive tests. Colleagues mocked:
“Our Eleanor sends everyone to hospital now. Afraid of losing another.”
A year later, she resigned. Secured work at a Derby private clinic where none knew her past. It too proved untenable – elderly patients triggered trembling hands, faltering speech. Her doctoring days ended.
Eleanor took a lab technician post back at Chesterfield Health Centre. Pay plummeted, status vanished, yet decisions sparing life weren’t hers.
“Mum, why return there?” protested adolescent Catherine. “Everyone remembers!”
“Where else? My skill is medical, yet doctoring is beyond me.”
“Retrain! Your age permits new paths!”
“Simpler said. What if failure finds me anew? Better the familiar place.”
Colleagues reacted diversely. Some pitied, others gloated. Henrietta Phyllis Clarke, now Senior Sister who’d overheard Edith’s plea, never missed reminding her.
“Recall, Eleanor, how you dismissed Mrs. Brown?” she’d state before others. “Poor soul likely sensed her fate, yet you refused aid.”
“Henrietta, peace,” some colleagues urged, yet she remained relentless.
“Peace? Physicians must answer for conduct! Folk lose trust in doctors because of her like.”
Eleanor stayed silent, clenched her teeth, laboured on. Home confessions to her husband yielded fatigue.
“Eleanor, cease self-reproach. You did what could be done. A heart attack strikes anyone, anytime.”
“Might I have acted? Might hospital have saved her?”
“Might not. Life cannot be lived on ‘might nots’.”
Eleanor couldn’t relinquish it. She pored over medical texts, studied pre-infarction symptoms, seeking what she’d missed. More reading convinced her no overt signs existed.
Guilt persisted nonetheless. Meeting townsfolk who recalled the incident proved hardest. Some turned away, others watched pityingly, others whispered.
“Mum, let’s relocate,” Catherine urged upon adulthood. “Move city. There, none will know.”
“Where? Who needs me? Chesterfield holds work… a home.”
“What work! You trained rigorously to ferry specimens!”
“But quietly. Harm none, thus betray none.”
Catherine grew, left for university, met a man, married, had children. Rare visits strained hearing the same lament.
“Mum, the grandchildren scarcely see you,” she said one visit. “They wonder why Granny is melancholy. What say
Margaret Bennett traced the frame of her photograph, the young woman in the white coat beside her colleagues seeming impossibly hopeful. So much life ahead, full of conviction that she would be a wonderful doctor, saving lives, earning gratitude. “Mum, not those photos again?” her daughter’s voice carried from the hall. “Why torment yourself? Put them away.” “Never you mind, Helen,” Margaret mumbled, hands trembling nonetheless. “See to the washing up.” Helen entered and sat beside her on the sofa. “Mum, how long? It’s been thirty years. You’re the only one who remembers.” “No one remembers?” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “Zena Phillips remembers. She cut me in the grocer’s yesterday, wouldn’t look.” “Maybe she didn’t see you? Or forgot her spectacles! Mum, stop punishing yourself!” Margaret replaced the frame and turned to the window. A persistent drizzle fell, matching the grey weight in her chest. She’d once loved the rain, believed it washed things clean… The trouble began back in ’92, when Margaret worked as a local GP in the village clinic. Young and driven, she poured herself into her patients, working twelve-hour days. Colleagues respected her, patients valued her, the practice manager held her up as an example. Old Agatha Dunn, widowed and lonely with no children, was a frequent visitor complaining of chest pains. Margaret was used to her, knew Agatha saw these appointments as her only respite. “Dr. Bennett, my dear,” Agatha fretted, settling into the chair, “My heart truly pains me. Awful all night – I thought I would die.” “Let’s have a listen,” Margaret applied her stethoscope. The heartbeat was perfectly steady. “Agatha, it sounds fine. Perhaps you’re anxious?” “Oh, Doctor! A terrible, sharp pain! Like a knife!” The old woman clutched her breast. “Might you give me something? Or send me to hospital? I’m frightened to be home!” Outside the surgery, tomorrow’s queue was forming. Time was tight, and her young son Robert waited at home with a fever. Margaret rubbed her temples wearily. “Agatha, I’ve examined you carefully. Your heart is fine, your pressure good. Take some valerian and rest. Call an ambulance if you worsen.” “But Doctor…” “I’m sorry, I have others waiting. Good day now.” The old woman rose slowly, hope fading as Margaret called the next patient. Agatha sighed and shuffled away. Margaret forgot the appointment entirely. Home brought a feverish boy, a husband late from work, chores piling high. The next day was surgery again, patients, paperwork. Then, the phone call from the ambulance service. “Dr. Bennett? Patient Agatha Dunn, seen by you yesterday? Massive coronary. She died en route to hospital in Leeds…” The receiver slipped from her grasp. The room tilted. Impossible. Agatha’s heart had been fine yesterday… “Mummy? What’s happened?” little Helen, playing with dolls nearby, asked fearfully. “Nothing, darling, nothing,” Margaret whispered, tears already streaking her face. News raced through the close-knit village. The practice manager summoned Margaret. “This Dunn business?” “Mrs. Dunn… I examined her, all was normal! Her heart was steady, just age-related aches…” “Family are lodging a complaint with the Regional Health Authority. Claim you refused her hospital care.” “Family? She had none!” “A niece in York, apparently. A forceful woman, works in the Crown Prosecution Service. This is serious, Dr. Bennett. There will be an inquiry.” The inquiry lasted months. Margaret faced committees, explained herself repeatedly, watched Agatha Dunn’s file dissected. Colleagues initially offered support, but gradually drifted away. Whispers curled through the clinic corridors. “Heard they might strike Margaret Bennett off,” Nurse Collins murmured. “Said she wouldn’t listen, turned the old dear away.” “Rubbish!” protested another doctor. “Margaret’s thorough!” “Is she? Zena Phillips told me she heard it in the queue. Heard Mrs. Dunn plead for help, heard Margaret refuse.” Rumours grew daily. Margaret was drunk. She’d been rude. She never properly examined the patient. Truth dissolved into conjecture. Her husband tried to steady her, but saw her crumbling – sleepless, gaunt, irritable. At home she was silent or weeping. “Margaret,” he ventured one evening, “Perhaps… see someone? A counsellor?” “I am not mad!” she snapped. “I just can’t understand! Her heart *was* fine!” “Medicine’s not an exact science. You’re not responsible for her coronary.” “But what if I am? What if I missed something? Should I have sent her?” Six months on, the panel ruled: no negligence found, though better care for the elderly was urged. Officially cleared, yet her reputation was ash. Working became unbearable. Colleagues avoided her eyes. Patients feared her, or booked appointments out of morbid curiosity to see “that doctor who killed the old woman.” “Mrs. Jenkins,” Margaret addressed the Practice Manager, “Could I be moved? Another team?” “Margaret… things are very tense. Time heals, best wait.” But time didn’t heal. Every day echoed the tragedy. Margaret grew fearful of elderly patients, over-referred them, ordered excessive tests. Colleagues noticed, muttered: “Dr. Bennett sends everyone to Leeds General now. Frightened she’ll lose another one?” Within a year she quit the NHS. A private clinic hired her, unaware of her past. But she didn’t last – an older patient brought shakes, a choked voice. Her doctoring days were done. Margaret returned to the same village clinic, now as a lab technician. Her salary plummeted, her status vanished, but she no longer held lives in her hands. “Mum, why go *back* there?” an older Helen demanded. “Everyone remembers!” “Where else? My training is medical. I can’t practice.” “Then retrain! It’s not too late!” “Easy to say. What if I fail again? Better the devil you know.” Colleagues reacted variably – some pitying, some smug. Zena Phillips, Senior Nurse now and present that fateful day, didn’t miss a chance to remind her. “Remember that time, Margaret, with poor Agatha Dunn?” she’d say within earshot. “Sent her packing when she begged… dreadful.” “Zena, that’s enough,” others might counter, but Zena was relentless. “Why stop me? Doctors *should* be accountable.” Margaret clenched her jaw and worked on. At home, her husband wearied of the refrain. “Margaret, you did your best. Infarcts happen. Stop this guilt.” “But what if I’d sent her? What if she would have lived?” “What if not? You can’t live on ‘what if’.” Yet she couldn’t release it. She read medical texts, studied pre-infarction symptoms, seeking what she’d missed. The more she read, the clearer it seemed: Agatha showed no warning signs. Still, the guilt clung. Especially when encountering villagers who remembered. Avoidance. Pitying glances. Cruel whispers. “Mum, let’s leave Yorkshire,” Helen urged after graduation. “Move somewhere they don’t know.” “To where? Who’d have me? My job’s here. Our home.” “That job! A qualified doctor delivering blood vials!” “It’s quiet. No one to harm.” Helen married, settled in London, had children. Visits were rare; the constant rehashing of ‘that day’ was draining. “Mum, your grandchildren barely know you because of this,” Helen said during a visit. “They ask why Nanny’s so sad.” “Better they don’t know. Life is hard.” “It doesn’t have to be! You’re a good person, you were a good doctor! One tragedy can’t erase everything!” But Margaret wasn’t listening. Her guilt had calcified, a chronic condition defining her days and choices. Retired early, health failing from years of sorrow. Her days blurred: shop, chores, television. And always, the memory of the day she didn’t hear a cry for help. “Nanny, why are you always sad?” grandson George asked on holiday once. “Not
The next morning, Margaret carefully placed the photograph back on the mantelpiece, her fingertip tracing the earnest smile of the young doctor in white, knowing the gentle rain streaking the windowpane outside would do nothing to wash away the quiet stain of regret that had, over these long years, simply become a part of her.
