“If only we’d met sooner…”
Valerie arrived at the clinic right on time, collected her file from reception, and climbed to the second floor. Every chair outside room twelve was occupied by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill stood a man, his back turned to the glass.
“Are you all here for room twelve?” she asked hesitantly.
“Room twelve, yes. You’ll be after that gentleman by the window,” one of the women replied.
“But I have an appointment slip,” Valerie said, fishing it from her pocket.
“So do we all,” croaked a thin, silver-haired old man.
Valerie caught the curious glance of the man by the window and approached him.
“Do you have an appointment too? What time?” she asked.
He looked younger than the others, calm and composed.
“Half nine,” he answered readily.
Valerie stared at him, bewildered.
“Then why are you waiting in line? Your slot’s long gone. Or were you late?”
“It’s not us who’re late—we were early. The doctor’s the one running behind,” the old man cut in, and the crowd outside room twelve erupted in grumbles about the unfairness of it all.
“What’s the point of appointment slips if they still see people in order of arrival?” Valerie demanded, turning to the talkative pensioner.
“Fancy complaining? Waste of time. First, a war veteran skipped the queue—lying, of course, he’s barely seventy, same as me. Then the clinic manager brought her mate in. They ‘consulted’ for forty minutes. So here we sit. What do you expect? Free healthcare,” the old man grumbled.
“At this rate, we’ll be here all evening. And then what? Book another appointment?” Valerie huffed, glancing at the man by the window for support.
“Don’t fret—he’ll see everyone, though quickly. The doctor’s only human. Knows the system’s broken but can’t fix it,” the old man said, raising a gnarled finger. “Their answer’s simple—don’t like it? Go private.”
“But that’s not right—” Valerie’s frustration boiled like a kettle.
“My advice? Don’t stress. You won’t change a thing, and you’ll only hurt yourself,” the man by the window said philosophically.
Valerie joined him, debating whether to wait two hours or leave.
“Always a nightmare seeing the orthopedist. One doctor, half the town. He’ll send you for an X-ray, another queue, then back here with the scans…” The old man waved a hand in defeat. The crowd buzzed in agreement.
*Maybe I should just go*, Valerie thought, but stayed, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
She looked at him but didn’t answer.
“Is it serious?” he pressed.
“Looks like everyone here’s got something serious.” Valerie pushed off the sill, threw a last glance at room twelve, and strode toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned—the man was limping after her.
“Leaving too?” she asked, relieved not to be walking alone.
“Ever tried private?”
“Same doctors, just costs you fifty quid a visit,” he replied.
They stepped outside together.
“Bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk—clear my head.” She passed the stop.
“Wait, I’ll join you,” he called.
“Shouldn’t you wait for the bus? It can’t be easy walking.” She slowed despite herself. *Persistent, isn’t he?*
“I recognised you. We booked appointments last Monday, rode the same bus home. You live near me—we got off at the same stop.”
“You were *following* me?” Valerie flushed. *Proper nutter.*
“No. Coincidence.”
They walked in silence awhile, Valerie matching his hobbled pace. After two stops, they boarded a bus, then disembarked together.
“That’s my place,” he said, nodding at a tower block opposite the stop. “Let me walk you home?”
“How’s the leg? Still hurt?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy coming to the community centre tomorrow? We’ve got a sort of club. You’d like it.”
“I’m not big on groups. And they’re *your* friends.”
“Shame. I used to act. Well, almost. Had ‘potential’, they said.” He chuckled at her sceptical look. *Oh, here we go—chat-up lines.*
“What stopped you?”
“Love. Fell hard for the prettiest girl in drama school. One night, we walked along the Millennium Bridge. Lights glittering on the Thames… Romantic. I confessed there.”
“And?” Valerie’s curiosity got the better of her.
They’d reached her door, but she lingered, wanting the ending.
“‘Prove it,’ she said. Made me climb the bridge’s suspension cables—seven metres up. Young and daft, I did it. Got to the top, then froze. Coming down, I slipped. Smashed myself up. That’s why I limp.”
“The girl?”
“Visited me in hospital. Apologised. Married a classmate. Ended up on *EastEnders*. I started a club for has-beens like me. We meet, sing, read poetry—keep each other going. Fun, really. So, will you come?”
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six, at the centre. Ask for Neville Ashford. Everyone knows me.” He gave a small bow.
Valerie said she’d think about it, then left. Glancing back, she saw Neville still watching.
The next day, she resolved not to go—yet by five, she was dressing. Just curiosity, she told herself.
At the centre, they directed her straight to the “Almost Famous” club. Inside, a dozen men and women chatted over tea. Neville introduced her warmly, seating her beside him.
Two guitarists played a folk tune while women harmonised beautifully. A gaunt man recited his novel in a rich baritone. Then Neville sang—a voice so velvet, so full of soul, it brought tears to her eyes.
“S’pose you’re wondering about the limp?” he whispered.
She wasn’t.
“That voice belongs on the West End,” a neighbour murmured.
Later, on the bus home, Neville asked, “Glad you came?”
“Brilliant. I thought it’d be amateurs, but you’re proper talented. Shame millions won’t hear you.”
He laughed. “Fame? I’d have hated it. Only regret is that girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They began strolling the park often. Neville penned lovely poems, which Valerie adored. He spoke freely of his past—a failed marriage (“Wife left. Can’t blame her—what use are songs when the rent’s due?”), but never pried into hers.
Beside his talent, she felt ordinary. Yet she pitied him, too.
For her birthday, Valerie invited Neville to meet her daughter and friends. He dazzled—roses in hand, singing *Autumn Leaves* with a guitarist’s ease.
“Mum, where’d you *find* him?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“The clinic. Orthopedist queue.”
“Your knee again?”
“Forgot all about it, honestly.” Valerie pinked.
“Oh, Mum—you’re *smitten*. That voice—goosebumps! And the way he looks at you…”
“Just think—if we’d met ten years sooner…”
Her daughter grinned. “He’s keen. You asked him here, didn’t you?”
Valerie flushed. But she *had* noticed his glances—the ones that made her chest flutter. She hadn’t expected romance at her age.
She treasured their walks, preened before mirrors, thrilled at his attention. Neither wanted youthful passion—just companionship, no strings.
Then he vanished. No calls. His phone was dead. Knowing only his address, Valerie swallowed pride and went to his flat.
A neighbour directed her: “Flat nine. But an ambulance took him two days ago. Heart, they reckon.”
Valerie rushed to the intercom—no answer. A young man approached.
“You’re Valerie?” he asked.
“Yes. Where is he?”
His son. “He’s gone. Died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. He wanted you there.”
She barely remembered the walk home.
At the service, his club mates mourned: “Talented bastard… We’ll publish his poems… Built this whole group…”
Grief gnawed at Valerie. Her knee flared up again. She booked another appointment, returned to room twelve—same crowd, same chairs.
She stood by the window, back to the sill, just as Neville had. Then left without waiting.
Halfway down the corridor, she heard uneven steps behind her.
She walked on, talking to him. Passers-by stared, but she didn’t care. She heard his tread, felt him beside her.
And always would.
