If only we had met earlier…
Valerie arrived at the surgery on time, collected her file from reception, and went up to the second floor. All the chairs outside room twelve were taken by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill stood a man, watching the room with quiet patience.
“Are you all here for room twelve?” Valerie asked timidly.
“Yes, room twelve. You’ll be after that gentleman by the window,” one woman replied.
“But I’ve got an appointment slip,” Valerie said, fishing it from her pocket.
“So does everyone else,” croaked a thin, grey-haired old man.
Valerie caught the curious glance of the man by the window and walked over.
“Do you have a slip too? What time’s yours?” she asked.
He seemed younger than the others, calm and composed.
“Half nine,” he answered readily.
Valerie stared at him in confusion.
“Then why are you still here? Your slot’s long gone. Were you late?”
“We weren’t late—got here early, in fact. It’s the doctor who’s behind,” the old man cut in, and the whole crowd outside room twelve broke into grumbles about the unfairness of it all.
“What’s the point of appointment slips if it’s just a free-for-all?” Valerie asked, turning to the chatty pensioner.
“Want to complain? Waste of time. First, a war veteran went ahead—lied, of course, he’s no older than me. Then the surgery manager brought a friend. Took forty minutes in there. So here we sit. What do you expect? Free healthcare,” the old man groused.
“At this rate, we won’t be seen till evening. Do I have to book another slot?” Valerie huffed, looking to the man by the window for support.
“Don’t worry, he’ll see everyone—just in a rush. Doctors are only human. They understand, but the system’s broken,” the old man said, raising a gnarled finger. “Their answer’s always the same—if you don’t like it, go private.”
“But that’s not right…” Valerie’s indignation bubbled like a whistling kettle.
“My advice? Don’t stress. Won’t change a thing, and you’ll only upset yourself,” the man by the window said philosophically.
Valerie joined him, torn between waiting two more hours or leaving.
“Always a nightmare with orthopaedics. One specialist, dozens of us. He’ll send you for an X-ray, another queue, then back here with the results…” The old man threw up his hands in despair.
The crowd murmured in agreement, frustration simmering.
*Maybe I should just go,* Valerie thought, but hope kept her rooted.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
Valerie looked at him but said nothing.
“Is it something serious?”
“Seems everyone here’s got something serious.” She pushed off the sill, took one last glance at room twelve, and headed for the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned—the man was limping after her.
“Leaving too?” she asked, relieved not to be alone.
“Ever tried private?”
“Same doctors, just charging for it,” he replied.
They stepped outside together.
“Catching the bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk, clear my head.” She passed the stop.
“Wait—I’ll join you,” he called.
“Your leg—shouldn’t you wait for the bus?” She slowed despite herself. *Why’s he tagging along?*
“I recognised you. We queued for slips on Monday, then shared the bus home. You live near me—got off at my stop.”
“Have you been following me?” Valerie flushed. *He’s not right in the head.*
“Just coincidence.”
They walked in silence, Valerie matching his limping pace. Two stops later, they boarded a bus and alighted together.
“My place,” he said, nodding at a block of flats opposite. “Mind if I walk you home?”
“How’s the leg? Still sore?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy coming to the community centre tomorrow? We’ve got a little club. You’d like it.”
“Not my scene. They’re your friends, not mine.” She struggled to shake him off.
“Pity. I used to be an actor. Well—almost. People said I had promise. Don’t look so surprised.”
“What stopped you?” she asked sceptically. *Here it comes—he’s making a move.*
“Love. Fell head over heels for the prettiest girl in drama school. Would’ve died for her. One evening, we were on the bridge—city lights reflecting on the water, all very romantic. That’s where I told her.”
“And?” Valerie’s interest was piqued.
They reached her door, but she lingered, wanting the rest.
“She asked how far I’d go to prove it. Made me climb the bridge’s steel cables—seven metres up. Young and daft, I did it. Got to the top, then froze. Coming down, I slipped. Smashed myself up. Been limping ever since.”
“And the girl?”
“Visited me in hospital, apologised. Married a classmate. Ended up on telly. Me? I started a club for has-beens like me. We meet weekly—sing, recite, support each other. Warm crowd. So, will you come?” He looked hopeful.
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six, at the centre. Ask for Vincent Daley. Everyone knows me.” He gave a small bow. “I’ll wait.”
Valerie said she’d think about it and left. At her doorstep, she glanced back—Vincent was still watching.
Next day, she resolved not to go—but by five, she was dressing. Curiosity won.
At the centre, they directed her to the actors’ group. Inside, a dozen men and women of all ages sat around a tea-laden table.
Vincent rose at once, introduced her, and seated her beside him.
Two men played guitars while women sang in harmony. A thin young man read from his novel in a rich, trained voice.
When Vincent sang, Valerie was spellbound. His voice was velvet, raw with emotion—it brought tears.
“Without the limp, he’d have been on every stage in the country. Real talent,” a man whispered.
“Well? Glad you came?” Vincent asked on their walk home.
“Amazing. I thought it’d be amateur, but you’re all pros. You sing better than stars. Shame millions never heard you.”
“Nonsense. Fame would’ve ruined me. Only regret? That girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They took regular park walks. Vincent wrote poetry; Valerie loved hearing it. He spoke openly of his past but never pressed her.
“I was married. Another beauty. What could I offer? Songs and verses don’t pay bills. Plus the limp. She left—rightly so.”
Beside his talent, she felt ordinary, unremarkable. She pitied him—until she invited him to her birthday.
Her friends and daughter were dazzled—the roses, the singing…
“Mum, where’d you find him?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“The surgery. Orthopaedic queue.”
“Your knee again?”
“Forgot all about it,” Valerie admitted, blushing.
“You’re smitten. That voice—gave me chills.”
“If we’d met ten years earlier…” Valerie mused.
“Oh, he’s keen. Saw how he looked at you.”
Valerie flushed. She’d noticed too—the warmth in his glance, the way her heart stirred. She never thought romance possible at her age.
She lived for their meetings, fussing over her reflection. Neither wanted youthful passion—just companionship, no pressure.
Then he vanished. No calls. His phone was dead.
Shame forgotten, she went to his block. A neighbour pointed her to flat nine.
“Ambulance took him two days ago. Heart trouble, they say. Why d’you ask? Fan of his?” The woman eyed her judgmentally.
A young man arrived. “Valerie?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“I’m his son. Come up.”
“Your father spoke of you. Regretted meeting so late,” he said on the stairs.
Dread choked her.
Inside, she repeated, “What’s wrong?”
“He died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. Please come. He wanted you told. I… thought another betrayal would kill him.”
She barely recalled the walk home.
At the funeral, the club members gathered.
“More talent than all of us… We’ll publish his poems… Wrote nonstop at the end…” a friend said, glancing at Valerie. “He built our little family… Rest in peace…”
Grief weighed heavy. Her knee flared up. She booked another orthopaedic slot.
Outside room twelve, chairs were full again. She leaned on the sill where Vincent once stood.
Then she left.
Behind her, uneven footsteps echoed.
She walked, talking to him. Passers-by stared, but she didn’t care.
She heard hisShe smiled, knowing he would always walk beside her, even if no one else could see.
