If only we had met sooner…
Victoria arrived at the doctor’s surgery right on time, collected her patient notes from reception, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Outside room twelve, every chair was occupied by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill stood a man, his back to the glass.
“Are you all waiting for room twelve?” Victoria asked timidly.
“For room twelve, yes. You’ll be after that gentleman by the window,” replied one of the women.
“But I have an appointment slip,” Victoria said, fishing it from her pocket.
“Everyone here has one,” croaked a frail, silver-haired old man.
Victoria caught the curious gaze of the man by the window and approached him.
“Do you have an appointment too? What time is yours for?” she asked.
He seemed younger than the others, his demeanour calm.
“Half nine,” he answered readily.
Victoria stared at him, baffled.
“Then why are you still queueing? Your time was ages ago. Did you miss it?”
“It’s not us who’re late—we came early. It’s the doctor who’s behind,” the old man cut in. The others by room twelve muttered in agreement, grumbling about the unfairness.
“What’s the point of appointment slips if it’s first come, first served anyway?” Victoria demanded.
“Want to complain? Waste of time. First, some war veteran jumped the queue—lied through his teeth, he’s no older than seventy, same as me. Then the clinic manager slipped her friend in. They were in there forty minutes. Free healthcare for you,” the old man groused.
“At this rate, we’ll be here till evening. Do I have to book another appointment?” Victoria fumed, looking to the man by the window for support.
“Don’t fret. They’ll see everyone—just in a rush. The doctor’s only human. Knows it’s wrong but can’t change the system,” the old man said, raising a crooked finger. “Their attitude is simple—if you don’t like it, go private.”
“But that’s not right—” Indignation simmered inside Victoria like a kettle about to boil.
“Take my advice—don’t get worked up. Won’t change a thing, and it’ll only do you harm,” the man by the window said philosophically.
Victoria stood beside him, torn between waiting two hours or leaving.
“Always a nightmare with orthopaedics. One specialist, dozens of us. He’ll send you for X-rays, and there’s another queue. Then back here with the results…” The old man waved a hand in despair.
The others murmured agreement, the room filling with discontent.
“Maybe I should just go,” Victoria thought—but she stayed, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
She looked at him but didn’t answer.
“Is your problem serious?” he pressed.
“Everyone here’s got something serious.” Victoria pushed off the sill, cast one last glance at room twelve, and walked toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned. The man was limping after her.
“Changed your mind too?” she asked, relieved they were leaving together.
“Ever tried private?”
“Same doctors, just costs a fortune,” he replied.
They stepped out into the brisk air.
“Catching the bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk—clear my head.” She passed the stop.
“Wait—I’ll join you,” he called.
“Isn’t it hard for you? Shouldn’t you wait for the bus?” She slowed despite herself. *Why’s he tagging along?*
“I recognised you. We booked our appointments Monday, then took the same bus home. You live near me—we got off at the same stop.”
“Were you *following* me?” Victoria flushed. *Definitely not right in the head.*
“Just coincidence.”
They walked in silence. Victoria adjusted her pace to his. Two stops later, they boarded a bus, then alighted together.
“That’s my building,” he said, nodding at a block of flats opposite. “Mind if I walk you home?”
“What about your leg? Does it hurt?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy coming to the community centre tomorrow? We’ve got a little club—you’d like it.”
“I’m not big on social things. And they’re your friends, not mine.” She scrambled for an excuse.
“Shame. I used to be an actor. Well—almost. People said I had real talent.”
“What stopped you?” she asked sceptically. *He’s laying it on thick.*
“Love did. Fell head over heels for the prettiest girl in drama school. Would’ve died for her. One evening, we were on a bridge—lights reflecting on the black water, all romantic. I poured my heart out.”
“And?” Despite herself, Victoria was hooked.
They’d reached her building, but she lingered, wanting the end of the story.
“She asked how far I’d go to prove it. Made me climb the bridge’s steel beams—seven metres up. Young and stupid, I did it. Got to the top, then froze. Coming down, I slipped. Broke half my bones.”
“And the girl?”
“She visited me in hospital—said she was sorry. Married a classmate. Even got a TV role. I started a club instead—for has-beens and never-weres. We meet weekly, sing, read poetry. It’s warm. Cosy. So—will you come?” His gaze was hopeful.
“What time?”
“Six, at the centre. Ask for Alistair Hartley. Everyone knows me.”
She promised to think it over. At her doorstep, she glanced back. Alistair was still watching.
Next day, she resolved not to go. Yet by five, she was dressing. Curiosity won.
At the centre, they directed her to a bright room where a dozen people chatted over tea. Alistair introduced her warmly. Two men played guitars; women harmonised beautifully. A thin young man read from his novel in a rich, trained voice.
Then Alistair sang. Victoria wept. His voice was velvet, his delivery heartbreaking.
“Without the limp, he’d have been famous,” a man whispered.
“Well?” Alistair asked on their walk home. “Regret coming?”
“You’re all professionals! And you—you’re better than stars on telly. The world’s missing out.”
“Fame would’ve ruined me. Only regret? That girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They began strolling in the park. Alistair recited his poetry—Victoria hung on every word. He spoke freely of his past but never pressed her for confessions.
“Was married once. Chose another beauty. What use was a crippled dreamer to her? She left. Rightly. Songs don’t pay bills.”
Beside his talent, she felt plain, unremarkable. Her heart ached for him.
She invited him to her birthday. Wanted to show him off. He dazzled them all—roses, guitar ballads…
“Mum, where’d you find *him*?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“At the surgery. Orthopaedic queue.”
“Your knee again?”
“Forgot all about it,” Victoria admitted, blushing.
“Blimey—you’re smitten. His voice gave me goosebumps.”
“If we’d met ten years earlier…” Victoria sighed.
“Don’t kid yourself. The way he looks at you? He’s besotted.”
Victoria *had* noticed those looks—the ones that melted her. Never thought she’d feel this way at her age.
She lived for their walks. Preened before the mirror. Loved that their bond wasn’t fiery passion, just quiet companionship.
Then—silence. No calls. His phone was dead. Panicked, she went to his building. A gran in the courtyard told her: “Ambulance took him two days back. Heart, they say.”
His son answered the intercom. “You’re Victoria? Dad spoke of you. Said he wished you’d met sooner.”
Dread gripped her.
Inside the flat, his son said quietly, “He died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. He wanted you there. I… thought another betrayal would break him.”
She barely remembered the journey home.
At the funeral, his friends wept. “We’ll publish his poetry,” one told her. “He wrote feverishly at the end. Founded our little brotherhood… Gone too soon.”
Grief hollowed her. Her knee flared up again.
Back at the surgery, room twelve’s chairs were full. Victoria stood by the window—just as Alistair had. Then she left.
On the pavement, she heard uneven steps behind her. Didn’t turn.
She walked, talking to him. Passers-by stared. She didn’t care.
As long as she heard his footsteps, he’d always be with her.
