If only we had met sooner…
Claire arrived at the health centre at her scheduled time, collected her patient card from reception, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Outside room twelve, every chair was occupied by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill, a man stood with his back to the glass.
“Are you all here for room twelve?” Claire asked hesitantly.
“Room twelve, yes. You’ll be after that man by the window,” one of the women replied.
“But I have an appointment slip,” Claire said, fishing it from her coat pocket.
“So do we all,” rasped a thin, silver-haired old man from his seat.
Claire caught the curious glance of the man by the window and approached him.
“Do you have an appointment too? For what time?” she asked.
He looked younger than the others, calm and composed.
“Half past nine,” he answered readily.
Claire stared at him, confused.
“Then why are you still in line? Your time’s long gone. Were you late?”
“It’s not us who’s late—we got here early—it’s the doctor who’s behind,” the silver-haired man cut in, and at once, the murmurs of frustration rippled through the seated crowd.
“How can this be? What’s the point of appointment slips if it’s first come, first served?” Claire demanded, turning to the chatty pensioner.
“Want to complain? Useless. First, a war veteran pushed ahead—lied, of course, he’s barely seventy, same as me. Then the clinic manager brought in a friend. They were in there for forty minutes. So here we sit. What do you expect? Free healthcare,” the old man grumbled.
“At this rate, we’ll be here till nightfall. Do we have to get another slip?” Claire fumed, looking to the man by the window for backup.
“Don’t worry, he’ll see us all—just a quick in-and-out. Doctors are human too. They understand, but the system’s broken,” the old man said, raising a crooked finger. “Their answer’s always the same—don’t like it? Go private.”
“But that’s not right—” Indignation bubbled inside Claire like steam in a boiling kettle.
“My advice? Don’t get worked up. You won’t change anything, just upset yourself,” the man by the window said philosophically.
Claire stood beside him, torn—wait two hours or leave?
“Orthopedists are always a nightmare. One doctor, dozens of us. He’ll send you for X-rays, more queues, then back here with the scans—” The old man waved a despairing hand. The line erupted in agreement, buzzing with discontent.
*Maybe I should just go,* Claire thought. Yet she remained rooted, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
Claire looked at him but said nothing.
“Is it something serious?” he pressed.
“Everyone here thinks theirs is serious.” She peeled herself from the sill, cast one last glance at room twelve, and walked down the corridor toward the stairs.
Behind her, uneven footsteps followed. She turned—the man was limping after her.
“You’re leaving too?” she asked. A strange comfort settled in her chest that they were leaving together.
“Ever tried a private clinic?” she added.
“Same doctors, just charging for the privilege,” he replied.
They stepped out into the crisp air.
“Catching the bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk—clear my head.” She bypassed the stop.
“Wait, I’ll join you,” he called.
“Isn’t it painful to walk? Shouldn’t you wait for the bus?” Claire slowed her pace despite herself. *Why won’t he leave me alone?*
“I remember you. We got our slips on Monday, took the same bus home. You live near me—we got off at the same stop.”
“Were you following me?” Claire snapped. *He’s definitely odd.*
“No. Just coincidence.”
They walked in silence. Claire adjusted her stride to match his, easing his hobbling steps. Two stops later, they boarded a bus, disembarked together.
“That’s my building,” he said, nodding to a block of flats opposite the stop. “Let me walk you home?”
“How’s your leg? Does it hurt?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Listen—come to the community centre tomorrow. We’ve got a little club. You won’t regret it.”
“I don’t do social clubs. Besides, they’re your friends, not mine.” She grasped for an excuse to shake him off.
“Pity. I was an actor once. Well—almost. They said I had promise. Don’t look so surprised.”
“What stopped you?” Skepticism laced her voice.
“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 black water. Romantic. That’s where I confessed.”
“And?” Claire’s curiosity piqued despite herself.
They reached her doorstep, but she lingered, drawn into his story.
“She asked how far I’d go for love. Demanded proof. Climbed the bridge’s beams—seven metres up, balancing on the cables. Reached the top, then froze. Too scared to jump, too terrified to climb down. Slipped. Shattered half my bones. Never walked right again.”
“The girl?”
“Apologised at the hospital. Married a classmate. Even got a TV role. Me? I started a club for has-beens and almost-weres. We meet weekly—sing, talk, read poetry. It’s warm there. Good company. Will you come?” His eyes held hope.
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six. Ask for Edmund Whitmore. Everyone knows me. I’ll wait.”
Claire said she’d think about it, bid him goodbye. As she entered her building, she glanced back. Edmund stood watching.
The next day, she vowed not to go—yet by five, she was dressing. Curiosity won.
At the community centre, she was directed straight to the gathering. A dozen men and women of varying ages sat around a table set for tea. Edmund rose instantly, introduced her, seated her beside him.
Two guitarists played a folk tune while women harmonised. A gaunt young man recited from his novel in a rich, trained voice.
But when Edmund sang, Claire’s breath caught. His voice—velvet, tender—brought tears to her eyes.
“Without the limp, he’d be on every stage in the country,” the man beside her whispered. “A real talent.”
“Well? Glad you came?” Edmund asked as they rode the bus home.
“Amazing. I thought it’d be amateurish, but you’re all professionals. And you—you sing better than stars on telly. Shame millions don’t hear you.”
He laughed. “Fame would’ve ruined me. Only regret? That girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They began meeting often, strolling the park. Edmund recited his poems—Claire listened, rapt. He spoke openly of his past but never pressed her for confessions.
“Married once. Another beauty. What could I offer her? Poems don’t pay bills. And this limp.”
Beside him—a genuine artist—she felt plain, unremarkable. Yet she pitied him fiercely.
For her birthday, she invited him. Wanted to show him off. He brought roses, sang under the stars—her friends were spellbound.
“Mum, where’d you find him?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“The health centre. Orthopedist’s queue.”
“Your knee’s bad again?”
“I’d forgotten the pain, honestly.” Claire flushed.
“God, you’re smitten. His voice—goosebumps. If you’d met ten years earlier…”
“Don’t be daft.”
“I saw how he looked at you. He fancies you.”
Claire scoffed—but she’d noticed. Never dreamed she’d feel this at her age.
She waited eagerly for their walks, fussed over her reflection. Neither wanted youthful passion—just companionship, uncomplicated.
Then—silence. No calls. His phone was dead. Swallowing pride, she went to his building. An elderly neighbour eyed her sharply.
“Flat nine. But he’s not there. Ambulance took him two days ago.”
“What happened?”
“His heart, they say. Why? Groupie?”
Claire hurried to the entrance. A younger man approached.
“Claire?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“His son. Come up.”
As they climbed, dread clamped her chest.
“Dad spoke of you. Regretted meeting too late.”
Inside the flat, her voice shook. “Where is he?”
“Died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. Please come. He wanted you there.”
She barely remembered leaving. At the funeral, his friends mourned.
“He was the best of us… We’ll publish his poems… Wrote nonstop at the end…”
Grief hollowed her.She never went back to the health centre, but sometimes, when the wind whistled through the trees, she would pause and imagine the sound of uneven footsteps beside her once more.
