If only we’d met sooner…
Violet arrived at the clinic right on time, grabbed her file from reception, and headed upstairs. Outside room twelve, all the chairs were taken by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill was a man.
“Are you all here for room twelve?” Violet asked timidly.
“Room twelve, yes. You’ll be after that fellow by the window,” one of the women replied.
“But I’ve got an appointment slip,” Violet said, fishing it from her pocket.
“So does everyone else,” croaked a wiry, silver-haired old man.
Violet caught the curious glance of the man by the window and wandered over.
“Do you have an appointment too? What time?” she asked.
He looked younger than the others and oddly calm.
“Half nine,” he answered readily.
Violet stared at him, baffled.
“Then why did you join the queue? Your slot was ages ago. Or were you late?”
“*We* weren’t late—we were early. The doctor’s the one running behind,” the silver-haired man cut in. The whole corridor erupted into grumbles about the injustice of it all.
“What’s the point of appointment slips if it’s first-come, first-served anyway?” Violet asked the chatty old-timer.
“Fancy making a complaint? Waste of time. First, a ‘war veteran’ jumped the queue—absolute nonsense, he’s barely seventy, same as me. Then the clinic manager dragged her mate in. They ‘consulted’ for forty minutes. So here we sit. What d’you expect? Free healthcare,” he groused.
“At this rate, we’ll be here till dusk. Do I have to rebook?” Violet huffed, glancing at the man by the window for backup.
“Don’t fret, he’ll see everyone—just a quick once-over. Doctor’s only human. Knows the system’s rotten but can’t fix it,” the old man said sagely, tapping his hooked finger in the air. “Their motto’s simple: don’t like it? Go private.”
“But that’s not right—” Violet’s outrage bubbled like a neglected kettle.
“My advice? Don’t get worked up. Won’t change a thing, and you’ll only upset yourself,” the window-man said philosophically.
Violet lingered beside him, torn between a two-hour wait or giving up.
“Always a nightmare seeing the orthopaedist. One doc, half of London needing X-rays first, then the return trip with the scans…” The old man flapped a hand in defeat. The queue muttered in agreement.
*Maybe I should just leave*, Violet thought—yet she stayed, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t quite bring yourself to go, eh?” the man asked.
Violet eyed him but said nothing.
“Is it serious, then?” he pressed.
“Everyone here thinks *theirs* is serious.” Violet peeled herself off the sill, threw a last look at room twelve, and marched toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps clattered behind her. She turned—the man was limping to catch up.
“Changed your mind too?” she asked, oddly comforted by the shared retreat.
“Ever tried private?” she added.
“Same doctors, just pricier,” he shrugged.
They stepped out into the drizzle.
“Bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk it off.” Violet breezed past the stop.
“Hold up—I’ll join you,” he called.
“Isn’t that leg bothering you? Shouldn’t you wait for the bus?” She slowed despite herself. *Persistent, isn’t he?*
“Recognised you. We booked slips together Monday, rode the same bus home. You live near me—got off at my stop.”
“You were *following* me?” Violet flushed. *Definitely unhinged.*
“Coincidence.”
They walked in silence. Violet adjusted her pace to his hobble. Two stops later, they caved and boarded a bus, disembarking together.
“That’s mine,” he said, nodding at a tower block opposite the stop. “Let me walk you home?”
“How’s your leg? Not aching?” Violet deflected.
“Used to it. Fancy coming to the community centre tomorrow? We’ve a sort of club. Worth a look.”
“Not my scene. And they’re *your* friends,” she said, scrambling for an exit.
“Pity. Ex-actor here. Well—aspiring. ‘Great promise,’ they said. Truly.” He winked.
“Why’d you quit?” Violet asked, sceptical. *Here we go. Smooth talker.*
“Love. Fell hard for the prettiest girl in drama school. One evening on the Millennium Bridge—lights dancing on the Thames, all romantic—I poured my heart out.”
“And?” Violet’s curiosity got the better of her.
They’d reached her doorstep, but she lingered, hooked.
“She asked how far I’d go for love. Dared me to climb the bridge’s cables. Young and daft, I scrambled up, balancing like a circus act. Got to the top, froze. Tumbling into the river seemed worse than the climb down. So I tried—slipped. Busted everything. Hence the limp.”
“The girl?” Violet pressed.
“Apologised at the hospital. Married a classmate. Even popped up in a telly drama. I started a club for… well, fellow almost-weres. We meet weekly—songs, poems, a laugh. Cosy bunch. Fancy it?”
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six, at the centre. Ask for Alistair Whitby.” He gave a theatrical half-bow. “I’ll wait.”
Violet said she’d think it over and left. At her door, she glanced back. Alistair stood watching.
Next day, she resolved not to go—yet by five, she was primping. Pure curiosity, she told herself.
The centre staff directed her to the “Almost Famous” club. Inside, a dozen mismatched souls chattered over tea. Alistair sprang up, introduced her, and seated her beside him.
Two men strummed guitars while women harmonised. A gaunt chap recited his novel in a voice like melted chocolate.
Then Alistair sang. Violet’s eyes prickled. Rich, velvet tones, wrenchingly heartfelt.
“If not for the leg, he’d be on the West End,” a neighbour whispered. “Proper talent.”
“Well? Regret coming?” Alistair asked on their bus ride home.
“Not a bit. Thought it’d be am-dram, but you’re all pros. And you—you’re better than half the chart-toppers. Shame the world missed out.”
“Pfft. Fame’d have ruined me. Wouldn’t change much—except maybe *her* wasn’t worth the climb.”
They took to strolling the park. Alistair recited his sly, witty poems. Violet soaked it in. He spun tales of ex-wives and near-misses but never pried into her past.
“Married a stunner once. Why’d she stick with a limping has-been? Poetry doesn’t pay the bills,” he’d chuckle.
Beside him—this effortless talent—Violet felt painfully ordinary. And achingly sorry for him.
For her birthday, she invited him over, preening as he charmed her daughter and friends with roses and guitar ballads.
“Mum, where’d you dig *him* up?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“The clinic. Orthopaedist’s queue.”
“Knee acting up again?”
“Forgot all about it, actually,” Violet admitted, pink-cheeked.
“Blimey, you’re smitten. That voice—goosebumps. Even *I’m* halfway in love.”
“Met him ten years sooner, maybe…” Violet sighed.
“*Please*. Saw how he looked at you. Brings you flowers, doesn’t he?”
Violet flushed. She’d noticed those looks too—the ones that turned her knees to jelly. Never thought she’d feel like this at her age.
She lived for their walks, preened before mirrors, thrilled at their chaste, easy bond. Then—nothing. Days of silence. His phone dead.
Shoving aside pride, Violet marched to his block. A gran with a pram pointed her to flat nine. “Gone two days now. Ambulance took him. Heart, they reckon.”
Violet buzzed futilely till a young man appeared. “You’re Violet?”
“Alistair—what’s wrong?”
“Dad’s son. Come up.”
Her chest tightened on the stairs.
“He talked about you. Said he wished you’d met sooner,” the son said softly.
Inside the flat, the truth hit. “Dad died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. He wanted you there. I… thought it’d break him if you didn’t come.”
Dazed, Violet somehow made it home. At the funeral, the “Almost Famous” crew wept.
“Talented sod. Publishing his poems,” a friend said, eyeing Violet. “Wrote like mad at the endShe never went back to the clinic but sometimes, on her evening walks, she’d pause by the community centre, humming his songs under her breath, as if he were still there to hear them.
