The Doctor's Special Touch. Marion LennoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘I’m not a dentist,’ she told him. ‘Urk. All those teeth.’ She grimaced and hauled the ladder along past where she’d been working so he could see what the final sign would be.
After the huge, blue sign—DR A. J. WESTRUTHER—was another, as yet only faintly stencilled in pencil.
MASSAGE THERAPIST.
‘You’re a masseur,’ he said blankly, and she nodded. There was something in his voice that warned her to stay noncommittal. Let him make the judgements here.
‘You’re setting up professional rooms as a masseur.’
That was enough. ‘Hey, we’re not talking red-light district,’ she snapped. There was enough disdain in his voice to make it perfectly plain what his initial reaction was. ‘I give remedial and relaxation massage, and I do it professionally. By the way, I’m a masseuse. Not a masseur. Get your sexes right.’
‘Let’s get the qualifications right.’ Anger met anger. ‘You’re calling yourself a doctor?’
‘Yes!’ Her eyes blazed. Heck, she was committed to this profession. She’d fallen into it sideways but she loved it. She loved that she was able to help people. Finally. And she didn’t need this man’s condemnation. It’d be great if he supported her but she’d gather clients without him.
‘It’s illegal to call yourself a doctor.’
‘Phone my university,’ she snapped. ‘Check my qualifications.’
‘Doctor of what?’
‘Go jump.’ She was suddenly overpoweringly angry. Overpoweringly weary. What business was it of this man what her qualifications were? She was telling no lies. She wasn’t misrepresenting herself.
Maybe it had been a mistake to use the word ‘doctor’ in her sign. She’d agonised over it but, heck, she’d abandoned so much. If the use of one word would help her build this new career—this new life—then use it she would.
So much else had been taken from her. They couldn’t take this.
‘Look,’ she said wearily, her anger receding. Anger solved nothing. She knew that. ‘We’re getting off to a really bad start here. I’ve tossed blue paint at you and you’ve implied I’m a hooker.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You did. If you check, you’ll find that I’m absolutely entitled to use the title “Doctor”.’
‘You don’t think a doctorate—of what, basket weaving?—might be just a bit misleading when you’re setting up in a medical precinct?’
‘Medical precinct?’ She swallowed more anger. Or tried to. Then she gazed around. There were a total of five shops in the tiny township of Tambrine Creek. Then there was a pub and a petrol station. The oak-lined main street ran straight down to the harbour, where the fishing boats moored and sold their fish from the final shop—a fishermen’s co-op that had existed for generations.
‘You know, we’re not talking Harley Street here,’ she ventured. ‘Medical precinct? I don’t think so.’
‘There’s two premises.’
‘Yeah, two medical premises. Yours and mine. Yours is a doctor’s surgery. Mine is a massage centre. It was a tearoom once, but it’s been closed for twenty years. The owner’s thrilled to get rent from me and the council has no objection to me setting up. So what’s your problem? Do I somehow downgrade your neighbourhood?’
‘There’s no need to be angry.’
‘It’s not me who’s angry,’ she told him, but she was lying. She’d done with the placating. ‘Basket weaving,’ she muttered. ‘I wish it had been purple paint I threw at you and I wish it had hit your head. Now, are you going to sue me for painting your feet? If so, there’s no lawyer in town but I can’t commend you strongly enough to leave town and find one. Preferably one in another state. I need to get on with my work.’
‘You’ve spilled your paint.’
‘Of course I have,’ she snapped. ‘And it was well worth it. Your brogues are drying, Dr Rochester. You need to go find some turpentine.’
‘You’ll never make a living.’
‘We’ll see.’ She stooped to lift her now empty paintpot from the pavement and was suddenly aware that someone was watching them. An elderly lady, a basket on one arm and a poodle dangling from the other, was gazing at the pair of them as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘It’s Ally,’ she whispered. ‘Ally Lindford. You’ve come home!’
Crimplene was very hard to escape, especially when Crimplene was intent on smothering you. Ally was enfolded in a bosom so ample she’d never felt anything like it, and it took her a few valiant tries before she could finally find enough space to breathe.
Doris Kerr. How could she have forgotten Doris?
She hadn’t. She hadn’t forgotten a single person in this town.
So who was this Dr Rochester? she wondered from her cocoon of Crimplene. Definitely a newcomer. But maybe not so new. Ally had been away for twenty years.
‘I saw the Dr A starting on the wall when I walked my Chloe last night.’ Doris had decided to take pity on her and hold her at arm’s length. ‘And I said to myself—a doctor? Yes. Just what we need. Dr Rochester needs help so much. But then I saw the pencilling saying massage and I said to myself we don’t need a massage parlour here—that’s the last thing we want in a respectable town like this—and I phoned Fred on the town council before I went to bed. But he said it’s not like I think—it’s a proper nice massage that you get when you hurt yourself and then he told me who it was who’d applied to run it and I was so excited. I thought I’d come down this very morning to see for myself and… Oh, my dear, it is so good to see you again.’
The Crimplene flooded toward her again and Ally managed to give Darcy a despairing glance before she was once again enfolded.
‘Um… It seems you two know each other,’ Darcy said.
‘Mmph.’ It was all Ally could manage.
‘And you’re using your grandpa’s name,’ Doris was saying. ‘Dr Westruther. How wonderful is that? I never did like Lindford. Evil is as evil does and…’ She caught herself. ‘Well, he was your father and he’s long dead so maybe I shouldn’t be speaking ill of him. But if your poor mother had just decided to go back to using Westruther…’ She gulped and hauled back, still hanging onto Ally but beaming across at Darcy. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? A Dr Westruther in Tambrine Creek again after all these years.’
‘She’s a masseur,’ Darcy said, and Ally glowered.
‘Don’t say it like I’m a dung beetle.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t mean it, dear,’ Doris told her. ‘He’s the best thing since sliced bread is our Dr Rochester. Do you know, we didn’t have a doctor for five years before he came. And he’s so nice.’
‘I can see that,’ Ally agreed.
‘I did hold the ladder,’ he told her. ‘And I got blue hands.’
‘You scared me.’
‘Your grandpa was the doctor here?’
‘Grandpa died seventeen years ago.’
‘That’s when Ally left town,’ Doris told him. ‘Her father came and took her away. Nothing we could say made any difference. But…he looked after you, didn’t he, lass?’
‘He looked after me,’ Ally agreed tightly.
‘And now you’re back.’
‘I am.’ She made a determined effort to regain control—to pin