The Missing Piece - Catherine Miller Page 0,46

extra level of care and thought. One that I never really consider when my only interest is in the figures, the data I collect.

Every day when Clive returns from his lunch break, he seems to have found another piece of treasure to add to the finesse of his duties.

‘Where have you managed to find all these things?’ I ask when he produces some vintage sugar tongs.

‘This is from a charity shop. You’d be amazed at some of the wonders you can find.’

‘I didn’t realise there was a charity shop near here.’

I studied for my degree at the university and my work has been here ever since. It always strikes me as surprising when I learn something new about the area. It goes to show I spend far too much time inside.

‘It’s down a side street. Awful signage. You wouldn’t know it was there unless you’re nosey like me. It’s where I’ve found nearly all of these treasures, although not the biscuits. They’re from the Polish store.’

The biscuits are the other thing that have undergone a massive improvement. Lucy has always been in charge of those stocks and, because we are on a tight budget, she usually sticks to plain rich teas and digestives. I think about last night’s visit. Of how pale she looked. In the next day or two they hope to do an endoscopy – passing a small camera down to look at her stomach – and I cross my fingers that’ll be the end of her hospital stay. Despite Clive’s good company, it doesn’t make up for her not being here.

When I put Clive in charge of getting supplies, I’d explained very clearly to him that we only have an allocation of three pounds per week for refreshments. That small amount was tricky to budget every month. But he has been coming back with an amazing array of biscuits.

Now, every day, they are displayed on a plate complete with a doily. They are so tempting that I’m even opting to try some of the new ones on offer. There are caramel wafers and some white-chocolate-covered bourbons. Today, I take one of each.

All he needs now is a tea trolley to deliver it on, but in the meantime he has a polka-dot tray with handles to make transport from kitchen to desk easier ‘and with a flourish’ as Clive likes to say.

I’m beginning to enjoy the element of fun bordering on eccentricity that Clive brings with him. I don’t try to second guess what he will produce next, but it comes with the guarantee of bringing a smile. If not to me, then to the clients that are here. He is managing to engage our study participants on a level I’ve never really witnessed before. Once they are done with their refreshments, we commence the tests and the subjects are always jollier than they’ve been on previous occasions.

I often wonder if such enjoyment and laughter make a difference. If the resting heart rate will be higher because of these fleeting moments. Whether the week that Clive has been here will make a difference to the outcome of my studies.

‘Everything ready?’ Clive asks from the other end of the test walkway. It’s taped out to an exact length. Of his own accord, Clive has redone the tatty markings for me to ensure they’re the precise distance they should be.

The stopwatch is in my hand and I realise I’m staring at it without taking action. ‘Yes, ready. Are you set to go, Mrs Baldwin?’ The lady is in the chair under instruction to move only when I say ‘go’.

I look to Clive, who smiles in that endlessly cheering way of his and I find myself smiling back. It makes me realise that Mrs Baldwin celebrating eating a pink wafer biscuit, which she hasn’t done in years, and how delightful it is to be receiving the gold-star treatment isn’t going to alter her results. The altering result is mine. I am no longer anxious about the stores being stocked up or everything being ready like it should be. I no longer have concerns about what fungus is growing in the fridge this week. There is no worry over trying to analyse Post-it notes with illegible messages.

Everything is as it should be.

And for the first time in a long time, there has been a change.

It isn’t a noticeable difference at first. A beat or two, nothing significant. But by the fifth day of working with Clive by my side, my resting heart

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