his predecessor had, then he was deeply worried he wouldn’t be able to meet his bills each week. Thankfully a couple of local factories had paid him a retainer each year to care for their workers’ medical needs, so at least Ty could count on that money still coming in, but he had been under the impression that the bartering system had died out in Britain in the Middle Ages. Out of all the patients he’d seen up to now, though, nearly three quarters had paid in kind with goods or promise of manual labour, turning a deaf ear to any requests for hard currency instead. Not to be thwarted, before he’d departed on his morning rounds today, Ty had penned a very clear notice and pinned it on the wall of the waiting room, advising them that in future only cash would be accepted in return for his services.
The din emanating from the waiting room rose several decibels, heralding more arrivals. He visualised them all packed into the small room, squashed together on the unyielding wooden bench spanning three of the walls. The stench from their collective body smells would be nauseating. Ty sighed again as he took his pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket and looked at it. Evening surgery started at six. It was eight minutes to. He could sit here for those eight minutes, keeping them all waiting as he savoured this little bit of time to himself. Or he could make an early start and get it over with. He decided to make the early start.
His first patient was a shrunken, dirty, toothless old woman whose visit was for him to lance a nastylooking carbuncle on her chin. While he got his instruments and dressings together, he was forced to listen to her list all the remedies she had tried, including stabbing a sewing needle into it. He doubted she’d thought to sterilise it first and the result had been to worsen it, not cure it. The pus that oozed out of the carbuncle was a vile shade of green and yellow, the stench of it stomach-churning. Having dressed the residual gaping hole and scrubbed his hands with carbolic soap, using the jug and bowl on the marble-topped table, Ty sat back down in his chair and opened his mouth, preparing to tell the old crone the fee for his work, when she pre-empted him by pulling out a battered Peek Frean biscuit tin from her old shopping bag, putting it on his desk before him and saying, ‘Thanks fer sorting me out, Doctor. The pain I was suffering was worse than I’ve ever experienced and, believe me, I’ve suffered more than me fair share of aches and pains in me life, ’specially when I trapped me hand in the mangle and broke four of me fingers.’
She sucked in her cheeks as she pulled a pained expression. ‘That hurt like the blazes, let me tell yer, and at the time I had eight kids to feed and a bleddy wastrel of a husband who was out of work more times than he were in, so no money to spare for the likes of yerself. Had to strap it up meself.’ She held up her hand, showing him her four misshapen fingers. She then pushed the tin towards Ty. ‘Doctor Mac used to love my Welsh cakes.’
He eyed her sharply. ‘Madam, I am not Doctor McHinney and …’
Before he could utter another word, eying him sardonically, she cut in, ‘No, yer not, more’s the pity. He actually made yer feel welcome when yer came in to see him, not like yer was intruding, and he chatted to yer about this and that while he was seeing to you. It’s like being in a morgue, being seen to by you. Still, if that’s how yer are, that’s how yer are. We ain’t a choice around here who we get to be our doctor, just mortally grateful we’ve got one to come to when we need to.’ Getting up from her chair, she scuttled out with the agility of a woman half her age.
Ty stared blankly after her. He didn’t care what she thought of him personally. He had successfully dealt with her ailment, but the old woman needed to consult an optician about her eyesight as she obviously hadn’t seen the very clear notice in the waiting room, informing her that payment in kind was no longer acceptable. He knew where those Welsh cakes were going