Doctor Dreekit

She came to him like a winter sun. It was on a cold day, too. Heavy rain, cold rain, Scottish rain as chilling as fingers. But she was as if clouds parted and there was Old Sol beaming down on him. She was the Sun. In his Winter.

He walked out into the street in front of his house and there she was.

Small, red headed. 23. Sandy. Green puff jacket, her faux fluff hood up. Comfortable in the weather, not even buttoned up. Pink gloves. Yellow/purple, multi check trousers. Her colour choice was so bad it worked. Notice me.

He stopped and gaped at her. This was a back lane of Rothes, a distillery town in the Highlands of chiselled stone houses and slate rooves. The “street” was cart-era, just enough room for cars to park with a wheel on the footpath of cobblestones re-edged by modern concrete.

She had stayed at someone’s house not far away. After morning coffee, she kissed the man good-bye on the doorstep and, in the light-forsaken morning, trot, trot, trotted the old street in her black boots, the wispy River Spey in view, looking like God could not invent any colder water. Around the corner she went, to meet the black-haired man in his blue pullover.

She kept walking but turned, the pace slowing to clomp, clomp. The man was standing in the middle of the road. She stopped.

“Well?” she said.

But he could not think of anything to say.

He was 34. Dark hair. Solid. Perpetual frown as if even light puzzled him. Just come out his own front door, no hat, no coat for a quick zip across the road to his grandmother’s house. Pressed for time. Grim. Her last days were not easy. With luck he had been able to rent a place just opposite her. Yeah, grim.

It had been a tough weekend. In her eighties she had diabetes and kidney failure. More toes had gone black, the left foot this time and she was booked in to have them removed. “I don’t want to die so mutilated,” she said to him. He was a doctor, so he knew what she meant. “I am going to sign the ‘Do not resuscitate’ declaration.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said. “I have researched it.” She had her own lap-top. Still bright as a button – former captain at Rothes Golf club, a lovely hill country course closed at that season because the ground had frozen solid. She knew what she was doing.

But his Aunt Ann got to hear of this. On the Saturday, when she was in prepping for the operation – mostly dialysis - Ann came in to hospital ward with her husband.

“Do not resuscitate? You can’t do this? Has your grandson put you up to it? And what is it you think he is scheming for?” said Ann and the like of that again and again.

The husband was badgering her from a different direction. “You can’t give in. You have to show courage.”

Sunday morning they went in there again though she told them her views - but so upset her she was found not to be fit for the operation. The hospital sent her home.

On the Monday morning he was on his way over to check on her. So worried about her condition. His poor, poor grannie.

Then this blue-eyed face like a piece of sky. That jumble of colours. No…no. Wha?

She found that she likewise was unable to say anything. She looked at him equally dumbfounded. He was standing in the rain without coat or hat. Had his lights gone out?

And this was the famous Mary Constable. as least famous in Pitlochry, the young Mary who would talk to anyone, about anything, and fairly constantly. But with a prodigious memory for faces and names. She remembered people and, because of that, people would remember her. Especially the old ladies if they were out walking. Usually, she would know their name and with “Halloooo! Mrs Mac” or whatever, grab by the elbow and walk their pace, chattering away. Or the old men with their rough faces, so charmed that such a pretty young lady would take the time with them. Sometimes she would kiss them suddenly on the cheek with a little bit of lean on – and then skip away with always something to say. “That’s good Mr MacDonald,” or whoever. “Next time don’t forget your good trousers…” or some such reference to the conversation. Oh, they’d remember her. And mostly as the one talking. But here she was – tongue tied.

So, she tried a gesture. The hands out questioning. “What the fook are you standing in the rain for?” she was trying to say.

His head tilted slightly to the left. That was all. No change in the open mouth. What was going on in there? The shoulders of his jumper were now sodden, the soak getting through to the cotton shirt he wore underneath. The coldness did register in his brain, but legs received no orders. The hair on his forehead turned to string. The man must have to sensation on the top of head.

‘Och… you’re…” she said but again the words dried up. Her mouth gaped a little. Her turn. What a sight? His clothes as thick with water as the morning washing.

“He might drown,” she said to herself. He was a well-turned-out young man despite his sogginess. She had to do something. She got her phone out from hidden under coat. “I think what you want is my number.” She pronounced the last word with her own way of speaking, drawing the word out: N-UM-BER-RRR. Having the girl’s phone number, of course, was the first step in gaining sexual delight. And she did not mind.

His head began tilting right.

“Speak!” she said.

“Oh!” He told the number, she entered and pressed send, his identity in her Galaxy, though his phone, which was in his pocket, did not beep.

“Well, I suppose I should go in,” he said but he stood there. She was just so pretty. The sun. Two blue skies. His jumper began to sag.

She made a small chortle. What a sight he was! Then she saw an opportunity for mischief. In the distance a car was approaching from behind him. A blue Renault Clio, headlights on. She got her cheeky Mary back. She would keep him talking.

“You can find me on Tinder if you like. Pitlochory”.

He blinked.

“Or come to McKay’s hotel, stand on the front door and look over - you will see my flat. Nipple pink…”

His frown increased. The car had arrived. On these side streets the traffic is slow anyway. It stopped. A mumbling driver.

Then toot! The French manufacture their car horns loud, there is something Gallic about a big beep. This one made the man jump two feet in the air and lunge out of the way though there was no danger. The window of the car was coming down. It was someone he knew, an older man with tufts of hair around a bald arena - worked in the salaries section at Dr Greys Hospital in Elgin. “Och,” he said. Och. The word can be used in Scottish speech for joy at the birth of a child through to news that armed police are entering your flat. “Och,” said the man at the window of the car expressing complete scorn as cold as old porridge. “Doctor Dreekit,” he sneered. Scots Doric for drenched. Then drove on. Wouldn’t the hospital hear all about this?

“Are you a doctor?” she was intrigued. A doctor. She did it again. Her own way of speaking. D-O-CTO-RRR-E. This drizzled man. Still standing in the rain. Looking at her.

“Mmmm. Surgical registrar at Doctor Greys,” he mumbled trying to make it sound humble. The ambient temperature was a few above freezing and at last the cold seemed to reach his sense – was that pain in his kidneys, the first organ to shut down in hypothermia? And he started to turn. “Bye,” he said. “I will give you a call.”

She walked off still laughing. “Doctor Dreekit!” she repeated. It rang in the empty street with only the parked cars to lift their ears. “Doctor Dreekit.” Extending both words this time - rolling all those extra Rs.

As he put the key in his grandmother’s door he looked back just once at the crazy arse woman. In the grey street, the granite walls, grimy sodden, she walked along like a winter sun. Green jacket. Purple and yellow legs.

What a glow!