A Poor Reception

Paula had worked as a doctor’s receptionist for just over ten years. It was a job she enjoyed, the doctors and the other staff were just lovely. The only thing she found annoying was dealing with the public. They were just so unreasonable. They expected to be seen straight away and thought there was nobody else but them. And the doctors were very busy, important people, as were the hard-working receptionists, like her. Paula and her colleagues just didn’t get the respect they deserved. As far as Paula was concerned their job was just as important as the doctors and surgeons. Not that people saw it that way of course. 

Paula was chatting to one of her colleagues one morning, and just about to take a sip of her tea, when the phone rang. Paula snatched up the receiver, tutted and gave the standard line.

‘Landmarsh Medical practise, can I help?’

As the man on the phone detailed his ailments, Paula cut him short.

‘No, no, you can’t just phone up and demand an appointment. You have to visit our website and fill an online form, and then we will be in touch advising if the doctor will see you or not.’

The person on the other end of the phone was still describing their ailments when Paula hung up. A woman approached the counter, explaining she had an appointment for an asthma review.

‘Do you have any paperwork?’ Paula asked.

She reached for her phone to show the email he’d received.

‘No, not on your phone, actual paperwork!’ Paula insisted.

‘Erm, no, I haven’t.’

‘Date of birth?’ Paula asked.

‘Third of the fifth, Nineteen Eighty-two.’

‘Third of May?’ Paula said.

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Take a seat.’ Paula growled. 

She glanced at the clock on the computer. Tuesday morning, 09:07.

‘Happy Tuesday, guys.’ One of the doctors called out, giving a salute, as he headed for his room.

The receptionists called out excitedly in reply. 

Paula was still grumbling about the cheek of someone trying to book an appointment, when an elderly man with grey-white hair came up to the counter. Paula glared at him over her reading glasses.

‘I’d like to see the doctor, please.’ He said.

‘Name?’

‘James Byrne.’ He said, in a thick Irish accent.

As she tapped away on the computer keyboard, James continued. 

‘My name in Gaelic is actually Seamus O’Broin.’ 

‘Am I putting James or Seamus?’ she snapped.

‘James,’ he said. ‘Is there any chance you could fit me in, I really don’t feel well at all.’

‘You can’t just turn up and expect to see the doctor. You need to complete the online form.’ Paula replied.

‘I’m not that up on the internet. Could you not see if you can get me an appointment?’

‘Take a seat and when I get chance, I’ll see if one of the doctors will fit you in later on today.’ said Paula.

She shoo’d him away with both hands, the way you’d treat a badly behaved dog. James thanked her and scurried to the waiting area. 

As Paula worked at the reception desk, the chatter of the patients waiting to be seen drifted across the room. It was a background noise, like listening to talk radio. 

She could hear James telling the person sitting next to him that he was descended from the old Irish chieftains, and that his grandmother would also tell him how their ancestors also included gypsies.  

During the day, while he was waiting, there were times when James was sitting on his own, nobody waiting alongside. He would sing a little tune to himself. The words and the tune drifted across the reception area to Paula.

And the auld triangle, went jingle-jangle, all along the banks of the Royal Canal.

Paula glanced over, noticing that he was fiddling with something in his hands, fidgeting as he waited. When she realised what he was holding, she got to her feet, clicking her fingers, then pointed at him.

‘Excuse me, you cannot smoke in here. Put that out!’

James raised his wooden pipe.

‘It isn’t lit, I’m not smoking. There’s no tobacco in the pipe.’

She shook her head, and turned back to the computer, before deciding she had had enough and getting to her feet.

‘James, that’s it. We’ve nothing for today. You will have to come back and try again tomorrow, and leave your pipe at home.’

‘But I’m really not well at all.’ 

‘Try again tomorrow.’ She snapped, jerking a thumb towards the door. 

Looking even paler and thinner than he had, and close to tears, James shuffled reluctantly towards the exit.

As the automatic doors whooshed shut behind him, Paula shook her head. Honestly, some people. 

Another patient approached the counter. Paula glared at the woman, whatever next?

‘I’d like to see the doctor please.’

‘I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. You need to fill in the online form and submit it. Then we will advise if the doctor will see you.’

‘My daughter filled in the form for me, and she had a reply saying I was to come down in person.’

‘That is not how it works. You cannot just come down here.’ Paula said.

‘That’s what the reply said.’ 

‘And when was this?’ asked Paula.

‘First thing this morning.’

Paula took her name and angrily typed at the keyboard, before finally jabbing the Enter key with a fingernail.

‘Right, she tutted, ‘your daughter will receive a response in due course.’

As the woman was about to speak, Paula swivelled on her chair and returned to concentrating on the computer. The woman leaned on the counter, and spoke.

‘That seems a bit silly. I’m here now. Surely-’

‘Silly? Excuse me? We operate a zero tolerance to staff being verbally abused.’ Paula said. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’ 

‘But, I’m just saying I’m here now so why-’

‘When the form has been assessed we will be in touch. Good day.’ Paula said finally. 

Chunnering and grumbling, the woman, turned and marched from the surgery. 

The following morning, Paula arrived for work as usual. She was making herself a cup of tea in the small kitchen when Cath, one of her colleagues came in.

‘Have you heard about the news?’ Cath asked.

‘No, what’s happened?’

‘One of our patients died last night. A neighbour went to check on him and found him.’

‘That’s a shame. Who was it?’ Paula asked.

‘A chap called James Byrne.’ 

Paula was shocked and couldn’t speak for a moment. Could she have done more? Should she have done more to help the old man? No she shook her head. She was following the policy of the surgery. People couldn’t just rock up and expect to see the doctors.

*

That night, as she lay in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about the poor patient who had died. Of course, she wasn’t responsible, not at all. It had just been an unfortunate set of circumstances, but it was still sad, all the same. Finally she drifted off to sleep. 

In her dreams she was back at work, behind the desk. The scene had a blurry quality, almost like being underwater. A patient approached the counter. There was something dark and sinister about his grin. He leaned in close.

‘My name is Seamus. I’d like to see the doctor.’

‘You need an appointment.’ Paula said.

‘Couldn’t you sort something out for me? Sure, I don’t feel well at all.’ The figure said.

Paula shook her head.

The man reached out a hand and grabbed hold of her arm. His grip felt ice-cold, so cold it burned. 

She woke with a start, breathing hard. The figure in her dream had been the poor fellow, this James Byrne who had died. She stared around in the small-hours darkness of her bedroom. She told herself everything was okay, all was as it should be. The incident at work must have been playing on her mind, that was all. She fluffed her pillow and tried to get comfortable, and closed her eyes.  

Just as she was falling asleep, she caught a strong smell she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

The next morning, in the brightness of the day-light, things seemed to make sense once again. She was bound to have disturbed sleep after losing surgery patient. She had seen him that very day, so of course it was still on her mind. She showered and dressed for work as normal.

As she closed the front door and was locking it behind her, there was a strong smell. It was the same aroma from the middle of the night. She looked around, to see if she could spot the source of the strange smell. She couldn’t see anyone burning anything. Telling herself she must be imagining things, she headed for the car.

Ten minutes later, she was sitting at traffic lights halfway to work. A shiver went through her as she realised what the smell had been. It was pipe smoke. No, no, just no, she said aloud. It must be all in her head. She told herself to forget all about the late Irishman. A busy day dealing with irritating patients would be the distraction she needed. She put her foot down, and headed to the surgery, all the more quickly.

That evening, as she was crossing the car-park, she heard a noise from behind. She glanced over her shoulder. A figure was standing in the shadows of the dark corner of the car-park. It was an elderly man wearing a flat cap, lighting his pipe with a match. She stared, trying to make out the face. Was it the poor fellow who had died? Stop it, she told herself. 

What was the man doing loitering in the car-park?

‘Excuse me, the surgery is closed. You can’t be hanging around here.’ She called out.

The man lowered his pipe, and grinned. It was him. Paula let out a whimper. This just wasn’t possible. Before she could either step forward, or flee the carpark, the figure exhaled a lungful of pipe smoke. The thick smoke hurt her eyes. A second later when the smoke cleared, the figure had vanished. 

Half an hour later, with trembling hands, she let herself in her front door and made sure several times that it was locked behind her. She made herself a cup of tea, strong and sweet, and plonked herself in front of the television set. She tried to distract herself from the crazy thoughts going around her head, that she was somehow being haunted by the man who had died, and watched a ridiculous comedy show on TV. 

That night, after she had finally managed to get to sleep a sound woke her. She sat up in bed and listened in the darkness. What was that sound? What had woken her up? There was a noise from downstairs. Was that voices? Someone talking. A shiver went through her. It was someone singing. And she recognised the tune immediately. 

An Irish voice, coming nearer, singing that song. It sounded like he was making his way through her house. Nearer and nearer. Was he coming up the stairs? She tugged the duvet up to her chin, as though that would protect her.

The voice rang through the house. The voice singing, And the auld triangle, went jingle-jangle all along the banks of the Royal Canal. Singing and footsteps coming down the landing, towards her bedroom door. Louder and louder, nearer and nearer. 

The handle of her bedroom door rattled and shook violently. Then the door swung open. Paula screamed, flicking on the bedside lamp to see who or what was intruding. The bedroom door was now fully open, but there was nobody there. 

She warily slipped out from under the duvet, and cross the room. She peered out onto the landing. Nothing, nobody there. No intruder, and, she winced at the word as it came to mind, no ghost. She crumpled to the carpet, her trembling hands covering her face as she sobbed. 

She woke the next morning on top of the bed covers. She must have found her way on to the bed at some point and slept, a deep, dreamless sleep. Not wanting to be on her own, and almost on auto-pilot, she quickly showered and dressed, then hurried out to work. 

When she pulled up at the surgery, the building was in darkness, she had been in that much of a hurry she had beaten her colleagues to work. She rummaged in her handbag for the surgery keys and marched across the car-park, eager to get started.

She unlocked the door, turned the alarm off, and flicked on the lights. As the lights were coming on, blinking stark white light, she gasped. Sitting in a chair in the waiting area is an elderly man with grey white hair. It was him, this apparition, this spirit, that was seemingly tormenting her. 

‘Are you okay, love?’ called her colleague Cath as she entered through the double-doors. 

Paula noticed the ghostly figure sitting in the waiting area had disappeared. As Cath settled in behind the counter, Paula went to make them both a cup of tea. When she returned and took her seat, a patient entered the surgery.

A familiar Irish gentleman approached the counter. It was him. Paula stared, afraid and fascinated.

‘I’d like to see the doctor, please.’ He said.

Unsure quite what was happening, Paula nodded. 

‘Of course, I’ll go and speak to somebody straight away.’ She said. 

James smiled and nodded.

‘Who are you talking to?’ asked Cath.

Paula turned back to find that there was nobody at the counter wanting to be seen. 

An elderly woman entered and hobbled upto the counter with a walking stick. She grimaced as she walked, clearly in pain and discomfort. 

‘I don’t have an appointment, but I’m not well at all. Is there any chance you could fit me in today?’ she said.

‘I’ll do my very best for you, love. Let me go and speak to the doctor.’ Paula said with a gentle smile. 

As she stood Paula noticed something on the corner of the counter. It was a wooden pipe. Still not sure what it all meant, she hurried to speak to the doctor.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom