She was working as a GP in one of the poorer parts of the East End and she gave him some comprehensive data on the incidence of adolescent depression in her practice for his research paper. He was very impressed by her. She devised an early-warning system for kids at risk and persuaded the local schools to use it. The stats in her area showed a marked improvement afterwards.’
‘But Charles doesn’t trust women further than he can throw them. Does Dr Jackson know that?’
‘She seems to know more about him than we do, Susan. He talked incessantly for half an hour, apparently, although she says he probably won’t remember doing it.’ He paused. ‘I’ve always thought he might respond better to a woman . . . It’s one of the reasons I asked you to take him in when he was in London.’
‘And it didn’t work,’ Susan reminded him. ‘He was very suspicious of me.’
‘I know.’ Another pause. ‘Henry calls Dr Jackson “Jackson”. He says she doesn’t have a Christian name – or if she does, she doesn’t own to it – and looks as if she could have taken on Mike Tyson in his prime and won. He also says she’s incapable of mollycoddling anyone, tells it how it is, refuses to tiptoe around prissy sensibilities, and gains respect as a result . . . particularly from adolescent boys. Henry thinks she’s the bee’s knees.’
‘But Charles isn’t an adolescent, Bob.’
‘He’s showing all the hallmarks . . . alienation . . . rejection . . . distrust... reacting violently when he’s annoyed.’
‘All the more reason to put him into a programme. Supposing he turns on Dr Jackson?’
Willis hesitated. ‘I’ve given her as much information as I’m able to. There’s not much else I can do as he’s not my patient any more.
‘What if I disagree?’
‘Just don’t make up your mind until you’ve spoken to her.’ Susan thought she could hear him removing his glasses for the inevitable polishing. ‘She’s says Charles is so undernourished he wouldn’t stand a chance against her, but she’s confident he’ll only reappear if he’s willing to accept her terms.’
Acland rephrased his question when Susan didn’t answer immediately. ‘What makes you think I’d rather be with Jackson?’
‘Off the cuff, because you’ll feel safer with her. She’s big enough and tough enough to keep you in line . . . you’ll do her less damage if you lose your temper . . . she’ll have no compunction about restraining you or calling the police if you take a swipe at her.’ She flicked him a mocking smile. ‘Plus, she’s uninterested in you as a sexual partner, isn’t the motherly type, cures migraines, sits with her patients, wipes up after them . . . even washes and irons their clothes. What more would you want?’
‘It’s Daisy who does all that.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Jackson said she did . . . but it’s obvious, anyway. You only have to look at them. I can’t see Jackson wielding a mop. The only thing she’s interested in is weightlifting.’
‘So Daisy’s a kept femme?’
‘What’s a femme?’
‘A lipstick lesbian . . . a beautiful gay girl who’s attractive to both sexes. Heterosexual men find them confusing. When they’re not fantasizing about them, they demote them to the role of wife and confer womanly attributes on them such as a willingness to clean. It’s the opposite with butch lesbians. A butch looks like a bloke –’ she flicked him another teasing smile – ‘so she’s assumed to be the husband, with masculine attributes such as complete ignorance about where the cleaning equipment is stored.’
Acland didn’t say anything.
‘As I understand it, Daisy runs the pub and Jackson works as an out-of-hours locum. They’ve been together ten years and pooled their resources five years ago to buy the Bell. Daisy’s responsibilities are located front of house, in the bar areas and restaurant, and Jackson’s, because of her locum work, are concentrated back of house, in the private accommodation. They have staff, so they don’t do it all themselves, but I doubt Daisy had any involvement with you last night. If she was working the evening shift she wouldn’t have had time.’
‘Then why did Jackson pretend she did? It’s not as though I made any disparaging remarks about lesbians. I was careful not to. The only thing I said was that Jackson didn’t look like a doctor . . . and she doesn’t. She wears Lycra shorts and a vest, and bloody great boots on her feet.’
‘What were you expecting? A white coat?’ Susan laughed. ‘God help you if a baker ever offers to medicate you.’
‘I wasn’t expecting a muscle-bound mountain who looks as if she injects testosterone twenty-five times a day,’ Acland retorted irritably. ‘How many female doctors do you know who look like Arnold Schwarzenegger?’
‘None,’ said Susan honestly, ‘so I’m guessing Jackson’s unique. It sounds to me as if she took exception to your prejudices and gave you some rope to hang yourself. You ought to know better than to judge a person on appearance alone, Charles. You’re deeply offended when it happens to you.’
‘I didn’t show her any prejudice. If she thinks I did, then she’s the one with the chip on her shoulder . . . not me.’
Susan shook her head. ‘You attacked one of her customers because he looked like a Muslim. You can’t show more prejudice than that.’
*
The cabbie drew over as two police cars roared down the middle of the road, sirens blaring. Shortly afterwards, they joined the back of a long tail of stationary cars, with flashing blue lights indicating a blockade about four hundred yards ahead. ‘It looks like an accident,’ he said through the gap in the security window. ‘Do you want to walk from here? The traffic’ll be just as bad if I try the side streets. Both lanes are blocked, so it could take hours to shift.’ ‘How far away are we?’ Susan asked. ‘Half a mile max. About the same distance again after the
accident. Just go straight ahead. The Bell’s on the corner of Murray Street.’
