**Diary Entry**
If only we’d met sooner…
Valerie arrived at the clinic right on time, collected her file from reception, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Outside room twelve, all the chairs were occupied by elderly patients. Leaning against the windowsill stood a man, watching the room with quiet patience.
“Are you all waiting for room twelve?” Valerie asked hesitantly.
“Room twelve, yes. You’ll be behind that gentleman by the window,” one of the women replied.
“But I have an appointment slip,” Valerie said, digging through her pocket.
“So does everyone here,” rasped a thin, silver-haired old man.
Catching the man’s curious glance, Valerie moved closer to him.
“Do you have an appointment too? For what time?” she asked.
He looked younger than the others, calm.
“Nine-thirty,” he answered easily.
Valerie stared at him, baffled.
“Then why are you still here? Your time’s long passed. Were you late?”
“Not us—we arrived early. The doctor’s the one running behind,” the old man countered. The others murmured in agreement, complaints rising like steam from a kettle.
“What’s the point of appointment slips if they just take whoever shows up first?” Valerie demanded.
“Want to complain? Waste of time. First, a war veteran jumped the queue—lied, of course, he’s barely seventy, same as me. Then the clinic director brought in a friend. They ‘consulted’ for forty minutes. Free healthcare for you,” the old man grumbled.
“We’ll be here all day at this rate. Do we have to book another appointment?” Valerie turned to the man by the window for support.
“Don’t fret. He’ll see everyone, though in a rush. The doctor’s human too. Knows the system’s broken—can’t change it. Their answer’s always the same: don’t pay? Go private.”
“That’s not right—” Valerie bristled, indignation boiling inside her.
“My advice? Don’t stress. You won’t fix it, and you’ll only upset yourself,” the man said philosophically.
She lingered, torn between waiting hours or leaving.
“Always a nightmare seeing the orthopedist. One doctor, dozens of us. He’ll send you for an X-ray, another queue. Then back here with the results—” The old man waved a hand in defeat. The others grumbled in sympathy.
*Maybe I should just go*, Valerie thought—but she didn’t move, hoping for a miracle.
“Can’t decide whether to leave?” the man asked.
She met his eyes but didn’t answer.
“Is it serious?” he pressed.
“Everything here is serious,” she muttered. Pushing off the sill, she cast a last glance at room twelve and walked toward the stairs.
Uneven footsteps followed. She turned—the man was limping after her.
“Leaving too?” she asked, relieved not to be alone.
“Ever tried private?”
“Same doctors, just paying for the privilege,” he shrugged.
They stepped outside together.
“Bus?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk—clear my head.” She passed the stop.
“Wait, I’ll join you.” He caught up.
“You shouldn’t—it must hurt. Wait for the bus,” she said, slowing her pace. *Why’s he tagging along?*
“I recognised you. We booked appointments together on Monday, then rode the same bus home. You live near me—we got off at the same stop.”
“You were following me?” she snapped. *Definitely odd.*
“Just coincidence.”
They walked in silence. Valerie adjusted her stride to match his. After two stops, they boarded a bus, then alighted together.
“That’s my building,” he said, nodding at a block of flats opposite the stop. “Let me walk you home?”
“Your leg—does it hurt?” she deflected.
“Used to it. Listen—come to the community centre tomorrow. We’ve got a sort of club. You’ll enjoy it.”
“I’m not into group things. They’re your friends, not mine,” she said, searching for an excuse.
“Pity. I was an actor once. Well, nearly. They said I had promise—no, really,” he added at her sceptical look.
“What stopped you?” *Here it comes—some sob story.*
“Love did. Fell head over heels for the prettiest girl in drama school. Would’ve died for her. One evening, we walked along the bridge. Lights glittering on the black water… perfect romance. I confessed there.”
“And?” Intrigued, Valerie forgot her impatience.
They’d reached her building, but she lingered, wanting to hear the rest.
“She asked what I’d do to prove it. Made me climb the bridge’s beams—those iron crossbars, seven metres up. Young and daft, I ran straight up, balancing like a tightrope walker. Got to the top, grabbed a post—then realised I couldn’t get down. Terrified to jump or climb back.”
He sighed. “Tried descending, slipped. Smashed myself up. Been limping ever since.”
“The girl?”
“Visited me in hospital, apologised. Married a classmate. Even got a TV role. I started a club—failed actors, like me. We meet weekly, sing, read poetry, support each other. It’s good fun. So, will you come?”
“Tomorrow? What time?”
“Six, at the centre. Ask for Laurence Whitmore. Everyone knows me.” He gave a slight bow. “I’ll wait for you.”
Valerie said she’d think about it and left. At her doorstep, she glanced back—he was still watching her.
The next day, she resolved not to go. Yet by five, she was getting ready. Curiosity won.
At the centre, she was directed straight to the group—a dozen people around a tea-laden table. Laurence greeted her warmly, introduced everyone, and seated her beside him.
Two men played guitars expertly; women harmonised beautifully. A gaunt young man recited his novel in a rich, trained voice.
Then Laurence sang. Valerie was spellbound. His voice—velvet, soulful—brought her to tears.
“If not for the limp, he’d be on national stages,” a man whispered. “Proper talent.”
“Well? Glad you came?” Laurence asked on their walk home.
“Amazing. I expected amateurs—you’re all professionals. You sing better than most stars. Shame millions won’t hear you.”
“Fame would’ve ruined me. Only regret? That girl wasn’t worth the fall.”
They met often after that—strolls in the park, his poetry, his stories. He never pressed her for her own.
“I was married. Chose another beauty. Why stay with a failure like me? She left. Rightly so. What could I offer? Poems don’t pay. Plus, the limp.”
Beside him—a true artist—she felt ordinary, unremarkable. And she pitied him deeply.
For her birthday, she invited him, eager to show him off to friends and her daughter. He dazzled them—roses, guitar, that voice…
“Mum, where’d you find him?” her daughter whispered in the kitchen.
“At the clinic. Orthopedic queue.”
“Your knee again?”
“Forgot all about it, honestly.” She blushed.
“God, you’re smitten. Impossible not to be—goosebumps listening to him.”
“Wish we’d met ten years earlier…” Valerie sighed.
“Don’t be daft. He’s mad about you—inviting him here proves it.” Her daughter smirked.
Valerie flushed. She’d noticed his glances too, the way they melted her heart. Never dreamed she’d feel this at her age.
She lived for their meetings, preened before mirrors, thrilled by their chaste, comfortable bond. Then—silence. No calls for days. His phone was off.
Shame abandoned, she went to his building. A grandmother pointed her to his flat. “Gone two days—ambulance took him. Heart, they say. Why d’you ask? Groupie?”
At the entrance, a man stopped her. “You’re Valerie?”
“Yes. What’s happened?”
“His son. Come in.” He led her upstairs. “Dad spoke of you. Regretted meeting so late.”
Dread choked her.
Inside, the truth came. “He died last night. Funeral’s tomorrow. Please come. He wanted you to know.”
She barely recalled the journey home. At the funeral, his friends mourned a lost genius. “We’ll publish his poems,” one said. “He wrote furiously at the end… Founded our little brotherhood…”
Grief weighed on her. Her knee flared up again. Clutching an appointment slip, she returned to the clinic. Room twelve’s chairs were full.
She leaned on the windowsill—just as he had—then left without waiting.
Footsteps followed unevenly behind. She walked on, speaking softly to him. Passers-by stared; she didn’Now, whenever she walked home, she could swear she heard his uneven steps beside her, a quiet echo of a love that had come too late.
