Lead On, Macduff! by Jane Tulloch

The phrase had followed me all my life, but I’d given up hope of ever hearing it again . . .

LEAD on, Macduff.” If I’ve had that said to me once, I’ve had it said 1,000 times. Every time the person saying it thought it was the first time I’d ever heard it. How hilarious they thought they were, yet how irritating I found it.

How I wish someone would say it to me now.

I was Corporal Macduff in the Army and left it as Sergeant Major Macduff. Then I ended up police sergeant Macduff.

That’s the sort of person I am. I know what I’m doing and I know what others should be doing. I’ve told them often enough in my fine, loud voice.

My voice was the pride of the regiment when I was in the Army. It held miscreants (and some junior PCS) to account while on my beat in the police force. No nonsense here, thank you very much.

Of course, my wife objected to being addressed, as she put it, like a battery of slackers or an adolescent gang of shoplifters.

I learned to moderate my voice when talking to her and the children, but I did find it harder as they grew up.

These days I can hardly understand what young people are actually talking about, so I just keep the conversation going myself. That way we keep to topics we can all contribute to.

Well, I can, anyway. Rose, my wife, prefers to visit the children in their own homes now, so I don’t have much opportunity to keep them up to date on local developments in the way I’d like to.

I would like to see more of the grandchildren, too, but I gather that I scare them. Ridiculous.

Anyway, life was all going very well for me for a long time. But you don’t appreciate what you’ve got till it’s gone, as they say.

What has gone in my life is my voice. I don’t know what happened. I thought I had a cold.

I didn’t have a sore throat at all, but my voice just seemed to get weaker.

I tried my best to shout as loudly as possible but it just came out as a squeak. How the constables laughed at me. It was humiliating.

This went on for a few weeks until Rose, who had seemed more cheerful lately, spotted a notice on the bus. The notice said that persistent sore throats should be taken to the doctor.

I argued (quietly) that my throat wasn’t actually sore, but Rose sighed and said that she’d already made an appointment for me.

I didn’t tell her that the inspector had already ordered me to see a doctor. I’m not the sort of person that likes being told what to do, but orders are orders.

I’ve not been to the surgery for years. It’s all changed. It’s bright and airy with lots of chairs arranged around the room. Even the receptionist was pleasant.

No wonder the NHS is in dire straits, throwing money away on refurbishing perfectly serviceable premises and staffing them with chits of girls.

The old staff may have been battle-axes, but you knew where you were with them.

As Rose and I waited, I became aware of music in the background and children playing with toys in the corner.

Rose leaned over and quietly told me that she knew what I was thinking and I was not to say it.

So I didn’t. But I most certainly thought it – if they were well enough to play, they were well enough to be at school.

I glared at them. They carried on regardless. How I missed my voice.

Finally, the tinkly music paused briefly and a disembodied female voice cooed, “Mr Macduff to room six.”

Rose nudged me and we set off down the corridor. It was well supplied with so-called modern art paintings, I noticed.

Well, the doctor was about twelve – and female.

“Where’s Doctor Booth?” I croaked.

“Doctor who?” she queried. “Sorry. He must have been before my time. What can I do for you today?”

Rose took over and explained my almost total voice loss. The doctor perked up a little and said that she was particularly interested in what she called “ENT issues”.

Issues, indeed. Apparently she’d done two years in the local hospital in the ENT department before moving into general practice.

I must say that she did look as though she knew what she was doing. I thought she’d have to refer me to some sort of specialist due to the seriousness of my complaint, but no, she put on a headband with a reflecting mirror on it and told me to open wide and lean my head back a little.