“Do not,” said Sylvia Marks to Marcus Wright, the blacksmith’s son, “even think about leaving this waiting room before I’ve looked at your arm properly.” She pinned him with a gimlet gaze. “It will take me ten minutes to finish what I am doing with Mrs Lord and then I will call for you. You will still be here. Do you understand? If I have to come and find you…” she gestured out of the front door, “…if I have to waste my time, coming to find you, I will be extremely cross. And Marcus, you do not want me to be extremely cross.”
Marcus hunched his fifteen-year-old shoulders down into his chair in the face of her intimidating five-foot eight frame and looked at his feet. His mother jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow and he muttered, “Yes, Dr Marks. I’ll be here.”
His mother met Sylvia’s e
