Olive Trees and Allergies

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 “I’d like to be tested, please,” I said, standing at the counter and pointing to the sign. It’s amazing what you can get in supermarkets these days.  Even at nine O’clock at night.  I’d only popped in on the way home for a couple of steaks and a bottle of wine.  

The pharmacist was a polite young Asian man.  His voice was soft and calm. “D’you think you have an allergy? What are your symptoms?”

I frowned.  I hoped he wasn’t going to try to talk me out of this. It had taken all my courage – and three laps of the supermarket - to come and ask for the test.  I knew it involved needles and blood and I’m not good with either.  

I thought for a moment. “Well, most mornings, I have itchy eyes and a runny nose.  Oh – and there’s usually a rash, down my left arm.”  

I pushed up my jacket sleeve to show him but the rash wasn’t there. Strange how it seemed to come and go.    

“If you’re getting lots of colds and rashes, it could be stress-related. Have you been to your GP?”  

I laughed. “Oh, I’m too busy to go to the doctor’s!”  

And then I looked at my watch. If he didn’t hurry up, I might change my mind.

The pharmacist nodded and lifted up the counter to let me through. There was a door marked ‘Consulting Room’ just off to the side and he sat me down at a table and went to fetch his testing kit.   

 I glanced at the posters on the wall for diabetes and cholesterol and decided I would tell him that I’d changed my mind about the test.  He was probably right, I was just a bit stressed. Really, I didn’t have time. I was, after all, on my way home from the airport, after a busy week and -

 Suddenly the pharmacist was back. And my nerve failed me.  

“Alright?” he said.  

“Fine!”  

He went through a leaflet, which listed the ‘ten triggers’ he’d be testing for. “First, cats and dogs. Do you have any pets at home?”

“Only a grumpy Scotsman,” I joked. “But animals, no.  Too much of a tie. I’m away a lot, with my job, you see. Angus -  that’s my partner – he’d love a dog but it’s just not practical. And muggins here would probably end up looking after it, anyway.”

When I’m nervous, I tend to rabbit on. The pharmacist nodded and returned to his list. ““Mugwort weed pollen, timothy grass, mould, house dust mites – “

I raised my finger. “Now, there’s a pretty good chance it’s the house dust mites or the mould because – well, housework is not top of my agenda, to be honest.”

The pharmacist smiled politely again and returned to his list. He was wearing a wedding ring. I imagined he had a pretty young wife, who kept their house immaculate and had his dinner waiting when he got home each night. Goodness knows what he must be thinking of me.

“Cockroaches. And olive tree pollen,” he finished.

“Olive tree pollen? That’s weird!  You don’t get many olive trees round here.”

 “Perhaps it’s for when you go abroad on holiday.”

“Or on business,” I said.  I was working three days a week out of our office near Naples, surrounded by olive trees and citrus plantations. The company wanted me to move out there permanently but I couldn’t persuade Angus to go: he couldn’t stand the heat.  

The pharmacist pulled on a pair of latex white gloves. “So, now, I have to take some blood,” he said.

This was the part I’d been dreading.  I only have to nick my finger and I go faint. If someone talks about an injury, I have to tell them to stop because it makes me feel sick.  

    So Angus’ latest idea – for us to have a baby – was a non-starter as far as I was concerned. He’d been getting broody lately. He comes from a big family up in Scotland. I think he was missing the noise.  

“Can you honestly imagine me,” I’d asked him. “coping with all those injections and tests – and then the actual birth?”  

    “Well, other women manage,” he said. “Let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger, Claire. We don’t want to leave it too late!”

I didn’t know how to tell him that I was happy to leave it late – or forever, for

that matter.  It wasn’t just the idea of giving birth: I loved my job, I couldn’t give it up.  So, I just kept rushing around, commuting to Italy each week. And hoping that the problem would go away.   

  “There, all done,” the pharmacist said a few minutes later. “Do you want to go and do some more shopping while we’re waiting for the results? It takes about fifteen minutes.”  

I looked at the little plastic board on the table. There were a few lines and indentations in it and in the biggest one, sat a little pool of my blood. It was very red.  

“Good idea.” I stood up and immediately sat down again. “Ooh,” I said. The room had started to sway. “Probably best if I just sit here for a bit, if that’s OK.”

He nodded and went out - leaving the door open - to continue serving customers and doling out medicines and advice.

I looked at the posters again. I opened my carrier bag and examined my shopping. And then I remembered to try Angus on my mobile again.

I’d tried to reach him at work – his office was on my way home – and on his mobile before I left the airport that evening.  I wanted to let him know that I’d fetch something for supper.  The Italian office had just reported some fantastic sales figures. I felt like celebrating with a bottle of Chianti and Angus’ favourite meal. It would make a change for us to spend some time together.  But, as usual, he wasn’t answering the phone.  

I bet he’s out drinking with the crowd from the office again, I thought.  He never used to work late but since he’d moved to a new department, Angus was always with his new colleagues: Dave and Simon and Lynne. Come to think of it, he mentioned that Lynne quite a lot, these days.  

“No alcohol at all with these tablets – “ the pharmacist was saying to someone at the counter, as he passed over a package.   

I couldn’t see the customer because the counter was just off to the side and they couldn’t see me, sitting quietly in the consulting room. Now that I didn’t feel quite so queasy and my index finger, dressed in an Elastoplast, had stopped throbbing, it was quite relaxing, just sitting and doing nothing.  I couldn’t actually remember the last time I’d done that....

The minutes passed and I was just about to get my Blackberry out and check a few emails, when I heard a voice that sounded like Angus. He’s got a broad Glaswegian accent and, a bit like olive trees, you don’t get many of those round here.  

I didn’t actually catch what the voice had asked for but he was clearly not alone. There was rather a lot of whispering and giggling to be heard as the pharmacist reached up for a packet, placed it in a paper bag and handed it over the counter.  Money was exchanged.   

I stood up and waited a second for any dizziness to pass. When I felt alright, I stepped out of the consulting room.  

There was Angus, holding out his hand for his change, standing at the counter with a young woman. Her arm was linked through his.  

“Claire!” he said and promptly went scarlet. That’s the thing about being a pale-skinned Celt:  you blush when you’ve been caught out.

“Angus,” I said, smiling. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you all night.”

The pharmacist looked worried. His gaze moved from Angus to me and back to Angus again. He probably thought we were going to make a scene. He dived behind me into the consulting room.

 Angus coughed. “Er, this is – “  

“Lynne,” I said. Things were suddenly making sense. I looked at her carefully.

Lynne looked just as sheepish as him, as she sidled up to Angus. She wasn’t what I’d expected. She was young, with a mass of auburn curls. She was also slightly taller than Angus and rather well-built. She looked like she could pop out a baby without giving it a second thought and I suddenly had a vision of her and Angus, surrounded by lots of little red-headed children.

And the strange thing was, the thought really didn’t trouble me.  

“I’ve got your results – “ the pharmacist said behind me. “Would you  - er, like to come back into the room?”

There was a long pink line across the top of the white plastic board.  

He lowered his voice and pointed to it. “This means you’re not, actually, allergic to anything.”  

I frowned. “Really? Not house mites or mould? Not even olive trees?”

He shook his head.  

All that fear and pain and feeling queasy - for nothing. For a second I felt like a fraud. And then it hit me.

I placed my carrier bag over my arm and stepped back out of the room. Angus and Lynne were still standing behind the counter, like rabbits caught in the headlights. I almost felt sorry for them.

I waved my index finger, still encased in its plaster. “I’m allergic to you, Angus! I’ve just had the test and it all makes sense.”

“Er...does it?”

“Yes. I only get a rash on my arm when I’m sleeping next to you!”

The pharmacist gave a little cough behind me and I realised I was drawing a bit of a crowd. Passing shoppers were stopping their trolleys to gawp.

“So – er, what are we going to do?” Angus said.

I knew what I was going to do. But I wasn’t about to announce it to Angus, or Lynne or the supermarket shoppers. Let them wait. Let them wonder.  

The pharmacist pulled up the counter to let me out. I nodded my thanks and he smiled back.

I was going to pack my things and go to Italy. To live and to work and hopefully, one day, to love.

As I strode out of the supermarket towards my car, I threw the keys high in the air and caught them again.

It had been worth having the allergy test after all. It had been a sign.  I was allergic to Angus – that was a fact – but Italy beckoned. And I definitely wasn’t allergic to olive trees.