Mavis Potter reclined in her seat, her body visibly deflating.
‘That’s such a relief, Dr Parker. I was certain it was a brain tumour. Thank you for seeing me out of hours again. You really are a hero.’
‘Just doing my job. The migraine should subside soon, and the tablets will help. In future, remember that stress can be a trigger – that includes googling symptoms.’
Dr Paul Parker’s smile reached the corners of his eyes, kindness radiating out of him. Mavis basked in it for a moment. A visit to the GP was as good as a holiday.
She floated out of the surgery. ‘Thank you, Dr!’
With a groan, Paul rose to his feet, stiff with arthritis. As he fumbled for his keys, the phone rang. His wife’s name, Rita, flashed up. His stomach lurched in anticipation. He knew the drill.
‘Where are you, Paul?’ she would say, her voice an octave too high. ‘Dinner’s almost ready. Honestly, at seventy-four, you’ve earned your retirement.’
He ignored the phone and shuffled to his car, delaying the inevitable conversation.
Sure enough, at home he was greeted by the aroma of dinner cooking and Rita’s well-rehearsed lecture, which she delivered without looking up from her chores, except to plant a plum-coloured kiss on his cheek. Their son and his family, regular Friday night visitors, buzzed around them. The clatter and clamour made Paul’s head hurt and he collapsed into his chair.
‘What are you up to, boys?’ he sighed, grasping for any distraction. His two pre-teen grandsons barely looked up from their laptop.
Rita handed Paul a glass of wine and he sipped distractedly, the nasal voice resonating from the computer grating on his nerves. He stood and walked around the table to see the screen.
‘Who’s that?’ He took a large swig of wine and swallowed hard.
‘A YouTuber,’ they chimed.
‘What sort of example does a YouTuber set for young people? How to be famous without any skills? In my day, we had comics, not computers. Super-heroes to aspire to, who saved lives. Kids these days have no ambition.’
‘Chill out, Grandad!’
‘Exactly,’ said Rita as she breezed past. ‘You do need to chill out.’
Paul slammed down his drink and stomped, much more slowly than he would have liked, upstairs to retrieve his beloved comics. He’d teach those youngsters about real heroes.
The comic was yellowed and tattered, yet the images on the cover still made Paul’s heart rate accelerate. But when he opened it, he gasped. Spiderman was swinging in a spider-web hammock, hands resting behind his head. Venom lay on a sofa, watching Netflix. Instead of ‘Zap,’ the caption said, ‘Nap.’
‘Who knew?’ said his Grandson. ‘Even super-heroes hang up their capes eventually.’
In the laughter that followed, Paul felt a calm settle over him. He allowed a smile to creep across his face as they cleared the table for dinner.
Inside the comic, Spiderman gave Venom a High-Five. ‘Still inspiring sixty years on!’ he winked.
