‘None of our patients are dangerous, and any that are, are kept heavily sedated.’ He looks at me over his glasses, then carries on . . . ‘I should also make it quite clear that we will not tolerate any kicking of the patients, swearing at the patients, or spitting at the patients.’
The wise owl holds me with his eyes, looking over his glasses. I have to say ‘Yes’ then he puts down his papers and smiles, dry, crumbly at the edges. He reaches over and drops my key into my hand. I take it in my palm . . . heavy, a thing of beauty . . .
‘So, everything’s clear then?’
I nod, ‘Yes sir!’
‘Now, if you’ll just go along with Mrs Mop here, she’ll show you to your ward, and introduce you to your supervisor.’
I re-nod, ‘Yes sir!’
‘And remember, no spitting at the patients!’
I salute and leave with the old bag. Once outside, I open my palm and examine my treasure: the king of keys! I pocket it and follow Mrs Mop: short, starched and threatening.
From the outset those hags in domestic ganged up on me. They took it on themselves to rubbish me at every opportunity. They were as sly as sixteen weasels and as cantankerous as a shoal of barracudas. They made faces behind my back. They insinuated. The mistresses of the pregnant pause . . . I was a boy in a woman’s world, and didn’t they let me know it. ‘Did I think I was superior or something?’ And ‘why do you wear that disgusting old suit? You look like one of them, like a dinloo!’
Obviously, I was heading for a duffing, and Mrs Mop’s old man would be quite happy to oblige, if I just cared to hang around outside the main gate after dark. That bitch put me on report twice on my first day for my alleged indiscretions, things that never even occurred. For getting too chummy with the patients, for back-chatting the doctors and putting them straight on a few points of patient care.
I come in Monday morning, grab my bucket and spade and there’s a new face sitting on the ward . . . I see him leafing through the Reader’s Digest, so I walk over and shake hands with him. Just a kid, seventeen years maybe. Gnawing at his cuticles and grinding his teeth. He wants to know if I’ve got any cigarettes.
I show him my palms. ‘Fresh out, mate!’
‘Is there anywhere I can get some?’ He blinks at me and shreds his thumb. ‘Ain’t there a machine?’
‘No, not over here . . . Have you just come in?’
‘The weekend . . . Sunday night . . . Do they sell cigarettes?’
I put my mop and bucket down and park my arse. ‘Shift up . . .’ I sit down next to him.
‘Not in this neck of the woods, you need the shop . . . over by the canteen . . . You know the canteen?’
He shakes it.
‘Well, it’s a quite a walk, and tricky, not at all straightforward.’ I look at him and pull out my packet of Weights. ‘Look, this is my last one, alright, it’ll keep you going ’til nursy comes in. When she shows up, ask her to take you over to the shop, it’s by the canteen, to get your snouts. She’ll take you, it’s up to her, I’ve got to go and do the bogs . . . then all the floors.’
I wave my mop in the air, I take it out the bucket, I give him an example. He smiles, me too . . . but now I have to go.
‘Nursy will see you right. I’ve got to get going, the supervisor will be after my balls!’
I wave to my new found friend and leave him puffing on it. Just a kid, like me. Alone in the world, but not even with a cigarette to keep him company. A few sad knocks, the eyes damaged, a slight stutter. The hands fluttering, ruined. A no-hoper, with no one to care.
I give him my last snout to cheer him up, then carry on with my rounds. I get on my hands and knees and kiss the pan. I give it all I’ve got. I’ll tell you something, half the old fools in that joint let it go before they’re even on the seat, before they’ve even got their kacks down . . . They’re not at all supervised, not in the least. They stagger about, shitting their pants to their heart’s delight. They fall in it and draw pictures, finger paintings. The walls just one mass of hieroglyphs. I scrub at them, I use a paint scraper, I go to great lengths.
Then, next up, the buffing, with a machine, heavy, revolving, with a mind of its own. I have to go to the cupboard to get that. I insert my pass-key. I have to put my back into it, I lean on it, a regular Fort Knox. Finally, I get that door open and get to the machine . . . I stock up on bog paper whilst I’m at it. I fill my bags. I can’t stand shelling out hard earned cash on arse-wipe! I take a dozen rolls off the top shelf, the executive variety, for doctors’ use only. Soft and luxurious, not the greased sandpaper reserved for us plebs and the loonies. I bag it up for later and get on with my rounds.
That machine takes some manhandling. I sweat and I stoop, crashing from side to side, ripping great chunks out of the skirting boards. A couple of acres of parquet, shimmering into the distance. Every two miles I have to drag in the cable and plug in up ahead. I heave and pull: it spins and hums, with a mind of its own. The bastard thing nearly takes my ankles off!
It takes me ’til half eleven to even begin to get a shine on that driftwood. Then that bitch comes and tells me to go help serve up the patients’ grub. Not that it’s my job, mind, but I go to it. I put a final dash on, finish my buffings and lock the cupboards. I get everything done before 12 o’clock. I put on an extra spurt, unplug the machine and stow it. I chuck it into the darkest recesses of the store cupboard. I use both hands. I twist that key with viciousness, with a finality, and make for the dining area. Then I see him still sitting there, my friend of the morning. Despondent, alone, unmoved . . . staring out past the window, into the grounds, at nothing, a squirrel eating its nuts. I sit myself down, I drop everything.
‘Watcha!’
He looks away and says nothing.
‘Haven’t you got your snouts yet?’
He shakes it.
‘Didn’t nursy come and take you over to the shop?’
He shrugs . . . I throw my mop down and kick at my bucket...
‘OK, come on, grab your hat!’
I lead him, I pull him out of his chair.
‘I’ll just get me jacket.’
We set off, I drop everything. Stow the dinner, the boy wants his cigarettes! Been sat here waiting these past four hours, ignored and uncared for.
‘Come on mate, I’ll show you the way. Stuff their dinner, we’ll get your snouts!’
We go out the side door and amble over, batting the breeze. Twenty Navy Cut: I have to lend him the money. His fingers tremble so much that he can’t open the packet. I open it for him and we light up.
‘You see, they chucked me out, I was in the hostel, but I couldn’t find work. Then my girlfriend left me and I tried to top myself . . .’
I drag on it, hot and sweet, and let it out through my nose. I nod thoughtfully. Words aren’t everything, for once I keep it shut and just listen. Another human being, I try and understand. His perspective, the world failing him, in his eyes.
Like I say, it’s a hike over there and back, from the main hospital, but still, we didn’t dilly-dally . . . We just buy the cigarettes and make tracks. We get back just as they’re finishing dinner. We walk into a stack of plates, high encrusted, unwashed. And that’s when they jump us. We’re surrounded. They pull at my lapels. They extinguish my friend’s cigarette and frog-march him back to the ward. He looks to me, desperate. They hold his arms behind him and lead him away.
It was those harpies from domestic who grassed us up — any excuse to stick their noses in! I’m dragged in front of the chief supervisor. There’s already been countless reports of my attitude problem. It seems that I’ve been upsetting the patients, putting everybody in danger. A major catastrophe was narrowly avoided.
‘You drew a picture of April, didn’t you? Come along, there’s no sense in denying it!’
‘Yeah, so . . . it was in my dinner break.’
‘And she drew a picture of you, is that right?’
I stare down.
‘Is that right?�
�
I nod.
‘Well, where is it now?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Look, I’m going to ask Doctor Roberts in here in a minute and you better remember pretty damn quick!’ He presses his little buzzer and a black man in a white coat and glasses walks in.
‘This is Doctor Roberts. Doctor Roberts, Hamperson, our new ward porter.’
Doctor Roberts shows me his teeth. ‘Yes, I’ve seen him on his rounds. Now, Mister Hamperson, I’d like a word with you about April. . . You know April, don’t you?’
I look at him, the little fellow, the little black man behind his glasses.
‘It seems that maybe you know her, how should we say, too well!’
‘How well is too well?’
‘Look here young man, you seem to have made quite a nuisance of yourself already and this is only your first week!’ He leafs through the stack of reports on his desk. ‘This could look very bad for you, especially if you had to apply for a new job.’ He looks at me meaningfully. ‘What I’m trying to say is, if you’re willing to help us, maybe we’ll be willing to help you. Now this little matter of April’s drawing, it need go no further. Just give us the drawing and we can pretend that this “little chat” never happened.’ I stare down at my shirt front and say nothing. He clears his throat. ‘We need all the information we can gather, to enable us to have a deeper understanding of April’s neurosis. I’m sure you understand our situation.’
He puts all his fingers together, then takes them apart and scratches his head. ‘If you know the whereabouts of this drawing, you must tell us. You can tell me in the strictest confidence and it will go no further than this office.’
‘I don’t know where the drawing is.’
‘Ah yes . . . Well, I’m afraid that April says that you have the drawing!’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘I don’t want to have to bring April in here. I think you will agree, that would be most unpleasant for all parties concerned.’
He blinks behind the glass, owlish, a fool in a white coat.
‘I haven’t got the picture . . . I don’t know what happened to it. I think she threw it away.’
‘I see, so you want it the hard way!’
He leans over and pushes the little buzzer. He fidgets and pulls at his nose and blinks at me again. Then they bring her in: April, the girl who eats from the bins . . . She says she loves me . . . she wants me to give her a baby . . . ‘Will I marry her?’. . . She doesn’t want me getting no funny ideas! She takes a handful of gunk out of the bin, scrapings, slops, she shakes it at me.
‘Men are all the same!’
‘Don’t eat that, April.’
She holds it to her breast, she nurses it, eating from her palm, old cabbage leaves, a tea bag.
They bring her in and hold her in front of the little man’s desk; it takes two of them, one on each arm. She sobs and gasps . . . I stare at my fingers, I flex them, the knuckles go white . . . The dad sits himself on the edge of his desk . . . takes off his goggles and polishes them with his tie.
‘Where’s the picture, April?’
She lets out a little cry, shrill, chilling.
‘We only want to look at it, April, we don’t want to take it away from you, we just want to see it, that’s all . . . Has Mister Hamperson got it? Did you give it to him? That’s all we want to know, we won’t take it away from you . . . Just tell us where it is, April!’
She shakes her head from side to side, she twists it on her neck, contorting her face. She says it, she spits it out. ‘No, you mustn’t kill my babies!’
‘Come along, April, you have to help us so that we can help you.’
She drools and splutters, sagging at the knees; she tries to droop down, but the apes hold her up.
‘This young man here has told us that you still have the picture.’
He motions at me with his stupid pen, gold and glittering. He points me out, the Judas of the sketch book. I speak up, I have to, my rage. It’s small but it rises. I have to say it, to spit out the lies they put in my mouth. To keep myself pure, to not be part of this world they’re making.
‘Leave her alone!’
I shout it between my clenched teeth, I force it through tightened jaws.
I screw up my fists, my eyes bulging ’til they ache; I can’t bottle it any longer, my feelings, the disgust, the great injustice.
‘You jumped-up fool, so she drew a picture? Big deal! But never again, because of you, you stupid deluded fool. It’s you who’s killing her, killing everybody. You’re stifling all life, and you’re too stupid to even fucking notice!’
I go to say it but I don’t. . . I cry, I gasp, I sob. I have to leave, to be out of his dirty eyes. I need to feel the door handle, warm and friendly. To be stepping out of there, to be leaving this room, these people and their lies, behind closed doors. But I stand dumb, in turmoil, aged by guilt.
They drag her away, our girl of the bins, to be sedated. She’s over-excited — they put her under the drill.
‘Of course, this isn’t the only matter we have to discuss with you, Mister Hamperson’
They turn on me again. I swallow down. I’m not a man, I’m not a human being, I am an insect, one of any number.
‘Mrs Mop tells me that you’ve been upsetting not only the patients, but also the other members of her staff.’ He wrinkles his forehead, the lines ask. ‘She says you claim to be an ex-patient who only applied for this job so that you can ‘reek your revenge on the doctors with your little hatchet!’ He reads it from his notebook, the distaste showing on his lips . . . He looks up at me from under his glasses.
Like I say, toilets are my department, I’m just a shit shifter.
‘Get that old, mad shit from under that rim boy! Hose it down, let’s see that piss-pot shine! And don’t forget the U-bend! Get your arm round there and plunge boy, plunge!’
You have to have a certain aptitude in this life, a certain belief in the superiority of your betters and a certainty in your own lack of self-worth, if they ever get even so much as an inkling that you’re not content, that you’re a non-believer who isn’t eternally grateful for the honour of being able to serve, then boy, oh boy! You’d better watch your arse, kid! You’re for the chop! Bow down on your knees, kiss the pan and don’t forget to say thank-you.
44. VOICES THROUGH THE FOG
I spy suds in the bottom of my glass and hold the world in contempt. A world that doesn’t measure up . . . that doesn’t adore me. That doesn’t get down upon its knees and kiss my loins. And I laugh and I play coy, for a young writer is used to it, to the games of this whore. And I stand worldly wise, drooped against the bar, a bitter black cigar between my lips.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
I burp and look up . . . This berk wants to know if he can buy me a drink? Sure, fine! Scotch, I say . . .
‘What do you fancy?’
‘Scotch!’
‘Great!’ He hands it me. Fantastic! He lets me know I’m getting it for free, that I’m honoured and that it’s him who’s paying for it. ‘You now who you remind me of?’ I nod him to go ahead. ‘John Lennon!’ I look at my great patron, at his wet lips and dropping jowls. ‘John Lennon, I lived with him in digs at Liverpool Art College!’
‘Sure, John Lennon.’ I almost spit in my beer.
‘Ice?’
‘No thanks . . .’
‘Straight?’
‘Straight!’
He hands it me, a double. I take hold of it and swill it round the glass . . . I hold it up and take a butchers through the bottom — golden poison.
‘Cheers Jerry!’ And suddenly it’s in my mouth. I gag and swallow. I lug half of it back, that vile magical drink of my father’s.
Suddenly, I have to go and take a piss. I nurse my drink close to my bosom, through the crowds. I head for the stairs. Ever apologetic, that’s me . . . I open doors and lower my eyes. Someone stands on my toe, pushes me aside, I apologise.
/> I excuse myself, holding on to my gut-rot. I make it to the stairs, go through the stable doors and head for the pan. I lay my little companion down, gently does it, with precision . . . I have to concentrate, to rest one hand on the cistern, and down we go. I sit the glass by my feet. .. close at hand . . . within easy reach . . . my little baby. Then I have to unbutton and uncurl it . . . I have to coax him out, and quick . . . a few droplets go down my leg. Then I stand back, and power it out through him. A little jet, then a torrent. Into the centre of the bowl, to froth up the shit, to make the loudest din, to announce myself to all the other pissers . . . I drop my cigar butt into the pan and hose it down into the froth, chasing it round the pond . . . It rolls over and somersaults . . . I’m running out of pressure. I flex my stomach muscles and stir up that piss hole once more. It rolls over on its back, waves and surrenders . . . a few more hard jets and it spills its guts, bitter leaves . . . piss-laden . . . mixing . . . a few strands . . . I shake him off, one more blast, just to let these other characters, my pissing friends, know just who’s in cubicle number one: a pisser that sounds! An inspiration, with a bladder like a medicine ball!
I check his delicate little head, shake him dry and button up. Some of the droplets spraying off, caught in the strip lights . . . spattering down into my Scotch. I pick it up, admire its colour and down it. Ah, fine piss this boy makes, fine piss! I knock that poison back with double vigour and head back to the bar.
Apparently, I’ve got to read in ten minutes. No kidding, read my verses, my little observations, humble but nevertheless relevant . . . For the assembled cameras. Sure thing. Jerry calls me over, our producer, bloated, pompous, another lunch, and then it’s Christmas. He sticks his nose in the trough and has a good feed, he’s still feeling a little peckish so he pops another crème brûlée into his gob.
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