White Trash

by John King

  —If people weren’t so selfish and didn’t mind paying a few pennies extra in taxes they wouldn’t have to worry about waiting lists and a shortage of beds. Most people are just thick and can’t see past the end of their nose.

  —I know, but for a lot of them every little bit counts. They’re forced to be selfish. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about work in my lunch break, do I? It doesn’t make any difference.

  Dawn was to the point, a good laugh and with a dirty mouth on her, while Sally was much more serious, outspoken when it came to politics, played an active part in the union, Davinda quieter, very straight. Ruby liked them all, but she was closest to Dawn, saw her socially as well as at work.

  —All right, but you started it.

  —Did you see that bloke they brought in today? Dawn asked. Jesus, I had to hold his dick when he wanted a pee and it was the size of a cannon. He was out of it, didn’t know it was me helping him. If that’s what it’s like limp I wouldn’t want to be on the end of it when he’s got a hard-on.

  —You would, Sally smiled. You’d love it.

  Dawn raised her eyes and acted bashful.

  —Haven’t seen a piece of meat like that since Studley stayed with us. You remember him?

  —I’m not going to forget Studley in a hurry, Sally sighed. He should’ve been locked up. He’s as bad as Mr Robinson.

  —I walked in on Studley that time and there he was screwing this woman from along the corridor, right there on his bed with only the curtain around them. She had a glazed look on her face and I’m not surprised, she must’ve been on some heavy drugs to get off with him. And there was me trying to keep a straight face and at the same time give them a bollocking.

  —He was going on about his lover’s balls for all the next week. Always talked to your tits instead of your face. I got him though. Laxative in his tea.

  Ruby drifted away from the conversation and looked at the hospital staff scattered around the tables, enjoying some peace and quiet before going back to work, reading papers and talking, staring into the distance thinking about another place and another time, everyone with healthy appetites making the most of food that was filling and cheap. A good meal here was worth a few pounds each week saved on food at home. She looked out of the window at one of the squares of grass set in the middle of the building, a good design idea, daisies running in a line tied together in a chain under the earth, windows open, the temperature high, the morning cooler on the ward due to the angle of the sun, and Ruby knew the last few hours were going to be a hard slog.

  No way would she get away this year. She’d love to go on holiday, but she was in debt as it was. She thought of Dawn talking about renting herself out. It was pretty sad when you couldn’t live on your wages. It wasn’t right. She called Dawn a tart for a laugh, but really it was a shame Dawn was so disillusioned. Your body was special, you couldn’t separate it from what you were as a person. She didn’t know, she wasn’t being moralistic, and Davinda was hiccupping opposite, Ruby looking up and seeing that she was in tears, realising she was laughing so hard she was going to wet herself.

  —No, I sorted Tinky Winky out this morning. He had an enema to wash out his dirty mouth and he wasn’t smiling. The last thing on his mind now is touching up a nurse. It serves him right. He’ll be good as gold. I told him that if he ever touches one of us again I’ll get my boyfriend to sort him out, once he’s home from hospital. I showed him Boxer and he nearly shat a brick. Well, not a brick really, more like a lager shandy.

  Everyone laughed. Dawn grabbed the ketchup and squirted sauce all over her chips, the plastic sucking in air and farting. They laughed harder.

  —He probably enjoyed it, Sally said, after a while. Robinson’s the sort of bloke for who an enema is one of life’s pleasures. He’ll be back for another one.

  —Not him, Dawn said, thinking. I fucking hope not anyway. Don’t worry, girls, he’s only a fucking Teletubby. If he wants another dose he can go private. This is the National Health Service we’re talking about here, not Moody’s Massage Parlour.

  Jonathan Jeffreys dabbed at his mouth then carefully refolded his serviette, checking that the creases were exact before wedging it between the rim of his empty dessert bowl and the plate below. He signalled to the waitress and watched intently as she brought him his cognac, guessing that she suffered from varicose veins and an underactive thyroid. His heart went out to the poor woman. He waited until she had cleared the table before lifting the glass to his mouth. Already in high spirits, the cognac gave Mr Jeffreys an increased sense of well-being. He felt such contentment it was a pity he had to leave. He watched the waitress walk into the kitchen. A middle-aged woman with fat calves and a slight hunch. Her life was no doubt hard and he sympathised, instantly shifting his attention to the Piano Bar next door, separated from the hotel restaurant by a wall of tinted glass.

  The pianist wore a white tuxedo and played a baby grand. The piano matched the jacket. Notes reached Mr Jeffreys. If he listened closely enough and ignored the conversation around him he could make out a tune. A relaxing strand of five-star jazz. He nibbled a mint and wondered at the sheer enjoyment to be found in such simple pleasures. The ambience was perfect, the food excellent. French cuisine at its finest. An elderly couple passed along the glass, well dressed and well mannered. Hidden now by a huge cactus neatly bathed in soothing blue light. The pianist smiled. He obviously enjoyed his work. Mr Jeffreys was tempted to order a second cognac but resisted. He did not want his thought processes clouded.

  Entrusted with a brief far wider than that of a mere doctor, it was vital that his head remain clear. Nothing less that the welfare of the state and the stability of the masses was at stake. His role was, quite frankly, essential, although he would never have said so, or even thought as much. He was a modest man. But as a highly trained professional with a knowledge of economics as well as medicine, he was observing the nation’s health from a higher plain than a physician. Removed from the daily grind he was able to grasp the broader issues involved. It was his job to monitor the distribution of funds and help guide resources to where they were most needed. He considered every factor. The cares of the hospital weighed on his shoulders. A microcosm of the nation. The more professional element at the hospital, the consultants and doctors, treated him fairly, once they understood that he was not there to cut funding. The lower levels, the nurses and auxiliary workers, had taken longer to convince. This he explained in terms of education, specialists generally from better stock and more able to control their emotions. They understood the logical argument while the labour force was more irrational and short term in its thinking, governed by sentiment. But he had won the workers over through sheer force of manners. He was a modest man and people soon warmed to him. It was a hard job, but somebody had to do it. He chuckled at the cliché.

  When the waitress reappeared he signalled for his bill. Concentrated on the poor woman once more as she approached. The face was tired, skin creased with worry. The eyes misty before their time, from tiredness rather than age. He tried to imagine her life and saw nothing but long hours and poor pay. The lack of a decent vacation. The optimism of youth destroyed by her grim reality. He felt so sorry for the woman. Knew that her name was Sandra from having used the restaurant regularly since he came to stay at the hotel. He would never call her by her first name of course. This would show a familiarity that could easily be misinterpreted. There was a working arrangement that had to be respected. He had seen businessmen and tourists treating her rudely and found their behaviour repugnant. He carefully placed his card on the plate and signed his name with a flourish. He thanked her for the meal. Smiled. The waitress returned this smile and thanked him.

  Mr Jeffreys understood that she was on a treadmill. She paced across the carpet in shoes that bit into her heels, most likely struggling with the hot flushes of menopause. Her children had no doubt turned from her, towards drugs, yet despite her hard life she was forever smiling. Making the effort her work demande
d. He appreciated this. Had done it himself as he tended the sick and dying, frail bodies broken by heart failure and the numerous forms of cancer. She had always been friendly towards him and once, when he had overheard her talking to a colleague, she had referred to him as a gentleman. This made him proud. Knowing that he did not possess the same arrogance as far too many of his contemporaries.

  Times had changed and the nation was now managed according to consensus. Britain had evolved into a more fair and classless society. It was true that today you truly reaped what you sowed. He placed a healthy tip on the table and left the restaurant, smiling again at the waitress as he left. He wished there was something he could do to ease the pain of her existence, but knew that his life’s work was within the hospital, that unless she was admitted she was beyond his assistance. He stopped by the door and looked over at the pianist. Waved when he caught the man’s eye. The man beamed back. He appreciated the sophisticated yet easy atmosphere of the Piano Bar and the sheer love of good music displayed by its clientele.

  Mr Jeffreys passed through reception and smiled at the girl on the desk, went outside and straight into the waiting taxi. He was pleased to see that the cab driver was punctual to the minute. He was staying in one of the airport hotels, a short drive from the satellite town in which he worked. He loved the feel of the hotel. The steady turnover of guests and the empty hush of the corridors. The rich carpets beneath his feet. Quality prints lined the walls leading to his room. His bed was made and room cleaned on a daily basis. He fully appreciated the plush restaurant and bar. Heated swimming pool and first-class gymnasium. Room service whenever he was peckish, no matter what hour of the day or night. He loved the sheer efficiency of the place. The impeccable behaviour of the staff. If only the hospital could match its standards. One day perhaps. Of course, he could make the trip out from his central London apartment each day, yet the journey was stressful and merely emphasised the shabby nature of these outer zones. He was more than willing to pay for a hotel room. His work was sensitive and the core of his existence. He was certain of at least another six months at the hospital, perhaps longer. He had worked in further flung regions than this one, and each had its own problems. As such he was used to hotel living. Quite enjoyed the anonymity in fact.

  As the cab pulled away he noted the cropped hair of the man driving. A skinhead. As a sensitive man he naturally abhorred the thuggish element within society, but was willing to give each individual a chance. The smell of mint wafted back. From a packet no doubt. So different from the sealed mints served in the hotel. The man was playing a tape with an irritating beat, a voice talking in a strange tongue he did not understand. It was a primitive rhythm and he thought of the Tower of Babel, likening popular music to a technically enhanced version. He wondered if his driver had ever heard of the great European composers he himself adored. When the car stopped at a set of traffic lights he very politely asked the skinhead if he would mind turning the music down as he had a splitting headache. The skinhead silenced the racket but Jeffreys suspected irritation. He had only wanted the volume reduced a little so that he could focus his thoughts. The white lie of a headache was merely a polite means of achieving this end and avoiding unnecessary conflict. The skinhead had to react and turn the radio right off. It was not his fault if the music was annoying. He wondered whether he should try to explain himself, but decided to let the matter rest. He was a customer and the skinhead was there to provide a service.

  The taxi eased forward across the crossroads, circled a roundabout and joined the motorway. Mr Jeffreys enjoyed this section of road, which was only the distance of two junctions. The houses and factories were blacked out for a while and he was able to peer at the faceless shapes driving nearby cars, staring straight ahead, intent on reaching their destinations. He considered the movement of the soul, the shifting of the intellect to a higher level of consciousness. At least for those citizens who spent their lives doing good. He shuddered at the horrors awaiting those who committed evil acts. Felt sorrow for them despite their crimes.

  The dark stretch lit up and they were soon rising on to an elevated section of road, the lights of the town twinkling to his right. It was a view that masked the grinding monotony of life in this place. The mindless violence and spirit-sapping drug addiction. People lived and died under those artificial stars. Stuck in the same streets for entire lifetimes. Doing nothing. Going nowhere. He wished he could instruct the skinhead to keep driving. Deep into the countryside. He imagined small hamlets and green fields, ancient country pubs and a village cricket match. This was a no-man’s-land in many ways, neither here nor there, a brief feeling of despair just that. It would soon pass. He would do his duty. Dealing with sickness and death left its mark on everyone involved in the eternal fight of Good against Evil. It was an inevitability.

  Once off the flyover they left the motorway. The driver continued to another set of traffic lights. There were houses on either side, terraces coming right up to the edge of the dual carriageway. To the left were flats. Beneath them a parade of shops. These shops sold newspapers and tools. Beyond the lights and near to the railway tracks there rose a factory, consisting of dull brickwork and flaking windowpanes. Mr Jeffreys sighed. A pub flew the Union flag. From now on the journey would be slow. The scenery mundane. The cheap housing and tacky shops lacked character. Oozed mediocrity. He was forever aware of the poor clothing of the masses, the hunched shoulders and hacking lungs of the elderly. The belligerence of middle-aged men and women. Overweight and undernourished. The indiscipline of the young. He felt so sorry for these people.

  Traffic backed up from the red lights and he looked into the car next to the taxi, which was full of teenagers. Boys and girls slapped at each other in a mock fight and one of the girls raised a bottle to her mouth. The glass was brown and her lips bright red under the street lights. It was nothing more than high spirits and he smiled. He himself had larked around as a young man. It was a part of growing up. He remembered his own youth, how even as a child he had wanted to help others, although never to be a surgeon like his father. But death had always terrified him.

  The lights changed and the teenagers accelerated away. A smell of burnt rubber entered through the taxi’s vents. Mr Jeffreys looked ahead hoping that no poor soul was in the way of this act of bravado. He understood the need for excitement in the young, but as a medical man had seen the consequences of such behaviour. It was a problem within society.

  People were forever rushing, lost in turmoil. Not thinking before they acted. Or spoke. They were unable to quietly reflect on life and its deeper meaning. The young were the worst offenders, unaware of their own mortality, not to mention the mortality of those around them. But it was a general truth. People’s minds were confused, actions haphazard. Education channelled the energy of youth and helped to create useful patterns of behaviour. This in turn shaped civilisation. Without control, human beings were no better than apes. His own education had been impeccable, yet he had worked hard at his studies, pushed himself and avoided temptation. Too many teenagers wasted their opportunities. He lived in a meritocracy and was where he was today through sheer hard work and self-sacrifice. The youngsters vanished beyond the curve in the road and he wished them well.

  His taxi followed, but at a more dignified pace. They passed a pubcum-steakhouse. One day he would eat a meal there. When he was about to move on perhaps. It was the type of place where families gathered to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. He pictured small plates of steak, served with processed chips and peas. This would follow a prawn cocktail of course. The accompanying sauce would be made with supermarket mayonnaise and tomato ketchup. The prawns frozen. For dessert there would be a slice of apple pie and custard. He had seen this on television. People also gathered in these steakhouses after funerals. They sipped at glasses of lager and ate sandwiches made from nutritionless white bread. They ate pickled onions. Gherkins. Sausage rolls. Buns with layers of sugar on top. Small pieces of Cheddar on wooden stic
ks, next to tinned pineapple chunks. All this was in stark contrast to the meal he had just enjoyed. The asparagus. Veal. Gateau. A salad sprinkled with extra-virgin olive oil. An expensive cognac.

  He thought of the waitress who had served him. Sandra. Her family would toast her in just such a place. Mourners would look through the dirty glass and see passing lorries instead of cacti and framed prints. A pop song would replace the subtle jazz of a trained pianist. A cheap stereo system rather than a baby grand. A few words would be said and that would be that. He noticed Christmas tinsel lining a window. In the middle of summer as well. It was so sad. But again, everyone could prosper if they so chose. All it took was determination. This was in-built of course. A part of what you were. Yet these were the two strands of existence with which he toyed. The inevitability of death suggested fatalism while his own success insisted on free will. He had long fought the notion of fate. Believed that even in death it was possible to influence the future.

  The sports centre ahead was also without any discernible character. A block of stone. Concrete dominated the town. Sheets of glass filled the gaps. There was no fine architecture to raise the spirit. Inside the sports centre, the gym would be occupied by men dedicated to violence. Thugs and bouncers. The swimming pool full to the brim. He remembered his last visit to a public baths and how he had spent the entire time trying to avoid what were termed dive-bombers. Horrible little boys with shaven heads and skin so white it resembled marble. These guttersnipes never tired. They churned the water and harassed him to such an extent that his normal composure had almost cracked. The taxi driver’s son would be a dive-bomber. This was a certainty. Like father, like son. Mr Jeffreys was used to health-club pools. The hotel offered everything he needed. The gymnasium was sparsely used, while the pool was often empty. He could exercise in peace. There were no bouncers or urchins to disturb him.