by John Meadows
“Ok, if there are no more questions I will take you to your wards. Please follow me.”
As we walked along the corridor, the three of us were wearing our new crisp, white coats. We didn’t feel like visitors anymore. Jeff and Norma were introduced to the charge nurse, and disappeared into the ward with an apprehensive glance over their shoulders and a ‘see-you-later’ wave.
“At least they’ve got each other,” I thought as I stood there like a parent waving off children on their first day at primary school.
White Coats Not Required
I was then taken outside, and we headed towards the clinic, which was about two hundred yards down one of the tarmac pathways which criss-crossed the hospital grounds. I offered to find my own way, to which the personnel lady readily agreed. She told me to report to the charge nurse’s office, and that he was expecting me. “Oh, by the way, take off your white coat and carry it with you.” I must have shown disappointment on my face, as she quickly added, “It is a much more informal regime at the Benedict Clinic.”
As soon as I entered the clinic, I was immediately struck by how different the environment was from the rest of the hospital. It was modern, open and light. I knocked on the office door and entered, and, on seeing my white coat over my arm, the charge nurse stood up from behind his desk and said, “Ah, you must be...,” then paused for a second to glance down at his desk, “John Meadows,” as he greeted me with a welcoming handshake.
“I’m Henry Broughton, Charge Nurse. Call me Henry. Just hang your coat up, you won’t need it here,” he said, gesturing towards several white coats hanging on the rail. Henry was probably in his mid-40s and about 5ft 8 tall. ‘At least they are not all built like Walter,’ I thought.
“We just wear white coats when we are walking around the hospital,” he said, before adding with a laugh “To distinguish us from the patients.” We had a chat for a few minutes and he explained that my duties would be very flexible. First thing in a morning I was required to tour the male wards to make sure all the patients were out of bed by a certain time, to help with breakfast, lunch and afternoon tea, and to make beds. I explained that it sounded very similar to my job at the old folks’ home, and he told me that that was one of the reasons why personnel had deployed me to work at the clinic.
“Come on I’ll show you around, follow me,” Henry said as he opened the office door. We turned left along a short corridor and through a door, which opened onto an open-area, about the size of a tennis court.
“This is the social area,” explained Henry as he stretched out his arms to emphasise the space. “It is where the patients spend most of their time.”
My first impression was that it was more like a social club than a hospital. There were snooker, table tennis and pool tables, chess, draughts and other board games. Significantly, I didn’t notice any darts.
“Hello nurse,” said one middle aged man, who looked up before making his shot at snooker. He spoke in an unmistakeable ‘Scouse’ accent, more like “Hello nerse.”
“Hello Ernie,” replied Henry, “Are you winning?”
“I don’t know,” said Ernie, “you’ll have to ask nerse,” as he gestured his head towards his opponent. I quickly realized that his snooker partner was a member of staff who came over, right on cue (sorry, couldn’t resist that pun), and Henry introduced us. His name was Malcolm, and the three of us had a brief conversation in the middle of the room. In the meantime, Ernie simply stood to attention at the side of the snooker table, holding his cue as if he was a Coldstream Guard.
Malcolm saw me looking over towards him and said to me, “Oh, Ernie will just wait there patiently until I go back.”
In the room were about twenty patients, male and female, who were engaged in a range of various pastimes, games, and activities. Some were watching television or reading books and newspapers, while others were simply staring into space, gently rocking to and fro. Once the introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, Henry excused himself and returned to his office.
“What is the patient-to-staff ratio?” I asked Malcolm, trying to sound as professional as possible on my first day.
“There is no fixed rule; it depends on shifts and whether patients are elsewhere for treatment or counselling.”
“At the moment,” he continued, “there are four of us on duty, including you.”
The other nurse on duty was a lady called Anne. Malcolm pointed her out to me with a whisper and subtle gesture with his head.
“I don’t want to point,” he said quietly, “because the patients pick up on it and wonder what we are talking about. We try to maintain a low profile and generally mix in and socialize.”
“Hence the no-white-coat policy,” I replied with a nod.
“Exactly,” said Malcolm, “Anyway, I had better get back to my game of snooker with Ernie Halton. Just join in wherever you like.”
“Do you mean I just play chess or watch telly with the patients?”
“Yes, of course.”
I slowly made my way around the room, returning the occasional smile. No one seemed to give me a second glance. I felt like ‘Billy-no-Mates’ who had turned up at a party where he doesn’t know anybody. The demographic in the room was difficult to identify specifically. There was an equal mix of men and women, and the ages ranged from mid-twenties through to patients in their seventies. One or two were easy to identify by their dress sense, or, should I say, lack-of. I suddenly remembered where I had seen Ernie before. He was the man in the de-mob suit who had presented Norma with a paper flower when we first arrived at the main office a couple of days earlier.
He was quite tall and slim with thick dark hair, even though he was probably in his mid-fifties. No grey hairs. Obviously, he didn’t have a great deal to worry about. His eyebrows were dark with the texture of tangled fuse wire and they met in the middle without a break. He reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite recall, and then I thought that he looked like Rudolph Hess, the infamous Nazi held for many years in Spandau Prison. “No it can’t be,” I thought as I found myself watching him a little too closely as he played snooker. Anyway, I doubted if Hess had spoken with a broad Scouse accent. I continued to stroll around the room, and approached Anne to quietly introduce myself. She was blonde and petite with a very clear complexion, and I guessed that she was in her mid-thirties. She welcomed me with a genuine warm smile, and we had a conversation about the clinic.
Anne explained that the patients included long-term residents, some of whom had been in Rainhill Hospital for thirty to forty years, and also day patients, who lived at home and came in to hospital for treatment. This was borne out by the range of clothes being worn: from very smart designer jeans and polo tops to trousers which were too big and held up by a length of cord.
Check-mate Charlie
After a short chat with Anne, I went over to Malcolm, who was by now playing chess with a short, red-faced man who seemed to be constantly scratching his bald head. As I got closer, I noticed that his head had a few scratch marks and a few scabs which were seeping traces of blood. But still he scratched incessantly. Just as I got to the table, this bald man moved a chess piece and announced triumphantly, “Check mate, can’t be beat, can’t be beat!” and without further comment or discussion he pushed back his chair, stood up and walked away muttering constantly, while still scratching his head. His accent was definitely not Scouse, or even northern. It sounded distinctly Cockney.
Malcolm just sat there, staring at the chessboard. He rested his chin on his hand as he pondered and scrutinised. I felt that I should not break his concentration by speaking and decided to just stand and wait for him to complete his thought-process. After what seemed like ages, he eventually shook his head with an expression of exasperation and stood up.
He turned to me and, before I had chance to speak, he smiled and said, “One of these days I’m gonna
beat that bugger at chess.”
“Sorry you lost your chess match,” I said sympathetically, but really as an opening line for small talk.
“Oh, I’m well used to that feeling,” he replied wistfully. “I haven’t beaten Charlie once in four years of trying, usually on a daily basis.”
“Charlie?”
“Yes, Charlie Rosewall. He was a chess champion in a former life in London. He’s been in here for years, and does nothing but play chess. In fact, many of the doctors from all over the hospital often come over when they have got a little free time and challenge Charlie to a game.”
“Do they ever win?”
“Only if Charlie makes a silly mistake, or if he is playing two or three of them at the same time.”
“Amazing.”
“Do you play chess John?” Malcolm inquired.
“I haven’t played for years, but I do quite like the game.”
“Well, while you’re working here, make the most of Charlie’s expertise. You’ll learn a lot.”
I looked around and said, “It looks as though I am going to improve my skills in a few different games.”
“By the way,” I asked as an afterthought, “why is Charlie in here?”
“He murdered his father,” whispered Malcolm out of the corner of his mouth for dramatic effect.
“Why?”
“He beat him at chess.”
As my mouth fell open, Malcolm laughed and grabbed my arm and said, “Don’t worry John, I’m only joking.”
Just as relief showed on my face he added, “Well, at least about the last part.”
At that moment the door opened and a uniformed nurse entered, pushing a large aluminium trolley. As she stopped and applied the footbrake, all of the patients stood up and formed an orderly queue which snaked through the room and round the snooker table. No-one made an announcement, not a word was spoken. The patients were so institutionalised that they knew exactly what to do and where to go at any time. The nurse unlocked the metal box trolley with a key which was attached to her waist by a metal chain. She lifted the lid and secured it in an upright position. I could see that the box was in fact a dispenser for tablets and medicines, and a list was cellotaped to the inside of the lid. Each patient collected the prescribed dose as the nurse carefully checked names against her list. I was very impressed by the fact that she knew them all and greeted each patient with their first names.
“Come and see me in a minute Charlie and I will give you something for your scabs,” she said, before scolding him with, “Stop scratching your head!”
Charlie strolled off muttering to himself in a Cockney accent, “Can’t be beat. Can’t be beat.”
One side of the social area was taken up by large sliding doors, and, from the sound of clattering pots and pans and the smells beginning to pervade the room, I sensed that it would soon be lunch time, or, should I say, dinner time. The doors were opened by the catering staff and the patients instinctively proceeded to the serving counters. They formed an orderly queue, naturally, and took their meal trays to the tables. There was no hesitation or looking around deciding where to sit, which indicated that all the patients sat at the same place for every meal. My new colleagues told me to just move around in a supervisory capacity in case anyone needed anything, and I helped to tidy everything away. I spent the afternoon chatting to various patients and, quite honestly, I couldn’t believe that some of them had been admitted to a mental hospital, because I was unable to detect any apparent disorder. I mentioned this to Henry, the charge nurse, at the end of the day, and he told me that some conditions were not immediately apparent. He suggested that I look at some of the case notes in the office, which I read with interest over subsequent weeks.
At the end of the shift at seven, I left the premises via the front lodge gates, with a cheery goodnight from the security officer. I strolled two hundred yards to the ‘Brown Edge’ pub to meet Norma and Jeff. They were already there, and, as I sauntered over to join them, I couldn’t help but notice that they looked shell-shocked.
“Is this mine?” I asked rhetorically as I picked up the pint that was obviously waiting for me.
“So how was your first day?” I asked wiping the froth from my upper lip.
They both let out a big sigh and Norma managed to reply wearily, “It’s been a long day.”
Jeff put down his pint and said, “We’ve been helping to lift old people in and out of wheelchairs, emptying bed pans, helping to feed patients who needed bibs. Get the picture?”
“Well, at least it’s a job,” I said cheerfully, but unhelpfully, repeating our motto.
“So, how has your first day been?” asked Norma, taking a sip of her wine. I hesitated for a second, not knowing how to approach a delicate situation in view of the fact that Norma and Jeff had obviously drawn the short straws.
“Oh, it’s been okay, no problems,” I added casually with a Gallic shrug.
I think I overplayed my hand by acting a little too nonchalantly, as Norma asked pointedly, “So what have you actually been doing?”
‘Have they been given inside information?’ I wondered.
So, I explained the nature of the clinic and that part of my job was to play various games like snooker, table tennis, or chess.
Jeff then chipped in with, “So, let me get this straight, while me and Norma have been slaving in the geriatric ward, you have been playing snooker all day?”
“No, of course I haven’t been playing snooker all day,” I replied trying to be light-hearted. “Sometimes it was pool.”
They put down their glasses and gave each other a woeful look. The kind you would expect from someone who had resigned from a lottery syndicate the week before a jackpot win.
“You always were a jammy bastard,” muttered Jeff, as Norma nodded in agreement.
We finished our drinks and went to the bus stop outside the pub.
“My mum and dad will be home from holiday by now,” said Norma morosely, “Wish me luck breaking the news to them about my new job.”
Are You Mad?
The following morning, as we walked towards our wards, we asked Norma about her parents’ reaction last night. I will let Norma take up the story from here.
“Well, I broke the news to them gradually. After welcoming them home and asking about their holiday I told them I had been to work.”
“Oh, did you get a job at ‘Gold’n Locks’ salon?” asked Mum.
“No, but I am working in Rainhill.”
“Are you at ‘Cutting Edge’ in the precinct?”
“No.”
“Then you must be at ‘Root 66’ Hairdressers,” said Mum, convinced that she had finally got it right.
“Nope.”
“I can’t think of any other salon luv,” Mum said, becoming increasingly intrigued.
“Mum, I didn’t say that I was working in a salon.”
At that point Dad put down his newspaper and looked at me over the top of his glasses.
“So where are you working?” he asked in a tone that suggested that the guessing games were over.
“The hospital.”
“What, Whiston hospital?”
“Er, no,” I replied, and, after a moment’s hesitation and deep breath, “Rainhill Hospital.”
There followed a moment’s silence...
“The bloody loony bin, are you mad?” he shouted, oblivious to the irony.
“You don’t have to be mad to work there... but it helps!” I joked flippantly as an opening gambit to win them ‘round. Once they had recovered from their initial shock and their holiday suntans had returned to their faces, I assured them that everything would be fine. They felt a little easier when I told them that you two and Bill were all working at Rainhill as well.
Norma and J
eff went to the geriatric block; I walked to the Benedict Clinic. Her story made me wonder why it is that almost every hairdressing and beauty business seems to find it necessary to think up an excruciating pun as the name of the salon. The best (or worst) I have ever seen was one which I guess was owned by someone who enjoyed skiing in the French Alps. Her salon was called ‘Val Does Hair’... That’s a pun to ‘Curl up and Dye’ for.
I was still smiling to myself as I arrived at the office. I greeted my colleagues with a cheery, “Good morning.” Henry and Malcolm were huddled together reading something on the desk between them.
“What’s so interesting?” I inquired as I hung up my jacket. Without looking up, the charge nurse answered,
“It’s the ‘Salmon Report’, it’s just been published.”
“Oh, are you going fishing?”
They all laughed at my perceived witticism until my slightly bemused expression betrayed the fact that it had been a serious question.
“It’s an NHS report,” said Anne, helping me out. “That’s the... National... Health... Service,” she added slowly, emphasising each word sarcastically.
“Yes, even I know that thank you,” I responded as we laughed and made our way to the wards just as the night shift staff were anxious to go home. Most of the patients were already up, and all I needed to do was to patrol the wards to make sure everything was okay. As with every other aspect of their lives the patients were self-regulating as they followed their habitual routine. A cooked breakfast was served every morning, and I noticed that a few patients had specific tasks such as serving, clearing tables, and helping to wash up. These jobs were regarded with pride by the patients, who approached their work very conscientiously. After breakfast, it was time for general socialising and the day-patients started to arrive.