You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  “Are you going to take Charlie on?” teased Malcolm nodding over towards the chess table.

  “I think I will watch and learn for a couple of weeks.”

  I spent the morning joining in with table tennis and pool. After about an hour, I noticed that a white-coated doctor had entered the room and was chatting to Henry. I could tell that he was a doctor because he was wearing the obligatory stethoscope around his neck. When I saw the charge nurse point over to Charlie Rosewall I realized that a chess challenge was imminent. As the doctor walked past tables of patients he was greeted with, “Hello nerse,” by all the patients. Everyone in a white coat was called ‘nerse’, even the dinner-ladies.

  He sat down at the chess board and rubbed his hands together in anticipation as Henry shouted over to Charlie, who was quietly chunnering to himself as he stood looking out of the window, scratching his head of course.

  “Can’t be beat, can’t be beat,” was all that Charlie muttered in his nasally Cockney accent as he sat down. Malcolm and I gradually gravitated towards the table.

  Just before they started to play, the doctor nodded to Malcolm and said, “I’m on my breakfast break for half an hour, so I thought I would come over and challenge Charlie to a game of chess.”

  “Oh yeah,” joked Malcolm, “and what are you going to do for the other twenty five minutes?”

  Charlie was oblivious to this banter and continued mumbling with the occasional giggle as he scratched his never-healing scabs. The doctor pondered his every move carefully and slowly, while Charlie, by contrast, made his moves instantaneously, seemingly without any thought.

  I had no sooner settled down to watch and hopefully pick up some tips than Charlie moved a chess piece and announced, “Check mate. You can’t do it, can’t be beat, can’t be beat,” and, without further ado, stood up and walked away quietly laughing to himself. It was now the doctor’s turn to start muttering under his breath. Malcolm’s joke about twenty five minutes was not far short of the mark, many a true word is spoken in jest.

  When I returned from the staff canteen later that day, I went over to Malcolm and told him that I had been sitting opposite a doctor who looked as though he was a keen chess player.

  “How could you tell that?” he asked innocently, setting me up for the punch-line.

  “It took him five minutes to pass the salt.”

  Is it Tuesday Today?

  As the days and weeks rolled by, I fell into a routine almost as regimented as that of the patients. Norma, Jeff, Will, and I exchanged anecdotes regularly, humour being the perfect stimulus to help us through the early starts and long hours. Very often when we arrived in the morning we were met by Ernie Halton. If he didn’t have a flower to give us, he would just pick up anything: a pebble, a feather, a piece of grass to give us a gift.

  We would accept these with a thank you and, invariably, he would then whisper in my ear, “Is it Tuesday today?”

  After a few days I asked Ernie, “Why do you always ask me if it is Tuesday?”

  “Sister brings biscuits,” he replied as he made his way to his morning bench.

  I mentioned this to my colleagues at the clinic, and they told me that his sister did indeed visit him on Tuesdays and bring him biscuits. But that was twenty years ago.

  “Very sad,” was all I could say, as I shook my head.

  “It is sad,” they agreed, “but he is happy enough here in his own little world.”

  At that point Malcolm called Ernie over to join us.

  “Who is your favourite film star?” asked Malcolm

  “Boris Karloff,” was the instant reply, delivered in a ‘clipped’ way of speaking, in his thick Scouse accent.

  “Anyone else...?”

  “Vanessa Redgrave.”

  Malcolm then pointed to anyone at random and asked Ernie

  “Do you like him?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s in the way,” whispered Ernie.

  This was obviously a well-used routine. Malcolm informed me that that was Ernie’s full repertoire of conversation.

  “Do you like him?” Malcolm asked Ernie as he pointed at me.

  “Yes,” replied Ernie with a little nod as he bent to pick-up a piece of paper which he handed to me.

  “Thank you Ernie,” I said as I put in my pocket.

  “You are very honoured,” Malcolm said to me, “one of his chosen few.”

  Even to this day, over forty years later, if Norma or I ever find ourselves asking “Is it Tuesday today?” we both nod in acknowledgement of memories of Ernie. And, of course, if ever there is a film on television starring Boris Karloff or Vanessa Redgrave, we have to pronounce their names in Ernie’s distinctive manner.

  You Did Say ‘Have Another Sausage?’

  At the end of a shift one evening, I was sitting in the office with the charge nurse, just winding down, when there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” shouted Henry, and a head slowly and hesitantly came into view around the opening door.

  “Can I have a word, nerse?” was a very sheepishly asked question.

  “No you can’t, George!” shouted Henry, “I’ve had enough of you today.”

  George entered the room anyway; arms outstretched as he approached the desk, insisting that he had come to apologize. He was a rough-looking character: about 5 feet 9 inches tall, with large hands and strong, hairy forearms. He was middle aged, but looked as though he kept himself fit. He had dark hair and a nose which gave the appearance of a face pressed up against a plate glass window. The actor Charles Bronson came to mind.

  “There is no need to apologise,” said Henry in a conciliatory tone as he stood up from his desk to meet George in the middle of the office.

  “But I am really sorry for being such a pest. I know I can be a nuisance,” continued George, while offering a handshake.

  Henry smiled and said that it was okay, and he accepted the apology and the handshake.

  I noticed that Henry very skilfully maintained the handshake as he gently manoeuvred George back towards the door while humouring him.

  “Thank you,” said George as he was leaving, and went on to say, “I am really sorr-”

  But his sentence was cut short by Henry saying, “That’s enough George; you’ve said sorry once, let’s leave it at that.”

  “Ok, nerse,” were George’s final words as Henry closed the door.

  As he walked back towards me smiling and shaking his head, I couldn’t resist asking what that was all about.

  “That was George Church,” said Henry.

  “Yes, I have seen him around the clinic.”

  Henry then told me that George suffers from a compulsive repetitive syndrome. He went on to explain that there are many forms of this which manifest themselves in a variety of ways, such as washing hands repeatedly, obsessively straightening books on a shelf, or following an essential routine when getting dressed. He told me that George’s disorder was to keep asking the same question over and over. Some days were worse than others, and George came to apologize after harassing Henry for most of the day.

  “Read his case file tomorrow,” suggested Henry as he nodded in the direction of the filing cabinets.

  “You’ll find that he was a former professional middleweight boxer, which you probably guessed,” he added, while demonstrating the point by flattening his nose with his right forefinger and folding his ear with his left hand. Henry went on to tell me that, in the past, George had been sacked from numerous jobs for getting into trouble due to his condition. His colleagues and bosses thought he was trying to be funny or argumentative when he repeatedly questioned instructions or statements.

  “I dare say you will see a few examples of his behaviour before long,” said Henry wearily as we wishe
d each other goodnight. I didn’t have to wait long.

  The following morning all the patients were sitting at their usual tables, quietly enjoying breakfast. I, Anne, Malcolm, and Henry supervised as usual. One of the catering staff came from behind her serving counter and approached Henry. She told him that all the bacon, eggs, and beans had been served, but she still had surplus sausages and that it would be a shame to throw them away. Henry immediately volunteered to go round with the tray from table to table.

  “More sausages anyone?” he would ask cheerily.

  “Thanks, nerse,” were the grateful replies.

  George Church was eating heartily as Henry approached his table.

  “Here you are George, have another sausage,” said Henry, as he scooped one on to George’s plate.

  “Thanks, nerse,” he replied as he stuck his fork into it.

  Just as the charge nurse was about to move on to another table, George held up his sausage and said, “Nerse, you did say have another sausage?”

  “Yes George, have another sausage,” repeated Henry reassuringly.

  George then put the sausage back on his plate but, just as he was about to cut it, he looked up again at Henry and asked, “But you did say ‘Have another sausage’?”

  “Yes George,” said Henry. “Have another sausage,” raising his voice slightly.

  After about two seconds came the inevitable, “But you did say ‘Have another sausage’?”

  I watched from a couple of tables away. Henry caught my gaze and raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes as if to say’ here we go’. Henry replied once more with a much quieter, almost whispered, “Yes George, have another sausage,” in an attempt to calm him down as parents often do with an unruly child.

  There was a long pause, and Henry breathed a sigh of relief as he thought that his strategy had worked. It hadn’t.

  “But you did say have another sausage?”

  “Yes, have another bloody sausage!”

  I was fascinated watching this exchange, and yet not one of the patients took the slightest notice.

  “But you did say have another sausage?” asked George again, becoming increasingly animated. This went on for quite a few minutes as George followed Henry around the dining room, asking the same question incessantly. Unfortunately, George caught the corner of the tray with his arm and accidentally knocked it out of Henry’s hands. The rattling of a tin tray on the floor only inflamed the situation. A cascade of sausages landed on breakfast tables, causing a slightly confused flicker of attention from the patients. A couple of them even looked up at the ceiling to see if it was really raining sausages. Henry remained calm, but he looked as though he was about to explode. To his credit, he retained his professionalism as he announced to the staff that he was returning to his office.

  “But you did say have another sausage?” were the last words he heard echoing along the corridor as he closed his door and disappeared into the sanctuary of his office. I struggled to keep a straight face as I tried to stifle a laugh. The catering ladies immediately sprang into action with a mop and bucket and a waste bin for the sausages. Ernie Halton got up from his table and picked up a sausage off the floor

  ‘Oh, that’s a nice gesture,’ I thought, ‘Ernie is helping to clean up’.

  Except that he came over to me and offered the sausage as a present. I accepted it gratefully and surreptitiously dropped it in the bin. George continued to ask anyone who would listen, “But he did say have another sausage?”

  No one was listening. He continued with this tirade until two nurses arrived and gently persuaded George to go with them. Henry had rung to report the incident, and George was taken for counselling and a review of his medication.

  “You can come out now Henry,” I said popping my head inside his office, “George has been taken away by the men in white coats.”

  “I think they will soon be coming to take me away,” replied Henry wearily.

  We returned to the dining area as everything was being packed away, and one of the dinner ladies came over to us with the menu for the following day. She showed it to Henry and said playfully, “You did say sausages again tomorrow?!”

  At the end of the day, we were sitting in the charge nurse’s office, slowly winding down. There was knock at the door and, before Henry could answer, in walked George. He gave me a slightly confused glance before saying, “Hello nerse,” to Henry, who was sitting behind his desk.

  “Hello George,” replied Henry, cautiously.

  “I’ve come to say sorry. I know I can be a real nuisance at times,”

  “It’s me who should be apologizing this time,” said Henry magnanimously.

  “So are we still friends?” asked George in an almost child-like manner.

  “Of course we are. You go and have a cup of tea now, and enjoy your evening.”

  “Thanks nerse,” said a relieved George, as he moved towards the office door.

  “Sorry once more,” he said as he waved and closed the door behind him.

  Then almost immediately the door opened again, and George’s head popped ‘round.

  “But you did say have another sausage.”

  George managed to get his head out of the way just as the wicker waste-paper basket flew through the air and hit the door.

  Taking the Plunge

  The next time I saw George was a couple of days later, when I was coming out of the charge nurse’s office and almost bumped into him. Again, he looked at me with a quizzical expression as he side-stepped me with the skill of a rugby player. He was wearing a track suit, so I asked him where he was going. At first he gave me a sort of ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ look, and then answered that he was going for a run in the hospital grounds. I later mentioned this to Malcolm, who told me that George’s doctors encouraged him to exercise regularly as it seems to help with his condition. When I said that I was a regular jogger and I played rugby league, Malcolm casually suggested that I should join George on a training session to make it more interesting for him.

  “Would I be allowed to do that?” I asked, expressing surprise.

  “Of course,” said Malcolm, “Remember, your job is to spend time with the patients. It would be frowned upon if members of staff spent all their time playing snooker or chess with each other. Just ‘okay it’ with Henry first.”

  So the following day I took my tracksuit into work and invited myself along for a run with George. He must have been at least twenty years older than me, but he set a fair pace as we jogged along the tarmac paths. He also punched the air while bobbing and weaving in the style of a boxer, which, indeed, he used to be.

  “What’s your name?” he asked me after a couple of minutes.

  “John,” I replied, and then wondered why he had asked, since I had never heard any of the patients referring to Henry, Malcolm, or Anne by their first names.

  We stopped on the grass at the side of the Benedict Clinic, and George started to do some push-ups and sit-ups. I had kept pace with him without a problem while running, but I must confess that I struggled to match him with these exercises. He still had the upper-body and core strength of an ex-professional boxer; which must be the hardest, toughest sport of all. As we sat together at the end of a gruelling session, I felt that George had extended himself more than usual because he had a training partner.

  “I like swimming as well,” George said.

  “Does the hospital have a swimming pool?” I asked, wondering if there was one for therapeutic treatments.

  “No,” he said, laughing and shaking his head as if I had asked a stupid question.

  “Sometimes I have been to Widnes baths.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind going as well next time.”

  “Yeah, but we would need a nerse to go with us,” George said with a shrug.

&nb
sp; “Well, why not me?”

  “What do you mean?” George asked with a quizzical expression.

  “I am a nerse; I mean, nurse.”

  There was a long pause before George pointed at me for emphasis and said, “You are a nerse?”

  “Yes, what did you think I was?”

  After a further slight pause George just said, “I thought you were a patient.”

  He then thought for a while longer before adding, “I’ve often wondered why you were always in the charge nerse’s office.”

  Now I realised the reason George had always given me a puzzled look when I was in Henry’s office, and the fact that he had never once referred to me as ‘nerse’. Come to think of it... neither had any of the other patients.

  Needless to say, Norma, Jeff and Bill all thought it was hilarious when I told them. All the usual jokes came out: ‘It takes one to know one’, ‘Are you mad?’, ‘Don’t be crazy’ ... ad nauseam. Even my colleagues ribbed me about it. ‘Should have worn the white coat,’ they would say. Amongst all this banter, Henry did tell me that I could take George to Widnes baths if I so wished.

  A few days later, George and I set off mid-morning for our day out to the swimming pool. I carried a small ruck-sack containing towels and swimming trunks, and some sandwiches provided by the catering ladies. No, not sausages, in case you were wondering.

  As part of George’s rehabilitation and integration into society, I was told by the charge nurse to encourage him to take responsibility for his own money and to buy his own bus and entrance tickets.

  “Keep a close eye on him,” was Henry’s final instruction.

  While waiting at the bus stop, I had coached George and advised him about paying. The buses in those days were invariably double-decker, still with a conductor. We boarded and went upstairs. I sat next to the window to enable George to speak to the conductor.