You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  “Widnes baths please,” said George, money in hand.

  “That will be 20 pence please sir,” replied the conductor, carrying a battered leather money satchel over his shoulder and a ticket machine which dispensed the tickets from a roll with the turn of a handle. George checked his coins in the palm of his hand and picked out the correct fare, which he offered as payment. I was looking out of the window, not wishing to draw attention to George by over-supervising him.

  Just as the conductor was about to take the money, George pulled his hand back and asked, “You did say 20 pence?”

  “Yes sir. That is the correct fare to Widnes.”

  “But you did say 20 pence?” asked George again.

  I must have been daydreaming momentarily as I watched the world go by, but then, just in time to avoid any confrontation, I said sharply, “George!” My admonishment seemed to jolt him, and he offered the money to the conductor without further comment.

  “Same here,” I said simply as I paid my fair.

  “Sorry nerse,” whispered George to me.

  “That’s okay, you are doing well,” I whispered back encouragingly.

  As George and I arrived at Widnes Baths, the entry prices were displayed, which meant that he could pay without asking any questions. As we approached the ticket office, I simply squeezed George’s elbow and gave him a ‘raised eyebrow’ look. He understood immediately that this was a ‘behave’ signal and he replied with a smile and a ‘Don’t worry’ thumb-up sign. Perhaps telepathy is the secret of success.

  George paid for his own ticket and collected it from the lady behind the glass with a pleasant, “Thank you.” He just managed to stop himself from adding ‘nerse’. He looked towards me and his face beamed as he was obviously pleased with himself, having cleared another hurdle.

  “Well done,” I whispered as we made our way to the changing rooms.

  We were allocated lockers in a stark, white-tiled room which had a row of benches in the centre, with toilets and showers next door. The locker keys were on a coloured elastic band which could be worn around either your wrist or ankle while swimming. George and I spent a very pleasant hour in the pool, and did some training by swimming lengths. We also had a bit of fun jumping off the diving boards and splashing about. I occasionally had to quietly suggest to George that he didn’t shout “nerse,” to me from the other side of the pool, thereby avoiding any unwanted attention. Everything went swimmingly, so to speak, and we made our way back to the changing room, which was occupied by a few people, some just arriving and some drying off. George and I took our towels from the lockers, and I decided to go to the toilet.

  “Don’t move from here,” I whispered to George, “I won’t be long.”

  As I was in the loo, I started to hear the sound of raised voices reverberating off the tiled walls. At first it was difficult to distinguish between the general exuberant sounds coming from the pool and sounds coming from a different direction. I tilted my head, as if that makes the slightest difference when listening for something, and then the penny dropped. There was some sort of argument going on in the changing room and I realised I had better get there sharpish.

  I then recognised George’s voice as I heard him say, “You did say that is your towel?”

  I knew I had to intervene without further delay and, whatever was going on, ‘nip it in the bud’ quickly. I walked into the changing room to find an enraged member of the public practically nose-to-nose with George, who looked totally bemused.

  “Yes, this is my bloody towel,” shouted an aggressive man to George. One or two members of the public were watching, slightly worried that they were going to get caught up in trouble, which looked likely to kick-off immediately. The aggressive man’s friend was trying to calm the situation by pulling him away and suggesting that George didn’t mean any offence.

  Then, just at the wrong moment, George pointed and repeated, “You did say that was your towel?”

  “If you are looking for trouble, mate, I think you’ve found it,” he said as he pushed George in the chest. His friend pulled him back just as I managed to jump in between them.

  “Calm down, he’s with me,” I pleaded.

  “George, go and sit down over there,” I instructed firmly but reasonably quietly, under the circumstances.

  “He didn’t mean any harm,” I assured the man, who seemed to me like a character who was never far away from trouble.

  “He is accusing me of stealing his towel by keep asking me if I am sure it’s mine,” he said, while still being held back by his much more reasonable companion.

  “I didn’t accuse him of stealing the towel, nerse,” shouted George defensively.

  “That’s okay,” I reassured him with a hand gesture signalling him to stay where he was.

  “What did he mean when he called you nurse?”

  “He is a patient of mine...at Rainhill Hospital.”

  The expression on their faces must have been the same as Norma’s parents when she told them where she was working. I sensed a slight tensing of bodies amongst the watching bathers. It was as if they had been cornered by an escaped axe murderer.

  We all continued to get dressed, with a distance between us maintained. As George and I were about to leave, I felt obliged to go over to the two men and offer an apology and a conciliatory handshake, which they accepted somewhat begrudgingly. As I walked away, the man who had been involved in the altercation could not resist saying, “Hey mate, it’s a good job you came along when you did, otherwise somebody might have got hurt.”

  All I could do was turn to give a little smile and say tersely, “Yes... I think somebody would have got hurt.”

  On the way back to the hospital I decided to pay for the bus tickets for both of us. George had had enough social integration for one day.

  Drawing Together

  One quiet afternoon, as the sun was streaming into the social area, I was interacting with the patients as usual when I noticed that my colleague Anne was sitting side-by-side with a female day-patient a little distance away from the general activities area.

  Up until then I had played a game of snooker, table tennis and pool. I still had not summoned up enough courage to play chess with Charlie; I was building up to that. I found myself casually wandering over towards Anne; intrigued to see what they were doing but anxious not to intrude, in case Anne was conducting a counselling session. As I approached them, I noticed that the patient was drawing the scene outside, with Anne offering encouragement. The patient had a drawing board on her knee, and the art portfolio leaning against her chair suggested that she was a keen artist.

  “Hello, do you mind if I watch?” I asked gently, hoping I wasn’t breaking her concentration. Anne looked up and smiled welcomingly, but the only reaction from the patient was a cursory sideways glance. Her unchanging facial expression gave me no indication at all as to whether I was welcome or not.

  “You don’t mind if another nurse joins us do you, Susan?” Anne whispered to her. After an almost imperceptible shake of the head from Susan, Anne beckoned for me to join them.

  “That’s very good Susan,” I said quietly, glancing at her drawing.

  Again there was no reaction or acknowledgment from her as she continued to concentrate intensely.

  “Do you enjoy using coloured pencils?” I inquired. Still there was no response. I looked to Anne who gestured to me to stand up. We moved away slightly as Susan continued to hunch over her drawing board, only occasionally looking up at the landscape through the window. She was one of the youngest patients, mid to late twenties, and Anne briefly and quietly outlined her case history to me. She told me that Susan suffered from depression and she had withdrawn into herself, having very little interaction with anyone else. Anne told me that she was making progress with her and art seemed to be a good avenue of expressio
n for Susan.

  “Unfortunately,” Anne said, “I have no talent for drawing, so all I can do is encourage her and try to get her to talk.”

  She went on to tell me that occasionally they have had an art therapist visit the clinic, but not for a while.

  “I am an art student,” I said to Anne, presuming that she already knew, but her surprised expression told me that this was not the case.

  “I had no idea, nobody has ever mentioned it.”

  During the rest of our conversation, it transpired that vacationing students come and go at the hospital and none of the permanent staff take much of an interest as to which particular course or college anyone is from.

  “So what do you study?” Anne asked with interest.

  “I have just finished my first year at Leeds University where I’m doing a BA degree in Textile Design and Art History.”

  “That’s great,” said Anne, and turned to Susan to say

  “This nurse is an artist; can he have a look at some of your work?”

  Anne looked to me and nodded, but I must admit that I couldn’t sense any response from Susan. I picked up the portfolio, which was made of black rigid plastic and had handles for carrying, like a large, thin briefcase. I sat next to Susan and placed the portfolio on my knee, ready to peruse her drawings. I flicked through the selection which comprised mainly natural forms, such as flowers and landscapes drawn in charcoal and coloured pencils. There were a couple of Disney cartoon characters, and, interestingly, some portraits, which I thought would be a good topic to attempt to coax Susan to talk about them.

  “This is very good,” I said encouragingly as I selected a drawing and held it in front of her.

  “It certainly is,” Anne agreed enthusiastically, looking for signs of a response. No luck. Susan continued with her blank, almost vacant, expression as she continued drawing the landscape. I tried one or two other examples with the same tactic, and the same result. I looked at Anne and shook my head slightly, as if to admit defeat.

  “John, why don’t you do a drawing so that Susan can see that you are an artist?” suggested Anne in a tone directed more towards Susan’s ear.

  “What a good idea,” I responded, in the same tone, but still there was no reaction. Undeterred, I took a sheet of cartridge paper from the portfolio and Anne took a 4B pencil from Susan’s pencil case and handed it to me. I decided to draw exactly the same scene; some common ground which I hoped could possibly spark a reaction. Anne settled down to watch and I started to lay out the basic structure of the drawing by holding my pencil horizontally in front of me and then at various angles of perspective. I quickly sketched these lines in and Anne started to ask me questions about the drawing. I answered with explanations in the hope that Susan might pick up on it. She didn’t even glance sideways as she continued with her own work. At one point I closed my left eye and held up my thumb. I scrutinised it and changed angles regularly from vertical to horizontal.

  “I’ve seen artists do that on the telly,” said Anne, “So why are you doing that?”

  “I’m going to draw my thumb,” I joked.

  We both laughed and instinctively looked to Susan, but to no avail.

  I was beginning to feel like a stand-up comedian doing the first house on a Saturday night at the Glasgow Empire.

  “I think I will just draw,” I whispered to Anne.

  “It better be good.”

  “There’s no pressure there then!”

  I spent the next twenty minutes or so drawing the scene in front of me, and I was pleased when it started to take shape. I was concentrating so much that I almost forgot that Susan was still drawing next to me. Anne then gently nudged me with her elbow to gain my attention and suggested to me with a nod of her head that I should look to my left. Susan had stopped drawing and she was actually watching my drawing take shape. I felt like an angler who had just got a bite, and I decided to keep drawing rather than speak and lose the moment.

  Anne leaned forward and spoke across me to ask Susan gently, “Do you like John’s drawing?”

  Even as I continued looking forward and drawing, I could clearly detect from the corner of my eye that there was a slight nod of Susan’s head. It was a gesture which spoke volumes. Anne nudged me again and nodded with a broad smile. Susan continued watching until I finished the drawing. I then wrote along the bottom of the picture ‘to Susan from John Meadows’, and handed it to her without a word. She took it from me, again without a word. I then stood up ready to move on to other patients, and Anne quickly took my place sitting next to Susan.

  “What do you think of the drawing?” Anne asked.

  “It’s good,” answered Susan, barely audible.

  As Anne and I walked away, once we were out of earshot, she told me that they were the first words that Susan had actually spoken in a while.

  A couple of days later Susan came in again, portfolio under her arm, and I asked Anne to set up some flowers on one of the tables.

  “No problem,” she said enthusiastically, “If there is one thing a hospital is not short of, it’s flowers.”

  I went over to sit with Susan, and I like to think that there was a slight flicker of recognition and a faint smile on her lips, or perhaps it was just my imagination and wishful thinking.

  She made a good start with her new subject matter: a round vase containing lilies and roses. I made a couple of observations and offered a few words of advice, with no response. I then asked her if I could show her one or two things by working on her drawing. I was pleasantly surprised not only to get a reaction, but she offered me the drawing and her pencils and shuffled her chair slightly to make room for me to sit next to her. I demonstrated a few techniques, such as how to use light and shade and to render different textures and she watched intently.

  The most gratifying moment of all was when I stood up and handed back her pencil and drawing, she looked up at me and said “Thank you.” As I walked away, I felt that I had made a breakthrough and was surprised to feel a great sense of fulfilment and job satisfaction.

  “Anne tells me you’re a bit of an artist, John,” said the charge nurse a few days later. “If we buy some materials, would you be interested in doing a few art classes or perhaps some art therapy with the patients?”

  “I’d love to,” I replied with enthusiasm. “It would provide an extra activity for everyone.”

  “Not quite everyone,” observed Henry, “I don’t think anything would lure Charlie Rosewall away from the chess board.”

  Over subsequent weeks our art sessions went well and Susan joined in, sharing a table with others for the first time, which we regarded as a significant breakthrough.

  I actually did a couple of portraits of some of the patients; Ernie was a good subject who sat very still, occasionally asking if it was Tuesday today. I gave up with Charlie; he couldn’t sit still long enough. I spent some time drawing George Church’s portrait, and Malcolm watched with interest over my shoulder. As soon as I had finished the drawing, Malcolm took it off my drawing board and said he was going to show it to the charge nurse.

  I followed him into the office as he held it up in front of Henry and said, “Look at this, John has just drawn it.”

  “That’s very good,” exclaimed Henry, and then, pointing at the drawing, said, “I like him very much.”

  “Who?” said perplexed Malcolm.

  “What’s-’is-name in ‘The Dirty Dozen’.”

  “Why, who do you think it is supposed to be?”

  “Charles Bronson!”

  A New Boss Sweeps Clean

  Our shift-patterns at the hospital often required us to work weekends. One morning, after leaving Norma and Jeff at the geriatric ward as usual, I was walking to the Benedict Clinic when a rhododendron bush asked me, “Is it Tuesday today?”

  “No Ern
ie, it is Sunday,” I shouted back instinctively without even looking round or breaking stride. Perhaps I was becoming institutionalised. As I entered the office, Malcolm was glancing at the Sunday papers before starting work, and he told me that Henry would not be in as he had booked a couple of days’ holiday. Malcolm was the acting charge nurse, and he told me that he had some admin work to do in Henry’s absence. I left him to it and went into the social area to help supervise the regular breakfast routine. Anne was at the other side of the room overseeing the activity going on around her, and she waved a good morning to me.

  The patients were being organised and regimented by a man whom I hadn’t seen before. He was in his mid-forties, very smartly dressed in a white shirt, tie and a pair of chinos. He spoke with great authority as he very efficiently gave instructions regarding the re-arrangement of tables and chairs. The patients followed his instructions to the letter, even though they would have carried out their individual tasks anyway, because that’s what they did every day.

  “Good morning nerse,” a few would say to me as I walked past. The word had finally got round to everyone... I wasn’t a patient.

  When he heard them refer to me as ‘nerse’ he came straight over to me, with a beaming smile and arm outstretched and greeted me with a cheery, “Good morning young man.” He shook my hand vigorously and continued with, “Pleased to meet you; my name is Mr. Tinsley... please call me Fred.”

  “Pleased to meet you Fred,” I replied, continuing to shake his hand, “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “I am sometimes transferred over from St Anne’s ward, usually at weekends,” he explained, and I presumed it was because Henry was on holiday. Fred then proceeded to give me detailed instructions about what he would like me to do that day, much more than Henry had ever done during previous weeks. He seemed to exude an air of importance, and I suspected that he had seniority over Henry in the hospital hierarchy. I thought I had better comply without question. ‘Thank god I didn’t work on St Ann’s ward,’ I thought as he kept me on my toes during breakfast.