by Martin Bryce
the subject yet again.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she told me, ‘I’m actually quite choosy and you would probably have bought something completely naff. Anyway, there’s plenty at the flat. Daddy always leaves a couple of cases whenever he’s up in London. Actually, I think I’d rather chew on my own kidneys than live there.’
‘Shouldn’t we slow down a bit?’ I suggested.
‘What?’ She waved to a small police car as we screamed past it.
‘Nothing,’ I said quietly and with resignation, trying to catch a glimpse of the scenery as we shot past it.
Even in the rain Belgrave Square appeared cheerful, habitable. I wondered whether such places have that certain something because the rich live in them, or whether the rich live there because such places already have it.The flat, very large, was as I expected, tastefully sumptuous in the modern manner, with just a hint of actually being lived in. You know the sort of thing, a Sunday newspaper here, a couple of Renoirs there, a pair of diamond earrings tossed onto the glass-topped coffee table, a mink coat artfully draped over the white leather sofa, the heating on and so on.
I was introduced to Mandy, Rowena’s flatmate. Like peas in a pod they were, both gorgeous, well-educated and dressed in casual, everyday clothes, but wearing them in the way that only the rich and confident can.
‘But he’s limping, badly,’ Mandy said.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Rowena said on my behalf as she breezed into the designer kitchen.
‘Well, actually…’ I began.
‘Don’t you think he’s sweet?’ Rowena asked Mandy.
‘Yes, darling,’ Mandy replied, ‘remind me where you found him,’ she said following Rowena into the kitchen.
‘He’s doing a play with me.’
‘Oh, yes that horrid amateur thing you were telling me about.’
‘He’s actually a professional.’
‘What? Actor?’ I thought I could detect a slight note of disgust in Mandy’s voice. ‘You’re kidding?’
‘No, really,’ Rowena said, ‘he has to do the amateur thing as part of a Community Service order, or something,’ she added. ‘Isn’t that right, darling?’ She shouted through to me.
‘Well actually…’ I began.
‘What d’you think he drinks?’ Mandy asked as she opened the door of the enormous fridge.
‘Well, he appears to like beer, or Australian wine,’ Rowena replied.
‘There’s no Australian wine,’ Mandy remarked, reaching to the back of the fridge. ‘But there are a couple of cans of Foster’s here, left over from that party. It was the stuff that disgusting Simon brought when he heard the New Zealanders were coming and then nobody drank it. D’you think he would like that?’
‘Try it,’ Rowena replied. I wondered whether the ‘it’ was the beer, or me.
‘I gather you’re an amateur actor,’ Mandy said as she glided towards me with the can of the revolting Foster’s in one hand and a Waterford crystal glass of white wine in the other.
‘Well, actually,’ I began and then I caught my foot awkwardly in a deep pile designer rug and had to sit down.
‘You know, he really is in pain, Rowena darling,’ she said as she placed the contents of her manicured hands next to the earrings on the coffee table. ‘I think I ought to have a look.’
‘Mandy’s a nurse,’ Rowena informed me from the kitchen.
‘It’s your leg, isn’t it?’ Mandy said perceptively. I explained about the ankle as she gently took my leg onto her knee. My desert boot left a grey smear on her perfectly white jeans. ‘Oh, but darling,’ she exclaimed as the dressing came away, ’the poor darling must go to hospital immediately!’
No amount of protesting on my part could persuade them to have lunch first. Mandy put on her earrings and after a few minutes of fussing and fretting and me being told how brave I’d been, we all piled into the Porsche, me stuffed in the back, and drove at top speed to the hospital. On the way Rowena and Mandy talked together about me being an actor, then had an animated discussion about Mandy’s experiences as a ‘deckhand’ on a large yacht in the Med the previous summer. My stomach began to complain loudly.
We arrived at A&E to find a large crowd of sick and wounded being marshalled and herded by medical staff as the administrative staff were on strike. We found three seats at the far side of the waiting area and sat down. The two girls talked excitedly about their forthcoming winter holiday in Zermatt before Rowena, checking her watch, said she’d better get back and check the food. Mandy said she’d go with her to keep her company. They’d pop back later.
‘Fine,’ was all I could manage in reply.
‘He’s so sweet,’ I heard Rowena say again as they left.
From the way new patients kept arriving I imagined a disaster had occurred on a scale large enough to justify a declaration of a State of Emergency. There was standing room only in the waiting area and because of the strike by admin, there was no order to the way in which patients were attended to. Triage had gone out of the window as Doctors and Nurses grabbed the first body that came to hand, invariably those nearest them at the front. For those of us near the back, we might as well have been on Mars.
After two hours I was famished and my stomach was rumbling so loudly that the man with the bandaged head next to me had to move away. I tried to move to the front of the crowd, but with dicky legs it was impossible to push through the seething mass of invalids on crutches, in wheelchairs and on stretchers, as well as all the hangers-on. I returned to my seat only to find it colonised by a small boy with a saucepan on his head. I leaned uncomfortably against the wall. My senses were awash – the smell of damp woollen clothing; the sound of hacking coughs, rasping chests and the low moans of the dying; the empty eyes all around me, hopeless, expressionless; the grubby bandaged body parts; the press of unwashed bodies. I was trapped in a Goya etching
Another half hour went by and I spotted the girls waving to me over the heads of the crowd. Through a series of mimes and a bit of lip reading I managed to let them know that I hadn’t been attended to and that I wanted to go back with them for lunch. They consulted each other briefly. ‘We’ll come back later,’ Rowena mouthed.
‘No! Wait! Come back!’ I screamed as they waved and walked away. It was no use. It was five o’clock before I saw them again and we went through the same performance.
Doctors came and went. They looked haggard and tired. The health system really is a disgrace and it’s no wonder that so many mistakes are made when people have to work under such conditions.
Yesterday Dr Marcus went to see the statue of Zeus.
Though Zeus,
And though marble,
We’re burying the statue today.
A new shift of nurses arrived. The Sister in charge was an absolute martinet, but soon established an order to proceedings. At a rough count there were about sixty people ahead of me when Rowena and Mandy arrived again at about seven-thirty looking fabulous. I thought they had gone to a lot of trouble just to cheer me up.
‘It’s going to be a while,’ I said. ‘Another two hours at least.’
‘That’s alright, we don’t mind,’ Mandy replied.
‘Look, I’m sorry, darling,’ Rowena said, ‘we had to eat lunch otherwise it would all have been ruined.’
I closed my eyes and nodded bravely.
‘What about you?’
I closed my eyes and shook my head bravely.
‘Well, there’s a little Indian takeaway just down the road, perhaps…’
‘I’ve no money,’ I said quietly, not wanting to waste what little energy I had left.
‘And the thing is,’ Mandy said, ‘we’ve been invited to the opening of this super new little bistro tonight. The owner’s an old school friend of ours so we can’t let her down. Such a shame; you could have come with us.’
I nodded and said I quite understood.
‘I am sorry,’ said Rowena lovingly, ‘will
you be alright in a taxi?’
‘I’ve no money,’ I said, no longer caring whether I lived, or died.
‘Oh, is that all?’ she remarked as she opened her crocodile skin purse. ‘I’ve got some loose change you can have. Don’t worry if you can’t pay it back for a while, daddy lets me have a monthly allowance.’
I gazed in disbelief at the two fifty pounds notes in my hand and wondered why, in the name of Croesus, she was working at Harridges. ‘My Santa suit,’ I said feebly.
‘Yes, darling?’ she smiled.
‘It’s in the back of your car,’ I explained.
‘Of course, darling, I’ll bring it in.’ She was as good as her word. She kissed me on the forehead as she dropped the grubby bundle at my feet and left for the bistro opening.
I woke at nine-fifty. A nurse, holding something gruesome in her other hand, was shaking me by the shoulder and saying that the doctor would see me now. I was led into a cubicle that was last painted Institution Green in 1935. I disregarded the notices exhorting me to buy War Bonds.
‘Now what seems to be the trouble?’ the young doctor asked, yawning.
‘I was hit by a tank,’ I replied as I climbed onto the bed.
‘A tank?’ he said, suddenly waking up. ‘As in army tank?’ There was laughter in his voice.
‘Yes,’ I confirmed, taking my shoes and socks off. ‘Its barrel embedded itself in my ankle and broke off.’
‘I see,’ he said cautiously, and carefully removed the bandage. The laughter had gone. ‘And where did all this happen?’
‘Harridges,’ I replied.
‘Uh huh,’ he said non-committaly as he examined my foot. ‘And what happened here?’ He asked as he examined the other foot with its multiple puncture wounds.
‘Northerners.’
‘Northerners,’ he repeated dryly, eyeing the nurse
‘Yes, you see, they kept sitting on me and well, it was the nail, really.
He said nothing, but looked fleetingly again at the nurse.
‘What sort of northerners?’ The nurse asked gently.
‘Well, you know, people from the north,’ I elaborated. ‘They kept forcing the nail in when they sat on me.’
‘Yes, of course they did,’ the doctor said from the far side of the cubicle.
‘It’s an occupational hazard, I suppose.’
‘Let me see if I’ve got this right,’ he began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. ‘So, you’re telling me northerners sitting on you while hammering nails into your feet is an occupational hazard for you, eh?’
‘Seems to be. Sounds silly, I know. Not sure which is worse really,’ I continued with a wistful smile, ’that, or being hit by tanks.’
‘No, quite,’ he said holding open the curtain screening off the cubicle. ‘Nurse, could I have a word?’
The nurse returned after a couple of minutes and sat beside the bed. ‘So what is it that you do exactly?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’m Father Christmas, actually,’ I replied cheerily.
The doctor returned with a colleague and another nurse. They were manoeuvring a gurney that appeared to be equipped with lots of heavy leather straps. The new doctor started to examine my feet and jumped back in horror.
‘Good god!’ he exclaimed. ‘How long have you had that?’
‘What?’
‘Your toes, man!’
‘All my life,’ I replied, somewhat bemused.
‘No, I mean that… the… what’s it called?’
‘Oh, you mean the dry rot,’ I said. ‘Ever since the school showers, but it’s my ankle…’
‘Bugger the ankle,’ he said, ‘a little minor surgery and a few shots of penicillin will clear that up.’
‘No, not penicillin,’ I said, remembering, ‘I’m allergic.’
‘Well, some other stuff, then,’ he said impatiently. ‘No, that’s much more serious. You sure it’s not leprosy?’ He went on to say that he’d never seen anything like it in his life and that it needed urgent attention.
I shall not go into detail about what they did to my various wounds, the memory is too