The manager of the CHE rose to speak. He was, in Kitchener’s opinion, a complete fool. The recent cuts to orthopaedics had been major, sweeping and imprecise. The young doctor in his tie-dyed shirt had leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Bored or despairing? thought Kitchener. Possibly both. He lowered his glasses and glared over the top.
Wake up, young twerp! he thought. The young doctor opened his eyes to meet Kitchener’s. He blushed and worked his buttocks backwards on the squeaky vinyl chair. By his pasty complexion Kitchener judged him to be a vegetarian. And a GP. He’d never met a surgeon yet, orthopaedic or otherwise, who didn’t enjoy meat.
The chairman was introducing somebody, a hard-faced woman on his left. She stood and began to speak. American. Another horrendous ‘overseas expert’ telling us how to decimate our health system, thought Kitchener. He closed his eyes.
After a moment the warmth of the theaterette and the rush of humidity from the faulty air-conditioning turned to something else. Ah. Fiji. That lovely holiday with his second wife in 1973. Lying on the beach, or by the pool, sipping cool alcohol and retiring to their bure, a bit pissed, for an afternoon of slippery sex. Rhonda had been keen on sex then. She’d liked the reassuring bulk of him, and his clean scrubbed hands. She’d squeaked and wriggled very convincingly. Later in life, of course, she’d told him she’d never enjoyed it, not properly. She told him she’d just given up hoping for an orgasm. She didn’t use that word, though — she called it a climax. She’d told him she probably could have had one, if he’d taken the trouble. People were so clinical these days. It occurred to him that as the public became more technically articulate, the medical profession became less so. It was a paradox …
Rhonda in those days, though — what eyes … what tits … what … what … What? That squeaking again. Rhonda? Kitchener opened his eyes.
It was that young GP, wriggling in his chair, the vinyl against his jeans. He was looking right at him. Kitchener glowered back and the GP lowered his eyes.
‘It’s my belief,’ the American was saying, ‘that the medical profession of this country would benefit greatly from a more competitive system. What price excellence? What price endeavour and enterprise? What price —’
Kitchener burped discreetly, behind his hand. The scallops mornay of his lunch — not very discreetly — returned. A dull ping of pain emanated from his prostate. The body. What a clumsy machine. He wondered, suddenly, at the sense of spending a life devoted to rearranging the scaffolding in others and ignoring his own health. As a young man he had been described, by his mother in particular, as strapping. He’d come close to selection for the All Blacks; he’d run like a hound and swum like an otter. In his forties he’d given up smoking and the evening Scotch. Until recently he’d been described, by his wife in particular, as well preserved. No longer. He rubbed a hand over his sparse hair.
He would be well remembered, though. He’d made his mark — thousands of them on thousands of people. There was a sense of gratitude in the community at large, and he was a legend among the nursing profession. He couldn’t put an estimate on the number of theatre nurses he’d reduced to tears, or remember a quarter of the jokes he’d made at the expense of the anaesthetised, faulty bodies beneath his scalpel. Kitchener specialised in the hips and pelvis. Surgery on that part of the body allowed for exposed genitals, and genitals were good for laughs.
‘A peg for the nose!’ he’d bark, and as the theatre sister scuttled: ‘No! Not hers. Mine!’ Kitchener sniggered. He remembered with pride the time he’d made it compulsory for all theatre nurses to wear panties under their pantihose. To reduce pituite fallout, he’d said. He sniggered again and opened his eyes to silence. The American was staring at him. He raised an amiable hand, smiled, and she continued, glancing over at him now and again. He forced his face to give out an attentive expression to the room at large. A clock. Was there one?
Ah. Above the American’s head, but he couldn’t quite place the small hand. Half past something. Must be two. Only half an hour since the meeting began.
God help me, thought Kitchener. This could go on forever.
The manager rose and thanked the expert. Everyone clapped politely, but most of the faces looked closed. A year ago, two years ago, every professional was worried about cuts to their department. Now the concerns were far more personal — everyone was expendable. Kitchener squinted to either side. A lot of the old faces were gone, either by attrition or early redundancy.
A great pity, thought Kitchener. Many of them were the best the country had to offer. In his opinion there was nobody to replace them, though of course the board found replacements. His own, for instance. Vittachi.
One of Kitchener’s five daughters from his first marriage had kept a black rabbit when she was a little girl. He was called Nigger, which was acceptable in the fifties. It was Nigger who came to mind now as his eyes rested on Vittachi, three rows ahead, on the aisle. The same bulging, timid eyes, the glossy black hair, small, mobile nose. Vittachi had obviously rushed straight here from the wards. He still wore his white coat and name badge and was paying attention to the manager, resting his elbows on his knees. Vittachi was gentle, so the story went, not like your usual orthopod. He took his time to explain things to patients and was respectful to the nursing staff. There was another story, unsubstantiated, that he used acupuncture for pain relief. Acupuncture for bone pain! May as well treat cardiac arrest with a cup of tea.
Now a grey-haired woman was speaking. It was that midwife person whose name escaped him for a moment. She’d caused a lot of trouble in the past, at the maternity hospital. Some of the best obstetricians had gone private, solely because of her. In Kitchener’s opinion she should have been shut up years ago. It was barbaric, what she wanted: women labouring at home with no pain relief, with nothing to save them or the infant if there were complications. It struck him that she and he were of an age, possibly the most senior attendees of the meeting. The midwife spoke on, uninterrupted, which never would have happened when she first came on the scene. There wasn’t so much opposition to prehistoric and dangerous methods any more. They were perceived as ‘natural’ these days, and therefore safe.
Kitchener sighed heavily and wondered what Rhonda was doing at home. It was a longing kind of wonder — a desire to be there with her, watching her. He pictured himself in a casual shirt, on the terrace with its view over the pool to Rangitoto, reading the paper, reaching out to tap Rhonda on the backside as she passed with a tray of coffee and cake. And Rhonda turning to look at him, with a wondering smile. Perhaps he’d pull her onto his knee and together they’d sit and watch the garden, the heads of the chrysanthemums bobbing in the breeze. Maybe he could coax her upstairs. How long had it been now? A year, two years, more? Rhonda was only forty-two, twenty years his junior, and she’d never had children herself. Her body was that of a woman in her mid-thirties, but she’d lost interest in sex.
At first, if he’d asked, she’d give him a reason.
‘You’re never home’ was one of them. ‘You should have let me have a baby’ was another, then ‘I’m beginning the change.’
On the rare occasions he was in bed before her, hope would well in his breast. He’d watch her brush her hair, apply face cream, put on her nightie and he’d think — tonight, maybe tonight. But inevitably Rhonda would get into bed, often with an irritating little-girl smile, turn on her lamp and open her book. Once, aeons ago now, he’d taken the book away. She’d clamped her hands to her face and with a tiny, sad voice begged to be left alone. What did she expect him to do? he wondered. Give up on her? Give up on sex? Did she want him to consider himself old, past all that? He wasn’t. He most certainly wasn’t. And he was home now, wasn’t he? He was home all the time.
The midwife was still talking. She was getting emotional.
‘If labouring women are treated as ill patients they will think of themselves as ill. The obvious solution is to regard a labouring woman as an individual experiencing great pow
er and strength. Money previously assigned to upgrading delivery suites should be redirected into pre-natal education. Easy births don’t just happen on the day, they happen because the woman has been preparing for the birth for many months …’
Kitchener brought his hand to his mouth and yawned.
Why doesn’t the manager use that greasy manner he was born with to politely shut her up? he wondered. She certainly wasn’t speaking for all women. Jean, his first wife, for instance — she’d cried out for painkillers with the first contractions. By the time each of the five children was born, she was out cold.
The midwife returned to her seat amid enthusiastic applause from a group of women somewhere to Kitchener’s left. A beeper sounded, high and piercing above the clapping, and Vittachi leapt to his feat. Kitchener watched him as he passed at a fast clip, his glossy head pushed forward ahead of his polished shoes. The older man envied the younger one’s escape.
The manager was thanking the midwife and calling on the American to comment. The little blonde had a supercilious expression on her face. As she took her position centre stage she maintained eye contact with the midwife. She would address all her remarks to her: it stood to become a personalised slanging match.
Kitchener wished he had a bleeper too. This meeting was mainly for professionals who were working in women’s health — gynaecologist obstetricians, midwives, pre-and post-natal physiotherapists, social workers. Kitchener had only attended because he wanted to see what Vittachi would be up against. Vittachi! Kitchener had taught him everything he knew. After the boy had arrived from Malaysia and re-sat his medical examinations, he’d assisted Kitchener with hip replacements and pelvic surgery, standing across the table. Very often he’d made some extraordinary suggestions and once or twice Kitchener had allowed him to carry them out.
The midwife called out from the floor: ‘Yes! But your situation in the United States is entirely different to our —’
‘Order!’ said the manager.
There was another bleeper and Kitchener had a brainwave. He stood, patting his suit pocket as though it held the offending instrument. Behind him a chair scraped back as the genuinely electronically summoned professional scrambled up, a female house surgeon. Kitchener smiled apologetically at the manager and followed the young woman out.
In the foyer he felt vaguely foolish. Why had he bothered with that charade? He could just as easily have stood and left, with no questions asked. He strode on, purposefully, out into the day. The sun blazed but there was a cold wind, which picked up the dust from the demolition site beyond the carpark and whipped it into his eyes. It was the old nurses’ home they were knocking down, a handsome building of pale brick that dated from the Great War, laced with fire escapes. Now it was rubble, mounds of broken stone, with the fire escapes protruding here and there, bent like skinny, entreating arms.
He would go home, he decided, setting off towards his car, which waited in the doctors’ carpark behind the administration building. But at the main entrance he paused. Something was drawing him inside, past the admitting desk to the lifts. He pressed the buttons that would take him to the fourth floor, to the ward he used to share with one or two other orthopaedic surgeons, but was now Vittachi’s domain.
Kitchener coasted down the polished corridors. There were blue stickers beside at least two-thirds of the patients’ names outside the rooms. Blue stickers used to denote that the patient was Kitchener’s. Now it meant Vittachi. There was Vittachi himself, bending over a bed that contained a young man. An accident victim, perhaps — his name tag was festooned with stickers: red, yellow, green and blue. Just about every surgeon in the place must have had a go at him. Vittachi was pressing and prodding, speaking too softly for Kitchener, who stood concealed outside the door, to hear.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ It was a nurse, nineteen or twenty, fresh and keen. She had no idea, obviously, of who he was. Kitchener gave her one of his most withering looks and continued on down the corridor. He sensed rather than saw the young nurse stop another nurse, and point after him.
‘But that’s Mr Kitchener!’ the voice came down to him: older, cigarette-roughened. ‘Mr Kitchener!’
He turned reluctantly as Nurse Sims hurried up. ‘Mr Kitchener! What a surprise! What brings you here?’
‘Oh, I, um …’ He told himself that under no circumstances must he appear hesitant or unsure.
‘It must be nearly a year,’ Nurse Sims went on. ‘Is it? How are you finding retirement? It must be …’ She was searching for a word. Kitchener observed her. Nurse Sims had never been one of his favourite nurses by any means — she was gushy, talked too much. Though she had always followed his instructions to the letter, unlike some of the more opinionated ones.
‘It must be different for you, after such a busy life,’ she finished.
Kitchener realised he was scowling at her. He made an attempt — not very successful — to rearrange his face to a more impassive state.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘nice to see you, Nurse Sims. I must be getting on.’
‘No, I’m not —’ began Nurse Sims, uncertain. ‘I’m not Nurse Sims. I’m Roberts. Remember?’
Kitchener didn’t. He shook his head.
‘Nurse Sims retired a year ago, and I’ll retire myself in two. That is, if I don’t take early retirement.’ Nurse Roberts gave him a wide smile. Of course, now he remembered — Sims and Roberts: he was always getting them muddled up. They both wore glasses thick as bottle bottoms, they both had curly grey hair, they both smelled of cigarette smoke, they both had large, starched bosoms and broad sterns, they both held surgeons in high esteem. Perhaps he should have been kinder to them. One of them — he couldn’t remember which — had had a terrible tragedy in her life, a car accident that took out her entire family. Perhaps it was Roberts — there was something defeated about her. He made an effort now.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there are not many senior nurses left, not many of your age.’
Roberts was smiling at him, as if she wanted him to go on. He couldn’t think of anything more to say.
‘Well —’ he said again, turning on his heel.
‘We have to make room for the young though, don’t we, Mr Kitchener?’ said the nurse suddenly. She’d laid a hand on his arm! ‘It took me such a long time to get used to it. All the changes, you know — not getting the patients ready for Doctors’ Rounds, with hair brushed and clean faces; not having proper visiting hours; all the machines. Sometimes I still miss the old ways, but change is usually for the best. Now, that Mr Vittachi — he’s a gifted man, isn’t he?’
Kitchener met her eyes through the thick glass of her spectacles and felt a sudden rush of anger. They always said ‘gifted’ when what they meant was ‘nice’. Vittachi didn’t ruffle feathers or step on toes, that’s what it was. He wasn’t gifted; he was proficient. Kitchener looked away from her just as Vittachi himself emerged from the accident victim’s room, his hands in his pockets, head down. He looked worried. He looked up and saw the broad back of Nurse Roberts and came towards them. Kitchener took a little step to the side, as if he would vanish into one of the side rooms, but Vittachi had seen him.
‘Mr Kitchener!’ he said, offering his hand. ‘What a surprise.’
Kitchener wondered if the man had washed his hands after his prodding and poking. He’d noticed a degree of carelessness among the younger doctors when it came to personal hygiene. Who knew what his hand had grazed against in the patient’s pyjamas? Fecal matter?
The nurses were rushed off their feet. Kitchener hadn’t spotted any other than Roberts and the young one since he’d been standing there. He could hear their voices though, and the squeaking of their busy feet on the polished floors in the rooms on either side of the corridor. The voices that responded were uniformly youthful — accident victims, pub brawlers. Where were all the hip replacements, the elective surgery? The babies in their frog plasters, the querulous old ladies striving to be brave?
He realise
d with a start that Vittachi had lowered his hand, that a few moments must have passed while he gazed at him, that he’d no doubt offended the younger doctor.
‘Are you visiting a friend?’ asked Vittachi.
‘No, no.’ Kitchener felt a rising panic. Two nurses, pushing a bed and attendant drip stands, came out of the room at their left. Roberts and Vittachi stepped back and Kitchener was separated from them. He took his opportunity, lifted a farewelling hand and turned on his heel, marching off down the corridor to the swing doors at the other end, as he had done so many times before, before his retirement. On this occasion only the ghost of white coat-tails flew behind him and the bevy of earnest house surgeons, fleet in his wake, was spectral. He pushed through the double doors and made his exit.
On this side of the ward there were no lifts, save the service one. Kitchener took the stairs, his heart pounding less with exertion than shame. What had possessed him to come to the hospital in the first place? He pulled his car keys from his pocket and held them, hot, in his hand. It occurred to him on the landing of the third floor that perhaps he should go back and put things to rights — talk normally, say he just wanted to see the ward again. There was a danger of incurring sympathy, though — more than he’d already received from Roberts. The warm keys propelled him on.
Minutes later his foot rested lightly on the accelerator of his shiny red two-seater as he whizzed past the Domain duck ponds. It was warm in the car. The brilliant sun outside lit up the marble of the statue to his left and to his right, above the waving swords of the red canna lilies, the roof of the bandstand glittered. Behind the bandstand, beyond the gleaming cars parked before the cannons, high on its ridge, sat the museum. Like the hospital, it reigned over the city, holding towers of commerce and dwellings of the wealthy in its gaze. Kitchener used to like the way he could look up from certain streets, or from the deck of friends’ yachts on the harbour, and see the hospital, the setting of so much of his working life. Now he felt the weight of it behind him, a behemoth hand of stone pushing him away home, home to Rhonda.
Drowned Sprat and Other Stories Page 12