‘Big ugly monster, miss?’
It was David, the wriggler, who was waving his hand madly in the air like a palm tree in a tornado.
‘No, David, not a big ugly monster. It was a beautiful princess called Imelda. Princess Imelda had eyes as bright and as green as sparkling emeralds. She had hair which fell down her back like a golden waterfall. Her hands were long and thin and her skin was as white as –’
‘A ghost’s, miss?’ volunteered David.
‘No, not a ghost’s, David,’ replied the teacher, putting on an overly patient voice. ‘Her skin was as white as the snow which covered the fields. Her lips were as red as –’
‘Blood, miss!’ piped up the child.
‘David! Will you listen, please? You are spoiling our story with your interruptions. It was not blood. Princess Imelda’s lips were as red as the cherries which covered the trees in her garden.’
Gemma ceased her nose-wiping for a moment to observe, ‘Miss, there wouldn’t be cherries on the trees if it was winter.’
‘There would in this country, Gemma,’ replied the teacher firmly. ‘It was a magic country where fruit grew all the year round. But Princess Imelda was lonely. How she longed for someone with whom to play. Great tears rolled down her soft skin. “Ah me, ah me,” she sighed sadly, “if only I had someone to play with and be my friend. It’s so lonely being a princess.”’
‘Miss, I’d like to be a princess,’ Gemma informed the class.
‘I’m sure you would, but princesses don’t wipe their noses on the sleeves of their cardigans. Get another tissue, will you, please.’
The child scurried to the front, plucked a tissue from the box on the teacher’s desk and returned to her position on the carpet.
‘Give your nose a good blow, Gemma. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. But the days passed and Princess Imelda grew sadder and sadder, sitting all alone watching from her tall tower. Then one day something happened –’
‘Did she fall out, miss?’ asked David.
The teacher closed her eyes for a moment then took another breath. ‘No, she did not fall out, David. She saw in the distance a great cloud of smoke.’
‘A fire-eating dragon come to eat her up!’
‘David!’ snapped the teacher. ‘Come down here and sit at the front and listen! Thank you. You know, Mr Phinn,’ observed Mrs Cooper, looking over the children’s heads in my direction, ‘sometimes the children get so involved in the story that they can’t contain themselves.’
I could not imagine anyone getting excited about the insipid Princess Imelda sitting at the top of her castle feeling sorry for herself all day. What a tiresome story compared to the legends I had heard the older children read that afternoon.
I stayed for a while after school to talk to the two teachers individually and give an overview of what I had seen. In the first meeting with Mrs Potter I was able to reassure the headteacher that standards in the junior department were still very high and the subsequent report would be positive. The second interview, with the stony-faced Mrs Cooper, proved to be much more difficult. I began by informing the teacher in question that the standard of work and the quality of the teaching in the infants were just about satisfactory but that there was room for major improvements. If the look Mrs Cooper gave me could maim, I would have left the school on crutches. Before I could continue she launched into a diatribe. ‘In fact,’ she concluded, ‘I suggest you have a go at teaching them, Mr Phinn. It’s all very well making all these critical comments. You don’t have the children, day in and day out. These farming children can be very difficult and demanding. They have far too much to say for themselves, in my opinion. Yes, indeed, you want to try teaching them. As my husband, who happens to be a headteacher, always says about school inspectors, they are like eunuchs. They would like to do it, but they can’t. They are just good with the advice. And now I have a home to go to.’ She stood, brushed the creases out of her skirt and made for the door.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Cooper,’ I said, as pleasantly as possible, ‘I have done you the courtesy of listening to what you have had to say. Please allow me the same consideration.’ She looked startled and then plonked herself back down on the chair and stared malevolently in my direction. ‘Thank you,’ I said and continued with the report.
As Mrs Potter and I walked to my car a little while later, the headteacher said, ‘Mrs Cooper won’t be with us much longer. I think I mentioned she is on a temporary contract, thank goodness, and it will not be renewed.’
‘I think I got off on the wrong foot with her,’ I said. ‘I quite innocently mentioned that I thought it was a shame to have her desk where she can’t see the magnificent view of the fells, but she bit my head off’
Mrs Potter raised a hand to suppress a smile, chuckled to herself and then looked behind her. ‘She has the desk there for a reason,’ she whispered. ‘Mrs Cooper doesn’t think anyone knows, but she’s having a bit of a fling with a local farmer. He drives his tractor up and down that track during the day and if it’s on for the evening, he gives her the thumbs up. I should think everybody in the village knows about the romance, well… except for Mr Cooper and the farmer’s wife.’
20
The Royal Infirmary was a square, featureless, redbrick building on the outskirts of Fettlesham. From the reception desk, I was directed to Men’s Surgical. There were four tubular metal beds in Room 15 of Ward 6, three of which were occupied. By the window, an extremely large and heavily-tattooed man with a bullet-shaped bald head and a neck as thick as a pit bull terrier’s, sat propped up, reading a newspaper. He nodded in my direction as I entered. Across from him lay an emaciated individual with a deathly pallor, pained expression and closed eyes. He looked for all the world like a corpse. In the third bed was a round-faced man with cheeks so red and shiny they looked as if they had just been scrubbed. I had never seen anyone look quite as healthy. He watched me critically as I made my way to the bed opposite and started to put my various personal items in the small bedside cabinet.
‘How do,’ he said.
‘Oh, hello,’ I replied.
‘Another for the butcher’s knife then?’
‘Yes.’
‘What you in for?’
‘An operation on my leg,’ I told him.
‘Varicose veins?’
‘No, knee.’
‘I’ve had varicose veins – in both legs, mind. Stripped ‘em out, they did, a couple of year back. Thick as ropes, they were. My legs looked like a road map of London, there were so many blue lines. Doctor said it was a miracle I could walk before the operation. Twenty-three stitches in each leg, I had, not counting the ones around the groin. What’s up with your knee, then?’
‘An old rugby accident.’
‘Very tricky things are knees. I’ve heard it’s a bit of a hit and miss with knees. My cousin, Stan, had an operation on his knee and limped for the rest of his life. Had to give up his ballroom dancing. Never climbed a ladder again. Like hips are knees. Tricky. They’ll probably put a plastic kneecap in. You see, your joints can be very problematical.’
‘Really.’
‘I’m in with haemorrhoids myself. By the heck, you know what pain is with haemorrhoids. Do you know, fifty per cent of the population have had haemorrhoids by the age of fifty.’
‘Really.’
‘It’s a fact. Haemorrhoids are enlarged blood vessels in your anal passage.’ ‘Yes, I know.’
‘Do you know why they’re called piles?’
‘I have no idea,’ I said, ‘but I expect you’re going to tell me.’
‘Because the Latin word pila means ball,’ he explained, miming a huge ball with his hands. ‘I like to go into my medical condition in some detail before I comes into hospital. Read up on it, know the facts. They pays more attention to you if they think you’re in the know, you know. I find the doctors are very surprised when they realise I’m genned up about my condition.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said.
‘I’ve
tried everything for my haemorrhoids but they are unusually stubborn, as my doctor said. In fact, in all his years of practising medicine he’s never seen anything like them. I may very well be in a medical textbook. I’ve tried creams, suppositories, ice packs. Have you had ‘em?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ I said.
‘The itching’s indescribable and when you go to the toilet it’s like passing glass.’
‘Why don’t you put a bleeding sock in it!’ said the bullet-headed individual. ‘You’ve been going on and on about your bleeding haemorrhoids all morning. You’re like a bleeding gramophone record.’
‘Who rattled your cage then?’ asked the haemorrhoids.
‘I’ll come and rattle your bleeding haemorrhoids in a minute. And as for pain, you don’t know what pain is. You have an ‘ernia, mate, then you’ll know what pain is.’
I climbed into bed. The visit to Fettlesham Royal Infirmary was going to be an experience and no mistake.
‘Hernia!’ snorted the haemorrhoids. ‘I’ve had a hernia. Not one, but two, mind, and they were both strangulated. Double hernia. Twice the pain. And as for the operation, piece of cake, it’s over in a minute. Now, you take the operation for haemorrhoids, I can’t begin to describe –’
‘Well don’t,’ retorted the hernia.
The haemorrhoids carried on regardless. ‘They tied rubber bands around my haemorrhoids to cut off the blood supply but that didn’t work. Then they injected ‘em and that didn’t work, neither. Now I’m having ‘em removed surgically. They put a laser gun up your backside and zap ‘em. Mind you, when it’s over you can kiss your haemorrhoids goodbye.’
‘Could we change the record?’ asked the hernia loudly. ‘You’re like a bleeding medical dictionary.’
At this point the emaciated individual with the pained expression opened his eyes and yawned widely.
‘The Sleeping Beauty awakes,’ remarked the haemorrhoids.
‘I just nodded off,’ he said.
‘Never mind, “nodded off”,’ remarked the haemorrhoids, ‘we thought you’d popped off!’
‘Did I miss the tea trolley?’
‘You look as if you need an undertaker’s trolley, state you’re in, squire.’
‘Do you know,’ said the hernia slowly and with malice, ‘you really are a pain in the arse.’
‘You never did say what you was in for,’ said the haemorrhoids, addressing the prone figure next to him.
‘No, I didn’t,’ replied the man, sitting up.
‘Well, come on then, what’s your problem?’
‘I’d rather not say,’ replied the man in a deeply mournful tone of voice.
‘Come on,’ urged the haemorrhoids, ‘you’re among friends.’
‘It’s of a very personal nature.’
‘Vasectomy?’
‘No.’
‘Circumcision?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Look, you can’t get much more personal than haemorrhoids or more painful.’
‘Oh, yes you can,’ replied the man. ‘Oh, yes you can.’
‘For God’s sake tell him,’ snapped the hernia, ‘and shut the bugger up.’
‘I’ve got an anal ulcer,’ announced the man without any gloss.
The haemorrhoids sucked in his breath noisily. ‘Oooooh,’ he groaned. ‘Nasty.’ He didn’t open his mouth again for the next ten minutes. During the welcome period of quiet, I managed to get on with some work.
After the consultation with the specialist, I had expected to wait for quite some time for the operation but a cancellation meant I was called into hospital at short notice, which suited me fine. The sooner the knee was sorted out the better. When I had informed Harold that I was to go into hospital for the operation, he had asked me, rather tentatively, if it would be at all possible for me to check the reports I had written over Christmas for the ‘Spirituality in the Curriculum’ initiative before they were despatched to schools.
‘If my memory serves me correctly,’ he had said, ‘you have a day prior to the surgery when they carry out various tests – blood pressure, cholesterol level, that sort of thing. It’s a time to settle in, to relax and prepare for the operation. I was just wondering if you might be able to glance through the reports you have written. It might take your mind off the big event.’
‘Of course,’ I had replied and had arrived at the hospital with a large red folder with the words ‘STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL’ and ‘THE INSPECTORS’ DIVISION’ written in bold black letters on the cover. It was the papers in the folder that I now began reading. I soon sensed that I was being watched and, looking up, found the haemorrhoids staring intently at me.
‘You’re an inspector then?’ he remarked.
‘That’s right,’ I replied.
‘Police?’
‘No.’
‘Tax?’
‘No, not a tax inspector.’
‘Public health?’
‘No.’
‘VAT?’
‘No.’
‘Come on, it’s not a bloody quiz show. What sort of inspector are you?’
‘I’m not allowed to say,’ I told him, putting a finger to my lips. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s strictly confidential.’
‘Come on, what sort of inspector are you?’ he persisted.
‘I really can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘It’s more than my job’s worth.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he said peevishly. Then addressing himself, he observed, ‘You try and be friendly and that’s all the thanks you get.’
‘All right,’ I said in a hushed voice, ‘I’ll tell you, but you must promise me not to breathe a word to anyone in the hospital.’
‘Come on, then.’
‘I can’t shout it across the ward,’ I said. ‘It’s strictly confidential.’
The haemorrhoids clambered out of bed and, considering his medical condition, moved with remarkable speed to my side. ‘Well –’ I began. At this point the tea trolley arrived. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I whispered.
The tea trolley had barely left the room than the haemorrhoids was at my side again, leaning over the bed, his ear in my face.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, ‘spill the beans. What sort of inspector are you?’
‘You really have to keep it to yourself,’ I told him.
‘Course I will,’ he agreed.
‘It’s very hush-hush.’
‘All right, all right.’
At this point, a nurse, in a dark blue uniform with pristine white collar and cuffs, entered. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I whispered.
‘Mr Prout!’ exclaimed the nurse. ‘Whatever are you doing out of bed? Do you want to end up in here for another week?’
The haemorrhoids shuffled back to his bed sheepishly and clambered in. But as soon as the nurse had departed he was back at my side.
‘You’re like a bleeding shuttlecock,’ remarked the hernia. ‘Backwards and forwards.’
‘I’m a hospital inspector,’ I whispered conspiratorially in the haemorrhoids’ ear, ‘but you mustn’t say anything. I wish to remain incognito, sort of under-cover.’
‘Hospital inspector?’ said the haemorrhoids for all to hear. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘He inspects hospitals,’ said the hernia. ‘What do you think it means?’
‘But you’re here for an operation, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Strictly speaking, I’m off duty. I do need this operation, of course, and it’s only a minor one, but it will give me the opportunity of gaining an inside picture of how the hospital is performing. But I am sure you understand that I would rather no one knows my identity so could we keep things to ourselves.’
‘You might as well have given him a bleeding megaphone,’ said the hernia.
‘You see,’ I continued, keeping a straight face, ‘it’s a chance to experience things at first hand, see the whole of the process from beginning to end.’
‘Get on,’
snorted the haemorrhoids, shuffling back to his bed. ‘You must think my brains are made of porridge. Hospital inspector. Huh.’
‘Well you did ask,’ I said, returning to the reports.
*
‘You’re causing quite a stir,’ said the nurse later that morning when she came to take my blood pressure.
‘Really?’ I replied innocently.
‘Telling them you’re a hospital inspector indeed.’
‘People will believe anything, nurse,’ I said, smiling.
She caught sight of the red folder on my bedside cabinet. ‘So, what sort of inspector are you then?’ she asked casually.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, nurse,’ I replied. ‘It’s strictly confidential.’ As she leaned over to attach the flap of black material to my arm to take my blood pressure, I scrutinised the badge pinned to her bosom. ‘Staff Nurse R. Leach,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’
‘A rather appropriate name for someone taking blood pressure.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Leach, although your name is spelt with an a, isn’t it?’
She began to pump the machine. ‘That’s right.’
‘Is that Rowena?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Your first name?’
‘Robyn.’
‘With an i?’
‘With a y.’
‘Lovely name. And how long have you worked at Fettlesham Royal Infirmary, Nurse Leach?’
She stopped pumping. ‘You do ask a lot of questions.’
‘It’s the nature of my job.’
‘So what sort of inspector are you?’ she asked again.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say,’ I replied. ‘It’s strictly confidential.’
Just before lunch, which was the highlight of the day for my three companions, Mr Todd, the surgeon, arrived, accompanied by the ward sister in a smart blue uniform complete with black belt and silver buckle, and a group of medical students in white coats and the obligatory stethoscopes draped around their necks. Mr Todd was a distinguished-looking man of about sixty with steel grey hair and a spotted bow tie.
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