by Laura Marney
Oh I’ve got a hive full of honey
For the right kind of honey bee.
The plastic container split right across the middle and the ice cubes slid and plopped into the tea-stained sink.
‘Ah, there we are!’ I said.
Harry quickly gathered the cubes in a pudding plate, took it through to the living room and came straight back.
‘May I offer you my deepest sympathy Patricia.’
I nearly burst out laughing at the formality of his asthmatic whisper but the old guy was just trying to be kind. I was still leaning over the sink and when Harry spoke he lightly took hold of my elbow, leaning right into my face, studying me, maybe looking for signs of grief. I couldn’t work up a grief face for him or for anybody but I thanked him for his deepest sympathy.
Harry was a dapper wee man, he’d probably been quite handsome in his day, his suit looked expensive and his aftershave would have choked a horse.
‘I suppose it hasn’t sunk in yet,’ he said, as if I hadn’t heard this fifteen times already.
‘No, you’re probably right.’
I was getting pissed off with him hanging on to me in the same proprietorial way Bob had at the funeral. Because of where we were, wedged up against the sink, it was hard to break away naturally.
‘What will you do now?’ he said softly.
‘Eh, I don’t know, I haven’t really thought.’
‘Well at least it’s over, it can’t have been easy, for either of you.’
‘No.’
I’d had enough. All day people I hardly knew had been putting their arms around me and telling what I must be feeling and what I should be doing.
‘All on your own in the house now. Must be lonely. Still, you have to look on the bright side. You’re a free agent, nothing holding you is there?’
I felt like saying ‘Yeah, you are, get away from me you old bastard!’ But I didn’t.
‘No.’
Just for something to do and as a way of getting rid of him, I started cleaning the sink. I gave it my full attention but he was still, with the lightest of touches, hanging on to my elbow. I scrubbed vigorously, my arm sawing forward and back, his hand following as if we were dancing. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so creepy. I began to think that if he didn’t take the hint I would lash out and punch him.
‘Let’s go in and join the party,’ I said suddenly. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before, I’d been too busy fantasising about pummelling a well-meaning old pensioner.
‘Thanks but no,’ he said firmly, ‘I’ll need to be off now. I fixed the machine. D’you want me to take it in for the ladies?’
‘Och no,’ I said, relieved now, ‘they’ll not be looking for it until they run out of old songs.’
I braced myself for a long farewell.
With Mum’s friends, saying cheerio never took less than half an hour. I expected Harry to go into the living room and gather up his wife. Isa would have to go round the whole company, kissing everyone, chatting and making further social arrangements. But Harry surprised me by walking straight past the living-room door and opening the front door.
‘It was great to see you Patricia.’
‘Are you not waiting for Isa?’
Harry looked confused. Whatever, he was leaving without fanfare and a half hour rigmarole, that would do me.
‘Thanks for coming Harry, and for fixing the karaoke machine, that was great.’
‘I’d like to do more to help.’
‘Thanks Harry, bye now.’
I smiled politely as he slipped out closing the front door quietly behind him so’s not to disturb the singsong.
Drinks and singing and then tea and sandwiches and more singing, it went on for hours. Mum hadn’t been too specific about who was to get the karaoke machine. I’d got her it for her birthday just before she took ill and I’d lived to rue the day. Wanting to avoid favouritism Mum skilfully passed the buck to Muggins, saying only that I was to give it to ‘The Lassies’. Auntie Nettie had never been one of The Lassies and had only ever shown her utmost scorn for Mum’s wee hobby. I was bloody sure she wasn’t getting her hands on it. Luckily The Lassies decided amongst themselves. While Nettie pouted it was amicably agreed that as Isa had the biggest living room and therefore the most space for their monthly singalongs, she should be the custodian.
‘That’s handy Isa, your man can fix it if it breaks down again,’ I said.
Funny looks all round.
‘I don’t think so hen, my man had a stroke last month, paralysed all down the one side, did your mammy not tell you?’
‘I’m awful sorry Isa. I didn’t know.’
‘Och I suppose Elsie had enough on her plate, God rest her soul.’
So Harry wasn’t Isa’s husband. That’s why he didn’t take her when he left. Whatever, they were finally getting their coats on and as I wound the flex and carted the machine to Isa’s car I realised I was actually a wee bit sad to see it go.
*
All the next week and the week after that when I wasn’t sitting stupefied, with my eyes swollen to Barry Norman proportions, I ran around like a blue-arsed fly. Taking great care to avoid my bloated coupon in mirrored surfaces, I was a blur whizzing between the flat, the hospice and the charity shops sorting, chucking out and giving away all Mum’s stuff. It felt great. What wasn’t so great was when I had to think about going back to work. Anytime I thought about a job my energy levels plummeted.
And then it was Christmas. I’d done my best to ignore it, I stopped listening to the radio but I couldn’t escape the DIY and perfume ads that were on the telly every two minutes.
‘You know you’re welcome to spend Christmas with us,’ Bob said. ‘Nothing fancy, Helga’s going to do meatballs.’
Of course I declined, and not very politely. I told him to stick his meatballs up his arse. He took it well. Bob had told me when I’d been ratty with him at the funeral, that anger was part of the grieving process. That was great news, giving me free rein to be as rude to him as I wanted. With Mum gone I didn’t have anyone else to be rude to.
I was embarrassed when Steven came round on Christmas Day. I had no tree up, no decorations or crackers, no nuts, no nothing. I’d had a few drinks and I got a bit emotional when he gave me the slippers and the lovely card. He went to the toilet giving me a chance to quickly improvise a Christmas stocking for him. I didn’t have much I could put in the sock except a Penguin biscuit, a packet of crisps, a cheque for two hundred and a satsuma. Steven was delighted.
New Year was slightly better. For once, instead of trying to live up to the traditional Scots stereotypical heuching cheuching Hogmanay, I could do what I liked. What I liked was lying in my bed being miserable. I knew in the long run I’d have to get a grip. I’d have to get a job. I didn’t have two hundred quid to hand out in cheques. For the last two years I’d been on Carer’s Allowance, now, without my caree, I was redundant. The prospect of becoming a dole scrounger seemed quite attractive but the money was shit. With a heavy heart I realised I’d have to start selling drugs.
Chapter 2
Luckily the pharmaceutical company I’d worked for were recruiting so I went back to my previous profession of Medical Sales Rep. I could do the job in my sleep but because I’d been away from it for two years, they made me retrain. I wondered what kind of product I’d get to promote. I hoped for a miracle drug, something new and radical that was pushing back boundaries, something that saved lives, something exciting. Instead I got a product for bladder incontinence.
The other trainees, all women, were new and nervous as we assembled in the hotel suite which was to be our training room for the next few days. I sat beside a nice girl Becky, who said it was the first time she’d ever left her kids. The first day was Product Knowledge and the company wheeled in Dr Marcus Stevenson, a research scientist from the urology centre of excellence, the fore-most bladder man in the country. What this guy didn’t know about bladders wasn’t worth kno
wing. Handsomely paid to tell us just how fantastic the product was, we had bladders straight from the horse’s mouth. No humble GP would dare contradict the wisdom of Dr Marcus Stevenson.
I’d only skimmed the training manuals I’d been sent so I was having trouble following it. I didn’t know my ureter from my urethra. When Dr Stevenson moved on to describing different types of incontinence he breezed through ‘stress’ and ‘giggle’ before slowing down to savour the last one.
‘And now we come to my own personal favourite,’ he boomed confidently, ‘coital incontinence: a condition where the sufferer literally doesn’t know if they’re coming or going.’
That night in the bar I got to know my fellow trainees a bit and found they were an okay bunch of girls. Somebody organised a table for all eight of us for dinner and we had a good laugh drinking wine at the company’s expense until the restaurant closed at one thirty. The next morning I felt like death. The rest of the day was a blur of sales training techniques that went in one ear and out the other. We were to be tested on all this rubbish the next day, I knew I should be paying attention. The trainer James Roberts, ‘but you can call me Jim Bob!’ was a bespectacled lad who considered himself a bit of a comedian stroke marketing genius. By using different examples Jim Bob never tired of reiterating the theory that ‘perception is reality’. By afternoon coffee break everyone was complaining about how boring he was.
‘He keeps using the same stupid phrases all the time,’ Becky groaned. Think outside the box, grow the business, perception is reality, it’s crap.’
Everyone agreed. Another girl Elsbeth proposed her own theory. ‘It’s a shame for him really.’
‘Why? I don’t feel sorry for him,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t have to flog the drugs, just bore the arse off us.’
‘Yes, but I think I speak for everyone when I say that we perceive Jim Bob as a total wanker.’
That gave me a good idea. Back in my hotel room before we met for dinner I devised a wee game to play during training the next day. This might help us stay awake and have a bit of fun into the bargain. While I’d been job hunting, I saw a daft game on the internet, ‘Wank Bingo’. In place of numbers, a grid was filled with pretentious expressions frequently used in business like ‘take ownership’ and ‘mindset’. This could easily be adapted to accommodate Jim Bob’s pompous marketing lexicon. Within ten minutes I scribbled out eight bingo cards each with different layouts of sixteen varied words.
The girls were delighted with them and the next morning, to make it fair, we shuffled them up before they were given out. I knew the rules from when I used to take Mum to the pensioner’s bingo on Wednesdays. First game would be a line, then a pyramid and finally a full house. There were no prizes but everyone seemed to be really looking forward to it. Jim Bob was well pleased with the attentive smiles he was getting.
‘So ladies, you’re all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning, not like yesterday, eh?’
‘Well that’s your perception Jim Bob,’ quipped Elsbeth.
Elsbeth was going in hard right from the start.
‘Heh heh, quite right Elsbeth, and as we all know: perception is reality.’
Two other heads along with Elsbeth’s went down as they scored their cards. I didn’t have that one. After such a flying start he disappointed us by not coming up with a single wank word for the next hour and a half but just before coffee he let rip with three brammers, all of which were on my card.
‘Our game plan has to be to go for a win win situation, and we get that when we think outside the box.’
Unfortunately they were on three different lines. At lunch Becky was way out in front but by four o’clock it was neck and neck.
‘Well done Jan! D’you see what Jan’s doing here? She’s explaining the product features and benefits.’
I didn’t have that one.
‘Yes exactly Becky, the doctor isn’t just asking about contra indications, he’s giving you a buying signal.’
I had that one. Now I was only waiting for one: blame culture. I tried to get him to say it but Jim Bob was being asked questions left and right and he sang like a canary.
‘Go get em, close the sale. Ask him for those scripts.’
Loads of heads went down on that one. It was going to be close. As the excitement mounted girlish tittering went round the room every time he obliged us with a tick for a box.
‘Never be afraid to ask for the business.’
‘Bingo!’ Elsbeth yelled.
The outburst of groans and giggling confused poor Jim Bob but we left it to Elsbeth to explain.
‘Ask for the business, that’s it, spot on Jim Bob!’
‘My goodness, such enthusiasm! This is the best class I’ve ever taught!’
*
So that was me up to speed as a fully trained Medical Rep. It was all bollocks. But it paid the bills. At one time there had been four of us in the house, two wages and a pension. Now there was only me. Over a period of fifteen years we’d played musical homes: first Bob got his ‘Bachelor Apartment,’ in reality a manky student howf. Then I moved in with him and in short order we had Steven, got married, bought a flat: a Victorian tenement in the West End, and moved in. Then Dad died, Mum got ill and moved in with us, whereupon Bob moved out, this time to an even mankier student howf. Six months later Steven followed him by which time Bob had taken up with Helga. Bob’s howf was bursting at the seams. Then Mum checked out, leaving me rattling around in a three bedroomed flat I couldn’t afford.
Bob was getting impatient. While Steven lived with me Bob was happy for me to have the house. It was a different story when Steven moved in with him and his lady friend. With Mum dead and Steven in the enemy camp I couldn’t justify hanging on to the house any longer. Bob was on at me to either buy him out or sell up and split the proceeds.
*
I had the phone for a fortnight before I worked out that I was able to programme tunes into it. Once I knew what I was doing I was away. For a laugh I got it to play the opening of Also Sprach Zarathustra. During my presentation to Dr Ross, when I showed him the product, just for a bit of showbiz, I played my little fanfare.
‘Well, that’s novel,’ Dr Ross laughed.
Although the tune was recognisable and my intention was clear, it sounded like a drunken ice-cream van chime. That was my job, to make GPs laugh. It was all bollocks.
The company couldn’t know who was prescribing what so I was measured on how many doctors I visited. It was simple, I didn’t actually need to sell, I only had to see doctors. Sometimes I’d barely mention the product, how would the company ever know? The better I got on with doctors the easier it was to see them, ergo the more bums on seats. Dr Ross nodded his head politely as I did my sales spiel before asking me, ‘got any good freebies today?’
‘I’ve got Post-its, hankies, and soap. Oh, and I’ve got some nice wee fire extinguishers if you want one.’
‘Oh God,’ Dr Ross groaned, ‘I’ve got four already, I could start a business selling them.’
‘You could have a fire sale.’
I usually saw doctors as they were beginning or ending their surgery. If they were just starting in the morning they would have their head down in their paperwork. They didn’t want me to piss about with sales techniques. They hated all that flim-flam, they just wanted information: what was new? What did they need to know? I had to have facts, backed up by clinical evidence. If it was after surgery I stepped into my more usual role of cheerer upper for burnt-out GPs. Then I had to have jokes, backed up by juicy gossip. Dr Ross had just finished his surgery and was looking scorched.
‘I’ve ended up a fucking pen pusher,’ he wailed as he shoved the stack of records to the side of his desk and lit up the fag I offered him. What with the stress of the new job and missing Mum so badly and all the hassle over the house, I’d taken up smoking again.
‘I mean, that methadone clinic out there,’ he pointed with his fag towards the waiting room. ‘That’s not rehab. It’
s social control, that’s what it is. Nobody comes off it, the methadone just stops them breaking into houses.’
I knew he might be on a downer because May, the practice manager, told me he’d had two deaths this morning. A nice old lady and a wee boy.
‘And they all come in here moaning about nothing. ‘I’ve got terrible anxiety doctor, oh I’m awful fed up!’ That’s life, that’s what they don’t get, it happens to all of us.’
‘Aye,’ I said exhaling heavily, I could see I was in for a sesh.
‘I had a guy in here this morning complaining about hair loss. Nothing wrong with him, classic male pattern baldness, I mean, he’s forty-three for fuck’s sake, what does he expect?’
I could understand Dr Ross’s rancour, he looked to be in his mid thirties and already a well established baldyheid. I nearly said you must be tearing your hair out, but thought the better of it.
‘Och you’re just having an off day.’
‘Too right I am. I’m so, so, sick of peering into people’s ears, down their throats,’
‘Up their bums.’
‘I’m especially sick of up their bums.’
We were laughing when May came in with a pile of paperwork. A young mum wanted a house call but May had told her to come into the surgery. By her tone it was clear that May thought the young mum was, to use a technical term: A.T. I. T. Or to use the more accurate term: at it.
‘Och you’re probably right May but I’d better go out and see her. She’s no transport and it’s a miserable day to be dragging her kids out. There’s always an outside chance that she’s actually ill I suppose.’
I didn’t only try to cheer up doctors, I also had to feed them. A system of petty bribery had evolved where drug reps were booked into practices and health centres to provide a ‘coffee morning’. I was obliged to supply decadently expensive sandwiches and pastries to lure the doctors in to the staff room. There, like a geisha, I’d pour tea and regale them with stories, mentioning only briefly in the passing, the drugs I was promoting. In some ways this was a cushy number, I was being paid to sit and make pleasant conversation and stuff my face with buns. When the doctors left to do their house calls I took the remaining food home with me. My fridge was permanently filled with high-fat, high-calorie irresistible goodies.
