The Colour of Sunday Afternoons

by Robert Gollagher

  Jane sat quietly in front of Margaret Hoffman’s desk. The Chief Pharmacist’s large, spartan office was, at that moment, as silent as a church. At one end of the room was a huge bank of accordion-like shelves, set on rollers, filled with literature describing thousands upon thousands of drugs. On Hoffman’s desk itself was a computer, and on the computer’s screen was a flashing message in large blue letters:

  ‘SYSTEM MALFUNCTION.

  PLEASE CONTACT SYSTEM ADMINISTRATOR.’

  Margaret Hoffman’s sour face looked almost ghostly, bathed in the pulsing blue light of the error message. Hoffman turned her gaze slowly to Jane, and stared, with little patience, at Jane’s infuriatingly calm expression.

  Jane spoke, to break the silence. “Hmmm. A total system crash. Second-rate programming, I’m afraid. We’ve had a lot of trouble with that company. It’s no wonder they went bust. The thing that really makes me angry, though, is the lack of respect they had for major organisations – like your hospital.”

  “Tell me about it, Ms Hamilton,” Hoffman growled. “I’ve got a Formulary Committee meeting at the end of the month. If I don’t have reliable figures, there’ll be hell to pay. It’s hard enough, trying to please everyone, without the damned abacus spilling its beads!”

  “Exactly,” said Jane. “Look, we both know this old system’s got big problems. We both know it’s not practical to replace it, right now. But what I can do for you is get it working again, fast. It won’t be perfect, but it will work. Was it the Chief Pharmacist at Ritterman Hospital who recommended us?”

  “Yes. John said you did a fine job fixing their bag of chips. Same damned company did theirs as ours. Same mess. And you people put it right. That’s what I need you to do for us, Ms Hamilton.” There was desperation in Hoffman’s eyes.

  Jane stood up. “And that’s exactly what I will do, Dr Hoffman. If I can speak with your Purchasing Officer, I’ll reboot the system and download the files I need. We’ll fix this thing. Leave it to us.”

  Hoffman sighed, and stood up. She nodded decisively. “Right you are, Ms Hamilton, but for God’s sake do it quickly.” With that, she collapsed into her chair and looked, helplessly, at the error message.

  Jane left, feeling confident that she could solve Hoffman’s problems and keep the account. Christina would be pleased, she thought.

  Sitting in the tenth-floor waiting room of City Hospital’s Cardiology Department, Joe rubbed his hands on his trousers. He hated it when he broke into a sweat just before seeing an important customer; the last thing he wanted to do was greet Dr Jefferson with a wet, slimy handshake. He told himself he wasn’t really nervous, just alert, but the truth was there was a painful tightness in his chest. It nagged at him.

  Joe knew Jefferson was a critically important figure. A favourable word from the prominent cardiologist, said even in passing, regarding Biopharm’s new product, Zemtril, would be widely heeded by the medical community. Jefferson was a respected physician and everyone knew he would not be swayed by irresponsible claims. He would only support a good product. It would mean a lot if Joe could get Jefferson to agree to chair Biopharm’s upcoming conference, at which Zemtril would be discussed. Joe simply needed Jefferson.

  Suddenly, the man in question arrived.

  “Mr Mathews?” The old doctor had a serious, stuffy demeanour and a dry voice. Pens of all colours bulged from the pocket of his immaculately pressed white laboratory coat, and his short grey hair was cropped in military fashion.

  Joe – startled – quickly stood up. “Dr Jefferson! Nice to meet you. I’m Joe Mathews, from Biopharm. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.”

  “That’s all right,” Jefferson grunted. “Come this way.”

  He led Joe left and right down a mind-boggling maze of gleaming white tunnels, so typical of a hospital environment. Eventually, they reached an office marked with his name. Once inside, Jefferson motioned for Joe to take a seat. Getting to a seat was not easy, since most of the small floor was covered with stacks of books, miscellaneous laboratory equipment, and scientific papers. Joe squeezed into a chair.

  Jefferson went directly to his desk. He began manipulating the mouse attached to his desktop computer. After a few point-and-clicks, a voicemail message announced his lecture the next day had been moved from nine-thirty to ten o’clock. Satisfied, he turned his swivel chair to face Joe.

  “Sorry about that. I’m giving a lecture tomorrow. My secretary organises everything. Sometimes I think it would all grind to a halt without her.”

  Joe chuckled. “I know what you mean. I think the secretaries really run everything. They just get us to sign the letters.”

  Jefferson smirked a little, but said nothing.

  Joe continued. “It must be very time consuming, to run a big group like the Cardiac Society, on top of all your clinical and research work. I guess a good secretary would be worth her weight in gold.”

  “Yes.”

  “Actually, I spoke to your secretary on the phone, this morning. She mentioned you’re planning your annual Cardiac Society meeting. Things are a bit hectic, apparently.”

  “Yes, they are. Our Society meeting wasn’t supposed to be held so soon, but it got pushed forward a month. A number of our members are going to the Amsterdam Symposium, you see, so they wanted it moved.”

  “You’ve had to bring your annual meeting forward a whole month? That must be a logistical nightmare.”

  “It is,” said Jefferson. “We can’t even get the venue we wanted. I’m not sure we’ve time to get an alternative. We may have to cancel altogether.”

  “Maybe we can help you, there,” said Joe. “Biopharm has a whole department dedicated just to organising conferences, and we do have some sway with the big hotels. I’m sure we could find a good venue for you, despite the short notice.”

  “Really?” Jefferson looked suspicious, but he couldn’t help being relieved at the prospect of not having to cancel his annual Cardiac Society meeting.

  “If you like,” said Joe, “I could ask our Conference Department to look into organising your meeting for you.”

  Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m not so sure. To be honest, Mr Mathews, we had a bad experience, three years ago, with another company. It was more like Disneyland than a Society meeting. There were sales reps buzzing around all over the place like flies, handing out pens, quizzing us during tea breaks about which drugs we prefer to prescribe. I told myself then, ‘Never again.’ ”

  “I know what you mean. That is what the average pharmaceutical company does, but we’re not the average company. Nobody wants reps running around, ramming company literature down people’s throats, arguing with doctors about which drugs to prescribe. Biopharm’s policy is just to be there, to answer any questions doctors might have about our products, and, other than that, to stay out of your way!”

  Jefferson raised his eyebrows. “Mr Mathews, no offence, but that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard a drug rep say in years.”

  Joe laughed. “Did you hear about the Endocrinology meeting, last year? That was one we did. I think the doctors thought it went pretty well.”

  “Yes, I spoke to Tim Ferrington from Endocrinology, last week. He was very happy with your work. Under the circumstances, I think we’ll give it a try, Mr Mathews. Why don’t you speak to my secretary? If your Conference Department can do it within our new deadline, then let’s go ahead.”

  “Right,” said Joe. “No problem. I’m sure we can do it. I’ll call your secretary, first thing tomorrow, and go over the details with her.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, there is one other thing,” said Joe. “Biopharm’s holding a Saturday conference, discussing our new product, Zemtril. We were wondering if you might be willing to be chairperson. It might be quite a good day.”

  “Well, I don’t see why not. You’ll need to clear it with my secretary. As long as my schedule is open, that would be fine.”

  Joe couldn’t believe how easy thi
s was. He had just gotten what he wanted: Jefferson would chair Biopharm’s Zemtril conference.

  Jefferson yawned. “Well, Mr Mathews, I have rounds to attend, I’m afraid, and I’ll never live it down with the students if I’m late again.”

  “Thanks for your time, Dr Jefferson.”

  “No, thank you, Mr Mathews. And, by the way, I haven’t heard too much about that new drug of yours, Zemtril. I wonder if you could call my private rooms and ask Alice to make you an appointment to see me about it.”

  Joe couldn’t believe his ears. Martin Jefferson was going to let a drug rep see him at his private rooms and talk product? He tried not to look elated.

  “Sure,” said Joe. “I’ll do that right away.”

  Five minutes later, Joe was smiling pleasantly at the young girl behind the counter of the City Hospital Cafe; he paid for a cup of black espresso and took it lovingly to a table near the back of the bustling restaurant. The dull pain in his chest still wouldn’t stop, which annoyed him. Perhaps five minutes of rest might do him some good, he thought. He had a little time to spare. He sat down, cradled his coffee cup in his hands, and sniffed appreciatively – it was better than any Havana cigar.

  Joe looked through the windows at the garden fountain and the hospital grounds. Surrounding him, in the cafe, sat nurses, doctors, patients and visitors, quietly chatting.

  He took a long, grateful sip of his coffee and began to relax.

  “Ahem!” came a loud voice, clearing its throat. “Excuse me.”

  Joe looked up, saw no one, and decided the voice was not directed at him. He thought it was a little odd that there seemed to be a fine mist of green smoke around his table, but strange things happened in hospitals. Maybe they were testing a new air conditioning system.

  “Excuse me, but I believe your life is on fire!”

  At this, Joe furrowed his brow. He wondered if someone had escaped from the psychiatric ward on the next floor. Finally, he glanced down and saw a very short, balding, chubby man in a cheap leprechaun suit. The little fellow was standing next to Joe’s table, smiling up at him sweetly.

  Joe’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “What ... what did you say?”

  “I said, ‘Excuse me, but I think your life is on fire.’ ”

  Joe decided this was either an escaped lunatic or some bizarre promotional gimmick, and either way he wasn’t interested. He had no time for talking to anybody wearing leprechaun suits. “That’s what I thought you said. Do I know you? Is there any reason for you to come up to me and say that? No. Now, if you don’t mind ...”

  The leprechaun smiled benevolently and tipped his head to one side, ignoring Joe’s glare. “Well, you may not actually know me, but I’m a friend.”

  “But no!” Joe insisted. “No, I don’t know you. No, there is no reason for me to talk to you, and, yes, this is my coffee break!”

  “That’s okay,” said the little man. “Never mind. I’ll grow on you. You’ll get to like me, eventually.” He waited earnestly for a reply.

  Joe laughed, as if he suddenly understood. “This is a joke, right? Singing telegram? It’s Karen at the office that put you up to this. I get it ...”

  Deeply offended, the leprechaun snarled, “Ungrateful mortal! You don’t like the suit? Do you realise how much trouble ...”

  Joe wasn’t listening. He looked across to the young surgeon sitting at the next table with two of her colleagues. “Hey, Dr Preston. Look at this guy! Karen’s up to her old tricks again. Last year, it was the Gorillagram, but this one really takes the cake.”

  Dr Preston looked over. “What guy, Joe?”

  “The leprechaun! I didn’t even know they had leprechauns.”

  All three doctors laughed, this time. Dr Preston shook her head. “What are you talking about, Joe? I don’t see anyone.”

  “That guy!” Joe exclaimed, pointing. “The little guy, right here.”

  But the doctors were no longer listening to him; they had turned, chuckling, back to their own conversation, and ignored Joe completely.

  At this point, the leprechaun decided it was time to get Joe’s complete attention, so he levitated himself above Joe’s table. Floating in mid air, he smiled wickedly at the hapless Joe. “Joe,” he chimed. “They caaaaan’t see me!”

  Joe turned very grey. An icy chill ran up his spine. He wanted to scream, or run away, or something, but all he could manage was to emit a tiny, pathetic moan. There was a man floating above his table. It was impossible.

  The leprechaun rotated upside down, until he was feet up and head down, then smiled a happy wrong-way-up smile.

  Joe recoiled against his chair in horror. “Whoa! What the ...”

  To add to the effect, the leprechaun waved his legs about, crossing his arms like a Russian dancer, and let out a few shouts. Then he spun slowly around and lowered himself gracefully to the floor. “Bet you’ve never seen an upside-down Cossack dance before. It’s a little trick I picked up in space. Great bunch of guys, those cosmonauts!”

  Joe sat frozen in his chair, paralysed with fear.

  Unconcerned, the leprechaun produced a tiny green pouch. He extracted a pinch of sparkling tinsel and scattered it in front of Joe’s face. Joe’s eyes widened for a moment, as a hundred miniature stars twinkled radiantly in front of him, then he became very tired.

  Joe blinked a couple of times, and yawned. He found himself feeling utterly calm. “Cosmonauts,” he repeated. “Mmmm.”

  Joe yawned again, closed his eyes, and dozed rapidly off to sleep. Obviously, he thought as he lost consciousness, everything that was happening was just a dream. But what a pretty dream!

  Joe’s limp body slumped; his head tilted onto his left shoulder.

  The leprechaun, well pleased, walked around until he was standing next to Joe’s right ear. He whispered into it. “Now, I want you to listen carefully and remember what I am about to say. When you wake up, you’ll remember it all without any fuss. It will seem the most natural thing in the world. Okay?”

  “Okey dokey,” Joe muttered, his eyes still closed.

  “I am your guardian angel. My name is Shamus Maguinty, and I’m a leprechaun. Oh, and by the way, you like my suit. Remember that. You like my suit. Now, I’m here to tell you that your life is on fire, and to help you put out the fire and get back on track. What am I here for, Joe?”

  Joe murmured, “To help me put out the fire and get back on track.”

  “Good. Now, I’m only allowed to appear for a few minutes, otherwise the Guy Upstairs gets hopping mad. Believe me, you don’t want to see that. Okay, so you are going to do something about your life being on fire. You’re going to start getting your life right. You’re going to work on this thing until you sort it all out. Got all that?”

  Joe scratched his cheek. “I’ll ... get it right,” he repeated.

  Then his head rolled forward and he began snoring.

  Shamus Maguinty studied his gold pocket watch with a look of growing concern. Popping it back into his vest pocket, he disappeared, without further ado, into a cloud of green smoke, leaving Joe in a deep, sound sleep.

  Joe hadn’t slept so well for a long time. It was delicious. He was dreaming, and loving the dream. It was something about a leprechaun, something about an angel, come to help him. Then, Joe felt someone bumping his shoulder. He wished it would go away.

  He heard a voice. It was the voice of a young woman, a familiar voice. “Joe. Joe. Come on, Joe. Wake up!”

  Suddenly, Joe came to. He opened his eyes.

  Dr Preston was smiling at him. “Joe. I thought you were going to fall off your chair! Working too hard?”

  Joe was completely lost for words. He looked around him. What was he doing falling asleep, in the middle of the day, in a hospital cafe?

  He thanked Dr Preston with a mute smile.

  The young doctor turned to rejoin her colleagues at the next table.

  Joe rubbed his eyes and looked at his wristwatch. It was five-thirty. He had an appointment to
make. Why was he wasting his time, dreaming about leprechauns? he thought. What nonsense!

  Joe jumped up and rushed out of the cafe.

  It was late afternoon, an hour after Jane had finished seeing Margaret Hoffman, when she finally made it back to her company car in the hospital parking lot. Jane got into the car, opened her laptop, and typed a few essential notes. When she was finished, she started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay. As she began her long drive across the city, Jane grimaced at the painful knot in her stomach that wouldn’t go away. Irritable bowel syndrome, her doctor had called it. She could still hear his words.

  ‘We can give you tranquillisers, if you like, but it really comes down to stress. Your body’s telling you it needs to slow down; you’re going to have to do something about it.’

  As Jane motored down the freeway, she glanced anxiously at her watch. Damn! Running late, again, she thought. Still, even at that moment, she wondered if she should pay more attention to her own needs, not just to those of her company and her customers. She might be on the fast track to promotion, but her body had other ideas; it was cracking under the stress.

  Suddenly there was a voice. A man’s voice. Loud.

  “Indeed it is, ma’am. Indeed it is!”

  The effect on Jane of this unexpected intrusion was electric. Visions of cut-throat stowaways and carjackings flashed through her mind, her hands gripped the steering wheel as tightly as a vice, and she jumped, as much as anyone can while strapped into a car racing down a four-lane freeway, then turned, her heart pounding wildly, to stare at the passenger seat beside her.

  There was a man, sitting there. A short, balding man, with an inexplicably sweet smile on his face, dressed, even more incomprehensibly, in a leprechaun suit. She stared at him, in horror, for two seconds, before wrenching her head forward to avoid hitting a passenger bus; her white-knuckled grip on the wheel had sent her swerving into the fast lane. At that very moment, torn between the simultaneous terror of discovering a strange man in her car and nearly being pushed off the road by a speeding omnibus, she could find only one thing to say.