Champagne & Lemonade

by John A. D. Hickling

  We pulled out the silver metal tray using the controls on the machine, slid Bert onto it and put poor Bert into number 14, shutting the door on him. We then washed our hands and locked up.

  And there you have it, that was my first deceased patient, even though later on that day I did go back to the mortuary for training on the motorized trolley. That was when I saw a patient whose face was exposed and when asked if it bothered me I said, “No, it’s like a waxwork dummy.”

  I was on the way back to base and I have to admit I was very impressed with the cleaners today —they had even mopped. I got back and met Jack Roberts. We got the key and the trolley and set off to collect the poor, unfortunate soul. On the way, me and Jack couldn’t stop grinning at the chaos unfolding, I never knew we had so many cleaners, they were dusting, polishing, sweeping. They even cleaned the trolley on the way past.

  As we were walking back from taking the deceased (who was quite a large one to be honest; she nearly came off the trolley) Jack told me that at a hospital he had worked at before a couple of lads he knew had taken a deceased patient and to save time they had gone outside. As they had rushed to get the poor mucker to the mortuary the trolley had hit a stone and the body flew out, ending up in the stream that ran alongside the hospital.

  I went to have a sit down, but couldn’t get to the chair for the cleaners. My device bleeped again and I accepted the job, which was two D size oxygen cylinders to Orange Ward. I got the cylinders from a cupboard in our base where we store some. If there happens to be none there, or we want bigger sizes, then there is a big shed outside that we have to fetch them from; it is just about falling down and is about as safe as England’s back four.

  I made my way to the ward and, as I did so, I passed Dr Wilkutitov, who nodded — I’m sure he was looking at my kidney area.

  I got to the ward and asked where the cylinders were that wanted changing. Now, on the top of these cylinders is a flow meter that has a dial on it, telling you how much gas is in it. One was empty, which I changed. I said to the nurse, pointing to the other one, “Is that one full?”

  She looked at me and said, “How can you tell?”

  At first, I just stood there waiting for the pun, but with the blank look she was giving me I realized she wasn’t joking. I pointed at the dial to show her — and these are the guys that are on Band 4 and 5 while I’m a measly Band 2.

  After the oxygen incident I was making my up the west corridor when Jim Kelsey and the managers appeared in front of me. They were making their way to their daily meeting at one of the meeting rooms in the hospital. I always look down when I go past Kelsey and avoid his gaze — to me he always looks like he wants to chop my head off or summat.

  There were loads of them on their way to this meeting. There was Arthur Grantham, who is the logistics and escort porters’ manager (my manager); he nodded at me as I got alongside him. Then there was John Titly (and to be honest I haven’t got a clue what he does), Miranda Bung is the HR person who didn’t care about anyone but herself. Arthur was flirting with Miranda; well, I say flirting, it was near on sexual assault but she didn’t seem to mind. Then there was Granville Day, who I believe has something to do with the maintenance side of things, and just behind them was a young lad, Joshua Stokes, who had recently been promoted to under manager. In other words, there were more managers in the Dump than in the Premier League.

  A reliable source had told me that today’s meeting was to briefly cover the CQC’s visit and then move on to talking about the working of the hospital; in other words, cuts and squeezing more out of the overworked staff. The same source told me the other day that Kelsey had sacked two nurses to fund a golf trip.

  I caught Kelsey’s glare as I went around the corner heading towards the Plum Ward; he made you feel about as comfortable as a zebra that had wandered into the lions’ enclosure at the zoo.

  Jim Kelsey is sixty-two years of age; he used to be in the SAS, so he says. He wouldn’t put a plaster on your cut finger unless there was something in it for him.

  I looked back to see them get to their meeting room, where they were met by Selina, the nursing manager, who was once a confident woman but Kelsey had reduced her to a wreck.

  They all got to their seats to begin the meeting.

  *

  I was down by the main entrance after having just visited the bank. Usually I avoid going in there because they’re about as helpful as a bloke with no tongue and arms trying to give you directions, but I needed to see if a bill had gone out. After three failed attempts at getting into my account and the cashier talking to her colleague about her hair and nails the whole time I stormed out with a parting shot of, “You want to sack ya hairdresser; it looks like badly made candy floss.”

  I was now trying to help a member of the public who had asked me for some information about what ward their relative might be on. I pointed towards the desk that Ethel and Margaret occupied and told the woman that they were the ones who could help her.

  What happened next could only happen at the Dump. As I started to walk off towards A&E, passing the CQC, who had not long since arrived, a right disturbance kicked off. Ian Brickhouse and Grant Bull, two of the security guards, came rushing to the ruckus. Well, Bull did, it took a few seconds longer for the overweight, out of breath Brickhouse to get there.

  They finally arrived at the scene to see a nurse shouting and trying to separate two women fighting and rolling around the floor. Ian went to pick one of the women up and, after a struggle to get her to her feet, she swung her handbag into his face, knocking him into Grant.

  “Ladies, please calm down, let’s have some order,” yelped Ian as his face caught another blow from the five foot, large, greasy haired, blonde woman who was in a grey tracksuit two sizes too small.

  “What is this all about?” enquired a mad looking Grant.

  It was the nurse who answered, “Well, I told the lady in the blue that she was next, but the person in the grey insisted she was, and all hell broke loose.”

  The woman in grey gave the nurse a nasty look then roared, “I was before that cow.” And it all kicked up again.

  Doctor Shala Sharmalar had welcomed the CQC members, Bev, Neil and Greg, and was pointing down the corridor, trying to divert the CQC’s attention from the large lady in the grey tracksuit, swinging her bag at the security guards as they tried to eject her. This tactic proved unsuccessful, however, as one of the CQC, looking at the incident, said “Errm” and scribbled some notes. The doctor and the rest of the welcoming party hurriedly led the CQC off to continue their inspection of the hospital.

  It made my day looking at the horrified expressions of the staff as they witnessed the two women rolling about on the floor like a couple of hippos rolling about in mud. The faces of the CQC were a treat; they looked like they had found a fifty pound note only for the owner to come along and claim it right back again. Doctor Sharmalar was worried that the ever growing public was drawing the CQC’s attention as they were swamping around the ruckus. One young lad shouted, “This is better than going to WWE wrestling.”

  My phone beeped; a woman needed to go to radiography on a trolley. Not long afterwards it also rang. I answered and spoke to Pete, who was coming along on the job with me and wanted to know where I was. “I’m on my way back now,” I told him and set off, smiling to myself as the woman in grey had just kicked Brickhouse hard in the shins.

  As I made my way to Pete I bumped into my source. Yes, I have a source or information getter, tickle tackler; call them what you please. But anyway, I get all the gossip on the happenings of the Dump. ‘Who is it?’ you ask. Well…I’m not going to tell you that, am I? Everyone has their secrets and we porters are no different. So what I normally say to nosey parkers that keep digging is ‘keep ya nose out before it gets bitten off’. Anyway, we had a hurried conversation in hushed tones; I told them all about the CQC’s arrival and they gave me a blow by blow account of what occurred in that morning’s managers’ meeting. From wh
at I gather it went something like this:

  Kelsey kicked things off with his usual bellowing tone, “Right, what is happening with the nursing staff, Selina? I mean, why isn’t there just one staff member looking after twenty patients? It can’t be hard. And another thing, have we done a check on that Doctor Wilkutitov yet? He is up to something, I can sense it.”

  Selina gulped before answering, “Well, erm, Sir, they can only go as fast they can; it’s very busy and the patients’ care comes first.”

  Kelsey’s look could have burned through steel. “Who says the patients come first? You are not cracking the whip hard enough and I can soon find someone who will.”

  “Right, Arthur, John, what is happening with that shower? Porters, they’re a bad lot; why are we getting complaint after complaint about rubbish being left everywhere?”

  Arthur took his hand from Miranda’s leg. “Well, Sir, since we dropped them down to twenty-five porters from the original forty and gave them more jobs, for some reason, they said they are struggling. I don’t know why.”

  “They don’t want work, that’s why. Get rid of a couple more to set an example,” Kelsey replied.

  “That is wrong, Sir, surely?” interrupted Joshua, to the annoyance of Kelsey, who glared at Joshua’s name tag.

  “Cuts, Stokes, times are hard,” replied Kelsey, looking at his three grand watch. Before Joshua could speak, Kelsey did. “What needs to happen is all the team leaders need to muck in more, and tell them to do a ten hour shift, and we will pay them for eight,” Kelsey shouted.

  Joshua, looking a little uncomfortable, spoke, “Sir, it seems to me that the staff is being cut more times than my hair. Surely, if we are to help them, and the hospital, then we should look at ourselves and start cutting at the top.”

  Selina smiled, Miranda started crying and gave her reasons why she shouldn’t have her wages cut, which ranged from sunbeds, meals to hair and nail treatments. Arthur sat shaking his head at Joshua and said, “Are you mad? How could I take four holidays a year?”

  Joshua looked at Kelsey, whose face was as red as a baboon’s bottom. “Yes, you are right, Arthur. I mean, how can I buy a new Ferrari and a kitchen and another holiday home? No, with talk like that you will not last long here, Stokes.” (He was fired straight after the meeting.) Jim Kelsey looked at the time. “Right, it’ll not be long before them nosey — I mean the CQC — will arrive so we will have to conclude another time; off you all go.”

  What my source told me didn’t surprise me at all. Kelsey and his bum lickers couldn’t care less about patients and the public, and as for the staff we were just a number. I said ‘thanks’ and ‘toodle pip’ to my source and then had to steady myself as I had nearly slid down the corridor because the floor had been mopped that many times by every cleaner on shift. I checked that no one had seen my attempt at Come Dancing before going on my way to meet Pete.

  I met Pete and we went to fetch the trolley. On this trolley is a blue airbed and what we call a hoover (’cos it looks like a Henry Hoover), which is a blower. And what you do is blow the blue airbed up with the patient on and slide them from their bed to the trolley.

  Now, you’re probably wondering why it takes two of us to take a patient on a trolley or a bed and to fetch a Mickey Griff (deceased). Well, everything is health and safety mad these days. You have to have one of us pulling and guiding from the front while the other pushes to avoid back injuries and such. Also it’s for the safety of the patient; if they have a funny turn, and I don’t mean telling a few jokes on a night out, then one of us can go and get help while the other stays with the patient.

  We had just passed the shop when we saw a member of the public: a man; I would say in his sixties, he was wearing a bright red coat. He wiped his sweaty brow as he shook his head from side to side. He approached Pete and myself.

  “Are you okay, shag? You look lost, pal,” I said.

  “Hey up, lads. Lost is not the word; I’ve been here ages. I have had more directions than a Sat Nav, and I still ain’t found what I’m looking for.”

  Me and Pete laughed then Pete said, “Where are you looking for, mate?”

  The old, red coated man wiped his head, wheezed, then spluttered, “The Peach Ward.”

  “Well, what you do, Pop — you see the bottom of the corridor? Go to the end, turn right and you will get to some lifts. Go up three floors, follow it round and you will come to the Peach Ward.”

  The old, red coated man looked confused so after Pete had explained another two times we bid him good day and left.

  As we set off again for the patient I said, “Hang on, shag, you’ve sent him the wrong way.”

  “Oh ahh, crap. Oh well, he’ll find it.”

  *

  Well, what a job that was, the woman who was going to radiography was a rather big woman (the correct term is bariatric patient). Anyway, we had to take her to radiography for her treatment. It took us ten minutes to get her on the trolley because with every twist and turn she was moaning, saying it hurt her. The pain wasn’t enough, however, to stop her from, more than once, jumping up and grabbing a bag of crisps, cheese and onion at that, and a sausage, bean and potato pasty from her bedside table.

  As me and Pete pushed her along the bumpy corridors, dodging cleaners, she whinged about every bump we went over. In fact, the only time she didn’t moan was when she was stuffing her mouth with crisps. Then, after having another go at us about the bumps, Pete, in friendly terms, told her that we had to get her there. I was trying my best not to laugh as she carried on moaning and saying ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ most of the way.

  When she saw one of the dinner ladies she commanded us to stop as if we had been assigned to her and her only. She jumped up and said, “I want fish and chips for my dinner, Sandra; I will not be long.” And then we set off on our way again with her moaning and ‘ooh’ing and ‘ahh’ing.

  After doing that, we were making our way back to base when two of the cleaners, Doris and Don, went running past us. Both of them are as nice as a stripper in a lap dancing club, but not very bright. For example, not long ago, I was walking to fetch a patient in a wheelchair, who had the whole hospital looking for his insulin (which happened to be hidden in his slipper, but that’s another story). Anyway, I was behind Doris and Don, who were talking about Stoneboom Bitter coming back, which was a popular beer a few years back. They were both excited by this and Don said, “Yeah, it’ll be good if it comes back, I can’t wait. Mind you, I hope it tastes better than last time.”

  We had just got back to the base to a nice cuppa that Jack had made — it was nice ’an all to say he hardly mashes. I told the lads about the fight between the two women as I grabbed a sandwich that I brought from home — tuna, cheese and pickle — and we all laughed.

  Barry too had a story to share and said, “Well, me and Jack were coming back from taking a patient to chemo day care when there was a commotion by the shop near the main entrance. There were people all around, two doctors trying to resuscitate a man, while Dr Wilkutitov was enquiring about his lungs and kidneys — wa’n’t he, Jack?”

  “Ya joking, he’s nuts he is. Who was the bloke?” asked Pete.

  “It was some old man in a bright red coat, apparently he said he hadn’t done this much walking when he did his three peaks challenge for charity, then he keeled over,” said Jack. Me and Pete looked at each other.

  About ten minutes later I had just taken an oxygen cylinder to Critical Care when I bumped into Don the cleaner again; this time he was alone and without Doris in tow. “Hey up, Higgo, ma duck, how are ya?”

  “Hey up, Don; not bad, marra. Your lot are going for it today, ain’t ya? I didn’t know ya had two gears.”

  “Cheeky git, yeah we’re busy, mate. Anyway, what happened to United the other day?” said Don, grinning.

  “They got hammered, pal, that’s what happened. You come across the CQC yet? I bet that idiot Kelsey is fobbing ’em off with his usual rubbish.”

  Don was tha
t busy that he was wiping everywhere he could wipe: on top of the heating pipes that ran up the corridors, around the pipes, in the pipes, under the pipes. Why? I don’t know, you couldn’t even see under them pipes. “No, mate, I ain’t seen the CQC, but hey, listen to this,” Don said, still wiping the pipes while at the same time having a quick look around for prying eyes.

  You see, Don always made out he could keep a secret when the truth was he told more gossip and spread more rumours than — well, someone who spreads a lot of rumours.

  “I was cleaning Kelsey’s office area earlier and was outside his door when Arthur Grantham turned up and knocked on it.”

  “Oh, him, he’s another waste of skin; he’s supposed to run our department but he couldn’t run a bath,” I sniped.

  “Yeah, ya right there, duck. Now, ya know me, Higgo, I don’t gossip or eavesdrop, as you know, but I accidentally overheard them talking.”

  I had to smile at the fact that Don’s ear was still tellingly red from where he had no doubt had it pressed up hard against the door to hear what followed.

  “Why? What was said, Don?” I said, at the same time thinking that I had never seen cleaner looking heating pipes.

  “Well, Grantham walks on in and says, ‘Sorry Sir, but the CQC is here and Doctor Sharmalar is wondering where you are’.”

  “What? Kelsey hadn’t even met them? What a joke.”

  “I know, how he got the job I’ll never know.”

  “It would have been some dodgy deal, pal, I tell ya that for free.”

  Don was cleaning frantically as he told the story — even I nearly got the once over with his duster. “Yeah, ya right, duck; he is a dodgy git. Anyway, Kelsey made up some excuse about being caught up in something important and he said to Grantham, ‘Go down and carry the flag for me, I’ll be there when I get there’.”

  “What and he sat on his ring while Grantham did his dirty work?” I said.