by Bill Douglas
The nappy needed changing. With a “Coochy coo,” she laid Becky on the floor and set about her task. She mightn’t be doing this much longer.
Her parents too had phoned the shop to invite her and Becky, but she’d made her plans. They’d call for her on the thirtieth to take her and Becky to theirs for New Year’s Eve. The festive season wouldn’t be a great time for them either, with happy memories turned sad. In more affluent times, they’d gone abroad for the whole period.
She imagined Edward the child and her parents, enjoying their Christmases before the tragedy. She wiped her eyes.
Knocking on the door. The postman, to wish her happy Christmas – and expecting a few pence? “Wait,” she called, taking Becky into her arms.
She’d nothing to give him, and anyway it was a student stand-in at Christmas. She and John, as students, both got Christmas post rounds. The year she did Christmas Day, she was paid double time and picked up generous tips from merry customers.
She opened the door. “Sam!”
“Popped round to wish you a happy Christmas.”
“Come in.” She flung the door wide. He was carrying something.
“I’ve swapped my briefcase for a rocking horse,” he quipped as he entered.
“Thanks. Happy Christmas.” She kissed him on the cheek. Becky squealed. “There, darling,” she said, nuzzling into Becky as she led the way to the living room.
Newman put the rocking horse down. “Happy Christmas, Becky.”
“Becky, it’s for you,” she said, holding the child over it. “Thanks ever so, Sam, from both of us. This must have cost you some.”
“No – I visit families and sometimes pick up gifts for needier children. It cost me nothing and I thought of Becky. It’s big for her, but she’s growing fast.”
Her hero! She wanted a hug. If Becky had been asleep…
“I’ll find out how John is, sometime after the festive season.” He glanced at his watch. “Must go.” In the doorway, he turned to blow a kiss, and left.
Fancy Sam thinking of Becky. Big-hearted. Handsome. And unmarried.
*
Newman started up the car engine, waved to Heather and was off. A good visit. Great idea, persuading Helen to surrender her rocking horse ‘for a needy family’.
At home, Ella greeted him with, “Well, who is she?”
“A family called Chisholm. He’s in the asylum and they can’t afford toys.” He looked towards the corner. “Thanks, Helen.” To Ella he said, “I’m going for a smoke to clear my head.”
In the garden, the sun shone and the air was crisp. There would be no Christmas dinner. Helen, perky again, was going out with friends. Boiled eggs would do for him and Ella.
On call through the festive season! Last year, he’d found himself amid a drunken family fighting. That was not about madness and he shouldn’t have been called out.
Well, next month he’d have company at work again.
“Little to look forward to,” he’d quipped, after the panel – despite his strong support for the other man – made their choice. The MOH had scowled.
He lit another fag. Mrs C was delightful as well as beautiful and her vulnerability lent her even more attraction. He’d tried not visiting for weeks. But in his mind, she was there – haunting, consuming him. Those hugs. Her hubby wouldn’t ever leave Springwell. If he, Sam, had been single… But he wasn’t.
Ella was not suicidal. If he tried overdosing or smothering her, forensics would get him. And pleading euthanasia meant confessing to murder.
Maybe he could surrender to his passion and swear Heather to secrecy. “Because,” he’d tell her, “any romantic liaison with a patient’s wife means instant dismissal.” That was it – the way ahead in the new year.
The phone was ringing. He stubbed out the fag and limped slowly inside.
47
Tuesday 1st January 1957 – in Springwell.
Parker’s head was exploding, the telly screen wobbling. He rose gingerly from the armchair he’d slumped into when he got home from the Red Lion’s Hogmanay Special. Must have had near a bottle of scotch. He’d always been able to hold his liquor – used to drink the squaddies under the table.
As well he wasn’t on duty today. First, the cure he’d learned from his old man. He cracked an egg into a cup, added a sprinkle of pepper and two aspirins, and pinched his nose as he downed the poison; then, hair of the dog – just half a glass.
That was better. He faced the mirror. God, he looked old. No wonder the Chisholm bitch turned him down. A tart, she was. Could have shagged her that day, but for the meddling old hag with the friend on Admin. He’d backed off since. Couldn’t risk doing for his career.
At least the neck wound was healed, apart from a scar. He’d wakened in the General, and been told what happened. Where did that bastard patient get the blade? Good job it missed the carotid. He’d been off weeks. “Get yourself fit for the assistant chief interview,” the Chief had said.
Better shave. He lathered, and picked up the Wilkinson’s sword edge. Bugger this trembling. He straightened up again. “Discipline, Ready,” he muttered. Head clearer and vision fine, he crouched over his shaving mirror and completed the task.
It’d been a blow when the Chief said they weren’t replacing Porter. “I’ve done the job with only two assistant chiefs, and now they tell me to manage with none. And Little’s been useless. Could’ve done with Porter, one of the old school.”
Well, he was being interviewed for the Chief’s job on Friday. Little had gone (“Thanks to a great reference from me, to get rid,” the Chief said). So, no competition.
He adjusted his tie in the mirror. Fine – he looked smart, younger.
A knock on his door. He flung the door open. The Chief. “Come in, Sir.” He smiled at his visitor.
“Happy new year, Ready.” Chief Hallman’s weary face had more wrinkles than he remembered. Maybe the proverbial cracked glass at Hogmanay?
He motioned to the armchair. “Sir, take a seat.” He held up a glass. “Join me?”
“Don’t mind if I do, as Colonel Chinstrap would say.”
“Yes Sir.” He poured a large whisky. “Colonel Chinstrap was a true blue. Best programme on the wireless, ITMA.”
The Chief drained the glass. “Needed that. It’s hell without any Assistants.”
That was why the Chief looked so old. “Sir.” He’d make damn sure he got Assistants. “A refill?”
The Chief pushed his glass toward the bottle. “Anyway, I’ll tough it out this month. Then I’ll be a man of leisure with a nice pension.”
“Sir, you’ve earned it. You’re an outstanding example for us all.”
The Chief was smiling now. “Thanks Ready. You’re a loyal man, made of the right stuff for a chief. Just one or two things to mention before Friday.”
Good. The Chief was confirming his backing. “Sir?”
“It’s not quite the shoe-in I wanted, Ready. We’re seeing Macnamara from Infirmary as well. But I’ll be in your corner. We need a man that’ll run a tight ship, and I trust you.” The Chief scowled. “Can’t have patients running amok.”
He knew this had been a hell of a blow for the Chief – those scum, thumping nurses and escaping. The boss’d said it blighted his career. “No Sir. I’d keep control, like you do. They couldn’t blame you. It was down to Niven, the cocky bastard!”
The Chief was looking at him again, no longer scowling. “You’re right. I offered to get a nursing assistant across from the Annex while Mullen was off, but Niven said he’d manage.” The Chief downed his whisky.
“Another drink, Sir?”
“No.” The Chief rose, tottered, then grasped the back of the chair. Never could take his liquor. “Better go. Med Super Acting, the Sectary and Committee Chairman’ll be there. Chairman ’n’ Sectary like efficiency, so they go with what I say.” The Chief stood gaping, speaking slowly and with emphasis. “Think Kenney’s on board. Knows I want you. Can’t never be sure. He’s a funn
y one.”
“Sir.” He stood up to see his guest out.
“’Bye, Ready.” The Chief gripped the woodwork in the doorway as he exited.
Parker returned to drain his glass. The headache had gone.
Friday 4th January 1957 – in Springwell.
In the anteroom to the boardroom, Parker sat erect on his chair. Best bib and tucker; spit and polish on his gleaming shoes.
The other man, Macnamara, hunched forward on his seat, was scruffy-looking and unshaved, like he’d had a night on the tiles. The chief scruff maybe, but never the chief male nurse, who needed to enforce discipline.
The boardroom door opened. “Mr Parker.” Miss Bewlay’s imperious tones. “Follow me.”
He sprang to his feet. “Ma’am, after you.”
He followed her in. There was the Chief, looking down with no sign of recognition. Fine. Nobody must ever know about the Chief’s pledge to him.
“Take a seat, Mr Parker.” A Welsh accent, from the far end of the table. “I’m Dr Kenney, Acting Medical Superintendent.”
He’d seen this guy around – a right drip. “Sir.” He sat down.
“Mr Davies our HMC Chairman, Mr Cope our Secretary, Miss Dee the Matron, and Mr Hallman you know.” Kenney waved an arm down the table.
He nodded smilingly at each. Matron was the only one he hadn’t met. A real head-turner. As Chief, he’d soon get pally with her.
“And Dr Macdonald, our new Medical Superintendent from next month.” Horn-rimmed specs, serious-looking. Damn, why was this weirdo here? “A right queer one,” Jackson had said.
“Sir.” He sat up straight. He was good at interviews, and the man for the job.
*
An hour later, back in his quarters, Parker poured a whisky. The Chief had primed him well, asked most questions. The others asked a question each. Simple stuff, apart from that Matron bitch and Horn-rims raising things irrelevant to the job – about a Royal Commission and changes. How the hell could he know about what this Royal Commission, a bunch of interfering pricks, would come up with? But he’d kept smiling, responded to each question, and been rewarded with smiles back. He’d surely charmed Matron, who blushed as he answered her. The Welshman had thanked him, said they’d to see one other candidate, but would let him know soon.
‘Chief Parker’ sounded right. He’d show them. And settle a score or two.
Monday 7th January 1957 – in Springwell.
Parker poured a large whisky. It’d been hell back at work. That new Staff he was saddled with – Maclean from Infirmary – was a right know-all. The fop Singh was on the ward round, standing in for the god. Leucotomies were banned. What nonsense! The greatest bloody tool for silencing violent bad-uns – and the idiots wouldn’t use it! When he was Chief next month, he’d put his oar in.
Paranoid Moloney was in his face. He’d make that patient beg for a speedy death. The madman should be in Broadmoor for attempted murder. At least that prick Chisholm was out of his sight, moved to the Annex.
Knocking on the door. Hallman, to congratulate him? He got up and flung the door open. Yes. “Chief, come in, take a seat. Whisky?”
“I’ll need one thanks, Ready.”
He poured a generous measure and topped up his own glass. Celebration was due. He passed the glass over and sat down. The Chief looked ill.
The Chief took a swallow and laid down his glass. “Ready, I have bad news. They’ve gone for Macnamara.”
“But you said –”
“I know. I told them you were the only man for the job, and I created hell after the vote. Tied at three-all it was, after Kenney and Matron and the Med Super-to-be went for Macnamara. Then they settled on Kenney’s casting vote as chairman. I argued that the Med Super-to-be, who’s away with the fairies, shouldn’t have had a vote but they said that as a panel member he did.” He sipped his whisky. “From then till now I’ve looked at the constitution, and asked COHSE. It’s no bloody use. There’s no appeal.”
Incredible. That drip Macnamara. “The place’ll go to ruin, Sir. No discipline.”
“Agreed. Sorry old friend, I must go.” The Chief rose and tottered off.
Bugger it. That was his job. He picked up the whisky bottle and gulped till it was empty. Felt better. They’d have to appoint him Assistant Chief.
Tuesday 8th January 1957
Parker sat in his office, cradling his head. The hangover cure hadn’t kicked in yet.
“Nosey!” A cry. Had he heard right? Paranoid! He wasn’t standing any nonsense – and he’d a score to settle. He strode out of the office. Paranoid was stood there and Maclean was just gaping. A shit of a nurse, to be scared of a patient.
“Nosey Parker.”
He grabbed Paranoid by the lapels, then remembered the last time he’d given the bastard a headbutt. He released the lapels, stood Paranoid up and gave him a straight left on the nose followed by a right uppercut. The old one-two. Felled the bastard. Now for a kicking.
“Sir, stop it.” Maclean was in front of him, shielding the patient. Intolerable. He lunged at Maclean, and found himself on the floor in an arm-lock.
“Don’t try that again, Sir.”
*
Later, Parker was summoned to the Chief’s office. The Assistant’s job?
“We have to suspend you, Ready. Moloney’s nose and jaw are busted and Macnamara on Infirmary, damn him, is making a fuss.”
“But, Sir, it was Maclean struck the patient – and hit me. The man’s a bad-un.”
The Chief looked like he’d had enough. “Ready, I’ll keep you informed.”
Friday 11th January 1957
The Chief had summoned him. Parker waltzed out the door. Exoneration and back to work, surely. He knocked on the Chief’s door.
Entering, he found the Chief standing by the desk. “Sir.”
“Ready, take a seat. It’s not looking good. In fact, it’s bloody awful. Besides getting Maclean and the patient to say in writing it was you did the thumping, Macnamara’s got witness statements – all against you. And he’s sent copies to Kenney and the HMC Chairman. They’re gunning for you.”
“But Sir, you believe me?”
“Yes, my friend, and not long ago I could’ve done something. Even if you’d near murdered the patient, I’d have swept it under the carpet – like I’ve done a few times with complaints about nurses. I’ve spoken to HMC Chairman Davies. He says it’s a sacking offence.”
Parker wiped his damp brow with his sleeve, swallowed and waited. “Sir.”
“Ready, if it goes to a hearing, you’re in shite. Davies reckons, whatever you say, they’d have to sack you.” He slapped the desk. “My friend, there’s a way out.”
“Suicide, Sir?” He wasn’t joking. Apart from the disgrace, he’d lose his pension and accommodation and wouldn’t get another job.
“No, Ready.” The Chief was emphatic. “Another job.”
“Sir?”
“Here’s how. So far, everything’s informal. An incident – your word against theirs. You give your resignation in with immediate effect, to me. No reason’s needed – I’m the Chief until the end of this month. I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with an old pal that owes me – chief at a big Lancashire asylum. You’re the ideal man for a charge nurse vacancy they need to fill now and my friend guarantees you the job, with accommodation.”
The Chief was a fixer, a man after his own heart. This place stank anyway. “Sir, I’d take it, provided there’s no action against me here.”
“I guarantee it. Neither HMC Chairman nor Kenney want a hearing. It’s bad publicity. If you agree, clear your room tonight and come to my place. I’ll help with removal. I’ll ring my pal to say you’ll take the job from Monday.”
“I’ll buy it, Sir.”
He took the proffered notepaper, kept his letter simple and handed it to the Chief. Bugger this dump.
48
Friday 11th January 1957 – in Aversham.
Heather tucked Becky into her cot, wai
ted till she’d dozed off, came back to the living room and put on Elvis’s Golden Album. She picked up the library book on child development and stretched out on the settee. In nursery work, she’d found her vocation. Now she wanted a refresher on theoretical thinking about the significance in later life of how toilet training and temper tantrums were handled. Vital for Becky – and her.
A faint knocking on the door? “It’s Sam” through the letterbox. Swinging off the settee, she shouted “Coming,” paused by the hallway mirror to touch up her hair and adjust her skirt, and flung the door open.
Sam, minus briefcase. “Sam, come in.”
The aroma she’d come to like – of Brylcreem. She led the way to the living room and motioned to the table. “Sit down.”
But he remained standing, his arms outstretched. “Happy new year, Heather.”
“Happy new year, Sam.” She opened her arms and stepped into an embrace. She was being drawn into him, and oh, the warm insistence of his body. She felt a kiss on the cheek; then his tongue was in her mouth. This excitement and longing for something she was starved of.
He was pressing her backward, toward the settee, and she felt his full arousal. “No, Sam.” She wasn’t ready for this. His grip slackened and she moved out of the clinch. His tanned face was red.
“Sorry. I thought that was what you wanted. I love you, Heather.”
“You’re attractive, Sam, but I still have feelings for John. And he’s my husband.” All true. “Let’s just sit at the table and talk.” She motioned to a chair.
Yes, she had wanted it. But deep in her being, shame had won the battle with arousal. Cool down.
“Okay, Heather.” They sat down opposite each other.
“Have you news for me, Sam?”
“Yes. Your husband’s been moved to the Annex and he’s allowed a visitor. The next date’s 19th January, a Saturday. I could, unless something blows up, take you there. I’d stay out of sight.”
