The baby is crying. Wee mite.  

  

I’m sorry. Your results are not good. Very bad. Most worrying. We can help tough. I’m sorry. The results are inconclusive, Mr Duffin. Mrs Morrison. Lady McDonald. Mr Stevens. Miss Penn. And what that means is …. Perfectly healthy.  A little on the high side. We’ll run more tests. Nothing to be worried about.  

 

Bleach on the floors. The smell of it. Bicarbonate down the drain. Hot water and a plug to force it down the way. Cleanliness is next to godliness. Dr Lister. Of course. Dried blood will come off but needs elbow grease. That’s what does it.  

 

Nurse Rosin in the bandage cupboard breathes ‘Do that to me again. Oh God.’ 

 

The pain beyond description. The pain. Blood on the floor.  

I’m doing the right thing. I hope I’m doing the right thing. Pull yourself together, man. 

 

Metformin. Lebothyroxine. Atorvastatin.  

 

Windows open to the Meadows. It’s getting lighter now. I’ll get a vase for those daffodils. Roses from your garden? How lovely. That water needs a freshen up. A clean nightie, Mrs Parsons and we’ll get you a cup of tea. Milk and two? Just black? A biscuit? Oh only a drop is it? How do you like it? Too weak? Too strong? To sweet? Let me. Let me. Let me.  

 

It takes an hour to walk up the corridor but I can do it. Step by step. Breathe. Just breathe.  

Thank God I’m alive.  

 

Friday: Liver pate and macaroni cheese.  

 

I don’t remember anything. Nothing till I woke up. Not a thing. 

 

Dr Robertson in the bandage cupboard almost chokes Dr Fox. Interesting what it does to the glans, he says, after. 

 

Your contusion. Your tumour. Your growth. Your white blood cells. Your mother. Your daughter. Your baby. Your husband.  

 

I have a medical student shadowing me today. That OK? 

 

Remission. Yes. Good news. I’m sorry. Three months at most. Six weeks. Time to put your affairs in order. To say Goodbye. Remission.  

 

A nice cup of cocoa? An extra blanket. Unite and fight for better conditions. Raise the roof. Fair Pay for a Fair Day.  

 

What would I have done without you? 

 

It’s a lovely view. Sunshine today. 

 

I’m the only doctor on the ward tonight, madam. The first Black doctor. The first Jewish doctor. The first woman doctor. The first Pakistani doctor. The first, first, first. Chinese, yes. My mother came from Delhi but I was born here. Here’s where I’m really from. I’m trying to help you. Yes, I’ve washed my hands. Yes, I know what I’m doing. If you could only …. 

 

Dear Sister and the nurses on ward 17, thank you for all your help last week. I hope you enjoy the cake my mother baked.  

 

Albuterol. Ibrupofen. Gabapentin.  

 

I am family. I’m sorry I’m late. Please, can I visit him? I couldn’t get here sooner.  

 

Vinegar and newspaper on the glass. Spotless.  

 

What do you mean? What do you mean? What do you mean they’re gone?  

 

Within normal range. Miss Smith. Miss O’Donnell. Mr Alexander. Colonel Chen. This won’t hurt. Just look away. A little scratch is all, Miss Flegg. Now, now, Bobby. Who’s a brave wee boy? Could you just look this way, please. And the other side. Lift up your shirt. This’ll be cold. Sweetie? You’ve been a very good girl. 

 

I want to make a complaint.  

 

Tuesday: Lentil soup with bread and butter. Ham salad.  

 

What happens now? To the body I mean? Can I take him home? I don’t want to take him home. 

 

Scrub it with a stiff brush and a sprinkle of sand. A laundry bucket for the sheets. Carbolic soap. Launder the rags to reuse on the floor. Ground eggshell will get it off after you’ve sluiced the vomit.  

 

If you’re ready there’s a policeman waiting to speak to you. Only if you’re ready. 

 

Sluice. Sluice. Sluice. 

 

We’ll operate on Thursday. On Sunday. Straight away. Wednesday morning. If you could wait here, please. We’ll tell you the moment there’s news. You’ll need to ask the doctor. The surgeon’s rounds at eleven. We’ll discharge him after breakfast. I can get a translator if you don’t speak English. What language are they speaking, I can’t tell?  

 

I’m sorry there was nothing we could do.  

 

Monday: Orange juice and an omelette with toast. 

 

Now now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Cocoa?  

 

Mr Michael in the bandage cupboard, up against the shelf, thinks of his late wife every time. Can’t help but cry. The shame of it, afterwards. And him a surgeon. There was nothing he could do.  

 

They picked those daisies in the park on way in. A wee crocus in a tin. Peonies from Waitrose. Gladioli from the hothouse at home. Rosemary for remembrance. Maybe you could give it to one of the other patients? Shame to go to waste.  

 

How to wash your hands in five steps. Wet. Lather. Scrub. Rinse. Dry.  

 

Mrs Fanshaw. Mrs Cowan. Mrs Brodie. Good news. Mrs Wilson. Miss Runnicles. Mr Diabate. Please. Sit down. It won’t hurt. Quick as I can. That wasn’t so bad was it? Here, have a tissue. Not to worry. I can clean it up. Och, lass.  

 

Hydrocodone. Lisinopril. You’re not the first, you won’t be the last.  

 

Sunday: Scotch broth. Pie and chips.  

 

I feel so much better. I can breathe. I can walk. I can feel my leg. Thank you. Thank you. Christ. Thank you. So lucky. Looking forward to going home.  

 

Nurse Eleanor Gray in the bandage cupboard screams so loud Matron hears. Billy Hammil the physiotherapist is extremely proud of himself.  

 

I can’t keep doing this. The worst job. The best job. It’s just a job. We don’t want to lose you, Nurse Mirzah but we quite understand.  

 

Atropine. Noradrenaline. Amoxycillin. Is there anything else I could have done? 

 

All clear. I can’t believe it.  

 

Nee Naw. We’ve found a bed at the hospice for your father. I’m sorry. So sorry.  

 

Push, Alice. Push, Theresa. Push now. It’s fine. It’s all fine. Well done. And again.  

 

‘I love you,’ Matron says, under her breath, in the bandage cupboard. The only defence against the worst of it.  

 

Once a year the brass fittings are removed and dipped properly.  

 

Nothing more we can do. 

 

Push, Meta. Push, Fiona. Push, Norma. Push, Lily.  

 

Lavender oil and hot water on the skirtings. Surgical spirit.  

 

Hydrocodone. Gemfibrozil. Timolol.  

 

Saturday: Chicken and chips. Chocolate biscuits.  

 

And lastly. Lastly.  

I can hardly believe it.  

Congratulations. It’s a baby girl.