The Very First Damned Thing (9 page)

St Mary's continued to take care of itself until, one day, Ritter and Evans erupted in a simultaneous rash, Markham fell out of a tree and landed on his head, and Dr Dowson developed a chesty cough. St Mary's entire medical expertise consisted of an aspirin and an early night, and Dr Bairstow perceived that the time had come to expand St Mary's meagre health facilities.

Boarding yet another train, he made his way south east, to a small town not noted for its prosperity. Alighting in a bitter wind, he turned up his coat collar, sought directions from an individual who was a stranger to the area, and set off in what he hoped was the right direction. Ten minutes later, he found himself outside the hospital, where they disclaimed all knowledge and directed him to the free clinic. Where his quest was successful. Taking in the crowded, noisy waiting room, he obeyed instructions and waited.

And waited.

And waited. But he was prepared to be patient.

A curtain swept back on its rings and a doctor emerged, followed by a woman towing a very fat boy, rather like a small moon on a string.

The doctor, a tall woman with her dark hair bound up in a red and white scarf and sporting a T-shirt bearing the legend
Does Not Play Well With Others
, finished writing and handed the mother a piece of paper.

‘Nothing serious. Certainly nothing that ceasing to stuff his fat face on chocolate and crisps all day won't cure. Five pieces of fruit and vegetables a day will sort him out. Plenty of exercise, too.'

‘But he doesn't like …'

‘I don't care what he does and doesn't like. Continue on this course and you'll be looking at morbid obesity, diabetes, heart trouble, high blood pressure, undescended testicles and complete unattractiveness to the opposite sex. You …' she addressed herself to the fat boy. ‘Put down the computer games and get yourself outside. Fresh air won't kill you. Not enough exercise will.'

‘But he doesn't …' wailed the woman.

The doctor shrugged. ‘OK then. Suit yourself. Dead by thirty. Probably best if he doesn't start watching any long-running TV series. Your choice. Next.'

Dr Bairstow rose to his feet. ‘Dr Foster?'

‘Yes? And?'

‘I wonder if might have a word.'

She surveyed the crowded room. ‘You are joking.'

‘No. Never.'

She stared at him for a moment. ‘Two minutes.'

‘More than adequate.'

She jerked her head towards the cubicle and made to follow him inside. Pausing suddenly, she surveyed those still waiting and shouted, ‘Hey! You! Yes, you at the back! I know why you're here. I've told you before – you have a congenital weakness in your hands and if you continue punching your wife you will do yourself irreparable damage. I'm not prepared to waste my time treating you if you're just ignoring everything I say.' She rummaged in her jeans pocket. ‘I need you to sign this piece of paper saying that if you end up paralysed it's all your own fault for continuing to beat up your wife against medical advice, and this clinic is not in any way responsible.'

Heads turned, seeking the subject of these remarkable statements. At the back, a man rose hastily to his feet and tried to slip away.

‘No, don't go. Not until you've signed this. Alternatively, of course, you could just stop hitting your wife. Why not give it a go? You'll find your hands will stop hurting and she'll probably appreciate it too.'

The doors swung shut behind him.

Dr Bairstow could not help enquiring, ‘Was that entirely wise, do you think? I cannot help but feel his wife might suffer considerably at their next encounter.'

‘There won't be one. His wife is in the next cubicle having her eye stitched up. Again. We needed to get rid of him so she can slip out the back way and off to the shelter. They're waiting for her. What do you want?'

‘I want you and I've travelled a very long way to find you. No, don't speak, please. I've read your career history and it's impressive. Your attitude – that's the one that occasionally gets you into a little difficulty – is exactly what I am looking for. I need a doctor who can impose herself upon a group of over-excited and over-educated idiots, and be able to cope with the undoubtedly imaginative ways with which they will try to kill themselves and everyone around them.'

‘Are we talking about a loony-bin?'

‘An astonishingly accurate statement, but no.'

She stared at him. ‘I don't do compassion.'

‘I'm very glad to hear that.'

‘Or sympathy.'

‘That is excellent news. Do you do swift and effective treatment? Can you save lives on a daily basis? Are you able to improvise? Think creatively? Keep your head amid chaos?'

‘Who
are
you?'

‘My name is Dr Bairstow. You are Dr Helen Foster and I would like to offer you the position of Chief Medical Officer.'

‘No.'

‘Allow me to give you my card.'

‘No.'

‘I have written my telephone number on the back.'

‘I said no. Are you deaf?'

‘Well, if you take up my offer, then we shall be able to find out.'

‘I do good work here.'

‘I don't doubt it, but I am offering you the opportunity to do great work with me. The combination of your skillset and attitude renders you unique. Please, I beg you, at least consider the offer.'

She stared at him for a while, her dark eyes assessing what she saw. She opened her mouth to speak, and as she did so, two men, locked together, tumbled from another cubicle, crashed to the floor, and began to roll around, flailing and kicking. Trolleys toppled over, shedding bowls and implements everywhere. A number of security personnel appeared and manhandled them out of the door.

‘Well,' she said, ‘at least I wouldn't have to put up with this sort of thing ten times a day.'

Something in his silence made her turn to look at him. ‘Would I?'

‘Well not ten times a day, of course …'

She opened her mouth, but he was already pushing his way through the double doors and down the steps.

Six.

More time wore on. More people assembled at St Mary's. The structure jokingly known as Hawking Hangar inched its way towards completion.

Dr Bairstow, exhibiting signs of what might, in a lesser man, be classed as anxiety, was frequently seen to be consulting some sort of schedule. The word ‘deadline' was on everyone's lips. Tempers frayed. Some snapped altogether and after an exciting session between the newly arrived technical staff and the Security Section, in which views and punches were liberally exchanged, Major Guthrie requested a word with Dr Bairstow.

‘With your permission, sir, and before someone is seriously injured, I'd like to provide some sort of safe outlet for these … difficult moments.'

‘An excellent idea, Major. How about cricket? Exciting, dramatic, and yet requiring skill, coordination, and a sense of fair play – exactly what is required.'

‘What an excellent idea, sir,' said Major Guthrie carefully, ‘but given the numbers involved and the inadvisability of arming them with bats and pointed sticks, I think football might provide a more effective channel for high spirits.'

Dr Bairstow seemed doubtful. ‘Well, if you say so. I personally always found that half a dozen overs after lunch could cure most ills but possibly, in view of the number of casualties currently inhabiting Sick Bay, football will provide a more effective means of venting the violently homicidal urges demonstrated today.'

‘I quite agree, sir. Was there anything else?'

‘I'm afraid so, Major. Walk with me to Hawking, if you please.'

Together, they surveyed the coils of cabling, junction boxes, sacks of concrete, cement mixers, and all the other miscellaneous equipment of a building uncompleted.

‘I am sorry, Major, but, for reasons I cannot yet explain, it is imperative this area of St Mary's is completed by Friday night.'

‘I have to say, sir, there is very little likelihood of us achieving that deadline.'

‘That is what I am afraid of.'

‘Is it at all possible to prioritise, sir?'

Dr Bairstow stood deep in thought. ‘An excellent idea, Major. Come with me.'

He turned and left the hangar and they stood at the foot of Sick Bay stairs. To their right, the unfinished hangar. To their left, the recently completed long corridor led back to the main building. Ahead of them stretched a short corridor, with various doors opening off it.

Dr Bairstow limped to the end and halted outside a door.

Major Guthrie consulted his plans. ‘This room is designated as a paint store, sir.' He pushed open the door, revealing a small square room, at present empty except for copious amounts of dust.

Dr Bairstow stood thoughtfully.

‘Sir?'

‘Actually, I think this may be for the best after all, Major.'

‘Sir?'

‘Find the foreman, if you would be so good. I want electrical sockets and cable points set up in the back corner there. Ask him to pull his people off everything else. If the work can be completed before five o'clock on Friday night there will be a substantial cash bonus in it for him and his team that we probably won't need to trouble his employers with.'

‘How substantial, sir?'

‘Extremely substantial. On the rare occasions I have to resort to bribery, I like to make a good job of it.'

By five o'clock on Friday night, the seemingly impossible had been achieved.

Half a dozen exhausted, dusty, hollow-eyed workers had worked the clock round, completed their task, enjoyed a drink at Dr Bairstow's expense, trousered an unspecified but gratifyingly large amount of cash, and departed for the weekend.

St Mary's heaved a sigh of relief and put its feet up in the bar, where Dr Bairstow's unprecedented generosity had provided for them also. It seemed safe to assume they would be there for the foreseeable future.

The rest of the building was very silent as Dr Bairstow limped carefully down the stairs, through the Hall, and down the long corridor. There, he paused for a while, listening, but other than the echoes of voices raised in song and high spirits, there was nothing but the sounds of a building bedding itself down for the night. Wood creaked. A tiny piece of plaster fell from the ceiling. The smell of wet concrete was very strong.

Standing outside the door to the paint store, Dr Bairstow checked his watch for the hundredth time and waited. His face gave nothing away.

He checked his watch again.

Somewhere, another piece of plaster fell.

Dr Bairstow consulted his watch again. The second hand, glowing green in the semi-darkness, swept on.

He shifted his weight a little.

Silence settled all around him. As if the world waited.

And then, the paint-store door creaked slowly open.

Dr Bairstow drew himself up.

A dark shadow stood silhouetted against a darker room.

‘Leon Farrell, sir, reporting for duty.'

‘Good evening, Leon. You appear to be late.'

‘Good evening, Edward. You appear to be standing in the dark.'

‘My dear chap, if you knew the cost of electricity in this time …'

He stepped forwards as he spoke and the two men shook hands.

‘Leon, it has been a very long time.'

They remained clasping hands for a while although no words were spoken.

‘How are you, Leon?'

‘Not so very different from the last time we met. But looking forward to a new beginning.'

‘No regrets?'

‘At leaving behind my old life? None at all. How about you?'

‘Like you, no regrets. A new start for both of us.'

‘So, how are you, Edward?'

‘Exhilarated. Frustrated. Enthusiastic. Excited. Exhausted. Impatient for completion.'

‘Not long now.'

‘I hope not. This way.'

They turned into the dimly lit long corridor and turned to look at each other properly.

‘Leon, you haven't changed at all.'

‘Well, that's because I haven't. I just waited a few minutes and then jumped after you.' He paused. ‘I'll say this just once, Edward. You look tired.'

‘I am tired. The years have been long and there was never anyone else to –'

‘Well, there is now.' Leon Farrell stopped to stare out of a window into the dusk. ‘So, this is England. What is it like? Is it very bad?'

Dr Bairstow nodded. ‘Yes, yes it is. Much worse than the records had led us to believe. Oh, I'm not talking about the physical rebuilding of a nation; I'm talking about the people. Lost, bewildered, without hope. Can there be anything worse than winning one of the greatest struggles in their nation's history and then not having the strength of purpose or the money to build on that. I tell you, Leon, when I saw what it was like, I nearly jumped straight home and requested we postpone for twenty years.'

‘But you didn't.'

‘No, I didn't. It occurred to me that in some small way, I could make a contribution. Rebuilding St Mary's has provided jobs and purpose. Building pods will provide more. I am slowly recruiting admin staff. I have a few historians already lined up and if you could see the sudden hope in their eyes. To go in an instant from counting oneself lucky to be working in a factory for less than minimum wage to finding oneself with a job, a purpose – and what a purpose.'

He stopped suddenly and Leon Farrell turned away to examine the long corridor and its bare walls with every sign of interest.

Presently, he said, ‘So when do I start building pods?'

‘Well, Number Two is here already. I would be grateful if you could keep yours quietly tucked away for the time being.'

Farrell nodded.

‘I'd like another three pods as soon as you can assemble them.'

‘Three?'

‘An enormous amount of money has been invested and I'm being pressed for results – which I am eager to provide.'