Not What I Expected

Norbert

Chapter 9

Not What I Expected

When I arrive at work at 8.15am, Florence and the midwife with little buzzies are fighting in the corridor.

‘Ladies, ladies, have a bit of decorum,’ I admonish. ‘Remember where you are.’

I might as well not have been there.

They are face to face and bent over at the waist, hanging on to each other’s hair.

‘I am chaperoning the post-coital,’ spits Florence.

‘I’m senior midwife,’ says the other.

‘You’re already married,’ says Florence. ‘I’m not and neither is the doubly delectable Doctor Kneale-Down.’

‘You’re nothing but a cheap slut who’ll drop her knickers for anyone in a white coat.’

I step up close and raise my voice. ‘I wear a white coat. How cheap?’

They continue to wrestle and ignore me.

‘This is a golden opportunity to get him alone,’ says Florence. ‘I’m sure he fancies me.’

‘You won’t be alone, stupid. The patient and that rancid turd from the lab will be in the room with you.’

‘I already am,’ I say, angrily.

For what good it does. I leave them to it, enter the lab and put on my least stained lab coat.

(There is a laundry bag in clinic, collected every Monday morning. No matter what day I place my dirty coat inside or how full it is at the time, my washing is always taken out, dumped on the floor, trodden on, kicked into a corner and left uncollected. One day I’ll catch whoever is responsible in the act. Then there will be hell to pay. In the meantime, I take them home and ask Nunky to wash them whilst Auntie is at work.)

I pick up the microscope and head for the consulting room.

They are still scrapping in the middle of the corridor.

‘Excuse me.’

Unbelievably, they part and let me through, and then resume the fight.

At eight-thirty, as ordered, I am ready and waiting. Doctor Kneale-Down enters the consulting room.

‘Good morning, Doctor.’

He looks down at me like I am something smelly he’s just trodden in and snaps: ‘Are your slides clean?’

I hold them out for inspection. Not only have I polished them with Windoclene, I’ve mounted them in a cardboard tray.

‘Cover slips?’

‘I normally field at silly mid-on.’

He obviously isn’t a cricket fan, as he turns away without laughing at this witty riposte and begins to ready his instruments.

Florence walks in. Her hair is even more unkempt than during the fight, though some might say it looks fashionable. The top buttons of her uniform appear to have been lost in the struggle.

‘What can I do to help?’ she purrs, rubbing up against Kneale-Down like a cat.

‘Prepare the couch, please.’

She raises the head end and plumps up the pillow, rips a long length of blue paper towel off a roll and walks round the far side to spread it on the couch.

‘Would you like me to attach the stirrups?’

Once she has gained his attention, she bends over and smoothes out the towel. I edge closer, fascinated that her freckles stop short of her loolybells, which bulge enticingly from the half-cups of a lilac bra, like fluffy white dumplings.

‘Yes please. And when you’ve done that you can polish my speculum.’

Judging by the look that passes between them, I think this may be some sort of code.

Auntie knocks and enters. ‘Are you ready for the patient?’

‘Show her in,’ says Kneale-Down.

The withering look on Auntie’s face, for once, is directed at Florence rather than me. It is a rare opportunity for revenge. ‘Tonsil has been in a fight, Sister.’

‘What did you call me?’ Florence demands.

‘Tonsil,’ I say, with malicious glee, ‘because of the number of doctors who’ve taken you out.’

‘Grow up, the pair of you,’ Auntie grunts on her way out.

Doctor Kneale-Down instantly turns on the charm as the patient walks in. She is holding the blue towelled robe, which is still minus a cord, tight to her body.

‘Good morning Mrs Cotton-Weaver. Florence, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

He points to a chair. ‘Please take a seat.’

‘My name is Florence, too,’ says Florence. ‘Isn’t that a coincidence?’

‘Wow,’ I say, overwhelmed by a nauseating waft of Twinkle Twat as she breezes past. ‘Are you wearing the musk of love for a reason?’

‘Get out of my way, runt.’ She elbows me aside and smiles at the patient. ‘Did you know that Florence in Sanskrit means Flower of Love?’

‘I thought it meant Available to the Medical Profession.’

‘Shut up,’ the midwife hisses, and turns back to the patient. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions before the examination begins.’ She is holding a clipboard and pen. ‘What time did you have intercourse this morning?’

‘Do you mean when did the ordeal start or finish?’

‘The time of ejaculation.’

‘Fifteen and a quarter minutes past seven. I had my watch in my hand.’

How romantic.

‘Good, that’s within the prescribed limits for the test.’ Florence makes a note or two. ‘You didn’t use any artificial lubrication?’

‘No, more’s the pity. I was as dry as a cream cracker.’

‘I suppose it is a trifle unromantic at that early hour?’

‘Tell me about it. I set the alarm for seven. He turned over and said put in on snooze. I said no, wake up, it’s important. You’ve got to diddle me now. Then he moaned about my breath, said I smelled like an extractor fan in a curry house. Take your finger out, I said. We haven’t got time for foreplay.’

I do so miss being married.

‘Doctor Kneale-Down will now explain the procedure to you, Mrs Cotton-Weaver.’

He holds up his big metal thingy. ‘Now, Florence, there is nothing to worry about. I will insert this speculum into your vagina and widen it so I can see what I’m doing. You’ll just feel a slight bit of discomfort, that’s all. I will then take a sample of mucus from the area of your cervix with a syringe. It will tickle more than hurt. I will transfer this onto a slide and my esteemed colleague here will observe the sample under a microscope. Are you happy with all of this?’

‘He’s very good,’ says Florence, ‘the best we have…’

‘And so handsome,’ I mutter.

‘Shut up,’ she hisses.

Doctor Kneale-Down twangs on some rubber gloves, fits a huge headtorch to his forehead and switches it on. The beam nearly blinds me.

‘Tickle,’ I say. ‘If only I’d known. Where do we keep that?’

The medic ignores me, turns away and lubricates his speculum. Over his shoulder, he says: ‘Okay, Florence, I’m ready for you. Take your pants off, lay on the couch and spread your legs in the stirrups.’

I wait a few seconds, cough discretely and lean over the couch. ‘I think he means the patient.’

Red in the face, our Florence climbs off the couch, turns her back and hitches up her pants. ‘Sorry,’ she says to the patient. ‘I got a little carried away.’

Mrs Cotton-Weaver whispers back with a wink. ‘He is rather nice, isn’t he?’

Still blushing, Florence holds the patient’s hand as Doctor Kneale-Down inserts and widens the speculum. He fills the syringe, removes the speculum and calls me over. ‘Slide.’

‘I find it much easier to walk.’

I rush forward with one in each hand. Whilst he squirts the mucus out of the syringe onto the glass, I feel compelled to look down between Mrs Cotton-Weaver’s splayed legs. It is, after all, the first one I’ve ever seen. Up till now the only thing I know about lady’s naughty bits is they consist of two holes and a gristly lump.

‘Oh my,’ I say, in awe. ‘It looks like a loosely wrapped kebab.’

‘What?’ spits Kneale-Down.

I hurry back to the bench. ‘I must get these cover slips on before the baby gravy congeals.’

‘What did he say?’ demands Mrs Cotton-Weaver, twisting her head to look at me. ‘What did he just say?’

‘He was telling the doctor what he had for supper last night,’ says Florence. ‘Weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I stammer. ‘All the meat and chilli sauce fell out on to the pavement.’

‘Get on with it, you obsequious bumsucker,’ the doctor orders.

I slide the slide under the microscope, select the X50 lens, rack it into focus and spend a minute moving from field to field. I pull the first slide from its clip and insert the other to double check. I take a counting chamber from my pocket and hold it out. ‘Fill this please,’ I say to Kneale-Down.

He brings over the syringe and obliges. ‘Well?’ he says, in a low voice.

I answer quietly. ‘Less than fifty-percent motility and way down in number. I need to do a sperm count.’

I slide on a cover slip and place the chamber under the microscope. I twiddle the knob slowly until a criss-cross grid of microscopic lines sharpens into focus. I minutely adjust the position until a whole square is visible and then count the number of human tadpoles using a manual clicker which I press with my thumb. Some are writhing around, blindly going nowhere, others look exhausted. Most are dead. I move across to the square at the far end of the grid and do the same, then down to the bottom corner and finally across to the opposite corner, noting the numbers and rates of motility on a pad after each square. I then make the calculation and hand Kneale-Down the results.

‘You’re fine, Mrs Cotton-Weaver,’ he says to the patient. ‘You can get dressed now.’ Florence has already wiped her clean. ‘But I will need to see your husband.’

‘He’s firing more blanks than a starter’s gun,’ I say under my breath, as I start to pack away my equipment.

‘In appreciation of the excellent work done here this morning, I would like to take you to lunch,’ says Kneale-Down.

‘Why, thank you,’ I say, turning round.

He has his hands on Florence’s shoulders and is gazing into her cleavage. ‘After I have made a written complaint to Sister about the improper and totally unprofessional conduct of that scrofulous little oik.