huts second week, second day (first draft)

Our first formal class, critical theory in mental handicap nursing, takes place in the defunct maternity ward, in the old hospital. High ceilings, difficult to heat, electric lights hang on cords and illuminate gloom in the corners of the room. The air inside is dank with the stain of padded coats drying on the backs of seats. A few faces in the front row nod in recognition, but I enter the room largely unnoticed. We all look knocked off the same assembly line in our crisp white nursing shirts. James Munn in his sharp suit and pink tie stands at the front of a blackboard soaking up the attention we give him. Barry Ferguson is smaller and stands slack beside him, forehead shiny with sweat, as if being in front of a class of rookies is all too much for him.  

‘Um,’ Barry says, as if prompted, ‘while we wait for er students that have not yet arrived, maybe, it would be a good idea, if we each take a wee turn and say a wee bit about ourselves. I’ll start ’. His face is white and plain as a potato, an empty looking stare but there’s no mistaking him, suit jacket buttoned too tight, greyish by default, a bit worse for wear.  Despite this, or maybe because of it, everybody in the village, that knew him, which was pretty much everybody in the room, has a soft spot for Barry, perhaps because he’s always lived here and comfortable doing what he does, which is nothing much. ‘I’m Barry, and I’ve worked here about twenty years in most of the words. And I’ve been teaching restraint techniques in the challenging behaviour wards for about the last five.’ He looks out at our faces, then at James Munn for guidance, to see if he’s talking too much, and decides he has, ‘and then I got seconded onto helping with this—’but he can’t find the right word, clams up, and leaves us hanging in the air. 

 James Munn smoothly cuts in and introduces himself—even though we all know him—‘Time is getting on, which remind me of my days at Cambridge, when one of my old professors barred the doors to latecomers and lectured to an empty auditorium to show what he thought of such incivility.’ His voice drones on. ‘You are the first wave of a new elite, replacing the outdated practices and qualifications of enrolled nurses.’

I don’t laugh outright, as other do, but what he was saying did make me smile. I immediately think of Wullie the Pole. I’d be better qualified than him when I finish my training.

James Munn motions to Barry that he should shut the doors. Before he can the Brummie girl nips in past him. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she says in a breezy manner. ‘Got lost! This place is gigantic and there’s no signposts. Well, none that I – ’ She shrugs a ripple of indifference flowing  through the shoulders of a long black leather coat that falls below her knees with shiny, matching, coloured boots. I recognise her by accent, her hair is no longer like something from a flare gun, but she’s got a ton of makeup on her face, even plastering her nose with powder, the colour of a gum shield, to disguise her pitted skin condition, which highlights it even more like she’s been continually skelped with a boxing glove.

Barry nods, his face noncommittal.  

James Munn looks over his specs at her, as she dives and flops down behind the nearest desk and pulls up a chair. He then addresses us. ‘Quickly jot down all the patient’s on your ward, and beside it, in brackets, their nicknames.’

 Doodling on the cardboard cover, Archie Denny, fresh in memory, is the first I note down on a pristine, lined, A4 sheet. But I can’t dig out a nickname for him. Search for a tipping point. I know he fixes cars. And sometimes when he should have been out cutting grass, pushing a Flymo, he’s under the hood of Dr Fleming’s E-type Jag. So I’m thinking along the lines of (Arselicker) Archie, but everybody I know just calls him Archie. But I’m not sure why he keeps moving from ward to ward. I leave it blank.

Stick Mikey’s name down. But then I’m stuck with the nickname problem again, because I’ve not got a nickname for him either.

Peaheid is easy, but I rack my brain, and can’t remember her proper name.

Maggie McCann is also a problem, because even though I remember her Sunday name, but not her nickname, technically as she’s dead I’m not sure I should classify her as a patient. But I stick her name down anyway (Deceased).   

Martin Monaghan’s hand drifts up into the air. He’s sleepy-eyed, tousled black hair, dandruff drifting onto his shoulders. ‘What’s brackets?’ he asks, his mouth hanging open.  

‘You playin’ funny buggers?’ asks Barry, glaring at Martin, to a background titter of laughter but it’s obvious he isn’t.  

‘Settle down,’ says James Munn cutting through the mood of general hilarity. ‘It’s commendably brave to admit our ignorance to others. And if one person doesn’t know what “brackets” are I’m pretty sure that others would also be equally in the dark.’ He turns to the blackboard, picks up a piece of white chalk and writes in block lettering his name: JAMES MUNN (Boffin). He taps the brackets either side of Boffin, smudging his index finger with chalk.  ‘That’s brackets.’ He looks across at Martin and then around the room. ‘Any other questions?’

Staring at my non-existent notes, I squint sideways, most other student are humpbacked, avoiding James Munn’s gaze, doing the same.

 Eddie. I’d also seen him in some distress this morning. I put his name on my sheet. (In brackets, Doc, because his name is Docherty). Somebody had given him a Capstan Full Strength and walked away. The smell of Eddie’s lips burning was the first indication that something was wrong. It was a pain. I had to write up a wee bit in his case notes.

I’ve a paltry five names on my list. Norean Killeen is the only female whose name I could recall. The only female name I want to remember. (Beauty). But I scrub the bracketed name out.  I chew the top of my pencil, hoping that James Munn isn’t going to collect in the sheets any time soon. But when I look over he’s in earnest discussion with Barry, and I get back to work, but I can’t work, can’t think. Sweat trickles down my back. My brain is frozen like an ice cube.