the case against...

Maria Frank is early for her appointment with A & D Solicitors. Time management. One of her strengths. Hair is shorn tight to her pinched face, the cream jacket and matching skirt, offsetting her wiry and mannish frame.  She’s brought a Clydebank Post to leaf through.

‘Mr Mannings waiting for you.’ The office girl has a desk and chair, but they are huddled together in a tight waiting space that stinks of acetone. Wild curls bleached by the sun sets her youth apart as she studies and picks at her nails, checks her phone, biting a uneven corner of her thumb’s nailbed and spitting a bit of herself onto the floor. Maria’s eyebrows rise in an expression of curiosity, feet flex in her shiny black shoes pointing and flexing the muscles in her legs as she unfolds from the hard grey of the chair. Her eyes the colour of faded denim. The office girl looks up at her, caught between the beeps on her phone, and the woman towering above her.

‘Thanks’ says Maria, offering a smile like slow melting snow and the girl grins back.

Mr Manning in light grey pinstripe and pink tie, with a belly out to there, filling the door of his office smiles shyly with them and waits. Another cubby hole, lingering fag smoke, thick glass and bars on the only window, with an Apple Mac open on the desk and hard chairs, filing cabinet, and an old-fashioned telephone. He slots himself in beside his desk with a grunt and the phone on his desk starts ringing, but he smiles some more and ignores it, angling his head so he can study the file on his desk and nodding at the other chair, inviting Ms Frank to sit across from him. The phone stops ringing then starts again. He picks up the receiver and bangs it sharply down.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘it can get real hectic in here. But you don’t want to know my problems. We’re here to help you.’  He grips the armrest on his chair and wheezes. ‘No win-no fee basis.’ He scratches at his knuckles, skin flaking fishy silver. ‘You do understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I understand that perfectly.’

‘Good.’ Mr Manning turns his head as if he’s lost something or heard something. He picks up the file on his desk. The phone starts ringing; he picks it up and slams down the receiver, lifting his specs onto his forehead to read type-script. ‘You’ve got motor-neurone disease?’  

‘Early stages.’

Mr Mannning sighs and folds his hands in the position of prayer. ‘I’m not sure I understand. How can we help you with that?’ Then reconsiders. ‘I shouldn’t really be telling you this,’ he chuckles, ‘At least ninety-percent of our business is with the NHS. It’s a growing market, but in your case…’ he scrunches his shoulders and makes his mouth into a frog inviting his client to help him out.

‘I’m not here about my motor-neurone disease, but I am here about the NHS. I’m owed, according to my estimates £38 500 in back pay and that’s a conservative estimate, which doesn’t include interest accrued over those years.’

‘Ahhhh,’ Mr Manning says, nodding his head slightly in appropriation and kneading his knuckles. ‘And how did you come by that figure?’ The phone rings. He picks up and clatters down the receiver.

‘I’ve always been very meticulous in everything I do and I’ve kept very detailed diaries. I was a ward sister in the Royal for forty five years. I didn’t take promotion beyond that although I did a Masters and later a Doctorate, specialising in end of life care. I wanted to be on the wards and do my job, but I no longer could and they retired me.’  

Mr Manning scratches under his chin. ‘Who retired you?’

Glasgow West NHS Trust.

‘And what age where you?’

Ms Franks hesitates. ‘Sixty-five.’

The phone begins to ring. Mr Manning jerks his neck from left to right, right to left, exercising slack neck muscles, before picking up the receiver and banging it down. He holds shut his nostrils, bugling the air in and out and sitting up straighter, tries to sound jocular, ‘what did they give you for a retirement present? A clock’.

‘No, the latest iPhone. A very nice gift which I keep in a drawer as I’ve no use for it.’

Mr Manning pokes at the inside of his ear. Scratches at his head. ‘I’m not really sure what your case is. You retired at the mandatory retiring age. You have a progressive disease.’ He held up his hand in a stop sign as Ms Franks looks like butting in. ‘I don’t really see where you get this…figure’

‘£38 500’

‘yes.’

‘It’s for all the hours I’ve worked and not been paid for. The lunches I’ve missed. The two or three hours I’ve stayed after my contractual hours. The days and half days I’ve spent at work doing paper work and not being paid. And that figure doesn’t include the study leave that I accrued and was my due. £38 500 is a conservative figure. Hospitals seem so interested in balance sheets now I thought I’d give them another one to ponder.’

The phone rang and Mr Manning picks up the receiver. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ he says. He sniffs and looks at Ms Franks. ‘Look Dr Frank, you probably know better than me, what you are contracted and not contracted to do.’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘And so…’

‘There’s tens of thousands like me. Hundreds of thousands doing the jobs of two people, not able to care for patients in the way they should. We keep giving money to rich folk. I think we should start giving it to those that need it most. I don’t want the money for myself. I don’t care about the money, but money is the only thing these people listen to. We can no longer do the job safely. It’s that simple. I’ve been saying the same thing for ten years. Nobody listens.’

‘Quite so,’ he sounds unconvinced.

‘Think about it. Reckless vandalism. Tens of thousands like me. Our employers have a duty of care to us and there’s a proven link between higher cortisol levels, longer working hours and heart attacks and strokes. That’s hundreds of millions of pounds in potential damages. That’s a class action.’

The phone rings. He picks it up and slams down the receiver.