A Lesson in Poo

Norbert

12

A Lesson in Poo

We have to wait for Botcher John to manhandle a huge great cardboard box on a wheelie trolley out of the lift before we can get in.

‘I’ll be seeing you later on,’ he says.

Despite still trying to come to terms with a terminal illness, my heart flutters at this prospective good news. Maybe the inspection has finally persuaded him to adjust my hinges. In my world of constant misery, any crumb of comfort has to be embraced.

‘Your auntie has asked me to call round and fit an outside lock on a bedroom door. What’s that all about?’

Nunky’s bedroom, I bet. She is a vicious hyena. ‘I have no idea,’ I say, tipping back into misery as we enter the lift.

‘Good Lord,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer. ‘You even have the Macarbrough Stool Form Scale displayed in the lift?’

‘I always think it’s a good place to be educated, sir. I mean, it’s rude to stare at people in lifts, isn’t it? Especially women. They don’t like it. You need something to look at, to concentrate on, and what could be more informative than this?’ (It fills me with woe to lie to a man I look up to, but think about the choice – real life loolybells or pictures of turds? No contest, is it?)

‘Good point, Rockhampton-Smythe. I’ll get them put up in all our lifts.’

We arrive at the geriatric ward.

Mr Foote-Wharmer expands his chest and inhales. ‘Ahh, the smell of old people. What a wonderful and evocative aroma.’

We approach Ethel, one on either side of the bed. She looks at Mr Foote-Wharmer and then at me. I pray she doesn’t lift up her nightie. She holds out a hand. ‘Smarties.’

‘Sorry, Ethel, been a bit busy today, didn’t have time to buy any.’

‘Two of you, is there?’ She doesn’t wait for a reply. ‘Pass me that mug.’

It is on the cabinet on Mr Foote-Wharmer’s side of the bed. He hands it to her.

‘There you are, dear.’

Ethel pulls out her dentures, drops them in the mug and hands it back to him. ‘Okay then, which one of you wants gumming first?’

Peregrine Foote-Wharmer is an old pro, I’ll give him that. He hardly bats an eyelid. He explains, like you would to a child, that the nice man has come to take some blood out of her arm.

‘Rubbish. He’s one of my regulars. Thruppence ha’penny for a sniff in the cabbage patch.’

 I don’t know how, but I hit the vein first time despite the tremors and even remember to go through the formality of asking Ethel her name and date of birth. ‘The Dowager Duchess of Muffshire, Wank Holiday Monday,’ she answers.

We move on to Tommy.

‘I know who you are,’ he screams at Mr Foote-Wharmer, and bursts into tears. ‘You’ve come to tell me the bad news, haven’t you? He’s dead, isn’t he? Killed in action.’

‘His younger brother died in the War. Tommy thinks I am him, come to say goodbye before setting off for the trenches.’

‘Did he win any medals?’ Tommy whimpers. ‘Did he die a hero?’

Mr Foote-Wharmer touches his shoulder. ‘No Tommy, the war is over. Your brother survived. He’s back home. He’s here, look, come to visit you.’

Tommy grabs my hand and kisses it, but then, like a tap, he turns off and snaps at Mr Foote-Wharmer: ‘Who the ruddy hell are you?’

Mr Foote-Wharmer reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘My card.’

Tommy takes it and stares at it for ages without speaking.

Eventually he looks up. ‘It’s a postcard of shit.’

Mr Foote-Wharmer smiles. ‘No, Tommy, it’s a pictorial representation of the Macarbrough Stool Form Scale. It has made me famous the world over.’

‘You’re world famous for photographing shit?’

‘Yes, Tommy.’

By now all the nursing staff, ancillary staff and those patients able to get out of bed are gathered round. It isn’t every day they get a famous visitor. The last one had been Snuffles the Clown who, as it turned out, was looking for paediatrics rather than geriatrics. He’d been called away, still wearing costume and make-up, from a children’s party to attend the birth of his daughter. To make up for the disappointment, he did at least produce a bunch of flowers from his sleeve and presented them to Agnes.

Mr Foote-Wharmer hitches a buttock on the side of the bed. ‘You see, Tommy, the condition of your motions can tell an awful lot about a person’s state of health. Unfortunately many patients and even a lot of doctors and nurses find it a very delicate and embarrassing subject to talk about.’

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd.

Mr Foote-Wharmer beams. ‘So I invented this scale and portrayed every type of stool commonly passed.’

‘How does it work?’ says Tommy.

‘It’s self-diagnostic, it couldn’t be simpler. The nurse or doctor hands you one of these cards. You simply point to the photograph that most closely matches what you see in your toilet bowl. The health professional can tell whether that is good or bad.’

‘Wow!’

‘Why haven’t we got any on the ward?’ Blethyn demands.

‘Hear! Hear!’ chorus the rest.

‘I’ve put posters up everywhere,’ I say.

‘I’ve never seen any,’ Blethyn says, ‘apart from today.’

‘My auntie just rips them down. She doesn’t believe it is relative to, or representative of, the average antenatal patient. Not dark enough or hard enough.’

‘This chart does not include the effects of drugs on the composition or colouration of stool,’ Mr Foote-Wharmer explains. ‘That would require a toilet roll.’

He lets out one of his barking guffaws.

Mildred pushes through to the front and shoves a bedpan under his nose.

‘Here then, genius, what do you make of that?’

Everyone groans in disgust and steps back a pace, but Mr Foote-Wharmer just smiles and takes it.

‘When did you pass this, madam?’

‘Just now. I haven’t even wiped my bottom yet.’ She points to an ancillary nurse. ‘That’s her job.’

Mr Foote-Wharmer tilts the pan back and forth and inhales deeply. Everyone takes another step back and simultaneously issues the sort of communal groan you might expect at a public beheading.

‘Type two. Sausage-like but lumpy. Hard and impacted. Typical organic constipation.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Mildred complains. ‘I’ve been trying to drop that grannytickler since midnight. My sodding ring’s on fire.’

‘The maximum width of the anal aperture when fully dilated is three point five centimetres. This big boy is at least four. Are all your stools like this?’

‘Tickle, yes.’

‘You no doubt suffer from anal laceration and haemorrhoidal prolapse then?’

‘They dangle down like bleeding cherries.’

‘Do you give this lady additional fibre?’ he asks no one in particular.

‘Yes, we do,’ says the Sister in charge.

‘Well cease doing so immediately. It is counter productive in her condition. The fibre expands even more and will lead to further obstruction, hernia or even rupture of the intestines. A normal stool takes seventy-two hours to form and pass through. This jobby has been festering up there for weeks. I bet you suffer from flatulence, don’t you madam?’

Staff and patients are in wholehearted and boisterous agreement on this, drowning out whatever Mildred has to say.

As the hubbub dies down, Mr Foote-Wharmer says to her: ‘Are you in the Colorectal Recovery Programme?’

‘I’m on the gin rummy team and first reserve for Monopoly.’

‘I don’t even know what a Colorectal Recovery Programme is,’ says Sister. ‘What does it mean?’

I step in. ‘It means getting admitted to a cottage hospital when you get old is not a good idea.’

‘Shut up, you puny little runt.’

‘I’ll send you the literature,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer, pulling his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Anyway, lesson over, I’m afraid. I have to get some lunch and then move on to my next inspection.’

We arrive back in the lab.

‘Just one more formality,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer, opening the blood register. ‘Crikey, you don’t transfuse much blood here, do you? The last entry is six weeks ago.’

‘All the pre-eclampsia and placenta praevia patients are transferred to city hospital. It’s mainly the odd anaemic geriatric for top-up.’ 

He closes the book. ‘What is the code for the bank?’

‘I’ll give you one guess,’ I say, boldly.

Mr Foote-Wharmer smiles and presses three ones. He pulls the door open a fraction and pauses.

‘Do you know, Rockhampton-Smythe, I did an inspection over in Pidlington last month. Inside their Blood Bank I found milk, orange juice, various low fat spreads, yogurts, fruit and numerous confectioneries.’

‘Really?’ I say, nervously.

‘Of course, I went ballistic and wrote the laboratory technician up. He’s facing a disciplinary hearing next week. And to be honest, I don’t fancy his chances. I will not tolerate any excuse for allowing such a flagrant breach of regulations.’

He pulls open the door before I can speak. His bulky frame completely obstructs my view. All I can see is a halo of yellow light surrounding him like an avenging angel. I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable.

‘Tickle our Lord!’ he gasps. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

I think I shouldn’t care. I’ll be dead within the hour. What does it matter if I get the sack?

But I do care. I can’t help it. I’ve let myself down again. I am a thief and a liar and a criminal and a pervert and a bad person, but there must be something inside of me, this craving for respect, this desire to be true to myself, and perhaps to others, however much they despise me, otherwise I wouldn’t be hurting like this, dying of shame. 

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I whimper. ‘I know I’ve let you down. You’ll have my resignation before you leave.’

He stands aside. ‘Look at it, man, just look at it.’

I open my eyes. In their proper place in the top left-hand corner are the two bags of O Negative. Stacked neatly in the bottom drawer are eight gel packs. The shelves in-between are as bare as the bacon counter in a Jewish deli. I step closer. Everything gleams and there isn’t a crumb or stain in sight.

‘If I was a cricketer I’d give you a hug, young shaver. This is the cleanest Blood Bank I have ever seen. I tell you, Rockhampton-Smythe, you are wasted here.’

‘I take my responsibilities seriously, sir, and I rule this laboratory with a rod of iron. That antenatal rabble knows better than to mess with me. They wouldn’t dare pollute my fridge with personal items. I wouldn’t stand for it.’

Why am I lying again? What is the matter with me?

He gently punches my shoulder. ‘I like a man with spunk.’

My problem is that with all the temptations this job places in my path, it’s hard to hold on to it for long.

‘Come on, young shaver, I’ll buy you lunch. Is the food worth eating?’

‘Actually, the staff canteen is pretty good, and cheap.’

‘Settled then.’

I pause at the junction by the lift. ‘Would you excuse me for just one second, sir?’

I hurry down the side corridor and poke my head into the staff tea room. I see instantly that the huge package we’d seen John wheeling out of the lift is a new fridge.

‘It finally arrived, then?’ I say, to whoever might deign to answer.

‘Yes,’ says Florence. ‘We’ve already emptied all our stuff out the bank, save walking miles. And I flipping well cleaned it for you cos I knew you had that inspection with that funny little man what likes shit. I figure you owe me big time.’

‘Would you like a great big kiss, Flo?’

‘I would rather lick a slug.’

I nod. ‘Thought so, but thanks anyway.’