The Long Stand

Norbert

18

The Long Stand

Before I go any further, let me explain how the naming system works. England may not be the oldest civilized country on Earth, but it is the most sophisticated. Our traditions matter a great deal to us. Family used to be everything. We built an Empire upon it and a class system. We didn’t fight our neighbours like the heathen Scots or copulate with our sisters like the Welsh. We bred, not for love, but for wealth. A man aspired to marry into money, irrespective of status. The son of an earl would seek to marry the daughter of a duke. Minionshit with no hope of promotion would toady up to better paid females. The triangle player in an orchestra would court the highest ranked female violinist, and on it went, a constant striving for monetary gain through snobbery. Preservation of the most prestigious family name became the ultimate in one-upmanship – retaining the best of both the only compromise. Of course, someone still had to do the menial jobs, whoever they married, which made the ideology somewhat flawed.

Logically, a man with a double-barrelled surname marrying a woman with a double-barrelled surname would pass on four individual surnames to their offspring. The next generation would inherit eight, ad infinitum. Cheque books would be over a mile long. A signature would be longer than a novel. This is where class comes in. To use the example of my own family, my father was a Rockhampton-Scum who married a Smythe-Numpty. The name Rockhampton carried more weight than Scum (grandfather Scum was a bucket carrier for a one-armed window cleaner). The family Smythe were richer than the family Numpty, so the family name became Rockhampton-Smythe. If I ever marry, The Ministry of Arbitrary Genealogy will decide whether Rockhampton is more important than Smythe and match the winner with my wife’s principal name.

History doesn’t recall the exact date when double-barrelled surnames became compulsory; it was never written into the statute; it just evolved, and spread slowly across the world. As same sex marriages have been legal for centuries, the rules for cricketers and females with dysfunctional chromosomes are exactly the same. The Ministry’s decision is final and non-contestable, and once marriage and birth certificates have been signed, and the details entered into the system, there is no way out. An unofficial change of name would leave you exiled and penniless, unable to earn or claim benefit.

*

An older technician who looks like a dentist in a small white smock fastened up the throat walks into the lab. His face has more cracks in it than the baked mud of a dry riverbed in drought. Deeply etched worry lines run horizontally across his forehead and at the sides of his angry, piercing black eyes. Two deep ruts run vertically through his jowls to the curve of his chin, pursing his thin lips into a permanent scowl. His nose looks like someone has flattened it with an iron. The deviated septum has widened the right nostril and nearly blocked the left one. Other than in a mirror, I’ve never seen such an unhappy face.

‘I’ve turned that nobbing storeroom upside down,’ he says to GT. ‘We haven’t got one. We’re cock-tickled.’

I expect the women to cover their ears at such profane language, or burst into tears, or at the very least complain, but no one bats an eyelid.

‘Rube, this little drone is the new minionshit. He’s called Norbie.’

I hold out my hand. ‘You must be Ruben Steele-Mills, the chap that’s retiring soon? Good to meet you.’

He exchanges a glance with GT and ignores the gesture, indicating to me they are in collusion. Despite the smile on his face and lightness of tone, hate is still burning in GT’s eyes, and I know instinctively I have made a true enemy. He is obviously aware of why I’m here and, despite his looks and confidence and experience, he sees me as a serious threat. I find all of this scary, and yet mildly exhilarating.

‘Where can I get a coat like that?’

Ruben looks me up and down, sourly. ‘You can have mine when I get out of this festering turdhole.’

If this is what being a Senior Technician does to you, maybe the job isn’t worth fighting for.

GT turns to the bench behind him. ‘This is where we make up our staining solutions.’ The neck of a conical flask containing an orange liquid called eosin is clamped to a retort stand. A lit Bunsen burner, its yellow and blue flame flickering lackadaisically, stands beside it. ‘As you can see, the stand isn’t big enough to get the Bunsen underneath and the long stand has gone AWOL, simply vamoosed.’

‘I thought we had a spare in the stores,’ says Ruben, ‘but no such luck. We’re well and truly bum-tickled.’

‘I’m sure I’ve seen one in Immunology,’ the redhead pipes up.

‘Perhaps they, like, pilfered ours?’ says GT.

‘Wouldn’t put it past them,’ says the blonde.

Ruben grimaces at me. ‘Tell you what. This can be your first task as a valued member of the team. Go up to Immunology on P floor and tell them we’ve sent you for a long stand. Okay?’

I nod eagerly. ‘It will be my pleasure.’

*

The city hospital is an ugly concrete tower block, eighteen storeys high. The basement is A floor; the main entrance is on B floor and Haematology on E floor. I’m not going to climb the stairs all the way up to P floor, so I wait for a lift. Another guy, a radiographer judging by the uniform, gets in with me.

‘Morning Enid,’ he says.

The rattle of the doors and that horrible metallic voice saying “Doors closing. Mind the doors. Lift going up” makes me think I’ve misheard him. I am about to offer a greeting in return when I notice that instead of looking at me he’s staring into a CCTV camera at the back of the cage.

‘You sound like you’ve got a cold.’

‘Are we being watched by security?’

‘No, it’s Enid, the lift announcer.’

The cage rattles to a halt.

“H floor. Doors opening. Mind the doors.”

‘She definitely sounds a bit chesty today. Don’t you think?’

A nurse gets in.

“Doors closing. Mind the doors. Lift going up.”

As the nurse doesn’t offer a greeting to the lift, I keep quiet. The radiographer is clearly an idiot.

“K floor. Doors opening. Mind the doors.”

The nurse gets out.

“Doors closing. Mind the doors. Lift going up.”

‘You do realize it’s a recording,’ I say to the radiographer. ‘There isn’t actually a woman called Enid watching us from an office somewhere and talking into a microphone every time someone gets into and out of the lift. That’s just stupid.’

‘You’ll upset her, talking like that. Enid does a sterling job telling people which floor to get off on. I don’t know where we’d be without her.’

‘Does she operate all the lifts, twenty-four hours a day?’

‘Someone has to.’

“P floor. Doors opening. Mind the doors.”

‘You’re clearly out for a golden duck,’ I say under my breath as I walk out.

The Immunology receptionist smiles and buzzes me in.

A female Senior Technician approaches. ‘You must be Norbie? Come from Haematology for a long stand? We were told to expect you. Someone has gone to look for it. Won’t be long.’

‘Actually, no.’ My heart is beating out of my chest. ‘Out of courtesy I came to tell you that I didn’t come in on the last banana boat, and that I’m popping out for a couple of hours to do some shopping. If you snitch, I will be forced to report you and everyone downstairs to Mr Foote-Wharmer for what I construe to be bullying and time wasting. Have a pleasant day.’

I turn and walk back out into the lobby, feeling exceedingly pleased with myself and astonishingly proud of my courage. Where all this new found positivity is coming from, I have no idea. I press the button and wait for a lift. The doors open and I step jauntily inside. I press the button for E floor (I’m not really going to skive off) and wait for the doors to close, but nothing happens. I press the button again, but still it doesn’t light up. I press it a third time, along with the close door button. Nothing happens.

“Use the stairs you ugly shortbottomed grannytickler,” says Enid.