Naughty Daydream

Norbert

Chapter 4

Naughty Daydream

Before reaching my dingy, windowless laboratory (which is hidden away at the far end of the ante natal clinic, overlooking the bins) you must first pass through a small anteroom. This houses a Blood Bank, which, unlike a kitchen fridge, is alarmed to go off if the temperature dips below two degrees centigrade or above six. To prevent curious patients taking a peek inside, a code must be entered on a keypad to open the door. Based on the general level of intelligence at St Kylie’s, the digits are 1 - 1 - 1.

Two bags of universal donor O Negative blood for emergency use are stored inside at all times and replaced every month. Never in my seven years in the job has the O Neg been used. All the high-risk antenatal patients are admitted to the city hospital in Macarbrough before term, and though complications do occasionally arise, no one has yet bled out in our delivery room. The only patients we transfuse are anaemic geriatrics, for whom blood is crossmatched and delivered from the city hospital as and when requested. Two bright red canvas boxes lined with insulating Styrofoam are stored beneath a bench next to the fridge. These are used to convey blood to and from the bank. Gel packs, which keep the blood cool during transport, are kept in the bottom of the fridge. Law allows only blood and gel packs to be stored inside a Blood Bank.

(One of the red boxes was stolen last summer. The despicable thief was caught a week later on the beach in Macarbrough, using it as a picnic box. As the words “Blood in transit” are stencilled on the outside, the culprit was charged with vampirism, but this was dropped when his lawyer argued that the arrest had taken place during daylight.)

I open the bank and remove the milk, carry on through into the lab and switch on the kettle. I fish my mug out of the sink, rinse it under the tap and reach onto the shelf for the tea caddy. The tin substituted in its place has a black skull and crossbones motif inside an orange square and is labelled potassium cyanide. I remember making up a batch of cyanmet yesterday, but I’m positive I placed the deadly container back in the poison cupboard. Or had I? This guilt trip over the burglary has been playing on my mind for weeks. (The trip is to prison, where I hear proper men incarcerated for long periods readily turn into cricketers and use people like me for batting practice.) The poison cupboard obviously doesn’t have a key (You already know my position on locked key cupboards.), but surely no one would be foolish enough to play such a stupid prank? I could have died.

I find the tea caddy on my desk, which is tucked into the back corner below a hatch, through which samples and correspondence can be left without having to traipse all the way through clinic.

Every morning about this time someone from the wards delivers a list of inpatients requiring blood tests. My bottom has barely touched the seat when the door of the hatch explodes inwards with such force it slams into the already dinted wall. A slightly misaligned catch hinders a smooth opening, so everyone familiar with the door knows to push hard. Some people kick it open. Despite submitting hundreds of chitties to Maintenance over the years, no one has ever turned up to fix the problem. Low priority they always say. Inevitably, at least twice a week, I am sitting at my desk supping tea when the door crashes open. Need I say more?

Nurse Blethyn from Geriatrics pokes her head through. ‘Morning, you vulgar little oik, only four on the list today.’

Blethyn isn’t the prettiest nurse in the hospital, but the way she fills her uniform reminds me of the perfect symmetry of sand dunes. She has nice legs, too. Thinking of Blethyn in this way transports me into daydream mode. Instead of sitting at my desk, I am walking down the corridor. I turn the corner and see the bottom half of Nurse Blethyn, the hem of her uniform hitched up, exposing black stocking tops and the sensual sandy mounds of her buttocks. Instead of Blethyn talking to me through the hatch, it is Auntie sitting at the desk. I stop behind Blethyn and unzip my trousers. Bendy bunny springs out, ready for action. I widen Blethyn’s stance with my feet and pull her tiny white panties aside. She gasps as my missile thrusts into her tushywushy. I hear Auntie say: ‘Are you all right, dear?’

‘I’m fine,’ Blethyn moans. ‘It was just a stab of exquisite pain, but now I am filled with joy.’

I place my palms flat against the wall and pound her like a road drill.

‘If you want to come in, dear, it’s much easier to walk round the long way,’ Auntie says.

‘I’m half way to heaven,’ Blethyn yells.

‘You’re almost in my lap,’ Auntie complains.

I’m just reaching my spurty pumps when a shrill clanging brings me back to reality. Blethyn has left. I gaze through to the anteroom and see Auntie holding open the door of the Blood Bank, a carton of yogurt in her hand and a livid expression on her scarlet face. (I should explain that an anteroom is one giving entry into a larger room, not a room with your auntie in, though on this occasion it is both.)

‘You filthy little swine,’ she spits.

With my left hand I am kneading my groin with the dexterity of a pastry chef. In my right I am holding a couple of tissues, which I’ve been using to wipe the spilt tea off my shirtfront.

Downtrodden victims of bullying quickly learn to think on their feet. I can also do it sitting down. Panicking not, I say: ‘Auntie, I think I’ve got crabs. It’s really itchy.’

She slams the fridge shut and presses the mute button on the control panel to silence the alarm.

‘Nobody living under my roof would have crabs,’ she roars. ‘And when we’re at work you call me Sister.’

‘Sorry, Sister.’

‘Why are you wearing your spare glasses?’

‘Err … Nunky accidentally trod on them. Because I don’t have a nightstand the only place I can put them is on the floor beside my bed.’

‘Alongside the tissue box,’ she says, meaningfully.

‘My sinuses are bad. You know that.’

(To cut down on the number of tissues, I am now using a handkerchief to catch the love custard. I rinse it in the morning and hide it. This, though, is proving to be a logistical nightmare, as I now have three on the go at all times: the other two are for my runny nose and to wrap my spending money in. Reaching to the carpet in the middle of the night to blow my nose has resulted in several unappetizing mishaps.)

‘Your uncle came into your room again?’

‘He likes to read to me. He’s started on books about Barry Pigwart-Potter, who, if Nunky’s got it right, is an amateur magician who wears Armani and has a pet weasel called Ron. Evidently there are seven of them.’

‘Weasels called Ron?’

‘No, books.’

‘You’re twenty-five years old, for crying out loud.’

Two midwives arrive to investigate the fridge alarm.

‘We might have to send my nephew home,’ Auntie (I mean Sister) says to them. ‘He appears to have a groin full of crabs.’

I stand up and reach for my labcoat.

‘Can’t be,’ says Florence, the ginger one with freckles. ‘Crabs don’t cause that much swelling.’

Both midwives laugh.

Auntie scowls. ‘I’ll be sending the patients through in five minutes. Button up that coat to hide your disgrace and get ready.’ Just before she and her yogurt depart, she says: ‘And trust me, you haven’t heard the last of this.’

Florence opens the bank and removes an apple. The other one, whose name escapes me because she’s flat-chested, says: ‘Is that pot of cottage cheese still in there?’

With malicious sneers in my direction, they leave with their breakfasts.