Monday. I, Dr Anthony Bradshaw, a seasoned cardiologist with more than sixty winters behind me, arrived at Fernleigh Manor in the hope of some much-needed rest. I thought, perhaps, I might even have a shave, put on a decent jacket, and enjoy one of those quaint social evenings with dubious live music and weak tea. One cant help but hope to mingle, even if well past forty (sixty, in truth but whos counting in such gentle company?).
Of all the interruptions to my peace, it was the sudden charge into my room by a woman of grand proportions that startled me. To describe her adequately would require the skills of a successful caricaturist. She belonged in a lecture on anatomy a veritable model for the Englishwoman consists of (pointer and all). Her lipstick, an alarming crimson, stamped the middle of her face like the wax seal of some Inquisition, her physique formidable somewhere in the region of fifteen stone.
She barely paused for breath, shrieking how fortunate it was that a renowned heart specialist, namely I, had come to this very retreat. The regular cardiologist wasof courseabsent, likely not expecting midnight infarctions among the clientele. The estate manager was even now rolling in a patient, and would I please come at once?
It was clear resistance was futile. Women like her accept no excuses: not that even a magical heart doctor can perform miracles, least of all with the help of a janitor and a nurse whose uniform looked suspiciously like a Frosty the Snowman costume.
So, down to the treatment room I go, hastily shaved and with barely a cup of tea in me. There, the estate managerhis eyes wildand a medical trolley await. On the trolley, pinned down by his medical notes, was a lacklustre, bearded man resembling a lumberjack stuck in Year Seven, the sort of fellow you find among research staff with a penchant for uncomfortable silence.
Hes delirious, reports the manager. Mumbling Rose, Rose, Rose thinks hes in a flower shop.
The nurse wraps a blood pressure cuff around the man, then cheerfully proclaims impending doom: Seventy over fifty and dropping. Thats not a blood pressure; thats the circumference of my arms and legs! She laughs heartily, setting my nerves on edge. According to his notes, 180 over 100 is usually his warm-up.
I quickly scan the room for the essentials when the most un-procedural sound interrupts me. The nurse is weeping. I ask whats wrong. I just feel so sorry for him! she sobs.
A twinge of unease stirs in me. Fetch the adrenaline! I bark, rubbing my hands with sanitizer. Do you even know what adrenaline looks like? But the nurse only wails more. I grab a syringe and draw up the emergency shot myself.
The estate manager gapes at the needle as if Id unsheathed a pirates cutlass. No seat has ever remained unperturbed at the sight of such a needle. He seems to fold in on himself, while the nurses sobs fill the room. For a moment, I consider snapping them to attention with a slap or even the five-kilo cast-iron lamp in the corner (St George Tames the Lions Angina): but common sense prevails. I demand order instead.
Discipline! Calm! Pull yourselves together! I holler.
At that moment, the bearded patient on the trolley sits bolt upright, eyes closed. The nurse presses her hand on his head, firmly anchoring him to the trolley. No larking about, sir, she scolds, the smelling salts are in the cupboard, naturally.
By now, the estate manager is so far gone he barely has a pulse. The bearded mans arm slips off the trolley again. Chest compressions! I order, dragging the manager out from under the trolley.
The nurse flips the man on his front, hikes up her skirt, and prepares to leap across the trolley with alarming enthusiasm. On his chest, nurse! CARDIAC compressions! Not a rugby tackle! I cry out.
She mounts the mans chest. The trolley creaks ominously. Air hisses from the patient like an old bicycle pump. I haul the estate manager up and prop him on the settee. Watching the nurse, I panic she will flatten him completely and pull her off. Both now sit on the edge in a daze: the estate managers trousers have slipped to his knees, the nurses skirt is riding up, both with cotton wool jammed in their nostrilsa picture-perfect A&E scene.
Just then the bearded man rises again, like a theatre seat slowly unfolding, his eyes still closed. His head turns towards the settee, and the estate manager collapses forwards, thumping his brow on the porcelain floor with a most photogenic burst of rays.
Ladies and gentlemen, the patient says in a measured tone, eyes still closed, I must earnestly request that you stop treating me
He proceeds to recount how hes a hereditary hypotensiveeveryone in his family has low blood pressure. Before snow, before rain, he deflates; a cup of espresso usually rights him. What doesnt help, though, is being squashed beneath a woman who could field a billiards tournament with her necklace. He was about to meet his ancestors, convinced his Rose would return from the loo to find shed have to bury him instead.
I check the notes in disbelief: Rose Yates. I recall thinking, upon arrival, that perhaps Id befriend some charming local lady. Now, all thoughts of romance are dashed.
Is this Roses file? I ask the nurse, waving the folder.
Its a file, she says flatly, cotton wool protruding from her nose.
This is not Rose, I mutter. More likely Leo Yates, at least.
As his doctor, you really ought to have picked up on that, she retorts.
I say I begin, but the man interrupts.
My wifes the patient. I simply brought her a bottle of kefir. She popped to the loo and left her notes. I started to feel faint, this man here whisked me onto the trolley, and here we are. I felt awful, but now Im marvellous. If you were to put a lighter beneath me, Id probably launch into low Earth orbit. Not sure what was in your syringe, doctor, but I shant be sleeping for a decade. Excellent for my next research project, at least.
When hed gone, the nurse piped up: Lets all agree we were never here.
For a moment, I longed to wallop her with that lamp. She quickly added, Ill look after the estate manager.
And so, not only did I fail to meet any sprightly local women at Fernleigh Manor, but I also discovered just how thoroughly a quiet evening could descend into farce.
