PART THREE:
Sitting and waiting for the 7.45am train to depart for London Paddington for his interview, Quentin wiped condensation from the window and looked out.
It was raining and the morning was cold, grey and dismal with a fresh wind that, before the rain arrived had blown mixed detritus into a soggy pile beneath the smoker’s designated trash bin. Why, Quentin asked himself for the thousandth time, did smokers and gum chewers still top his list of those with the foulest habits and God-awful breath?
The view through the train window was a perfect match for Quentin’s mood. He had a headache and had been suffering the most horrendous nightmares of late though, to be fair, Sinnick had warned him about his headaches at their last meeting in the Red Lion.
“What do you expect, Quent? Every night you get yourself in a right state reading the papers. If you insist on reading everything for balance then don’t get mad reading about human rights without them once mentioning human responsibilities or worker’s rights without even a passing thought about the rights of employers. And all the while your blood pressure’s rising, you’re stuffing your face with over-ripe Stilton and strong coffee.”
“But how do you explain the recurring nightmare, Sinnick?”
“You mean the one about the short woman in a pin-striped suit and bowler hat who follows you into the gent’s toilet at Paddington station?”
“That one especially.”
“Are you sure it’s a woman?”
“It must be. It’s the way she stands next to me and peers over the partition.”
“It’s a man, Quent. He’s transitioning.”
“I’ve seen him before – he was once a short woman in a black mini skirt.”
“Then he’s already transitioned but is transitioning back again. You must be more tolerant, Quent. It’s her rights.”
“What about my rights, Sinnick? Don’t I have a right to punch his eyes out?”
“It might be a woman, Quent. Where would that get you?”
“But she’s in the men’s room for God’s sake. And then there’s her really disgusting habit. Do you know what she does? She………….”
“Don’t, Quent. Please stop. You described it once before. Bowler hats should only be used as headwear. My stomach is churning already. Just one question. Does she undo her fly buttons to urinate into the hat?”
There seemed no end to stress-related problems. After describing his dream, Quentin had turned to his traumatic election defeat but, as always, Sinnick had shrugged, Charlie told him to get over it and Paddy had agreed telling him to “join the rest of us riff raff.”
Oh yes. How quick and easy it has been for the mighty Quentin Kelp to fall. Since his shock defeat, Quentin had, mostly in private, been inconsolable. What on earth was happening to the world? What in heaven’s name did the public see in a twenty-six-year-old, female College lecturer with a pony tail and beige, hand-knitted cardigan who taught creative writing? How could anyone called Prudence Bottomley ever have enough ambition to become Prime Minister? And with her plan to provide free care, accommodation and pampers for everyone over sixty whether they needed them or not?
“For God’s sake,” Quentin had bellowed at a pre-election husting in the Assembly Rooms. “People are living to eighty-five at least. How the hell is the state going to afford bed, breakfast, evening meal and diapers for everyone after they’ve retired?”
Clearly, though, the electorate had thought it would be very nice to live free of charge for thirty years or more in state-run hotels with all meals cooked by a TV chef. But Quentin now realized his real downfall had come when he announced he’d rather move his Zimmer frame to a tent on the Common and die of frost bite than go and live with Prudence Bottomley and the other gormless zombies he’d been trying to please for the last five years. Perhaps it hadn’t been one of his best speeches but it was better than being arrested for throttling Prudence live on the podium.
But, right now, Quentin was on his way to a job interview and, despite his neatly brushed hair, pristine, navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie and well-polished Church’s lace-ups on his feet, Quentin felt more like a pimply, teenager in low slung pants, hoodie and Nikes and carrying his one and only achievement in life – a crumpled copy of a school certificate showing some proficiency in basic numeracy.
He fidgeted in his seat. It felt harder than usual but he’d forgotten he was now one of the riffraff. No longer was he a First-Class passenger but in one of the seats for ordinary men, defeated men and dismal failures. So, he continued to stare despondently out of the window and what did he see on that cold, grey and damp morning?
Quentin found himself staring at the same thing the other riff-raff were staring at: a young woman trotting along the platform wearing red high-heeled shoes. But as everyone watched, she stopped hurrying and switched to a casual walk. Quentin could hear the slower clip-clop of her heels through the closed window,
He said, "Mmm, nice," to himself because that was what came naturally, but then he checked his watch. It was 7.59am, but the driver of the train or whoever gave the go ahead to depart, seemed oblivious. The train seemed to be waiting for her. It had got him thinking.
Like everyone else already on the train he had woken on time, showered, dressed, and even tried to be civil to Mrs. Kelp. He’d driven, parked the car and arrived, albeit panting and stressed, to be there before 7.45 am. But this daintily clad creature trotting beneath the red umbrella with her red bag strung across her shoulder, her neat grey suit and her long black hair tied in a red bow had decided that the rest of her fellow commuters would have to wait for her to board. Quentin took another look at his watch.
It was 8.01 am when he heard the door slam and he wondered if the train would now grant her a minute or so to find a seat and make herself comfortable. He sniffed and picked up his newspaper but was unable to concentrate. Something felt very wrong here.
If it had been him arriving a minute late and sweating in his sensible lace-ups, navy suit and black umbrella, the train operators would had seen him coming and deliberately slammed the doors shut. What's more the passengers already on board would not have watched in admiration but grinned and nodded at one another in appreciation of the treatment handed out to their ex – no, let’s be frank, their recently and heavily defeated - Member of Parliament.
Quentin could hear the comments now. "Serve the stupid old codger right, thinking he was so bloody important. I hope the wind turns his umbrella inside out. Give us all a good laugh."
The train moved off and Quentin watched the woman smiling sweetly at nearly every passenger as if she was a majority shareholder of the train operator or a well-known celebrity that everyone should know and that it was quite right that the train’s departure time had been adjusted accordingly.
She finally settled herself next to a man wearing a brown corduroy jacket. She smiled at him with glossy red lips as if he, too, must know her celebrity status. She took out a pink, glittery phone from the red bag and pressed something as if to command it to wake up.
Quentin glanced at the corduroy jacket and untidy mop of grey hair and recognized a partner in the town’s main architect practice. The man smiled at his fellow passenger and probably, Quentin thought, checked her knees. He then nodded a polite “Good Morning”, moved his copy of the Guardian a fraction so as not to intrude on her space and went back to reading the front page. He was too polite to comment on her late arrival or the train’s late departure.
But it wasn’t just the men who’d been watching as she settled and pulled her skirt down a fraction, and it hadn’t been just the men watching this neat spectacle daintily tiptoeing her way along the platform. Women had been watching too. And Quentin’s analysis was that there were two quite separate reasons for the wiping of the windows for a clearer view. The men had looked, quickly decided she was a reasonable contender for mating purposes if the opportunity arose and returned to their phones and morning papers.
The women, on the other hand, Quentin decided, were far more analytical. Indeed, he'd seen shaking of heads suggesting thoughts like: "Mmm, asking for it, stupid tart. Nice pair of shoes though. Wonder where she got the handbag." That sort of thing.
That was it, Quentin concluded. The men didn't even notice her handbag or her shoes. They just did a quick summing up, took a quick, imaginary X ray image and returned to the real world. Men cared about her physical health and wellbeing. Men mentally undressed her to check not only her assets but for hidden faults and blemishes. Not so the women. For them it was the outside, the superficial, the body adornments, the handbag, the skirt, the jacket, the earrings, the hairstyle, the lipstick and the height of the heels. They didn't care whether she might trip on them and hurt herself. Some probably hoped she would. Men would have rushed to help. Women would have sniffed, smirked and walked on by.
So, what was it about a woman and their shoes, handbags, lipstick and make-up?
Quentin put his newspaper to one side and a smile at last crossed his beleaguered face. Riff raff no longer, Quentin decided. This was to be his new venture – a bestselling book on his experiences living as a woman in the modern age. And, after all was said and done, no-one could object or make snide comments without repercussions such as arrest for hate crime, homophobia, gender discrimination and a long host of other modern sins. Quentin would join the LGBQT community - or whatever it was called - not as a full-blown member but as an experiment. He cancelled his interview, got off at the first station and took the next train back to Krupton to buy a pair of red high-heeled shoes.
Paddy read it but Sinnick wrote it.
Sinnick’s poetry, praised by Quentin, Charlie and Paddy for its originality and poignant relevance to life and white, middle aged men in particular, gave him that extra dimension to his daily life.
If it was ridiculed by Mrs. Sinnick when she found a discarded draft in the trash bin it was like water off a duck’s back. Just as Paddy knew the anatomy of a Dover Sole and the poems of Seamus Heaney, Sinnick knew human anatomy and wrote on miracles of engineering arising from accidents, about art and sculpture arising from periods of madness, about scientific discoveries made sitting under apple trees, about words written on sinking ships, in country churchyards and in lush meadows with views of golden daffodils. Mostly, though, he wrote about being a doctor in a society where the only people respected were the winners of X Factor, those who gathered likes on social media and who covered themselves in tattoos.
But something was still missing from Sinnick’s life.
"I need something fresh to get my teeth into,” he told Freud almost every day. “Something to spice up my life, a distraction from the stifling routine. Do you realise I have dealt with two thousand one hundred and fifty-eight sore throats in the last twenty years?”
It was pre-opening time and Sinnick had decided to carry out his occasional unannounced check on what the early morning cleaners did when no-one was around. The number of discarded tea bags was an indicator. Unfolded scraps of paper from his waste basket and cigarette ends and ash outside in the cotoneaster was another. And who paid for these early morning shysters who tuned into Radio 2 and forgot to retune to Classic FM? Sinnick. That’s who. So, he sat at Mrs. Pettifer’s desk in the main office desperately holding back sobs, not out of shame but because tears might ruin Mrs. Pettifer’s piles of spread sheets.
“Should we brainstorm some more ideas?” Freud asked trying to be friendly and helpful.
Sinnick struck the desk with his head so hard that Mrs P’s tub of Nivea hand cream fell from the shelf.
"Shhhh! We can’t say brainstorm in here, Freud. I can’t even say that Polly-Anne Druss is lazy even though I’ve watched her fall asleep doing her nails. Oh no. I have to say with great understanding that today she’s just a tiny bit motivationally deficient. On the other hand, I’m a mean old has-been, who doesn’t understand human feelings, Freud.”
“So sad.”
“I can’t even tell old George Carter about his body odour and personal hygiene even when his armpits reek of fried onions and his smell pursues him along the corridor and lingers in my room for a week. Oh no. We can’t mention the foul-smelling unwashed living amongst us, Freud. We can’t even refer to body odour as BO any longer because Mrs Pettifer won’t allow it. I must, instead advise George to address his non-discretionary fragrance so as not to upset him. Can you believe it?
“George Carter’s seventy-nine, Freud. I’ve known him for thirty years. He lives alone in a flat with an old Labrador dog as arthritic and wheezy and smelly as George. He couldn’t care less if I tell him he stinks to high heaven. He’d just grin and joke that he’s sweaty because he’s been at it all night like a rampant stallion with the woman next door. We’d have a good laugh; I’d then pat his sticky old shoulders out of affection and give the corridor and my office a quick spray with Lavender air freshener.
“According to Mrs P I’m just a mean old has-been, who doesn’t understand human feelings. But I’m going to get my own back. I’ll ban the word Scrooge, Freud. I’ll say I feel mortally offended being referred to as Scrooge every time I mention the number of paperclips we use. Calling someone Scrooge will become as bad as calling them fat or lazy. I’ll get the word black-listed, Freud, just you watch.”
“You can’t say black-listed.”
“In that case I’ll just say listed.”
“Mrs P will then want to know which list to put it on?”
“Then I’ll ask her to make a list of a list.”
“A list of a list?”
“That’s it, Freud. She can prepare a spreadsheet.”
“You’re wasting time, Sinnick.”
“Everything’s a waste of time, Freud.”
“Would you say you waste time and effort on - what shall we call it? – poetry?”
"Some. But I have spasms you see - no, no, I'm not allowed to say spasms. I have episodes - no, I can't say that either. I have periods. I can still say I have periods because they use the expression all the time. There are short periods of each day, Freud, when I find myself talking in rhyme. But being creative takes valuable time. Instead of naps I fill short gaps by being witty. Every hour another ditty. You see what I mean?”
Sinnick, assuming that Freud was sitting comfortably inside his head, nodding in agreement, continued.
"It's the patients,” he went on, “It’s the other medical staff. It’s the women in the office. It’s the unrealistic expectations of society and the world at large. It's the Health Trust members who lean over my shoulder checking that I'm using a vaginal speculum without interfering in a patient's privacy and nagging me over statistics and budgets and finances. Christ Almighty, one of the board members is the Bishop who struggles to add up his Sunday collection money. He's so behind the times that in his weekly sermons he calls for shrift by watching pennies and shillings."
“Are you saying he doesn't present a particularly modern outlook to his flock?”
"Freud, my friend, the man and his friends have barely moved forward since the crucifixion. He learned his trade from the Book of Genesis and his catch phrases from the scribblings of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. He studied science under Archimedes and arithmetic under Aristotle but failed both."
“So, he's not up to double entry book-keeping, then.”
"And yet he's got more hassocks than I've got clean shirts. And if it was you or me carrying a seven-foot-long gilded stick with a hook on the end we'd be arrested for possession of a dangerous weapon. And as for his hat...."
“What's wrong with his hat?
"It's a metre high, that's what. What would patients think if I was to welcome them here with my stethoscope poised, my digital sphygmomanometer fully charged and pretending to be serious wearing a hat like a gold-plated traffic cone on my head? You think they'd take me seriously? If our religious leaders want to be listened to then I suggest they start wearing ordinary clothing and ditch the ridiculous pantomime costumes.
“And then there are the patients with tattoos. I’m so fed up with them, Freud. I……”
Sinnick wiped his furrowed brow and emitted an odd, guttural choke - the sign of another sob about to burst from his lungs – before continuing. “By the time they’re covered in them from head to toe the fashion changes and they come in here wanting them removed. Last week I had a woman weeping over a tattoo of a desert cactus on the inside of one thigh and rose thorns on the other.”
“What was her problem?”
“Jokes at her expense, Freud. Something about pricks should be inside not outside.”
“No, I don’t get it either.”
“If there's one thing everyone should do each morning it's clean their ears, Freud. But it’s all about the outside, you see. Superficiality is the new reality. If it can’t be seen, it’s never been. They can’t see it but I do when I’m required to peer inside. I wrote to the Health Secretary about dirty ears but, as usual, got no reply.”
“Was that the letter headed ‘Waxing Lyrical' and signed A. Sinnick?”
“And please don’t mention internal politics and women. Did you that Mrs. P once organised a meeting to discuss tea bags? How can it take an hour to decide whether we should order ones with string or ones without? Do I need to overhear a discussion about divorces when I’ve got a patient in my office about to have a coronary? Do I need to listen to pleas for understanding for taking time off due to family arguments, kids, headaches and Christmas shopping? Do I need to know about patient’s handbags or the extortionate price of Jimmy Shoes when they’re only here for their ears to be syringed?
“George Carter couldn’t care less about anything. He’s been wearing the same shoes and socks for thirty years. Women bring everything to work just like they carry everything around in their bags.
“And even when I try to engage, I get told off. I asked one-woman patient, in all politeness and interest, what she did for a job and got shrieked at for making an assumption that having a job and career was more important than looking after kids and home? On the other hand, I get scolded by Mrs. P for not making small talk by asking women what they do for a job?”
Sinnick’s voice rose two octaves as he imitated Mrs. Pettifer. ‘It’s not just you men who have careers, Doctor Sinnick. It is us women who keep this male-dominated world on the straight and narrow. Show some interest or I’ll need to mark you down for poor interpersonal skills.’
His normal voice resumed. “Do I really need to keep a box of tissues handy for every time they cry when I’m far closer to sobbing my heart out than they are, Freud?”
“So, it’s women, isn’t it? They are the problem.”
How intuitive was Freud? How understanding? But how unbelievably slow at narrowing things down to a single cause.
Sadly, perceptive though he was, Freud was only a mirage. How intuitive could mirages be? Freud was a hallucination, an apparition, a fantasy. Sinnick suffered from many things but the phantasmagoria was both a help and a hindrance. But then: “Does no-one other than me ever ask about your welfare, Sinnick? What you do? What you think? How you feel? If you’re in pain, physically or mentally?”
The question was posed with such a touch of male kindness and sensitivity that Sinnick almost wept. “Only Quentin, Paddy and Charlie,” he sniffed.
“Are they supportive?”
“Oh yes.”
“What about Belinda?”
“Who?”
“Your wife.”
“Oh, yes. No. It’s positive influence that I’m seeking, Freud. Not the negative or the status quo. I suppose I’m seeking change through a change in myself.”
“So, what influence would you like? Government Minister? Union official? Health Trust Board member? Parish Priest? Professional footballer? Ageing rock musician?”
"None of those, Freud. All are insignificant, self-important upstarts. They should offer me a leading role in preventing world destruction - an honorary professorship and then chairmanship of the UN's Oblivion Detection Department, ODD. It's only right that I'm put in charge, of anything to do with ODD matters, after all I have written extensively about oblivion in that the end of the human race is blindingly obvious."
“So, if it's a new challenge you're after it has to show some real benefits to mankind.”
"We don’t call it mankind any more, Freud. They don’t like it. You must catch up. That aside, it's about changes through direct action, telling the truth, pointing out the blindingly obvious and painting a horrific picture of impending doom unless everyone gets off their arses and does something.”
“Starting with yourself, Sinnick?”
“I suppose so.”
Perhaps it was the early morning start or his poor night’s sleep but Sinnick fell asleep with his mouth open, dribbling onto Mrs. P’s cervical smear statistics.
But Sinnick’s brain never slept. Freud was always there: a tiny man with the face of Albert Einstein and the body of Rumpelstiltskin in the dress of a miniature fighter pilot, listening, feeling, watching screens and twiddling knobs. Sinnick’s biggest fear was that Freud would someday leave him just by pressing the ejector seat button.
"Sermo lapsus - of course,” Sinnick cried out in his sleep. “That's it. Sermo to speak or talk, as in the Sermon on the Mount and Lapsus a mistake. Sermo lapsus. Talking to oneself. That'll do. No one will check."
A dreamy vision of a patient then grew in Sinnick’s mind: a busty, middle-aged woman in a low-cut frock with blue eyes, high heels, perfect white teeth and long, golden hair like a fifty-year-old Rapunzel. She was smiling broadly through bright red lipstick as if Rumpelstiltskin had just performed his magic on her. “You see her Freud?”
"Yes. Nice feet. What about her?”
"I've just finished examining her on the couch."
“And?”
As Sinnick’s dream went deeper, his mouth opened wider. "Yes, madam. I did mutter something. I said you've got pancreatic cancer but you'll receive confirmation by email, not from me your doctor but from Mrs Pettifer the office manager. Cancer of whatever organ is a problem I admit but we all have our crosses to bear."
The woman hurled a saucepan full of thick, yellow custard at Sinnick’s head. His tongue emerged to taste it and he dribbled another spoonful pf saliva this time onto Mrs. P’s prostate cancer stats.
"My apologies, madam. But I myself also suffer from a chronic condition. It is called Sermo lapsus. It means I occasionally converse with myself. It's an extremely rare affliction, known to affect those with a high IQ like Albert Einstein. Don't worry. I'm harmless enough. And, anyway, this is only a dream. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The woman now spoke though not in words but in spreadsheets. They poured from between her red lips like a fast, digital printer. "I assume you're receiving some sort of medication for it, Doctor. It's not right that women patients are examined by seriously deranged white, middle-aged men."
"Medication, madam? Never. I am proud to say that Sermo Lapsus is an honour bestowed on the few."
"Well I've never heard of it before."
Her voice is like an African parrot and her lips have become a sharp, curved beak.
"That, madam, is because it's so rarely bestowed. Did you not learn Latin at school, madam?"
The parrot shrieks. "So Sermo Lapsus also refers to blatant bloody liars and you don't really mean I've got pancreatic cancer. Oh my God!"
"Blatant, deliberate lying, madam, is quite wrong. It is something to be frowned upon and is referred to in medical circles as........ah......Sermo non veritas. Check your email. A far better person, a woman, will get back to you on the cancer."
Something wakes Sinnick. It is the sound of the front door. He raises his head, wipes the drenched pile of spread sheets with his hand and jumps up. It’s Mrs. Pettifer so he hums a little tune – the second bar of Pop Goes the Weasel which quickly changes to Singing in the Rain as he sees water dripping from Mrs. P’s clear plastic hat.
"Raining again Mrs. P? I need to get a hat like that. They look so......effective."
Mrs. P ignores him. The elastic of her hat is pulled from beneath her chin and the rain drops shaken. The dripping umbrella is stood in the rusty bucket for wet umbrellas. The dripping, brown coat is hung on the hook for wet coats and Mrs. Pettifer studiously ignores him until:
"Right, got to get on. Busy day. Rest of the office staff should be here soon. It's pre-natal day today. Thirty-six to organise. And all those ends of month target reports are due back. How may flu jabs given, how many new cases of unvaccinated kids with whooping cough. Finished with yesterday’s Daily Mirror? And may I ask, Doctor Sinnick, why it is you're wearing blue lipstick this morning?"
"Thirty-six pre-natals? What the hell do they do around here? On the other hand, what is there to do around Krupton except....... fuck!" Sinnick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Blue ink. Must be this cheap pen."
"It leaks. I tried throwing it in the bin yesterday but missed."
“So did the cleaners. I retrieved it. My bad luck. I gave it a suck."
“And what’s this slimy mess on my spreadsheets?”
“A drip or two from your hat, perhaps?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Forgive my inquisitiveness but what happens to these print-outs now?”
“We pass them to the Health Trust, of course.”
“I see. Do they perhaps require checking? Approval from the practice’s senior partner? His signature? Can he access then at any time should he need to? Are they computerised? Are there likely to be questions asked? Are we doing enough smear tests? Can we be sure that our ladies are able to access the best, most modern technology available, Mrs. P? And what about the men? Have you finished the spreadsheet on male suicide rates yet?”
Mrs. Pettifer stood with her hands on her hips. “Have you quite finished, Doctor Sinnick?”
“Yes.”
Her hands stayed on her wide hips. “Bullying takes many forms you know, Doctor Sinnick.”
Sinnick tried hard to smile but was not sure how it looked. If there’d been a mirror close by, he’d have tried to hold it in place for a moment to check. “Yes, of course” he said, “I read and duly signed the intimidation and bullying circular you prepared. Did you finish the one on our anti-slavery and human trafficking policy?”
Perhaps it was the rain but Mrs. P sniffed and Sinnick seized the moment to wipe her sodden files with his sleeve. “Dew drops from your cold nose, Mrs. P.”
“Hmm.”
“But let us not start the new day badly, Mrs. P. Please, take your comfortable seat. Slip off your sodden shoes. Rest your tired feet. Dry them by laying them across the desk next to your time-sheets. Let their vapours help the re-humidification process that your female staff found necessary following the drying effect of our new central heating system. Here - have one of your Polo Mints. Blob of hand cream, perhaps? Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Gin and tonic?"
"Now then Doctor Sinnick, don't you go all creepy with me. Here's Polly Anne. It might upset her.”
"She's early. Did she sleep walk here by mistake?"
Sinnick scurried away to rinse his mouth and wash his face of blue ink but he was fully aware that the way he scurried was like a mouse who'd just seen the cat.
Sinnick fled to his room where the walls were plastered in the comforting but essential elements of his profession: The fading photo of him receiving his medical degree at University. The 3D plastic torso that showed essential internal organs, body parts in shiny colours so he could explain in simplest terms what they were, what they did, how they all connected up and why, like the family Ford Fiesta, the parts sometimes got blocked, went rusty, needed servicing or replacement until, finally and inevitably, the entire structure, by then a worthless heap, was dumped and recycled.
And there on his desk lay the thing that had really gnawed at his nerves the day before - the copy of the 'joint professional indemnity insurance policy' and the quote for next year's premium.