Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions. Rosie Dixon

chuck the bones straight into the trash can—probably followed by us. And tomorrow night—Stop! I don’t want to think about it. The witch doctor, or whatever he is, will probably get fed up with people messing around with his chicken bones and turn Labby and me into frogs. Tom is not going to like that—I am not going to like it much, either.

      Luckily I have a great idea. “We’ll put them under the floorboards,” I say.

      Labby looks from me to the bones to Mrs Tiger and back to me again. “And I thought this was going to be the happiest night of my life,” she says. “You certainly know how to spoil things, don’t you?”

      This is a very unkind thing to say but I control myself with difficulty and go and get a teaspoon to prise up the floorboards. Somebody has got to keep cool in this situation.

      Ten minutes later I have learned something very useful about hospital cutlery: it is absolutely useless for prising up floorboards. If anyone doubts me I have a collection of mangled knives, forks and spoons to prove it.

      “Sister is going to go mad when she sees this lot,” groans Libby. “Let me go and find Tom.”

      “Hang on a minute. There must be something we can use.”

      Luckily we find a screwdriver that must have been left behind by one of the electricians and, with a crack like my nerves snapping, the floorboard eventually springs into the air.

      “Is there room down there?”

      “Yes, quick, give me the bones.”

      “I don’t want to touch them.”

      At that point I say something very unpleasant to Nurse Bias and snatch up the bones. It is as if they are attached to the strings of a puppet because Mrs Tiger immediately starts twitching and groaning. I don’t waste any time but arrange them neatly on a pile of mouse droppings and prepare to replace the board. As I look up I see to my horror that a twenty foot shadow is approaching faSt The shadow is being thrown by Night Sister.

      I have already worked out what she is going to say before she looms above me.

      “And what do you think you’re doing, Nurse Dixon?”

      “I dropped my ring down a crack in the floor, Sister.” I am not usually very good in emergencies and it just shows what a couple of months of hospital life has done for my reflexes.

      “You’re not supposed to be wearing jewellery, Nurse.”

      “I know, Sister, but I have a great sentimental attachment for this piece. I carry it everywhere with me.”

      “Not very securely, obviously.”

      “Yes, Sister,” I say meekly. It is always a good idea to give those in authority the opportunity for a sarcastic joke because they can never resist it and it makes them feel much better.

      “They were burying the voodoo bones,” pipes up Mrs Black helpfully.

      Labby is swift to tap her head and smile sympathetically. “Quite ga ga,” she says.

      “Probably as a result of being kept up all night by you two,” sniffs Night Sister. “Hurry up and put that floorboard back and get on with your duties. I don’t know what Sister Belter is going to say when she sees that cutlery.”

      Fortunately, Sister Belter never does see the cutlery. Labby and I spend the rest of our spell of duty taking it in turns to race round the hospital replacing individual items so that half the wards end up with a battered memento of the night’s activities.

      As regards to Mrs Tiger, she never gives any more trouble and is discharged two weeks later. “Amazing, quite amazing,” I overhear one of the consultants saying. “I never thought she was going to pull through.”

      Of course, I am not saying that the chicken bones had anything to do with it but it makes you think doesn’t it?

      With Mrs Tiger gone, Mrs Black is entitled to the favoured corner position and I am interested to see what the bones will do for her. The trouble is that she positively refuses to budge.

      “I’ll die before I move into that bed,” she says.

      Unfortunately, that is exactly what happens.

       CHAPTER 8

      As I have already illustrated, being on night duty does give the opportunity for hanky panky—for those who like that kind of thing of course—and many of the medics make their rounds with a twinkle in their eye and a twitch in their finger tips. It is amazing how many hands slide round the backs of chairs while patients’ notes are being examined under that shrouded light in the middle of the ward and how close to you the average doctor has to get to be sure that you can both study the same line of print. They are so considerate too, once night falls. It is almost impossible to visit the linen closet without a white-coated attendant eager to suggest new ways of checking that the bedding is soft enough for the patients’ comfort.

      In this respect the most persistent character is Doctor Seamus MacSweeney, known as Shameless. He goes around the wards as if permanently pissed out of his mind and is not slow in making his feelings felt—both by hand and mouth.

      “Oh Rosie,” he grunts. “You’re like a bowl of shiny cherries and I want to suck you down to the stones. I dream about you, I can’t sleep because of you.”

      “How can you dream if you can’t sleep?” I say, trying to avoid his hands.

      “Rosie, big, little Rosie. Don’t drown me in semantics. I can’t stand being mocked. I’m tearing my heart out and offering it to you. How long can you go on spurning me?”

      “I think you ought to have a look at Mrs Wheeler. She’s been coughing a lot tonight.”

      “What about me? I’m dying. Have you no compassion? I’m not asking much. Just the benediction of your body. You can withhold your mind to a future date.”

      “Doctor MacSweeney. Please!”

      “You don’t have to beg me. I can’t bear to see a beautiful woman go down on her knees. Take me! I know you’re battling with yourself. Surrender to your natural instincts. Your heavenly body was made for the act of love and I to be the instrument of your ecstasy!”

      You may not care for the style but five minutes with Doctor MacSweeney has more action than ten episodes of Crossroads. And all delivered in an accent which would have Dave Allen reaching for his throat spray.

      “I’m serious about Mrs Wheeler.”

      “She’s stronger than the dray horse that brings my breakfaSt Come on, Nurse. You know my heart’s in the right place.”

      “I know that. It’s the rest of you I’m worried about. Let me go!”

      “And so witty, too! Jasus, but it’s a delight to try and shove my hand up your uniform. Tell you what, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll look at your terrible patient if you make love to me afterwards.”

      “I’ll make you a cup of tea. That’s all you’re getting.”

      “You heartless hussy.” Shameless shakes his head. “I suppose I’ll have to agree to your terms. But make no mistake.” He wags his finger at me and screws up his eyes. “I intend to eat my lust off your alabaster body before we move into the vernal equinox or the new medical school.”

      Shameless’s nose is spread across his face like a pat of butter and he looks as if he spends his time opening doors with his head. Despite that and his non-stop groping I can’t help liking the bloke. It is always nice to be fancied by anyone and I often find the things he says amusing—when I can understand them.

      Now that Labby and Tom Richmond are unofficially engaged I see even less of my help-mate and it is on one of the many occasions that she is away from the ward that I have my most explosive brush with Doctor MacSweeney.