Therapy

slightly tarty look. The porter tossed me the usual local greeting-“A’right?” — and told me to hop on to the stretcher. I said, “I could walk, you know, in a dressing-gown. I’m not in any actual pain.” In fact I hadn’t felt a single twinge in the knee for over a week, which is pretty typical of all such ailments: as soon as you decide to have treatment, the symptoms disappear. “No, you’ve got to be wheeled,” he said. “Regulations.” Carefully holding the flaps of my gown together like an Edwardian lady adjusting her bustle, I mounted the stretcher and lay down. The nurse asked me if I was nervous. “Should I be?” I asked. She giggled but made no comment. The porter checked the name on my dogtag. “Passmore, yes. Right leg amputation, ennit?” “No!” I exclaimed, sitting up in alarm. “Just a minor knee operation.” “He’s only having you on,” said the nurse. “Stop it, Tom.” “Just pulling your leg,” said Tom, deadpan. They covered me with a blanket and tucked it in, pinning my arms to my sides. “Stops you getting knocked as we go through the swing doors,” Tom explained. The Caribbean woke up and raised himself on one elbow to watch me go. “So long,” I said. I never saw him again.
    You feel curiously helpless when you’re lying on your back on a stretcher without a pillow under your head. You can’t tell where you are or where you’re going. All you can see is ceilings, and the ceilings of the General Hospital weren’t a pretty sight: cracked plaster, flaking emulsion, cobwebs in corners and dead flies in the lighting fixtures. We seemed to be travelling through miles and miles of corridors. “Got to take the scenic route today,” Tom remarked from behind my head. “Theatre lift’s broke, ennit? Have to take you down to the basement by the utilities lift and then across to the other wing, then up the other lift and back over again.” The utilities lift was industrial-size: cavernous, dimly lit and smelling faintly of boiled cabbage and laundry. As I was pushed over the threshold the wheels caught on something and I found myself staring up into the space between the lift and the shaft at the black greasy cables and grooved wheels of the ancient-looking machinery. It was like being in one of those arty-farty movies where everything is shot from unnatural angles.
    Tom clashed the folding gate shut, the nurse pressed a button and the lift began to descend very slowly with much creaking and groaning. Its ceiling was even more depressing than the ceilings of the corridors. My companions conducted a desultory conversation out of my sight. “Got a smoke on you?” said the nurse. “No,” said Tom, “I’ve given it up. Gave it up last Tuesday.” “Why?” “Health.” “What d’you do instead?” “Lots and lots of sex,” said Tom levelly. The nurse giggled. “I’ll tell you a secret, though,” said Tom. “I hid cigarettes all over the hospital when I gave up, in case I get desperate. There’s one in the basement.” “What kind is it?” “Benson’s. You can have it if you like.” “Alright,” said the nurse, “thanks.” The lift stopped with a jolt.
    The air in the basement was hot and dry from the central-heating plant, and I began to perspire under the blanket as Tom pushed me between walls of cartons and boxes and bins of hospital supplies. Cobwebs hung thickly from the vaulted ceiling like batshit. The wheels jolted over the stone-flagged floor, jarring my spine. Tom stopped for a minute to ferret for one of his hidden cigarettes. He and the nurse disappeared behind a mountainous bale of laundry, and I heard a little squeal and scuffle which suggested he had exacted a favour in return for the Benson and Hedges. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. How could a private patient be subjected to such indignities? It was as if I’d paid for Club Class and found myself in a broken seat at the back of the plane next to the toilet with smokers coughing in my face (metaphorically speaking — the nurse didn’t have the nerve to actually light up). What made it worse was knowing that I’d get no sympathy from Sally when I told her the story: she disapproves of private medicine on principle and refused to join BUPA when I did.
    We moved on again, twisting and turning through the labyrinth of stores, until we reached another, similar lift on the far side of the enormous basement, and rose slowly back into daylight. There was another