Free Steady Now Doctor by Robert Clifford

Senior Registrars.”
    Andy was so excited about landing the job so easily, he hadn’t taken enough notice of what they’d said.
    The Head Porter was a tall loose limbed relaxed Jamaican. “Hi man,” he said. “So you want a room. You’re lucky, I have the best room for you. It may not look the best room but it is, and as a bonus you have Miss World for your neighbour. She won’t speak to you, but, yes sir, she sure is Miss World.”
    He led Andy off through the battered building to an archway where some stone steps led up to a small landing with three doors leading off. “That’s her ladyship’s,” said the porter pointing to the right hand door and, as if on cue, a woman who looked as if she’d just stepped out of Vogue swept out, completely ignored the two and tripped off down the stairs.
    â€œPhew,” said Andy, “who and what is she?”
    â€œThat,” said the porter, “is Miss World, otherwise Miss Diana Reynolds, Senior Surgical Registrar. Now, if you’re still here in six months she still won’t speak to you, she has her own bath, bedroom and sitting room. That’s your bathroom and toilet,” pointing to the room ahead.
    Andy looked in to see a rusty bath, chipped wash basin and broken toilet seat. “Lovely,” he said.
    â€œNow,” said the porter, “the master bedroom.” He opened the door and Andy’s heart sank. It was a large shabby room, with a single bed in one corner and a telephone on a bedside table. The plaster from the ceiling was down in the far corner. There was a battered old armchair, a chest of drawers and wardrobe even more battered still. A modern small pine table with two upright chairs and a gas fire with an old-fashioned gas ring. The floor was covered with linoleum with a rug by the bed and one by the gas fire.
    â€œWhat is your name?” Andy asked the Head Porter.
    â€œThey call me O’Sullivan, man,” said the Head Porter.
    â€œWhat O’Sullivan,” said Andy.
    â€œJust O’Sullivan,” said the porter.
    â€œWhy O’Sullivan,” said Andy.
    â€œBecause I’m Irish,” said the porter.
    â€œWhat part of Ireland,” said Andy laughing.
    â€œWhy, the Jamaican part,” said the porter grinning.
    â€œWell, Irish,” said Andy, “what about showing me a proper room?”
    â€œMan,” said Irish, “this is the best room. That gas ring could have been made of gold, you can make cocoa, soup, heat up beans, it’s the only one - wait till you taste this hospital food.”
    â€œThis really is the best resident’s room in the hospital? Fine, Irish,” said Andy, “if this is the best room, why haven’t one of the other housemen taken it?”
    â€œWell,” said Irish, grinning, “the other two housemen, are a boy and a girl and they are very, very good friends and they have two rooms close together.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” said Andy, “the other two, they told me there was a complement of eighteen.”
    â€œYeah, man,” said Irish, “I expect they also said they’re just a wee bit short of junior staff at present.”
    â€œYes,” said Andy, puzzled.
    â€œWhat they meant, man,” said Irish, “was that they were fifteen short.”
    â€œChrist,” said Andy, “I’m signed up for six months now.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” said Irish, “people come and go, we could perhaps have eight by next week, or it could just be you. Lots of people seem to go rather than come.” Andy’s heart sank. “Don’t worry,” said Irish, “you’ve got a damn fine registrar. Dr Hudson, he sure is the best doctor in the place.”
    Irish took Andy on a conducted tour of the hospital. It was a huge old Victorian workhouse, and although Andy was dismayed at the state of the building, he had a sneaking admiration