Dialogue from January Assignment

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    by Phil Golden   by Diane Lawton   by Anita Loughrey

The only sound in the gloomy waiting room was the receptionist’s bark every time the phone rang and the dragon from hell would always make patients wait at least three weeks for an appointment.

 ‘Oi, you with the baritone, you can go in now.’

 Toni looked around the room.  Bollocks to the stupid bitch she thought, I’ll have her when I come out.

She’d just put the obligatory five-year-old Reader’s Digest back on the pile when her worst nightmare happened.  Her mother walked in.

 ‘Oh my God, are you alright?’

 ‘Yeah, course I am.  Why else would I be at the bloody doctors?  Anyway, I might ask you the same question.’

 ‘I’m okay, girlie problems down below but never mind me, I’m coming in with you, you might have something serious.’

 ‘Mum, I’m eighteen years old, a young woman.  I really don’t need you to hold my hand.’

 No amount of protesting would change her mother’s mind.  She was becoming  hysterical and no amount of sarcasm would persuade her to but out.  Off they went down the corridor.  Toni knocked on the consulting room door and a deep rumbling sound beckoned them in.

 He didn’t even look up, just pointed his pencil at the chair.

 ‘What’s wrong?

 ‘If I knew that I’d be a brain surgeon.’

 As he looked up over his half eye spectacles she could smell the stale stench of tobacco and alcohol on his breath.

 ‘What’s this on my neck Doctor?’

 ‘Get up on the couch and I’ll take a look.’

 ‘Can you give her anything for it?

 ‘Shut up mother and let the Doctor talk.’

 ‘Strip to the waist please.’

 ‘But my neck?’

 He breathed on her again so she did as she was told.  He placed a clammy hand on her ample breast.  She shuddered.  Goose pimples appeared all over her body and she thought she was going to wet herself.

 ‘Get off me you perve.’

 ‘Calm down.  I have to check that there aren’t any lumps anywhere else.’

 He continued to feel her chest, fondled her other breast and finally put his hand on her neck.  By now his face was really close to hers.

 ‘What is it then?  Why have I got a hard lump in my neck?’

 ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about.’

 ‘Yeah, right.  It’s okay for you to say but it’s not your neck.’

 ‘Toni, there’s no need to be rude.’

 ‘Well it’s not yours either mum.  It’s mine and if it was yours you’d be climbing the walls by now.’

 Toni sat up.  The oversized toilet roll she’d been lying on ripped.  It made her feel like an unwelcome sod, waiting to be discarded with the rest of the klinkers. 

‘What’s wrong with me then?’

 ‘Well, let me put it this way.  You’re not exactly ill.’

 ‘And you’re not an hygienist.

 ‘For fucks sake with somebody please tell me why my daughter has got a lump on her neck.’

 ‘Because she’s a feman.  It’s an Adam’s apple.’

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“What’s his condition doctor?”

 “Is it true that he’s pregnant?”

 Felicity shot her neighbour a sour look.

 “One question at a time please.” Doctor Flynn flicked through the notes attached to his clipboard.

 He cleared his throat and looked up at the two concerned faces that stared back at him, “I think we should discuss this in private Mrs Woodland, if you would like to come through to the relatives room.”

 “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Clive. He’s our neighbour and a dear friend of the family. He was such a comfort when Larry was going through the treatment for the stomach cancer.” Felicity looked at Clive and he took her hand.

 “If you wish.” The doctor ushered them both into the relative’s room and indicated with a nod of his head that they should sit. He cleared his throat, “Yes it does appear that your husband is pregnant Mrs Woodland.”

 “But, how? How is that possible?” Felicity could feel panic rising in her chest.

 “It seems as though the new treatment we were trialing for the stomach cancer had some unfortunate side affects. Not only has it regenerated the cells in the stomach but they have also prompted your husband to grow a womb.”

 Felicity clutched Clive’s hand.

 “They were experimenting with using seahorse cells to help with the regeneration process,” the doctor continued.

 “That could explain a lot,” Felicity, mumbled, “the mood swings and the blood in the laundry.” She turned to Clive, “I thought he had very bad piles. I bought him some Preparation H.”

 Clive’s face was crimson. “But how could he have got pregnant, wouldn’t he need to…” his voice trailed off.

 “Well, yes you’re right Mister, err...”

 “Thomas. Mister Thomas.”

 “Yes, Mr Thomas the egg would need to be fertilised. We do not normally see this kind of thing happening in heterosexual relationships.”

 “You mean it’s happened before,” Clive’s voice raised an octave.

 “We’ve had a few cases, exceptional circumstances when the treatment has resulted in men getting pregnant. That is why we ask so many questions before we administer the medicine. Mr Woodland did not inform us of any other sexual activity other than that with his wife.”

 “But how do they have the baby?” Clive asked.

 “The patient will have a caesarean section in the thirty sixth week.”

 “Would it be alright for me to go through and speak to Larry?” Clive said.

 “What are you saying?” Felicity croaked, the reality of the conversation just dawning on her. “You mean my husband has been seeing another …another man.”

 Clive twitched and looked down. He crossed his legs and uncrossed them again.

 “It appears so, Mrs Woodland,” the doctor said, “It’s unfortunate you had to find out this way.”

 “But, who? When? We rarely go out. He only sees me or Clive.” Felicity snatched her hand away from Clive’s grasp. “You!” she screeched, staring at Clive. “How could you? You were sleeping with me and my husband?” 

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Picture in the Plough by Philip Golden

“So what do you think it is then Doc?” asked Jem looking forlornly at the bottom of his tankard, wondering how long it would take Lucy to offer him some more mead. It had been a long hot day, deep ploughing this seven acre meadow. He knew she’d been watching him, sometimes through the scullery window, and sometimes from the garden where she’d taken an long time arranging the washing on the line. She was a handsome young thing alright. Jem had planned to ask her to come with him to the May fair, but every Sunday after Church his courage had failed him. Now if she’d just pour him one more pint of mead that would give him the nerve, he was sure of it.

 “Yes Doc, is it true, is he lame?” Lucy asked gazing soulfully over at the huge brown and white plough horse, to avoid looking at Jem for a moment.

 “I don’t know why you folks call me Doc, really I don’t,” mumbled the Doc. “Bandaged up a few soldiers in the war, that’s all I did, bled a couple  of fever cases maybe. Most of them died anyway. My Captain used to say I should go be a Doctor for the Kings troops, I’d kill more than his whole platoon ever could.”

 Jem sensed Lucy’s eyes on him again, he quickly straightened his shoulders and searched desperately for a manly but sensitive position for his spare arm. Funny he thought, he’d never noticed he had a spare arm before, but now that he had he just couldn’t think how it should look. Straight down, by his side? No that felt stupid. Hand on hip? No no, that was too artificial. He gazed down deep into his empty tankard, like there might be instructions at the bottom for people who’ve forgotten how to arrange their limbs. “You cured Mrs Trewellan of that cough she’d had for a Twelve month or more” he said to the Doc whilst risking a glance at Lucy.

 “Mrs Trewellan died” said the Doc

 “You’re right, she did, but before she died she said she’d never felt better.” Jem ran his spare hand through his hair and Lucy watched him. He had good hair she thought. Strong hair to go with his strong body. She looked at the muscles on his arm and wondered what they felt like. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought and to disguise it she reached out with the jug.

 “Some more mead Jem?” She heard a faint quiver in her voice.

 “Why that’s very kind of you Miss Lucy, you know there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you Miss Lucy, I hope you won’t think me forward.” Jem stammered as he leant forward reaching out with his tankard.

 “No, not lame just very tired,” announced the Doc. “A horse his age shouldn’t be ploughing seven acres in a day, especially not with that deep plough you’re using. If you rest him for a couple of days and only work him half a day in future, you’ll probably get another season or two out of him.” The Doc turned his attention from the horse to his tankard, noisily draining it in the hope of a refill.

 Jem was caught between pursuing his interrupted invitation to the Fair and taking the Doc to task over the age of his horse. He wasn’t old, why the sergeant who’d stolen it from the army had told Jem it was only six years old, and that was not two seasons ago. He’d looked a bit older the sergeant had explained because the Roundhead army never fed their horses right. He’d offered to get Jem a Royalist carthorse instead for nearly double the price.

 “What do you mean ‘his age’ why he b’aint but 8 years old, and these last two years I’ve been feeding ‘im up good and proper. He’s some appetite on him too; eats like a Horse he does!”

 The Doc took a deep pull on his fresh pint. “Closer to eighteen than eight I’d wager” Said the Doc, a trickle of mead glistening on his chin in the late day sun. “Like I said, don’t work him so hard, what are you using that deep plough for anyway? You searching for buried treasure?”

 “Well then,” said Jem, suddenly perking up, pleased at this chance to show Lucy he was no ordinary farmer but one who was going places. “Buried treasure might be just what I will be finding next autumn. Barley and Rye might be alright for the ‘old timers’, but things are changing, there’s new opportunities for those who’ll take ‘em. This year I’m growing a new crop, a special crop that will make enough money to buy a dozen plough-horses. This year I’m planting something from the new world. It’s called, Potatoes!”

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