Column

Silence in the ranks

It is nearly 0600 hours and time for early morning roll call on the ward. Senior Nurse Manager Betty Rottonley and Trust Executive Jim Force-Majeure are tight-lipped as they push the swing doors aside. As their firm footsteps echo along the polished corridor, the ward staff scurry to form an orderly line.

‘Andrews, D?’

‘Here Miss.’

‘Bridges, A?’

‘Present.’

‘Present what, Bridges?’

‘Present Miss. Sorry Miss.’

‘Grubb, P?’

‘Grubb, P. Has anyone seen Grubb, P?’

Silence.

‘Somebody must know where she is.’

‘We’re not allowed to say, sir.’

‘What do you mean, you’re not allowed to say? You can tell me, nurse. We’re all friends here.’

‘I would say, honest sir, but you know as how it is, sir. It’s them new guidelines what came out last year.’

‘Good God nurse, do you mean the Freedom of speech in the NHS document? Gracious me, but that’s for your protection, dear girl.’

‘That’s as may be, sir, but if it’s all the same to you I’d just as soon keep my own counsel, sir.’

‘And what’s your name, girl?’

‘Me sir? Smith sir.’

‘Smith, M? I’ve been meaning to speak to you. Would you step into the office please? I do insist. Carry on Nurse Rottonley, I won’t be long.’

In the office. Force-Majeure sits in the big chair behind the even bigger desk.

‘Well, Smith, it’s about the letter. What do you have to say for yourself?’

‘What letter sir?’

‘You know what letter, Smith. The unauthorised letter in the press. We take a very dim view of this sort of thing. It’s not done, you know, nurse. Rocking the boat, what? These days it’s all hands on deck, Smith. Everyone rowing in the same direction.’

‘I don’t understand, sir.’

‘It was an analogy, nurse. You know, when one says one thing and means another?’

‘Oh yes, sir. We all know about that. What I mean is, I don’t understand about the letter. I ain’t written no letter.’

‘Is that so, Smith? Then what, pray, is this?’

Force-Majeure slams a newspaper down open on the desk in front of a mortified Nurse Smith.

‘But sir, that’s only the Grimthorpe Gazette.’

‘It’s the media, Smith.’

‘But sir, the letter only said that me and my friends are starting a campaign for healthier food in our local supermarket. It’s not a very good supermarket, sir, and it’s not easy to get anywhere else on the buses since they don’t -’

‘You didn’t have permission, Smith.’

‘But it’s not about the hospital, sir. It’s about community needs, quality, being user-friendly, democracy in action, canvassing a wide range of local views on local services, sir... You know, the sorts of things... I mean, fundamental issues... that your friend went on about that day we all had to attend the post-in-service-intermediate-level-awareness-raising day on “The Open NHS”.’

‘That doesn’t matter, Smith. Sir Pilithigh is a friend of mine and he was very upset by your letter. Do you have anything to say, Smith?’

‘What’s that on your desk, sir?’

‘It’s a tape-recorder, Smith. Surely you know what a tape-recorder looks like by now.’

‘Is it on, sir?’

‘Of course it’s on. We all need to be sure exactly what’s going on so that everything’s open and above board. Didn’t you learn anything from my friend?’

‘Yes sir. Very good it was, sir. Can I go now, sir?’

‘Yes, Smith. The Human Resources Unit are waiting for you, I think.’

As Smith trudges miserably out of the ward she can still faintly hear the last echoes of the roll call.

‘Pink, G?’

‘Not here anymore, Miss.’

‘Zeitlin, H?’

‘Zeitlin, H?’

The ward is silent.

‘That’s much better. That’s the spirit. Now, back to work. Jump to it.’