New Support for the Backbone

By Suzi Cooper

The ‘new support’ is 18-year-old Bella Anstruther, just qualified as a medical secretary, embarking on her first job in St Regis District General Hospital in Chelsea, London. The ‘backbone’ refers to all the clerical and back office staff required to run the hospital. The book follows Bella’s progress from a shaky start to successful promotion. As a floating bank secretary, she moves around departments and meets many interesting characters! Jill, her motherly supervisor, the Typing Poolers and other secretaries she works with, the jovial post-room boys including awkward Norman, desperate to ask her out, Lulabelle their statuesque and wise tea lady and Lottie “The Lush”, an ex-medical secretary who is found in the pub over the road, to mention just a few. St Regis itself is suffering: the buildings require urgent repairs and the staff’s morale is in decline due to poor conditions, low pay and terrible food. The Hospital Administrator, Frank Cumbridge, also new to St Regis, attempts to instigate management schemes but only adds to staff resentment. Little does he know that he is playing into the hands of the powers that be in the DHSS and their plan for St Regis.This is a light-hearted and affectionate reflection of life in a London hospital in the late 1970’s and is book one of the Bella quartet.The characters and hospital are entirely fictional but are based on experiences and encounters during the author’s early days working as an agency temp in London during the mid 1970s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: NewGenerationPublishing
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9781803696751

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Presentation

. . . .and the time here on Radio One is fast approaching eight o’ clock . . . .

This announcement tore Bella from semi-consciousness. "Oh no!" She sprang out of her cosy blankets and stumbled around the new bed-sit as she prepared for her first day at work. Her heart thumped against her ribs with a surge of adrenaline. The distance between her home in Kent and new employment in London forced Bella to move to the only accommodation she could afford. Desperately trying to avoid all thoughts of her seaside home, friends and family, Bella wondered if her passionate ambition to become a rock singer was worth all the unfamiliarity she would face.

Another time-check on the radio reminded her of the immediate problem of getting from Wimbledon to South Kensington by 9 o’ clock.

*

On the south side of Fulham Road, Chelsea, a gothic-fronted building rose majestically, if a little crumbly in places, above its elegant, Regency neighbours. This housed what was known as the ‘east wing’ of St Regis District General Hospital. An unwelcoming rotating door could be found at the top of four, steep steps on the corner and this inauspicious opening entered a thirty-foot square, oak-panelled hall, rising to heady heights, four floors up. A time-worn grey diagonal path across the ageing white linoleum suggested the hall was used mainly as a thoroughfare. It was void of furniture except for a warped wooden bench placed under an ecclesiastical stained glass window which itself ascended all the way to the ceiling.

On the opposite side to the entrance stood a wooden construction, with a scrap of paper marked ‘Reception’ taped onto the edge. Not only was this the main reception desk but about 50 pigeon holes honeycombed the front to hold post ready for retrieval by staff. The ‘desk’ was topped by a pub bar counter, the veneer of which peeled around the edges. It gave the appearance of a post war, temporary measure, awaiting its turn to be replaced by something more permanent.

Behind the counter loomed a tall, gaunt man. A lack of facial flesh emphasised his hollow cheeks and drew attention to dark bags sagging beneath his eyes. His thin, colourless lips turned down at the corners and joined furrowed frown lines either side of his mouth. He stood stock still, only his small, dark eyes shifted. His faded, dark jacket added to the gloominess of his presence and matched his greying dark hair. Observing no one, he swiftly placed a thin sheath of tobacco-filled paper to his lips and inhaled deeply, flaring the end bright red. As quickly as he had placed the cigarette to his mouth, it was gone again. He held his breath, checking for spies with his darting eyes then exhaled two dragonish plumes of smoke through his nostrils.

The door behind him opened and an older stooping, bearded man appeared from the office hidden behind, carrying a sheaf of envelopes. He shuffled in a half bent, sideways manner that displayed his severely humped back.

Cor! He tossed his white curls in contempt, you ain’ ’arf gunna cop it if tha’ noo bloke sees ya, ’Ric. He passed around the counter area and filed his handful of post in the relevant pigeon-holes.

Rules meant t’ be broken, Charlie. Eric replied, inhaling deeply again.

Betcha ten quid you’d say nuffink like tha’ if ’e saw ya. Charlie retorted. Eric’s hacking cough echoed around the hall.

*

Bella checked her watch – ten to nine. She had been lucky to catch her connecting trains. In July 1977, most fashion-conscious women gratefully placed their feet in lower heels but Bella clung to a dying trend of monstrous platforms to boost her 5-foot height. Outside South Kensington station, she gingerly stepped across three busy roads, then stalked at a dangerous pace towards Fulham Road.

Her progress was accompanied by a fanfare of appreciative honks from passing motorists, wolf-whistles by workmen, even an odd comment or two by passing pedestrians. Despite the thrown on appearance of a crumpled linen jacket Bella’s youthful prettiness shone through. Her waist-length, blonde hair swayed across her back, dark eyelashes framed large ice-blue eyes, her ski-jump nose added a perkiness and her lips pouted as she concentrated on the uneven pavement.

*

Eric watched the backwards passage through the doors of a plump lady wearing brown and green tweeds carrying bags or files. A thick mass of curling tresses fell to her shoulders in colours ranging from brown to bright gold. She turned and approached the counter. Her skin was as cool as porcelain but her smile as warm and radiant as her hair.

Morning Boys. She addressed the reception staff as she checked one of the pigeonholes. Oo! Post’s here! Well done Charlie!

Even Eric managed a smile. This was Jill Banks, the secretarial supervisor, a St Regis employee of nearly twenty years. She was very popular due to her thoughtful understanding of her staff in highly pressured, low-paid jobs.

Mornin’ Miss Jill. Charlie beamed at her. Ah still go’ loads ter do but the boy’ll come up la’er.

How are you today Eric? she asked.

Mustn’ grumble Miss. Right miserable lot in ’ere this mornin’, Eric said gloomily.

Jill grinned at Charlie as he raised his eyes heavenwards.

Yer a fine one ter tork! Nevva nuffink good ter say, hav’ yer ’Ric?

Charlie chuckled.

Have a nice day, she said to them and disappeared into a corridor beside the main staircase.

Sucha lovely gel, Miss Jill, Charlie said as they watched her disappear.

Dunno why that bloke left ’er.

Summat ter do wiv kids, I ’eard. Eric replied.

*

Bella stopped outside St. Regis. Her throat was dry and her heart pounded. Nervously, she rummaged in a canvas bag hanging from her shoulder, searching for the job acceptance letter which told her where to go. She could not find it. She kept rummaging. Area Personnel teams, eager to recruit permanent medical secretaries for the London Hospitals, had interviewed her and others on the same course at college and, therefore, she had never visited St Regis before. The vital recruitment letter included a map of the area (although not of the hospital) and gave her a name to report to. She could not find it. Bordering on panic Bella looked up at the entrance to see a camper propped against one wall by the rotating doors.

The chubby, grubby faced girl watched Bella’s approach. She sat encased to her waist in a green sleeping bag with domesticity littered about her: a multi-coloured rucksack spilling clothing, a calor-gas stove, kettle, tea pot, mug and half empty milk-bottle. A radio crackled pop music from its tiny speaker. A large placard propped against the wall next to her declared ‘SICK GIRL REFUSED TREATMENT’.

Despite the girl’s scowls, Bella sprang towards her with renewed purpose.

Excuse me, she asked, do you know the way to Personnel?

"I know the way to Neurology", she informed Bella loudly.

Bella assumed she had misheard amidst the roar of the rush-hour traffic.

No, I want Personnel . . . . she explained.

The girl interrupted angrily. "Well that’s tough isn’t it? I want a cure for my illness but they won’t even see me!" She knelt up, still in the sleeping bag, looking like an angry caterpillar. Now in ‘teacher’ mode, the girl waggled her forefinger at Bella.

I know my RIGHTS, she yelled.

Bella launched herself at the rotating doors, was swallowed, swirled and spat out on the other side.

For a busy London Hospital, the entrance hall of St Regis was strangely empty. Echoes from somewhere higher up indicated signs of life. Bella’s legs trembled. She spotted the reception area and walked carefully towards it. She could hear voices behind a door.

HALLO, she shouted.

She heard footsteps and the door opened. Gaunt Eric loomed and bearded Charlie stooped in the doorway of the post-room. They looked like a circus act and Bella’s head began to swim. They gawped at her.

"Cor!" Charlie squawked.

"Blimey!" Eric agreed.

Bella glanced around wildly for an escape and amidst signs leading up the wide main staircase, she spotted,

‘PERS3RDFL R’

She stepped quickly to the first landing, paused for breath and saw that it would be a long haul to get there. She had to climb three flights of stairs between each floor and she could see the banisters travelling way above her. It was hard going despite being young, fit and surging with adrenalin.

As she climbed she viewed the biblical figure on the ecclesiastical stained glass window. Although displaying its full splendour when seen in the entrance hall, the banisters obscured bits and pieces of the figure and odd pieces of glass were missing. On the lower flights, she could see his feet in sandals. As she ascended three more flights the window displayed the ankle-length, faded red robe and bare arms. As she neared her third floor destination, his fair hair and neat beard were revealed. He was strong and handsome and bore a banner bearing his name, ‘S R gis’. His benevolent smile encouraged Bella.

At the third floor, she realised she had arrived at ‘Persephone Ward’. Suddenly a blonde haired Adonis dashed towards her in a white coat. Bella, taken by surprise, stared at him.

Hi! he grinned at her. Looking for someone? He paused about to descend.

Personnel? Bella managed to find her voice.

Oh dear, he chuckled, happens all the time. Back down I’m afraid.

She turned to accompany him but, as he was running down, she could not keep up. She clung to the banisters.

Go through the small corridor, he shouted instructions up at her, through the underpass to the west wing and into the Hall of Signs. Sorry I can’t stop. His bleep resonated its urgent pulses, echoing around the walls. Emergency in A&E. See you later maybe? and he raced down, two steps a time.

Bella cursed herself for not noticing his badge. Her legs trembled and her heart pounded for a new reason now.

*

The staff required to run St Regis was drawn from every creed, colour, race and class, and possibly every corner of the world. To successfully maintain harmony amidst such a diversity of people, professions, specialties and tasks, the District Personnel Officer, Ed Smithers, required the attributes of a saint. He drummed a beat with a pencil on the edge of his desk as he read an internal memo from ‘F. Cumbridge, Sector Administrator’.

Smithers had only met the new Sector Administrator a couple of times since Cumbridge’s arrival two weeks previously but the man’s reputation as a ruthless, high-flying trouble-shooter from the City suggested a large spanner in the delicate machinery of St Regis’ staff relations. However, Cumbridge had gained esteem in the eyes of Smithers during their initial introduction due to his icy handling of Sylvia Foster, Personnel’s overpowering, over-confident clerical recruitment officer, when she parked her bottom suggestively on Cumbridge’s desk in an attempt to be friendly. The memory of Sylvia’s expression when Cumbridge had said she was being far too familiar during this meeting made Smithers grin wickedly. The memo, ordering him in a dictatorial statement to an unscheduled Heads of Department meeting the following week, showed another refreshing element of dynamism and impatience to proceed.

The noisy twisting of his brass door handle interrupted Smithers’ speculation about the future of St Regis under Cumbridge. Sylvia poked her nose around the door.

Are you going to that Catering meeting this morning? she asked him.

I wasn’t, but, of course, it’s Monday morning. He rubbed his hands together then stood up. You’ll want the office for greeting the newbies. He grinned at her.

Well there’s more room in here. She poofed at the back of her black hair, an involuntary act, demonstrating either unease or irritation.

Smithers stepped into the corridor, straight into his secretary, causing her to squeak at him.

Late again, Sheila! he teased her. Use the other office. She’s doing her grand act in there. He showed her his bleep as he started to walk off. Take messages for me, if you can please.

He ignored the protests from his secretary who hated any kind of responsibility and he made a mental note to speak to Jill Banks, in private, about his own secretarial problems.

*

By 9.30, despite a detour to the Ladies, Bella reached the Personnel corridor. This contained three doors, the one at the end was marked ‘District Personnel Officer’. She swallowed. This was it. Her first day, in unfamiliar territory, strange people and smells everywhere, and she was very late. She wanted to run away. Three other girls, with vivid make-up and strange haircuts, entered the corridor. They nudged each other and sniggered as they spotted Bella ahead of them.

Temp or perm? one asked her.

I don’t know. I’m new, Bella responded.

They looked at each other and tittered.

Come with us and don’t take any stick from Bossy-Boots! another girl said and they tittered, again, as she grappled with the door knob.

Behind Smithers’ desk, Sylvia was finishing a telephone conversation using an affected voice. Her wrist jangled with a mass of gold bangles as she replaced the receiver.

Phew! she said, pretending to wipe perspiration from her brow, her fingers extended by red talons, what a day! She glanced up at the newcomers.

You’re all very late! she snapped and subjected Bella to a prolonged glare through a spidery excess of lashes.

Let’s deal with you first. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose in distaste. The other girls sniggered.

You lot can wait by the door, she told them sharply. There’s some confusion about bookings.

Instantly the others uttered a variety of exclamations.

Yes. I thought that would change your tune, she smirked at them. You might not have a job this week.

She peered at Bella through narrowed eyes. "Who are you?"

Bella withered and tried to clear her dry throat but this caused a coughing fit. Sylvia tutted, raised her eyes dramatically skywards and plucked the telephone from its rest, using a pencil to dial.

Jill, she barked into the receiver, I’ve got a character on stilts that coughs. Probably your new girl. I’ll send her up. She replaced the receiver with an efficient slam without waiting for any response or friendly adieu.

Out of the corridor, right into the Hall of Signs and follow the red line to records. Miss Hill’s office in the secretaries’ hut. Can’t miss it. Sylvia jangled her hand in the direction of the door, wafting Bella from the room. Bella wrenched on the brass knob until the door swung inwards towards her.

*

A very late arrival for work that morning was Frank Cumbridge. He walked briskly along the Fulham Road, trying out different excuses for his delay as he absorbed the Chelsea air. This was a very different location to the City, where he had been a company manager for the past ten years. There he worked alongside many aspiring companies, corporations and conglomerates, within imposing modern towers of stalagmite fragility. Here, in Kensington, the solid Georgian, Victorian and Edwardian mix of mansions symbolized a permanent state of class, money and distinction. Cumbridge approved.

He, himself, could similarly be described as stalagmite in build, towering 6’ 3" in height, and painfully thin. His pinstriped suit appeared to swamp him, hanging nicely enough from his broad shoulders but flapping loosely away from skinny ribs. His neck and head rose from his collar like a periscope. His nose, slender, long and pointed, together with his bulging startled eyes, once earned him the title of ‘The Eagle’. The remaining wisps of his hair grew above his ears, which he swept and swirled over his baldness, and glued with unperfumed hairspray. As the day progressed, however, lengths of it would come loose and eventually float freely above his head in the slightest of breeze. He sported a moustache stretching outwards above his top lip but this, too, was thin and required severe waxing to keep it in place. This attempt to disguise his follicular destitution fooled no-one.

He arrived outside St Regis. He had great plans for the hospital. He would dispose of all the sloppiness and bad attitudes and introduce efficient management within no time at all. Mounting the steps, he looked down at the heap within the sleeping bag. To his surprise it addressed him.

"You doctors are all the same!" she spat at him.

He narrowed his eyes.

I’m no doctor I can assure you. he replied with disdain. Cumbridge glared at the bundle blocking his path and waited. He was not going to walk around her. The girl felt a sudden burning sensation in her right knee and withdrew her legs. Having won his battle, Cumbridge entered the building, his new domain, and stalked through the colourful sunrays, thrown down by ‘S R gis’, onto the reception hall.

Morning Gentlemen, he greeted the postmen affably.

Mornin’ Sir. Charlie returned cheerfully. Lovely day Sir. The boy’s on ’is way wiv the post Sir.

Thank you Charlie. Terrible the trains at this time in morning. Doesn’t help when selfish people throw themselves on the line does it?

Cumbridge sniffed the air around Charlie. Can you smell something?

Cor! Charlie exclaimed. Sorry Sir, must’ve bin summat I ate f’ tea.

Charlie grinned. Have a nice day, Sir!

Cumbridge recoiled hastily and stepped with a springing gait into the corridor towards the underpass for the Hall of Signs.

The men watched Cumbridge disappear.

Yes Sir. No Sir. Free bags full Sir, Eric chanted, inserting a lighted paper to his lips again.

Lookin’ after me own, mate. Y’ dunno wiv this noo bloke wo’s gunna rappen! Charlie waved the air in front of his nose. Smelly fags! I ain’t coverin’ f’ yer no more ’Ric! Wotcha go’ in ’em anyway? Stinks like ’orse dung.

*

As Bella followed the coloured lines, she wondered what each passer-by was thinking. A doctor hurriedly overtook her, feeling his chin. Had he overslept after a night on call? Had he been up all night and was rushing, like her blonde hero, to battle against death? She hoped she might spot him again. A couple of young nurses chatted and giggled as they passed from the other direction. Where were they going? What were they about to do? What had they been up to? A medical posse, consisting of Consultant and his entourage of Registrars, SHOs and Housemen, jostled around her as they passed by, all speaking at once, eager to please their ‘God’ for the sake of their future careers. One or two of them dared to dart a glance at her.

Having walked up, down, through and along most of the thoroughfares of St Regis, the red line led Bella up another flight of narrow, steep steps, crossed a small hallway, and stopped by a door which lead outside onto a roof.

Bella peered through the dirty glass window, saw another door directly in front of her which was the entrance to an enormous garden shed. The sign over the door, again colour-coded in red, said ‘Medical Rec’.

She opened the door to enter, nearly tripping over the metal weather seal. A blast of hot air flew in her face. People buzzed everywhere, eagerly industrious. It was stifling in the summer sunshine, amplified as it poured through two glass skylights. A handwritten sign at the far end stated that ‘Med Sex!’ could be found outside. Bella stalked through Medical Records, out onto the roof and into another smaller shed. This was sectioned into offices. Bella’s heart started to pound again. It was now ten to ten.

She knocked on the door marked ‘Miss Hill’ and a loud and cheery Come in! resounded from inside. Bella stepped gingerly through the door, fully expecting another blasting, and was relieved when the lady smiled warmly.

Hello, I’m Jill Banks the secretarial supervisor. She stood up to shake Bella’s hand. You made it! Well done! Sit down for a moment and get your breath back.

It’s been terrible, Bella blurted at her. So many corridors, and I kept going wrong. I’ve been up and down stairs everywhere. I met all kinds of people.

Jill giggled. Sorry you had to face Mrs Foster on your first day, she’s a bit fierce.

Bella relaxed. This lady was nice.

So it’s Arabella, isn’t it? Jill checked the file on her desk and thought she looked very young.

I prefer Bella.

OK, Bella. Miss Hill booked too many temps this week. Jill explained as she got up from her seat. She’s on sick leave now, so you’re stuck in the typing pool for today I’m afraid, but you’ll get to know some of the girls.

Jill led Bella out of the small office and into an office next door. The clatters, pings and ratchet-scraping of a host of manual typewriters could be heard.

It was a big office. Five women sat in a semi-circle of desks, in the middle of the room. They were plugged into earphones, but each raised their eyes to inspect the new arrival.

The room was dingy and smelt musty and smoky. Down one side of the room, full length windows allowed in light and at one end faded-brown, excessively long velvet curtains covered the floor untidily. Down the opposite side of the room, three tiers of shelving hung precariously from the wall. Upon these sat piles and piles of notes, presumably work waiting to be completed.

Ladies, this is Bella, our new girl. Jill informed them.

They all chorused in unison. He-llo Be-lla.

Damn! Jill’s bleep sounded suddenly

Sorry Bella I’ve got to go. Susan, can you get Bella started for me please.

Susan sat at a desk nearest to the shelves. The desk to her left was empty. She stood up, viewed the piles of notes on the shelf and plucked a set.

Here you are, she glanced at Bella as she relieved herself of the bundle, just plod your way through.

Susan’s hair was styled in a neat, tight, short perm, she wore a neat blouse and a neat skirt. She fiddled with a shiny wedding ring as she talked Bella through her tasks.

Top copy on headed paper plus two carbons on plain. All in the drawer. Put it all on top of each set of notes and into the cabin for checking. She pointed to a small office in the corner.

*

In his office, Frank Cumbridge relaxed into his chair. Suddenly, the back yielded dangerously and he quickly regained his balance to support himself. The chair creaked and the entire back support fell away from the rest of the chair and crashed to the floor. He rose smartly, startled by the sudden demise of the seat which could have caused him personal injury. The door adjoining the next office opened and a head appeared, sporting a shortly-cropped, receding hairline and prominent ears.

Are you alright Sir? This was Ian Bantam, the self styled James Bond of the Boardroom. He was aptly named with a small wiry frame and of a nervous, fretful disposition. He held the heady title of Deputy Unit Treasurer, due to long-term sick leave on the part of his immediate superior. Bantam was now in control of the hospital’s finances, all at the tender age of 26.

Bantam inspected the remains of the back support for signs of human intervention which might account for the death of the chair.

Look at that! Boltless and recently oiled too! he pointed to an ancient screw. There’s foul play here. Shall I investigate, Sir?

No, I don’t think so. Cumbridge had only just started at St Regis. People couldn’t hate him already, surely?

He viewed the chair. After decades of supporting Air Vice Marshall George Gastonbury, who had finally dropped dead at his desk, it too, was at peace. A successor was required. He would order a true, chairman of the Board style leather armchair on castors. For now, however, he would make do with a humble wooden chair, which he pulled up to his desk.

Any good news for me yet?

Upon his arrival, Cumbridge had instructed Bantam to conduct an unofficial audit of the hospital’s finances, hoping to dig up fiddling, fudging or even fraud.

I’ve sent a note to Burgess about the catering budget but apart from that I can only detect a vast amount of hours being worked by a Senior Engineer. Bantam had other minor discrepancies to note but Cumbridge leapt from his seat.

Marvellous! Just the thing we need! Let’s do a Time and Motion Study. That’ll really smarten them up . . . .

Cumbridge rushed back to his desk and frantically wrote notes. He liked change. He leaned his long neck towards Bantam. What else? he asked. The phone rang.

DAMN IT! Cumbridge shrieked. Whenever I start to make progress, the phone rings. I must ring that Secretarial woman that Smithers mentioned.

*

For half an hour Bella plodded tediously with lengthy medical patients discharge summaries, each one at least three pages long. Very soon after Jill’s disappearance from the office, the typists ground to a halt and gossiped. After a while, Bella’s other neighbour, the frumpy fifty-something aged woman, introduced as Bellise, brought an interesting element into the conversation which distracted Bella. Her bright fuzzy orange hair, forced reluctantly into some kind of scruffy bun at the back, wobbled as she spoke animatedly.

Have you heard about the Camping Heap? She waited dramatically for their full attention with a cigarette, attached to her lower lip, dangling ash at its tip.

Bella plucked up courage to ask,

Are you talking about that girl outside?

As Bellise turned delightedly to Bella, ash cascaded down her blouse and onto her desk. Oops. Yes! She’s a patient of Smith-Caruthers, the neurologist here, being investigated for symptoms of muscular sclerosis. She continued the conversation as she attempted to brush the mess away.

Absolutely nothing has been found so far and because S-C referred to her as a malingerer, she’s drawing attention to herself by staging a protest. She was in the local paper and wasn’t very complimentary about a certain neurologist and his powers of diagnosis, she confided, her stacked hair swaying as she bobbed her head. She peeled the cigarette end from its moorings and opened a drawer. Bella could see this was stuffed with sweet papers, packets of mints and an overflowing ashtray. The latest remnants of cremation were stuffed into the mess and the drawer closed. Bellise attributed Bella’s stunned expression to her fascination regarding the topic under discussion.

"She’s been all round the hospital: rheumatology, orthopaedics and there’s nothing physically wrong with her. Bellise spoke with the authority of ‘one in the know’. She’s only kicking up stink because they want her to see the psychiatrists or be discharged."

Can't they move her? Bella asked.

Well, it’s a bit awkward. Dillys, a little lady, sitting at the far side of the group and wearing a pillbox hat, chipped in breathlessly, anxious to contribute to this important topic. The doctors say they can do no more but Mr Gastonbury was worried about bad publicity. Imitation white flowers shimmered on her hat as she chatted on. The police didn’t want to get involved because it wouldn’t look very good, arresting a sick young girl.

Bloody indecisive lot if you ask me! Susan said sullenly.

Someone oughta tell ’er t’ ge’ a job. Nuvva one Bell? Pearl, sitting next to Bellise offered her a cigarette from an open packet. She was a tall slim woman with dyed black hair scraped mercilessly and flawlessly into a top knot which sprouted a mass of viciously pinned curls. She’d soon f’ge’ abaht ’er aches ’n ’pains then. Ah ’spect she gets a sick note to keep ’er off work.

Bellise leaned over to catch Pearl’s lighting up.

Don’t know why that fool Gastonbury allowed her to camp out in the first place. Bellise exhaled. Let’s hope this new chap, (who is he? Cambridge or whatever) can do something. I wouldn’t allow a daughter of mine to carry on like that.

As Bella watched Bellise and Pearl sucking on their cigarettes, she could not imagine any daughter taking any notice of such a scruffy, unkempt mother.

Suddenly the cigarettes were thrust into drawers as Jill returned to the typing pool. Everyone typed madly, eyes concentrating on their work, except for plain, long-haired, bored Gillian who sat next to Dillys, motionless with her mouth open. The typists had been conversing during all of Jill’s absence. It was obvious to Bella why they were so behind. Having only just joined the conversation, she herself had mastered the discharge tape and a Greek registrar’s follow-up letters regarding dermatology patients.

I’m sorry I had to dash out. How are you getting on? Jill sniffed the air as she spoke to Bella.

I’ve put two finished piles in the little office, she got up to show Jill.

Very good, Jill responded loudly then under her breath, we don’t allow smoking in the office, I should have told you . . . .

Bella was about to put Jill straight when the door opened. A tall, dark handsome youth, dressed like a schoolboy with a knotted tie at a white collar and sleeveless pullover, came in carrying an x-ray folder and wearing a vacant expression. Suddenly, spotting Bella, he started violently, jerking one leg outwards and kicking a table. The table fell over, crashed against a cupboard under the shelving, the reverberation of which caused one side of the bottom shelf on the wall to give way. Three piles of notes cascaded to the floor, splattering loose papers all around Bella’s desk. Bella smiled in sympathy with him but the rest of the room erupted.

"Oh NorMAN!"

Like an ape, Norman threw his arms up around his ears and onto his head to hide his embarrassment and bolted from the room. The x-ray folder was left on the floor.

Jill, Bella and Susan spent half an hour piecing the notes together and placing them in the correct piles for dictation.

We’re getting so behind in here, Jill commented. I can’t understand why the work doesn’t clear quicker . . . .

*

When accepting the post as Catering Manager three years previously, John Burgess had understood from Smithers that he would be head of the catering services within St Regis. In reality, Burgess, as ‘key budget holder’, played the part of referee between the treasurer and the chef. Luigi Mario Lucci had arrived in London with his wife 15 years previously, originally running a restaurant with his cousins in Dean Street. However, a dispute as to who was in charge of the kitchen, forced him to find employment elsewhere and he had been at St Regis as head chef for the past 12 years. His temperament was typically Mediterranean, sunny and hot but passionate to the point of thunderous. Thus any difficult discussions required the kind of diplomacy usually employed when negotiating with tantrum-throwing toddlers in a china store.

After many months of head-on collisions, threatened strikes, and plate throwing episodes, Burgess learned that it was simpler to let Luigi have his own way, so now they managed a reasonable working relationship. The main