The Trouble with Polly Brown (73 page)

“Hmm. Yes, nurse. Go on.”

“But, doctor, the drama continues, for as the coach approached the hospital gates, the engine mysteriously cut out.”

“Oh, deary me!” sighed the doctor, giving his head a good scratch.

“Doctor, it doesn't finish there either, for there's more to tell.”

“More?”

“Yes, more,” the nurse sheepishly stated.

“Then I would be extremely obliged if you would fill me in on everything else. There's a dear,” he ordered, his voice cracking due to severe strain.

“Well, Dr. Ninkumpoop, I hate to be the messenger of more bad news, but where the coach broke down is unbelievably inconvenient, for you'll never believe it, but it is now blocking the entire main entrance in and out of the hospital and is therefore causing a major problem for staff wishing to go home, as well as visitors, who are feeling most disgruntled as they find themselves prisoners in the hospital grounds.”

“Oh, no. I cannot believe it!” the poor doctor gasped.

“I said you wouldn't,” the nurse quickly retorted. “And doctor, I believe if we don't do something, and soon, we may find ourselves with a full-blown riot on our hands.”

“Goodness gracious me! Could this crisis get any worse?” he cried out, as he was now really feeling the full pressure of this latest, rather extraordinary situation, which was becoming more complex by the minute.

“Yes, doctor, it most certainly could get worse, for there is still more.”

“More, nurse? Tell me, how could there possibly be more to this story than you have already shared?”

“Well, doctor, the coach was on a direct route to the castle, as your good friends Mr. and Mrs. Scumberry are due to host their annual old people's tea party this very afternoon. Remember, you and your wife were officially invited to the event.”

“Oh, yes, though I must admit I had completely forgotten. But quite what all this has to do with me, I'll never know.”

“Well, doctor, as you ask, Mr. Scumberry telephoned the hospital a short while ago specifically asking for your help and assistance in managing this desperate crisis.”

“How crazy is that? Does the wretched, ignoramus idiot of a man not recognize that I am a skilled surgeon of the mind and not some greasy little mechanic swathed entirely in oil-drenched clothes? There is little I can do to help in this most unfortunate crisis,” he snarled.

“I'm so sorry, doctor,” the nurse sighed, witnessing the extent of the poor doctor's distress.

“Unless, of course, he expects me to exchange my pristine white coat for a grease-covered wrench and a pair of soiled and baggy oversized denim dungarees before allowing my manicured hands to get messed up as I resort to rolling under the undercarriage of the coach to take a jolly good look,” he snorted.

“Well, doctor, sadly Mr. Scumberry has clean run out of ideas, for apparently he has telephoned every coachwork shop in the area, and due to this being the Easter holiday weekend, they are either closed or seriously booked up and therefore cannot afford the time nor spare a man to come out to investigate the problem.”

“Oh, deary me,” he pathetically wailed. “Then please tell me, nurse, does all this mean that this eyesore of a coach will be blocking both the exit and the entrance to the hospital until the problem is finally sorted and the coach can be towed away?”

“I'm afraid so, doctor.”

“Then their little problem has indeed just become ours,” the hopelessly wearied and indignant doctor cried.

“Now what on earth can we do to rectify this most trying and downright ridiculous situation?” he said as, throwing all dignity to one side, he pitifully threw his hands into the air in a rarely seen before display of great despair.

“Dr. Ninkumpoop, please do calm down. There is little point in getting your knickers in such a twist! For not only does rage both quench and seriously wound the palace of your soul, but I believe it will do very little to solve the problem or make it go away. What we need here is a touch of the old British way,” interjected Lady Butter-kist, much to the doctor's further bewilderment.

“Uh?”

“Yes, we all need a nice, strong cup of sencha tea, for as the calming vapors begin to invade our heads and pervade our souls, it will indeed momentarily heal our jangled nerves as well as grant us the presence of mind, the very necessary prerequisite to coming up with the right answer to the problem. And you, dear doctor, of all people should know that this is indeed the British way of dealing with any unique crisis that attempts to beset and thus distress us.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yes, the many benefits that come from tea are truly incalculable, for may I dare to remind you that many a war has been won due to the British stiff upper lip that I believe comes directly from the clear thinking that a nice cup of tea undoubtedly incites. So, I suggest that once you've calmed right down, we then go in search of a kettle to make ourselves a pot of delicious, sweet tea, and if you are clean out of sencha, then without making any fuss whatsoever I will happily settle for a spot of delicious Darjeeling, if accompanied by a twist of lemon.”

The poor doctor's face turned a very bright red, as like a naughty boy being found with his fingers in the cookie jar he'd been forced to bear a stern telling-off from Lady Butterfly Lips.

“Huh! My knickers in a twist? How dare she proceed to demoralize me in front of my staff,” he miserably muttered under his breath. Normally he would have never conceded to allowing anyone to speak down to him in such a derogatory manner, but once more he had to quickly remind himself that she was indeed the money behind this brand-new hospital wing. So he forced himself to take a few deep breaths instead.

Once more Lady Butterkist took it upon herself to help and thus encourage the poor doctor. “There, doctor, you must resolve to breathe in more deeply. Yes, fill those flabby, underexercised little lungs of yours with yet more oxygen. Now, do as I say and take a deep breath. There. Wonderful. Now you can see that it calms the soul quite nicely and thus restores it to its natural serenity. So while you do a few more breathing exercises, do try and imagine yourself soaring up in the heavens, and as you look down toward Earth, please be a good boy and begin by seeing this crisis for what it is—just some little piece of trivia, yes, a little blot on the canvass of life that at the end of the day will most surely have a happy ending. There, there, dear doctor. Now come on, don't be such a little spoilsport, for you need to breathe a little deeper. There, that's much better.”

The poor doctor had little choice other than to obey, but deep inside he was beginning to feel utterly humiliated, as rather unwittingly he had submitted himself to the role of the patient, with Lady Butterkist administering her own brand of holistic, mind-control therapy. It all left him feeling thoroughly impotent and inconsolable when it came to dealing with this latest ridiculous crisis.

“Now, if I may be so bold or perhaps seemingly impertinent as to make what I believe to be some very helpful suggestions—”Lady Butterkist brightly chirped up as once more she prepared to take over the situation before things could even begin to go further downhill than they already were—“I think our first duty is to the old dears still stuck on the coach. Yes, we need to quickly off-load the little darlings, and once they've all been for a quick pee—I can't believe I just said that,” she mischievously gasped. “What I meant to say was, when they've all used the bathroom, we should escort them down to the canteen for some light refreshments, although as previously stated they cannot be allowed to drink the canteen tea; otherwise we might well see the poor little darlings one by one prematurely popping their clogs, and that would never do, would it, Poopy, my dear boy?”

“No, you're so very right, Lady Butterkist, but I do wish you would refrain from calling me ‘Poopy dear,' for it's so belittling. I would also be equally grateful if you would refrain from suggesting that the hospital tea might actually kill the lot of them, for I believe you are being a tad overdramatic, don't you think?”

“Well, that's true, for I've not actually seen anyone drop down dead, but may I remind you, doctor, that I've only been here a matter of hours, and judging by the look of that once-flourishing flower arrangement, then forgive me, but there is every reason to believe that if nothing else, the patients are probably suffering from some very unpleasant symptoms associated with drinking beverages from this atrocious canteen.”

“Quite unbelievable!” he angrily muttered.

“So, dear doctor, I don't suppose you could find it in your heart to generously donate a box of choice loose tea from your private stash so that the hardworking coach driver and his precious cargo of pensioners might get to enjoy a relaxing cup of tea with a digestive biscuit or two on the side? After all, they are already deeply traumatized by the breakdown, what with its most unfortunate delay. We simply cannot afford to further traumatize them with the disgraceful lack of wholesome refreshments on offer in the hospital canteen, can we?”

Once again the doctor was left with little choice, for how could he deny Lady Butterkist tea from his most private and exclusive hidden stash when she had shown his hospital such overwhelming unconditional generosity? He reluctantly caved in to her unusual request.

As the poor doctor sat back feeling thoroughly confused and distraught, he cast his mind back to the start of his perfect day, drinking quality tea and solving the clues of today's crossword puzzle. He could never have imagined that a day such as this, which had started in relative calm and tranquility, would in a mere matter of hours go into such rapid decline.

“Quite, quite remarkable!” he muttered most miserably under his breath.

“Now then, Ninkumpoop, listen to me carefully, old boy, for I have much more to say on this as well as many other matters.”

“I'm sure you have,” the deeply distressed doctor inwardly groaned.

“Blenkinsopp here is most familiar with automobile engines, coaches included, and so he will be more than delighted to get the tools from the boot of our old jalopy and then get down to work.”

Pure relief washed over the fraught doctor as he drank in and savored the first good piece of news he'd heard all day.

“However, before any of this can take place, I do have another rather unusual request to make.”

“Oh, no. Not another demand?” he queried as for the first time in his life he began furiously biting his nails.

“Now, doctor, I beg you to stop biting your nails. It's really most unbecoming, and trust me when I say that it's a disgracefully bad habit that you obviously need to seek some sort of professional help to combat.”

“Uh?”

“Yes, you really need to ask yourself what is behind all your inner conflict and turmoil.”

“What?”

“Anyway, doctor, back to my request—see it as sort of a barter if you must, for just like you need something from me, I too need something from you. So, it is time for us to negotiate.”

“Yes, yes anything! Your wish is my command,” he cried, for he was now feeling great anxiety with regard to an unpreventable riot taking place if the visitors were forced to abandon their vehicles and walk many miles to the nearest town to get a bus or train back to their respective homes.

“Well, doctor dear, at the risk of shocking the pants off you, I require you to fill in some important legal paperwork for me.”

“Right. Just hand it over, and I'll do all I can.”

“Oh, no. This is very specific paperwork, which I believe you alone have in your office filing cabinet.”

“Uh?”

“Yes, Dr. Ninkumpoop, I wish for you to sign the release papers for young Polly, allowing her to leave here with me, for I wish to become something of a…mmm…guardian to the young lady.”

“Madam, what you are proposing is absolutely preposterous!”

“Really?”

“Madam, are you barking mad?”

“No, I don't think so,” she quickly replied. “Blenkinsopp, be a dear and answer me this, do my facial features instantly remind you of some poor, indisposed dog?”

“No, madam. They most certainly do not.”

“Good. Well, I'm glad that one's settled. Next question that requires an immediate answer: Blenkinsopp, in your capacity as my butler and chauffeur, have you ever once heard me bark?”

“The answer is an affirmative no, madam.”

“Well, then, would you consider me to verge on the side of madness?”

“Madam, as you ask, I believe you to be the sanest individual that it has ever been my privilege to work for, and I would like to use this occasion—”

“Yes, yes. All right. Thank you, Blenkinsopp, you have said quite enough,” she said in her most usual, dismissive tone of voice. “So doctor, now that we have established that I am neither a dog, nor do I bark, I therefore have no immediate need to be put away in some dog sanctuary. Pray, tell me then, quite where do we go from here?”

“Madam, I apologize profusely for using such disrespectful and offensive language with regard your good self, but forgive me when I say that I was so caught up in the moment that I clearly forgot who I was speaking with. I also profess to not feeling quite myself at this precise moment in time. Put bluntly, I fear I am altogether losing either the plot or, at worse, my mind.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Lady Butterkist interjected.

“Well, madam, please allow me to express my own thoughts and concerns regarding the girl.”

“You mean Polly,” she quickly retorted.

“Yes, yes. I believe that is her name.” he wearily replied.

“Well, then use it, Poopy, for she is neither an embarrassing itch that urgently needs to be scratched away, nor is she a vulgar blob on some scenic landscape that needs painting over. She is not a thing that you can freely and so dispassionately discuss. No, she is a wonderful, caring, considerate child who, despite all you seem to believe, truly deserves to be treated with utter respect and some kind and thoughtful consideration. Don't you think?”