French Toast

Chapter one

 “I think she fancies you,” said Rob.

We were headed back to the Hospital’s Microbiology Lab from our lunch break. Rob was the Chief Technician, and I was an unqualified dog’s body, preparing cultural media for the testing of specimens and responsible for the autoclaving and safe disposable of those specimens after testing was complete.

“I think it is you she fancies,” I said.

“I’m married,” Rob protested.

“Yes, and so?” I replied.

“I think that you should ask her out,” Rob concluded, as I swung open the door to the Lab, and he breezed on past me to disappear into his office.

Those of us who were either too lazy, too forgetful or otherwise disorganised and therefore without lunch to eat, often gathered in the “Coffee Shop,” a collection of basic tables and chairs, randomly placed in the Second World War Nissen Hut. A short wall of red bricks on two sides covered with a curved, corrugated metal roof. Windows poked out through the roof along the side of the building. A double door at one end and a curtained stage at the other, attesting to its previous incarnation as the entertainment centre of the hospital.

The hospital itself with its lead-paned windows and flat roof, was a rambling collection of red brick wards, either side of the long undulating corridor. It had all been built in a rush by the American troops stationed in England during the war. Built for those of its soldiers lucky enough to have made it back across the channel, but unlucky enough to have been wounded or become sick during their time in Europe. As the last soldiers headed for home at the end of the war, the locals took over. Some thirty years later, it was still being used as one of the local hospitals and looking very much like it had the day the Americans left. But it had become a respected teaching hospital, full of Doctors in training and more importantly, student nurses.

The she that Rob referred to was just such a student nurse. Christine was eighteen and had arrived about a month previously as one of the latest batch of student nurses. Half a dozen people could come and go from the Coffee Shop, and no one would notice. Christine stepped through the door, and the whole pace of the place changed. I looked up to see this tall, slim gazelle, looking around the room. As part of their initial orientation to the hospital, Rob had shown this year’s intake of nurses around our lab. That was enough to lead some of them to join us at our table. Luckily, Christine, seeing a vaguely familiar face or two, came and sat down. We made her feel welcome.

Now on days when we were there, she would join our table, whether there were any of her fellow student nurses with us or not. But as for showing any specific interest in any of us, I couldn’t say.

“Ask her out,” Rob had suggested. That was easy for him to say. Oh, it wasn’t so much the fear of rejection that slowed me down. It was more the fear of total embarrassment if my invite should be entirely unexpected or somehow felt to be inappropriate. I was thirty years old. It was usual for me to flirt to the point where my intentions were clear and only then if the flirting was returned, would I venture forth with an invite.

However, that was not always possible. Sometimes there would be a window of opportunity, a brief chance that might never come again. Now, this could be one of those times. A first date should be memorable, but that wasn’t always possible in this town. The Pub, the Cinema, maybe a restaurant, if you had some money to shell out. In this case, there was to be a hospital barbeque in about a week’s time; this was something that had never occurred before to my knowledge.

The girl I had been seeing was leaving town, on a locum for two weeks. I had no idea why we were dating each other, and even if there was no one to take her place; our dates weren’t going anywhere. We hadn’t talked about having an exclusive relationship. In fact, we hadn’t talked about the relationship at all. I didn’t feel sorry, therefore, when finding Christine sitting alone a few days later, I summoned up my courage and asked her if she would like to go to the barbeque with me.

“If my boyfriend doesn’t come down at the weekend, I will.”

I tried not to show any reaction to those words: if my boyfriend doesn’t come down. Never in any of the conversations at our coffee table had a boyfriend been mentioned. A jolt of electricity poked me in the ribs, but I used my poker face and said, “OK, just let me know, and I will get the tickets.” Then I walked back to work, half of me floating on a cloud, the other half dragging along in the gutter.