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There's something strange about Bogdan

Bell, Book & HandbagPosted by Ian Ashley Tue, August 26, 2014 07:20PM

Bell Book & Handbag Part V

There is something strange about Bogdan

…There is nothing like being abandoned in an empty ward without your wig and your top set of teeth for making you feel old and unwanted. The fact that I was dying for a wee didn’t help either.

‘Worse things happen at sea,’ I told myself.

We used to say that a lot in prison. Usually when somebody’s parole was turned down or they got a letter saying their husband was leaving them or their boyfriend had got another girl into trouble and was having to get married. But to be honest what is the worst thing that can happen at sea? Yes. You drown. And sometimes when the doors were locked at night and the lights were turned out that was exactly what it felt like.

One of the pills they’d given me must have made me nod off because the next thing I knew there was this great big thing looming over me a great big looming thing. He smiled and apart from the gold teeth he looked quite friendly. Still there was something in his eyes that made me feel sorry for the lad. He looked so sad, displaced, which I suppose he was really, being called Bogdan.

‘I frighten you, sorry’ he said. ‘We go to ward.’

‘Toward what’ I said, and for a nasty moment I wondered if he wasn’t one of those maniacs who make a habit of working in hospitals to help old people on their way Toward The Light. Not doctors I mean, although Beattie just happens to know such stories. Sadly these only serve to bolster her rather right wing views on foreigners. For some reason she has a real phobia about doctors from Sierra Leone. I doubt she even knows where it is, but whatever the reason she once contemplated amputating her own septic finger when Dr Ndolo was the locum at the surgery.

Bogdan thought I’d made a joke and laughed. I could see that with decent dentistry he could be a bit of a heart throb. But then those Eastern Europeans are like that. They are either drop dead gorgeous or they look like hobbits. There is no middle ground. Fortunately my Bogdan was a bit of a dish despite the teeth and if I’d been twenty years younger I wouldn’t have minded being left in a goods lift with him at all. Well let’s make it thirty years then, maybe even forty.

I also had the feeling that he wasn’t really the sort to go leaving people on trolleys in goods lifts for no good reason. Call it a sixth sense but I felt sure he was not as black as he was painted. I reckoned it had more to do with him not being British than anything else. There is a lot of prejudice against foreigners but at the end of the day they are only trying to make a living like the rest of us.

Of course if you listened to Beattie they were milking the social security system left and right, taking jobs from British people and snatching the daily bread from out of our very mouths. Added to that there was the TB and the host of other communicable diseases that she claimed they brought into the country because of their lack of personal hygiene and spitting. She didn’t exactly go as far as saying that they eat babies but I knew the thought was there. Anybody wondering how one small man with a dodgy moustache could wind up killing six million Jews needed to look no further than the likes of Beattie Hathaway.

She was exactly the same when Mr Patel was mugged for his takings. Beattie claimed it served him right for scratching the sell-by dates off his yoghurts. She soon changed her tune when he shut his shop for two weeks whilst his brother installed attack alarms and metal grills on the windows. Walking those four extra streets to get her newspapers not only gave her corns but a totally different outlook on the Asian community I can tell you.

What is sad is that you only had to listen to her to know that she had led such a very small life. It could not have been easy living with all those neck-less relatives. Buying Christmas presents must have been a nightmare. You couldn’t have got a scarf or a tie on any of them. Not that she ever talked much about her family except to harp on about how wonderful they all were, hinting now and then that when she ceased to be a Freemantle she had married beneath herself, but if the photographs were anything to go by you got the impression that they were not what you could call a barrel of laughs.

For a start there’s not one of them with a smile in any of her wedding photos. I mean my lot may have been a bit rough but there was always something going on somewhere causing the branches of the family tree to tremble. Sometimes being a Truscott could be very exciting. If you added in the Openshaw and the Tappley cousins the effect was mind blowing. When I was growing up the local newspapers court report was a veritable who’s who of my genetic inheritance. Small wonder I ended up where I did then?

Anyway not for Beattie the thrill of a life on the waltzers that’s for sure. And I don’t suppose she’d ever made love under Blackpool pier either. What I am saying is that a narrow mind in the wrong hands is a very dangerous thing. Like a hand grenade with no pin.

Despite my forebodings the St Vitus ward looked a nice enough place. At least it wasn’t mixed and Bogdan soon had me safely installed in nice clean bed which considering it had only just been vacated by the recently deceased was reassuringly cold.

The sound of the safety bars being locked firmly into place had a familiar ring of doom about it and my heart sank.

‘See you alligator later!’ he said as he bowed and kissed my hand.

So there I was, wigless, toothless and about to be sucked into care in the community against my will. To be honest wearing a paper night dress doesn’t do much for your self esteem either. To say I was at my lowest ebb would have been an understatement and I had a terrible feeling that things could only get worse.

© Ian Ashley 2014

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