Colin M. Johnson's Fiction - Novels

"ONE POTATO, TWO"

by Colin M. Johnson

CHAPTER 4


      Fortunately, the nameless hospital patient grew stronger every day, and soon began to say a few words.   The doctors were very gentle, but there were facts they badly needed to know, the most important being her identity.   The young patient was going to require some serious operations before she was fit to resume a normal life, and ethically these should be carried out only with the consent of her parents.   But who were they?

      "Can you tell me your name?" her friendly doctor asked one morning.

      "It's ...   "   Wendy tried to answer without thinking, and when she realised she was uncertain even about this, she became quite agitated.   "Where's Mummy?"

      "Now, don't worry," he comforted her.   "Your name doesn't matter for the time being.   What do you think my wife calls me?"

      Wendy smiled and shook her head.

      "Well, her real name's Barbara, but I call her Bubble.   That's what she used to call herself when she was little, and it stuck.   So now I call her Bubble too.   And she calls me Squeak."

      The patient chuckled.   "I think I'll call you Squeak too."

      The doctor glanced cautiously about him.   These were intimacies he didn't normally divulge.   "Well, perhaps when no-one else can hear you," he conceded in a hushed voice.   "That's just our secret, right?"

      "Right on!   Are you a real doctor?" she asked.

      He nodded and showed her his badge.

      "Doctor C.   Latham?   Squeak doesn't start with a C, it starts with S."

      "Hm!   There's not much wrong with your eyesight nor your brain, you little monkey," he said kindly.   "Do you know why you're here?"

      "Not sure," she said, as though trying to recall a vague dream.   "I can't seem to move my legs properly."

      "That's because you managed to break both of them.   We've got a bit more work to do, but they're going to mend very nicely.   Would you like to see what we've done down there?   Then you'll know why you can't get up and go dancing this week."

      He beckoned a young nurse to come and help him pull down the covers on Wendy's bed.   She stared for a moment at the long casts that covered each leg, and she wiggled her toes at the far end.

      "Now that's a good sign," he encouraged her.   "As long as you can still do that, you haven't got much else to worry about.   Can you check that they're all there?"

      "Yes.   I've got twelve."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Well, I can see ten here, plus two more that went to market.   Is this a hospital?"

      The doctor grinned despite himself.   "It's a very special hospital," he said as he restored her bed covers.   "And you're one of our very special patients.   Would you like me to tell you more about why you're here?"

      "Yes please."   Wendy patted down the blanket in front of her.

      "All right.   You had an accident, and we think you were thrown out of a car or a tanker."

      She gave a little frown.   "Why?"   She was sure people didn't normally treat her so unkindly.

      "The tanker and the car both got damaged, but you were thrown out of the way just in time.   Some kind men found you and brought you here, but we still don't know who you are.   Do you remember going on a journey?"

      Wendy's mouth opened, but she didn't reply.   Her face showed only confused uncertainty, as the frown gave way to a slow shake of her head.

      "Can you tell me what twice seven is?" he asked.

      She perked up at once.   "Don't you know?" she retorted with raised eyebrows.

      "I want to hear you say it."

      "Fourteen, of course," she said with considerable indignation, the very question an insult to her intelligence.

      "I bet you don't know what eight sevens are?" he went on.

      "How about fifty-six?   And before you ask, sixteen squared is two hundred more than that."

      "All right," he grinned, "I'll check into that later.   Meanwhile I'd like us to have a nice chat together and play a few games.   It'll help us get to know one another.   Do you like books?   I've got plenty of books you could look at.   You could tell me if you see anything you recognise.   Shall we do that this afternoon?"

      Wendy nodded and began to look sleepy.

      "All right.   In the meantime, see if you can think up a name you'd like me to call you."

      There wasn't a moment's hesitation.   "Potato!" she replied.

      "Potato?"   The doctor tried to look disapproving.   "What sort of name is that?"

      "What sort of a name is Squeak?" she challenged him.

      "All right, you cheeky little chipmunk!   See you after lunch then, Potato."

      "Sh," she whispered as her eyelids became heavy, and she dozed off to sleep again.   "Just our secret."

      In the afternoon the kind Dr. Latham spent a long time with his little Miss Potato, gently probing into her mind to see what clues lay dormant beneath its surface.   His overriding concern was not to cause her any distress, but merely assess the degree to which her brain might have been damaged in the accident.   He hoped her amnesia was purely psychological, because that was the field in which he specialised.

      Her physical condition seemed quite good, considering the ordeal she had faced, with two autumnal nights out in the open air.   Her legs had been badly broken, but following extensive surgery, with the insertion of metal pins to hold the pieces together, it would hopefully be only a matter of time before the physical healing process was completed.

      It was evident too that there was nothing radically wrong with her sense of humour.   She had apparently no conscious recall of what had happened to her, prior to the accident, and this kind of amnesia was quite common.   However, she had this major difficulty in remembering names of people and places, which could prove to be the biggest obstacle of all.

      As often as possible Dr. Latham came to visit her and continued gently to listen and observe.   He asked very few questions, for fear of saying anything to aggravate her problem.   He conducted several short sessions with her every day, and soon got to know a lot more about her lively and endearing personality.

      She had heard of Christmas but not of the Jewish Hanukkah; her ability in arithmetic was commendable for a girl of her apparent age, and her accent suggested a middle-class upbringing, somewhere in the south of England.   Her clothing was new, which indicated a family of average income, and any dirt on her body had been purely superficial.   She had short curly fair hair, blue eyes, and no previous physical scars.

      Apart from extensive damage to her lower jaw which required remedial surgery, her actual teeth were in perfect condition.   There were no other distinguishing features such as pierced ear-lobes or birth-marks.   She was in all respects a healthy middle-class girl with a lively and intelligent outlook, yet still she had no conscious knowledge as to who she was nor the town she came from.

      Dr. Latham showed her books full of pictures, and she read to him from a variety of different works.   She listened to tapes of music, telling him which pieces she liked and which she felt she'd heard before.   She studied postcards of town centres, but appeared to recognise none of them.   The nurses on her ward were kept fully informed about her case, and were told to watch out for any new clues.

      Wendy was gradually nursed back to satisfactory physical health by some very devoted hospital staff, each of whom called her by a different name, usually associated with potatoes.   To the orderlies, nurses and doctors she was "Chipface", "Spudlegs", "The Little Masher" or "Crispy".

      And one day a new young student nurse, Sharon Edwards, who took a particular liking to Wendy, happened to call her "Chip-pan".

      "Does that mean I'm related to Peter Pan?" the little girl joked.

      "I doubt it," said Sharon.

      "So do I.   Peter Pan was an orphan, so he can't have had relatives."

      "Have you ever been to see Peter Pan on the stage?"

      She frowned and shook her head.   "Don't think so."

      "But you have heard of Peter Pan?"

      "Of course!" she exclaimed.   "Everyone's heard of Peter Pan."

      The nurse sat for a moment on the chair beside her bed.   "All right.   Tell me about Peter Pan."

      Wendy cleared her throat.   "Well, there's a boy called Peter Pan and he can fly.   And one night he flew into a girl's bedroom and was looking for some soap to try and stick his shadow on again.   Daddy says that means he's a Non-stick Flying Pan," she cackled with glee.

      "Oh, Chippy, that's terrible!"

      Wendy seemed disappointed that her humour wasn't appreciated as she had hoped.   "I thought it was quite funny."

      "Oh, it is," the nurse assured her, "extremely funny.   So, what else can you tell me?"

      "Anyway, they all fly off to an island and live there, but there's a nasty pirate called Captain Hook who's always getting chased by a long green crocodile who has a clock inside him."

      "It sounds to me as though you've seen it before," said the nurse.   "Perhaps in one of the London theatres.   Maybe you'd like to go and see it again when you're better?"

      "Don't think so," and a cloud passed across the girl's face.

      At that moment Staff Nurse Morris came hurrying through the ward on her way to lunch and, as usual, she paused for a quick greeting.

      "And how's our little Spudeyes this morning?"

      "Spudeyes?   That's a new one," exclaimed the student nurse.   "How many more names has this child got?"

      "Not enough, I guess," said Nurse Morris, drawing her colleague to one side.   "Anything new yet?"

      "Not really.   Just a load of silly nonsense about Peter Pan and some dreadful puns she picked up from her father."

      "Her father?   Wait there."   The senior nurse hurried off, and reappeared a moment later with Dr. Latham.   She cast a stern glare at Sharon, then continued on her way to the staff canteen.

      "So, we've been chattering this morning, have we?" the doctor began calmly.   "What's this little scamp been telling us this time?"

      "Nothing of much use," said Sharon, anxious not to say anything frivolous in front of the doctor.

      His voice assumed a deceptive gentleness.   "Just try to resume the course of your conversation as easily as you can, please Nurse.   We don't want our first fish to swim away, do we, not after we've waited so long."

      "Oh!   Right.   We were talking about going to see Peter Pan.   You know, the play by J.M.   Barrie I think it was ..."

      "Ah, yes," he agreed.   "I saw that when I was about nine years old, it must have been."   He turned to the child.   "Have you seen it?"

      "I have, yes," said Sharon, "but little Chip-pan here says she hasn't, although she seems to know an awful lot about it."

      "Chip-pan?" queried Dr. Latham.

      "Yes, that's why she said she might have been related to Peter Pan." Sharon continued.   "Then she told me an awful joke of her father's ..."

      "Thank you, Nurse," the doctor interrupted her firmly.   "Do you mind if I spend a few quiet minutes alone with my little friend?   If you could prepare a transcript of your chat just now, verbatim if possible, I'd be most grateful."

      "All right," said the nurse, and she turned to go.   "See you later," she added with a friendly wink at the child.

      "You like Nurse Edwards?" he observed as soon as they were alone.

      "Yes.   She says she might take me out for a treat one day."

      "And where would you like to go?"

      The patient made no reply and merely shook her head.   Dr. Latham gave her a reassuring smile, then turned to gaze out of the window.

      "When I was small," he said, "my father took me to see all sorts of shows in London.   You know the sort of thing, Cinderella and Prince what's-his-name, Goldilocks and the three kangaroos ..."

      "Bears," she corrected him scornfully.   Some doctors had a lot to learn.

      "Of course," he apologised.   "It was a long time ago.   But I remember lots of the corny jokes they had in them.   Awful, they were.   I don't suppose you know any good jokes?"

      "Nurse Edwards said the one I just told her was terrible!.

      "The worse they are, my love, the better I like 'em.   Between you and me, young Potato, not all nurses have our sense of humour.   It comes from working too long in hospital wards, that's my theory.   But I'm different, you see, because I've got a nice quiet office of my own.   Would you like to come and see?"

      Wendy gave an eager nod, and a smile she knew no man could resist.

      "All right.   You slip that dressing gown on, and we'll take a little ride around.   I'll order you a private taxi."

      "Okey-dokey!"   Wendy leaned over and carefully picked up her hospital robe.   While she struggled into it, Dr. Latham strolled across for a brief word with Nurse Edwards before fetching a wheel-chair.

      "Thanks for the tip, Nurse," he encouraged her.   "But next time, give our patient a sporting chance to do some of the talking.   Have you got that note for me?"

      "It's as near word-for-word as I can remember," she replied, handing him a small sheet of paper.   "She definitely mentioned her father - Daddy was the word she used - and she knew Peter Pan's name."

      "But not until you put the name Chip-Pan into her head, eh?"

      "True," continued the nurse.   She knew she had been given a reprimand, but Dr. Latham had done it so graciously she warmed to him at once.   "Oh, and she had no problem remembering the name of Captain Hook."

      "That's natural.   Strong visual image," he beamed, curling the fore-finger of his right hand.   "Could you come and give me a hand with Miss Cardboard-Legs over there?   We're just going for a short exploratory tour.   Keep your fingers crossed."

      He took a small wheelchair from the corner of the ward and trundled it over to his patient's bedside, where Nurse Edwards stripped off the blankets with commendable efficiency.

      "Climb on board the Orient Express, young Potato, and we'll be off."

      He lifted the stiff bundle into the chair, then wheeled her down the ward and along the outer corridor, making steam engine noises as they went.   Carefree though his manner may have seemed, he was in fact being very careful not to hurt his vulnerable patient by bumping her legs into any obstruction.   With everything still in plaster from the hips downwards, there was little Wendy could have done herself to avoid any collision.

      "What was it Nurse Edwards called you just now?" the doctor asked as they entered his consulting room.

      "Chip-pan!"

      "You know, I think I might get offended if someone called me that," he remarked.   "What other names do the nurses have for you?"

      "Spuds, Pom-Pom, Crispy, Chipolata, lots of silly names.   Someone told me yesterday I wasn't born at all, I was Mash Produced."

      The doctor groaned.   "Now that IS terrible.   I reckon that's worse than the joke you told Nurse Edwards about the non-stick saucepan.   Or was it a frying pan?"

      "No, Flying Pan, not frying pan!   Peter Pan couldn't stick his shadow on, you see, and since he could fly, he was a non-stick flying pan."   Wendy looked peeved at having to repeat wearisome details.   "It spoils it, having to explain everything like that."

      "I'm sorry, but I missed your original story you see, and I thought Nurse Edwards might have got it wrong.   Do you know any more jokes?"

      "Can't remember," she replied sadly.

      "I wonder if your Daddy knows any more?" he breathed.

      "Yes, lots, when he's in a good mood, but I can't remember them now."

      "Why don't we ask him?" he went on, aware of touching a sensitive area.

      "We can't, can we," she sighed.

      "We could if we wrote to him."

      "That's silly."

      "Why is it silly?   Your Daddy sounds a very nice man."

      "Sometimes," she assured him, and put her left thumb in her mouth for comfort.

      "Where can I get in touch with your Daddy?" he tried once more.

      "Don't know!"   Wendy stared at the floor and looked very miserable.   Dr. Latham noticed the change, but needed to press still further, hating himself for having to distress her.

      "I expect he's at home, isn't he?   Shall we phone him?   Let's give him a big surprise and tell him where you are."

      He said this so eagerly, she had to agree.   "Yes, but I don't think he's there."

      "Well, perhaps Mummy'll be there."

      The child's lips quivered and her big eyes filled with tears.   Dr. Latham held out his arms at once and Wendy leaned forward to accept his embrace, unaware of her doctor's struggle with his own emotions.

      "You know something?" he said when he'd regained his professional composure.   "I'd give a lot to have a little daughter like you.   And I'll tell you another secret - I've never said that to any other patient of mine, ever.   But you're very special, you know that?   I'll tell you what, when you're fit and well, you can come and see where I live, and we could take you to all sorts of nice places."

      Wendy's eyes lit up once more.   "Would I meet Bubble?"

      "Yes, my little one.   In fact, I could ask Bubble to come and meet you, maybe later this afternoon?"

      "Okey-dokey!"   She nodded her approval, repeating "Okey-dokey" several times as though it ought to mean something.   Then she put her left thumb back in her mouth, wanting to look suitably coy for her next remark.

      "What do you call a crocodile that goes tick-tock, tick-tock?"

      "Like the one in Peter Pan, you mean?   Tell me."

      Wendy held a significant pause before giving the answer, as though she'd been taught good timing by a professional comedian.

      "A Clockodile," she confided with an impish grin, continuing to suck hard on the thumb, and never for an instant taking her eyes off the doctor's face.   He laughed, not at the pun but from the pure joy of sharing the warmth of this resilient little personality.   He put his arm around her and gave her an extra comforting cuddle.

      "Another of Daddy's jokes?" he asked, still holding her firmly.

      "No.   I thought that one up just now.   Like it?"

      He nodded silently, and knew it was time to wheel his favourite patient back to her ward.

      "I've got another joke I thought of while we were in your office," she added as they travelled down the corridor.   "Want to hear it?"

      "I doubt if I have a choice," he grinned, "so go on."

      "Right!   There's a patient in hospital and she's walking around, stiff as can be, like a wooden soldier, as if she's in plaster all the way up to her neck.   And when Nurse Morris asks why she's walking like that, do you know what she says?   She says she went into Dr. Latham's office and saw her medical report lying on his desk.   And it said in big red letters: DO NOT BEND!"

      Dr. Latham couldn't resist laughing out loud, remembering the very envelope that had lain there under Wendy's gaze.   And if anyone couldn't bend at that moment it was his stiff patient, sitting in front of him, heart-broken one minute, irrepressible the next.

      "Perhaps the reason you can't bend, young Potato, is because potatoes are full of starch.   Do not bend, indeed!   I must use that at my next staff meeting."

      He wheeled the little pickle back to her ward, and left her with Nurse Edwards who put her safely into bed.

      Within five minutes she was sound asleep, looking very peaceful and totally unaware of the urgent phone call her doctor was making, as he tried to persuade his wife that her presence would greatly help the welfare of one of his patients.   Luckily Barbara Latham was free for a couple of hours, so she hurried over to the hospital.

      Young Potato woke up to see Dr. Latham standing beside a pleasantly attractive woman in a maroon dress.   She was tall with dark shoulder-length hair, and looked rather important.

      "I'd like you two to say Hallo to one another," he addressed them jointly, as he beckoned his wife to come and meet his patient.

      "Are you Mrs. Bubble?" the child enquired, looking for her doctor's reassuring nod.   Barbara Latham gave her husband a frown of reproach.

      "We try anything here if it's going to work," he explained.   "I'll leave you two together for a chat while I go and finish some ironing."

      Wendy watched him disappear through the swing doors before turning to her visitor with a dubious frown.   "Ironing?"

      "Just a silly excuse to leave us alone," Mrs. Latham explained awkwardly, wondering how to open conversation with a patient who didn't even know her own name.

      Wendy broke the ice for her.   "Do you really call him Squeak?"

      "I used to, my dear, especially when I wanted him to be a little less pompous.   Actually, I called him Squirrel when I first met him - I felt his real name sounded silly."

      Potato wondered what his real name was.   "I like him," she admitted in a tone of voice that betrayed totally honest opinion.

      "He seems very fond of you," she replied.   "In fact, if you were ten years older I'd be worried.   He spends half the evening talking about you."

      "Has he told you my name?"

      "Do you mean your real one, or that silly name he has for you?"

      "It isn't silly.   I chose it for him, specially."

      "Yes, I know, dear, but why Potato?"

      Wendy shrugged.   "Oh, it just sort of - came into my head."

      "But I can't very well introduce you to my friends with a name like Potato, can I?   Don't you have a better name you can come up with?"

      "I might.   When I hear a name I like, I'll tell you.   Anyway, I can't introduce you to anyone with a name like Bubble," the girl retorted, watching keenly for her visitor's reaction.

      "My real names are Hilary Barbara," she said.

      Wendy looked thoughtful.   "I think I know someone called Hilary," she said with a puzzled frown.   "But Doctor Squeak doesn't call you Hilary or Barbara.   He likes to call you Bubble."

      "I'm usually introduced to people as Barbara, but Cyril more often likes to call me just Dear or Darling - something like that."

      Wendy thought again for a minute.   "That's in Peter Pan as well."

      Barbara Latham nodded wisely.   "Cyril mentioned Peter Pan.   Why are we talking about Peter Pan?"

      "Mister Darling," she explained.   "If you haven't seen it I suppose you wouldn't know.   He had to sleep in Nana's kennel."

      "I see," said Barbara.   "Did you know Peter Pan will be on in London soon?"

      "Yes, Sharon told me.   That's her over there," she added in a saucy whisper.   "Very nice, but a bit young."

      "I wonder if your doctor would let me take you?   Would you like that, if he agreed?"

      "It'd be very awkward.   I'm not the right shape for going anywhere."

      "Oh, I'm sure we can get round a minor problem like that.   The big question is whether or not you'd like to go?"

      "I wouldn't mind if you could send me there by magic," she agreed.

      "Then it's all up to the great doctor."

      For a while there was an awkward silence, as Barbara stopped herself from asking questions she'd been warned couldn't be answered - normal, everyday questions like: "Where do you live?   Where do you go to school?   Are your friends coming to visit you?"

      "I bet you're wondering why I can't remember who I am," said Wendy.

      "Guilty!"   Barbara yielded to a shame-faced grin and clasped the small hand in front of her.

      "There's lots of things I can remember," she went on, "but names won't come into my head when I need them.   I know I've got parents called Mummy and Daddy, in fact two of them.   I know about London, though I'm sure we don't live there.   And in my head, I can picture the view from our bedroom window."

      "Whose bedroom?" Barbara asked quickly.

      "Ours.   I can see the elm tree at the bottom of the garden, and some fields beyond.   There's a hollow in the tree where we hid some of our things when Mummy wanted to throw them away."

      "What sorts of things?   I mean, won't they get all damp?"

      "Perhaps.   But it's only old books she said we'd grown out of."

      "Do you like school?"

      "Not a lot.   I'm not much good at anything except maths and being a bit cheeky.   My sister's much cleverer than me."

      "I expect she's older, that's why."

      "No, she's not - we're both exactly the same."

      Dr. Latham reappeared at that moment and approached the chattering couple.   "You mean, like twins?" he nodded approvingly.   "Potato and what, I wonder.   Don't tell their names are Sausage and Mash."

      "That's no worse than being called Bubble and Squeak.   Sausage - it's something like that, but ..."

      Wendy broke off and frowned again.   It was an endearing frown, but it revealed how troubled she felt every time her memory failed her.

      "Never mind, my pet," said Barbara, giving the hand a friendly press.   "Maybe we'll have another chat tomorrow?"

      The doctor bent down and ruffled his fingers through Wendy's hair.

      "Good.   Have a good rest tonight, Curly-nob, and in the morning we'll see if we can make a few plans about what we're going to do with you.   Good night, Potato!"

      "Good night, Cyril!" she chuckled, and instantly hid behind her blanket.

      The doctor gave his wife a look of betrayal.   "See what happens when I let my two favourite girl-friends get together?   They share even my darkest secrets."

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