Postcards to America by Patrick Ingle

chapel would not do; too small. The canteen would do but if he remembered correctly, the tables were screwed to the floor. That would leave only one other option… The other doctors reluctantly agreed with his suggestion and informed the hospital authorities.
    All non-essential personnel were marshalled and the patients on trolleys were pushed and pulled to the enclosed car park. The patients protested vehemently at being moved out instead of being moved in. No doubt at this very minute their relatives would be ringing the newspapers protesting.
    Then the crash victims started arriving. One man and one young woman were DOA. Three people were suffering from severe head injuries and after initial treatment were sent by helicopter to a specialist hospital dealing in head injuries. A dozen others suffered various broken limbs that needed to be placed in casts and two victims were treated for severe shock.
    As Henry finished dealing with the last of the crash victims Catherine entered the casualty and beckoned to him. Henry asked another doctor to take over from him and approached her. She seemed upset.
    ‘There is a man in the waiting room causing trouble. I know you are busy. Can you spare a minute…?’
    Henry considered for a minute. They were nearly finished here for now. He walked to the sink, washed his hands, and then followed Catherine to the waiting room.
    ‘That’s him there,’ Catherine said. ‘He says he is an important politician.’ She pointed to a man with a pin-stripe suit and a beer belly.
    At the sight of Henry, “Beer Belly” stepped forward and extended his hand. Henry shook the proffered hand. The hand felt moist.
    “Beer Belly” placed his hand around Henry’s shoulder as if they were old pals and whispered, ‘Doctor, I know that you are busy but could you… could you have a quick look at my son? I have an important meeting to attend.’
    Henry looked at the young boy standing beside his father. A lollipop stuck out from the corner of his mouth and his nose needed cleaning. A white bandage wrapped around the hand signalled the location of his injury.
    Henry felt his temperature rise. A waiting room filled with patients. People parked on trolleys in the car park awaiting admission and this politician trying to jump the queue. Responsibility for the mess had to stop someplace and in Henry’s mind this politician represented all politicians. With an effort, Henry kept his composure.
    ‘A fine boy,’ Henry said and meant it.
    ‘Doctor! Doctor! “Beer Belly” spoke loudly so that he would be overheard.
    Henry knelt down to the young boy’s level. Carefully he removed the bandage from the boy’s hand. The wound did not seem to be deep. A good cleaning, two stitches and tetanus shot would suffice.
    ‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot.’ Henry informed “Beer Belly”.
    ‘Well…’ “Beer Belly” let the word hang.
    ‘A fine boy that needs two stitches and tetanus shot and who is going to wait his turn.’
    “Beer Belly’s” face collapsed. For a moment, Henry thought the politician near to exploding. Veins stood out in his neck and his face went crimson.
    ‘We have an emergency in casualty. We have patients on trolleys parked in the car park and we have a full waiting room. As a politician, you should be setting an example to the public at large. You may not be personally responsible for this mess but if you have to wait your turn, you may realise what the populace has to live or die with. Now I presume you have a ticket?’ Henry surprised himself at the calmness of his own voice.
    “Beer Belly” looked shocked. His mouth opened and shut in silent rhythm
    Henry pointed to the large electronic sign that displayed the number 47.
    ‘Get a ticket and wait your turn. There are 47 people in front of you so be prepared for a long wait.’
    A look of admiration graced Catherine’s face as Henry left the waiting room and returned to casualty.
    With the emergency over