this country we don’t make mistakes like that.’
He had the patronizing manner of any number of public men who conducted interviews while staring at her ankles or the bulges in her blouse, unable to accept that a woman could comprehend or even be truly interested in the depths of his answers. Often-times in their anxiety to act out what they regarded as the strong sexual role model they would fall off guard, giving up far more than they would ever haveconsidered providing to a male reporter. But this one was giving up nothing; he had nothing to give, other than excuses and platitudes.
‘We have systems for such things, you see,’ he continued. ‘Patients are tagged with a plastic ID bracelet from the minute they come into hospital and that ID stays with them until they leave. It can’t drop off or be lost, it has to be cut away; there’s no scope for confusion. You must trust us on this one.’
She didn’t. ‘I thought I read some while ago about parents being sent home from a maternity hospital with the wrong babies.’
‘Wasn’t that in America?’
‘Bournemouth, I believe.’
‘I’m sure I’ve heard about it happening – only very occasionally even there – in America, but never here. Not in England.’
‘In Bournemouth,’ she insisted.
‘But not in this hospital, Miss Dean,’ the administrator joined in. To question was to criticize, and it was his system she was questioning. ‘There weren’t two different babies in this case. Just yours. So it couldn’t have happened, I’m afraid.’
‘The confusion over your baby’s hair colour was a simple error of memory, Izzy,’ Weatherup intervened. ‘After all, hair colour and the like aren’t recorded in the mortuary register. It was just a stumble of memory. Goodness, you of all people should understand that.’ He tried to raise a reassuring chuckle which became impaled and died upon her direct and very professional green eyes.
‘I’d like to question the other staff. The nurses on duty that night.’
‘You’d be welcome, of course you would. In fact, I’d recommend it as part of your therapy.’
‘Therapy? To forget?’
‘To come to terms, Izzy,’ Weatherup continued.
‘Gentlemen, I have no intention of coming to terms, as you put it, if that means brushing aside these inconsistencies.’
‘There are no inconsistencies,’ the administrator joined in with a protest, his voice rising a semi-tone in impatience. ‘We’re talking about nothing more than the confused memory of a technician whom you took by surprise in a part of the hospital where you shouldn’t have been.’ He was growing exasperated, he didn’t care for anyone prying into the efficiency of his systems, least of all a foreigner and a patient who within minutes hopefully would be on his discharge list and no longer the hospital’s responsibility.
‘This isn’t getting us very far,’ Weatherup intervened, keen to get the conversation back on track. ‘Izzy, talk to the nurses, if that’s what you want. Find out how much they really care – and cared for Bella.’
‘But remember we’ve had perhaps a thousand patients through the doors of Accident & Emergency since you were there,’ the administrator interjected. ‘You can’t possibly expect them to remember every detail.’
‘You must have those details recorded somewhere.’
‘They would be in the post-mortem report …’ the neurologist began.
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘They contain all sorts of medical details, some of which you wouldn’t understand and others which as a mother you simply wouldn’t enjoy.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ she reminded him forcefully.
‘PM reports are confidential,’ the administrator snapped. ‘Especially to journalists.’
‘I …’ She was about to tell them about Benjamin, but stopped. She knew it would be of no use. A child’s recollection set against their prejudice. They had closed minds and, anyway, Benjy’s garbled words were scarcely
He had the patronizing manner of any number of public men who conducted interviews while staring at her ankles or the bulges in her blouse, unable to accept that a woman could comprehend or even be truly interested in the depths of his answers. Often-times in their anxiety to act out what they regarded as the strong sexual role model they would fall off guard, giving up far more than they would ever haveconsidered providing to a male reporter. But this one was giving up nothing; he had nothing to give, other than excuses and platitudes.
‘We have systems for such things, you see,’ he continued. ‘Patients are tagged with a plastic ID bracelet from the minute they come into hospital and that ID stays with them until they leave. It can’t drop off or be lost, it has to be cut away; there’s no scope for confusion. You must trust us on this one.’
She didn’t. ‘I thought I read some while ago about parents being sent home from a maternity hospital with the wrong babies.’
‘Wasn’t that in America?’
‘Bournemouth, I believe.’
‘I’m sure I’ve heard about it happening – only very occasionally even there – in America, but never here. Not in England.’
‘In Bournemouth,’ she insisted.
‘But not in this hospital, Miss Dean,’ the administrator joined in. To question was to criticize, and it was his system she was questioning. ‘There weren’t two different babies in this case. Just yours. So it couldn’t have happened, I’m afraid.’
‘The confusion over your baby’s hair colour was a simple error of memory, Izzy,’ Weatherup intervened. ‘After all, hair colour and the like aren’t recorded in the mortuary register. It was just a stumble of memory. Goodness, you of all people should understand that.’ He tried to raise a reassuring chuckle which became impaled and died upon her direct and very professional green eyes.
‘I’d like to question the other staff. The nurses on duty that night.’
‘You’d be welcome, of course you would. In fact, I’d recommend it as part of your therapy.’
‘Therapy? To forget?’
‘To come to terms, Izzy,’ Weatherup continued.
‘Gentlemen, I have no intention of coming to terms, as you put it, if that means brushing aside these inconsistencies.’
‘There are no inconsistencies,’ the administrator joined in with a protest, his voice rising a semi-tone in impatience. ‘We’re talking about nothing more than the confused memory of a technician whom you took by surprise in a part of the hospital where you shouldn’t have been.’ He was growing exasperated, he didn’t care for anyone prying into the efficiency of his systems, least of all a foreigner and a patient who within minutes hopefully would be on his discharge list and no longer the hospital’s responsibility.
‘This isn’t getting us very far,’ Weatherup intervened, keen to get the conversation back on track. ‘Izzy, talk to the nurses, if that’s what you want. Find out how much they really care – and cared for Bella.’
‘But remember we’ve had perhaps a thousand patients through the doors of Accident & Emergency since you were there,’ the administrator interjected. ‘You can’t possibly expect them to remember every detail.’
‘You must have those details recorded somewhere.’
‘They would be in the post-mortem report …’ the neurologist began.
‘I’d like to see it.’
‘They contain all sorts of medical details, some of which you wouldn’t understand and others which as a mother you simply wouldn’t enjoy.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ she reminded him forcefully.
‘PM reports are confidential,’ the administrator snapped. ‘Especially to journalists.’
‘I …’ She was about to tell them about Benjamin, but stopped. She knew it would be of no use. A child’s recollection set against their prejudice. They had closed minds and, anyway, Benjy’s garbled words were scarcely
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