15. THE HOSPITAL PATIENT

The shock of discovering the existence of his manhood sends Ivan into a faint.

There was a great deal of kerfuffle at Ivan Bramble’s flat. A police car, the sort with blue flashing lights and a howling banshee siren, arrived together with two uniformed officers, followed by an ambulance with equally blue flashing lights and urgent noises. Then as if that wasn’t enough, a fire engine screeched to a standstill just in case it was needed.

Chaos ensued and then Ivan Bramble was lifted onto a stretcher and taken off to the ambulance, which hurried off, quietly now that its patient was on board and clearly nor going to die before it reached hospital. The two uniformed policemen remained on duty, guarding the entrance to Ivan Bramble’s flat, the two detectives, Piggott and Smethson, drove off behind the unwanted fire engine and gradually the neighbourhood shrugged the excitement off and went back to quiet normality.

An hour later Ivan Bramble was lying in a hospital bed and snoring. Chief Inspector Piggott had detailed himself to keep watch on the comatose oddity that was a middle-aged schoolmaster whilst his sergeant returned to the flat to see what was what and collect evidence should evidence be required when they decided whether a crime had been committed, and if so, by whom. So he, Piggott, was sitting in a chair and perusing his finger nails with a great deal of concentrated effort, worrying his time along. He didn’t really like hospitals.

And all the while Ivan Bramble slept.

But no man sleeps for ever unless he dies whilst doing it (and then it isn’t exactly what you’d call sleep), and before too long Ivan returned to consciousness.

At first he was aware of darkness, largely because his eyes were closed and acting as a really efficient blocker of light along the lines of a wartime blackout curtain. But his conscious mind started trolling through the scattered memories of his most recent bout of wakefulness and alighted on one overwhelming item. And that was important, more important than anything, and needed checking out. So slowly, under the sheets, one hand drifted down towards his crotch and checked things out there.

And he discovered for the second time that day that his masculine components had returned! He had everything a man requires in order to satisfy himself that he is, indeed, a man!

All of which made him sigh almost rapturously, and that, in turn, made Inspector Piggott leap to his feet and forget about his finger nails.

“Nurse!” he called.

But it was a busy hospital and cuts to its finances had resulted in a reduction in the nursing staff, so no nurse came.

Ivan Bramble moaned gently, not painfully or as if there was something mightily wrong with him, but quietly, as if he was satisfied that something was very, very right. But he kept his eyes firmly shut. He rather enjoyed the darkness because it was in darkness that the best dreams came.

And he was having a sort of dream because he recalled that, not so long ago, he had struggled into the world in the act of birth. He could remember parts of the grim experience quite clearly, particularly the pain as air entered his liquid-filled lungs for the very first time. But he didn’t want to dismiss that memory as if it was totally unimportant. He wanted to treasure it. To hold on to it for as long as possible because, a tiny bit of his mind assured him, it’s not every fifty year-old (and he was on the cusp of being fifty) who can remember being born.

That made him sigh, a long and rather delicious sigh.

“Nurse!” barked Inspector Piggott, a noise that gathered itself into a weapon and plunged straight at the dreaming patient.

And in response Ivan Bramble opened his eyes and blinked because, though the lighting in the hospital ward was subdued on account of the budgetary cuts, he was still dazzled by it.

His brain, though, newly born so far as his memory was concerned, took in his surroundings and decided, quite logically, that he was in a maternity ward. It made sense, and he loved the idea.

He’d had fifty years of life, and it seemed was about to start all over again with goodness-knows how many more years!

“Mummy,” he whispered.

“Pardon?” barked Inspector Piggott as a nurse ran up.

“That’s enough!”n she hissed at the policeman.

“I need to talk to this man as soon as possible,” he said to her, as sternly as he could, though she was a very pretty nurse and he was very bad when it came to sounding severe to very pretty women.

“He’s quite plainly confused,” said the nurse, recognising her dominance over the silly policeman and enjoying the fact that she might exploit it and thus add unexpected entertainment to her working day.

“It’s important,” growled Piggott, unsure of himself for the first time in ages. After all, this nurse had the sort of eyes that could see straight past his normal manly defences and discover whatever little knot of poison existed deep inside his bitter old heart. If he had one, that is, a bitter old heart or a knot of poison, but at that moment it seemed that was exactly what he might have. He could feel it and, for a moment, hated himself for being so exposed.

“I’ll fetch Doctor,” the nurse told him, “meanwhile, keep schtum, please.”

Schtum? Was that a medical term?

The doctor arrived. An elderly, almost military man, and stared for a full minute at his patient before nodding his head. “Okay. Two minutes.” he hissed and returned whence he had come.

“I’ll be watching,” warned the nurse, and Inspector Piggott knew she would be doing exactly that. She was young and her very prettiness unnerved him. It took away his control of the situation and replaced it with what made him feel like a ghost looking on from an unreal other universe, incapable of interfering with the real world.

“Mr Bramble,” he said when he regained a little of his policeman’s composure, “are you well?”

“Are you mummy?” asked Mr Bramble, and that floored the Inspector. Was he mummy? Or was he a mummy? What did this fellow mean?

“You know who I am, Mr Bramble,” he said, and might have kicked himself. The only way, his racing mind told him, that this patient in a hospital bed, could possibly know who he was would be if the ridiculous story of him suddenly becoming a woman was true. And he didn’t believe it for a minute. It went against what all his training had taught him, years ago when he’d learned how to be a policeman. They’ll tell you all sorts of nonsense, he had been taught, and you mustn’t believe a word of what they say…

“You’re a policeman,” whispered the patient, “and not my mummy...”

“That’s right,” he agreed before he could stop himself, “and I’m here to ask you a few questions.”

“I’m a man,” confided the man in the hospital bed, “and I can prove it. Look!”

And Ivan Bramble pulled his hospital sheet back and exposed, to the policeman as well as to the nurse, the evidence of his gender with the sort of pride a newborn infant is showed off by its doting parents. And Ivan Bramble most certainly was a man.

“Stop that!” spluttered Piggott.

“My oh my, how lovely,” trilled the nurse.

© Peter Rogerson 30.11.12