An administrative persepctive
Aug. 16th, 2010 04:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
seph-hazard.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadowsThis was going to be a three-word fic, but then I started writing it and realised that I needed to switch perspective and turn it into something completely different.
***
It was largely accepted by those who knew Ian Bester that he was a bright young man with a shining future. Upon graduation he had chosen to spun blue chip corporations for a more philanthropic career in NHS administration despite the significant limitations this placed upon his future earnings, and his friends, family and fiancée all agreed that this had been jolly decent of him. He was by and large happy with his decision, though every now and again something happened that caused him to regret it.
The most pressing of those happenings was Matron Whyte from Floor Three.
She was an unfailingly stern and frighteningly organised woman who had a way of looking at him that reminded him of his mother in a discomfortingly Oedipal fashion. She ruled the nurses of the third floor with an iron fist, which was all well and good and part of her job description. What was more troublesome, however, was the way she had managed to extend this steely influence not only to all the nurses who weren't hers but also to just about every doctor, administrator and indeed patient at Addenbrooke's. She'd been working there for a little less than five months, but somehow in this short period of time she had become one of the most prominent fixtures the hospital had ever seen. He'd say that she was the sort of person who you couldn't imagine having a life outside of the job, but then she'd shown up all over the papers with – oh, what was his name? That bloke with the talent show on the telly. Not Simon Cowell, the foreign one – and combined with all that fuss with Gaby Peterson a couple of months before it had all served to make the bloody woman even more unfathomable.
He should have spotted the warning signs when negotiating her transfer, really. In every telephone conversation he'd had with his northern counterpart there had been a panicked edge to the other man's voice. “We don't know what we're going to do without her”, he'd said, and at the time Ian had taken this as a glowing reference, just the sort of thing people said when a colleague departed for pastures new. Now he knew better, and had an all too clear mental image of Leeds General crumpling in on top of itself in her wake, suddenly directionless nurses cut adrift and nobody able to find the stationary cupboard. Meanwhile, over in Cambridge, it was that time of the quarter when he needed to clear the timesheets before handing them over to Human Resources and Matron Whyte's was...confusing. To say the least.
Unless he was very much mistaken, she had been working eighty to a hundred hour weeks ever since she had taken up the job. She'd overseen nearly every morning and evening handover in the past few months and he had an awful feeling that she'd acquired a habit of working twenty-four hour shifts at least once a week.
This couldn't go on. It was unsafe, it was unhealthy, and it broke just about every EU Worker's Rights Directive he could think of. Someone had to do something about it, and it was probably going to have to be Ian Bester. “Don't be a fool, old chap,” he muttered to himself as his fingers paused over the buttons on his desk phone. “You're her boss, not the other way around.” Steeling his resolve, he dialled her extension and waited for her to pick up.
“Matron Whyte speaking?”
“Ahh, Matron. Could you pop over to my office, please? Er, when – you know, when you've got a moment.”
“Ian! Lovely to hear from you. Certainly, I'll be right over.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and his palms began to sweat a little.
“Thank you”, he replied, trying sound curt, and hung up the receiver. What on earth did she sound so friendly about? This couldn't possibly end well.
She arrived a minute or two later, bringing with her an almost overpowering scent of currant buns and disinfectant that he couldn't shake from his nostrils no matter how hard he tried. He was always surprised by how short she was, every time he saw her. He was quite sure he remembered her as being considerably taller than that. “Afternoon, duck”, she said cheerily. “What's the trouble?”
“Well, it's like this, you see, Matr...” He trailed off, realising that he'd already got things off on the wrong foot. Why did he always call her Matron? He called all the other matrons by their first names. Why should this one be any different? “Ruby”, he continued, and tried to ignore her slightly raised eyebrow. “It's like this, Ruby. It can't go on. You'll make yourself ill. You'll get me fired.”
“Sorry, love: you seem to have me at an advantage here.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Well, it's about this.” He pushed the printed timesheet to her across the desk. “It just won't do, Ruby. It won't do at all.”
“My,” she chuckled, giving the document a cursory glance. “I have been racking it up a bit, haven't I?”
“Quite! And it just, it just can't go on. EU legislation clearly states -”
“States what, dear? That Sister Giniver on Ward Nine should be left by herself to deal with eight critical patients in her section, all of whom need patience and comfort and a listening ear?”
“Well, no, obviously not, but -”
“Or that Sister Patel, who qualified less than a year ago, should be forced into the firing line for upping the dose of pain medication to a woman crying out in agony in the middle of the night when no doctors can be spared to come up and see to her themselves?”
“Oh god”, said Ian, a note of despair creeping into his voice. “Is that really the state of things out there?”
“Don't you worry yourself about it, dearie,” she replied, seeming almost to glow with warmth and reassurance as she reached across the desk to pat his arm with a motherly smile. “I've got it all in hand.”
And with that she turned and bustled out of Ian Bester's office, leaving him to organise his paperwork and wonder how it was that she got around him every single time.
***
It was largely accepted by those who knew Ian Bester that he was a bright young man with a shining future. Upon graduation he had chosen to spun blue chip corporations for a more philanthropic career in NHS administration despite the significant limitations this placed upon his future earnings, and his friends, family and fiancée all agreed that this had been jolly decent of him. He was by and large happy with his decision, though every now and again something happened that caused him to regret it.
The most pressing of those happenings was Matron Whyte from Floor Three.
She was an unfailingly stern and frighteningly organised woman who had a way of looking at him that reminded him of his mother in a discomfortingly Oedipal fashion. She ruled the nurses of the third floor with an iron fist, which was all well and good and part of her job description. What was more troublesome, however, was the way she had managed to extend this steely influence not only to all the nurses who weren't hers but also to just about every doctor, administrator and indeed patient at Addenbrooke's. She'd been working there for a little less than five months, but somehow in this short period of time she had become one of the most prominent fixtures the hospital had ever seen. He'd say that she was the sort of person who you couldn't imagine having a life outside of the job, but then she'd shown up all over the papers with – oh, what was his name? That bloke with the talent show on the telly. Not Simon Cowell, the foreign one – and combined with all that fuss with Gaby Peterson a couple of months before it had all served to make the bloody woman even more unfathomable.
He should have spotted the warning signs when negotiating her transfer, really. In every telephone conversation he'd had with his northern counterpart there had been a panicked edge to the other man's voice. “We don't know what we're going to do without her”, he'd said, and at the time Ian had taken this as a glowing reference, just the sort of thing people said when a colleague departed for pastures new. Now he knew better, and had an all too clear mental image of Leeds General crumpling in on top of itself in her wake, suddenly directionless nurses cut adrift and nobody able to find the stationary cupboard. Meanwhile, over in Cambridge, it was that time of the quarter when he needed to clear the timesheets before handing them over to Human Resources and Matron Whyte's was...confusing. To say the least.
Unless he was very much mistaken, she had been working eighty to a hundred hour weeks ever since she had taken up the job. She'd overseen nearly every morning and evening handover in the past few months and he had an awful feeling that she'd acquired a habit of working twenty-four hour shifts at least once a week.
This couldn't go on. It was unsafe, it was unhealthy, and it broke just about every EU Worker's Rights Directive he could think of. Someone had to do something about it, and it was probably going to have to be Ian Bester. “Don't be a fool, old chap,” he muttered to himself as his fingers paused over the buttons on his desk phone. “You're her boss, not the other way around.” Steeling his resolve, he dialled her extension and waited for her to pick up.
“Matron Whyte speaking?”
“Ahh, Matron. Could you pop over to my office, please? Er, when – you know, when you've got a moment.”
“Ian! Lovely to hear from you. Certainly, I'll be right over.” He could hear the smile in her voice, and his palms began to sweat a little.
“Thank you”, he replied, trying sound curt, and hung up the receiver. What on earth did she sound so friendly about? This couldn't possibly end well.
She arrived a minute or two later, bringing with her an almost overpowering scent of currant buns and disinfectant that he couldn't shake from his nostrils no matter how hard he tried. He was always surprised by how short she was, every time he saw her. He was quite sure he remembered her as being considerably taller than that. “Afternoon, duck”, she said cheerily. “What's the trouble?”
“Well, it's like this, you see, Matr...” He trailed off, realising that he'd already got things off on the wrong foot. Why did he always call her Matron? He called all the other matrons by their first names. Why should this one be any different? “Ruby”, he continued, and tried to ignore her slightly raised eyebrow. “It's like this, Ruby. It can't go on. You'll make yourself ill. You'll get me fired.”
“Sorry, love: you seem to have me at an advantage here.”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Well, it's about this.” He pushed the printed timesheet to her across the desk. “It just won't do, Ruby. It won't do at all.”
“My,” she chuckled, giving the document a cursory glance. “I have been racking it up a bit, haven't I?”
“Quite! And it just, it just can't go on. EU legislation clearly states -”
“States what, dear? That Sister Giniver on Ward Nine should be left by herself to deal with eight critical patients in her section, all of whom need patience and comfort and a listening ear?”
“Well, no, obviously not, but -”
“Or that Sister Patel, who qualified less than a year ago, should be forced into the firing line for upping the dose of pain medication to a woman crying out in agony in the middle of the night when no doctors can be spared to come up and see to her themselves?”
“Oh god”, said Ian, a note of despair creeping into his voice. “Is that really the state of things out there?”
“Don't you worry yourself about it, dearie,” she replied, seeming almost to glow with warmth and reassurance as she reached across the desk to pat his arm with a motherly smile. “I've got it all in hand.”
And with that she turned and bustled out of Ian Bester's office, leaving him to organise his paperwork and wonder how it was that she got around him every single time.
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