5) KATE

Sit down and let me tell you the saddest and the funniest story you’ve ever heard.  It's called Kate.

I’d tried to meet Kate before.  We’d spoken on the phone and arranged to meet at Pont de la Tour.  I know, I know, but she’s a trainee nurse at Guy’s so it’s only round the corner and I couldn’t think of anywhere else.  And she looks like Terri Hatcher. 

And I knew she wouldn’t come. 

I knew as soon as I walked in.  I was right on time but I was in the wrong place.  It would be intimidating enough to meet an older man you’ve only spoken to on the phone, but a trainee nurse (very young, very skint probably) would not want to meet here.  Too alien.  Too well dressed.  Too old.

So I knew she wouldn’t come.  So I had lunch on my own and texted her every now and then with a running, humourous, commentary on my meal; the music (Blues of course); and then the fact that a gorgeous young girl, who looked liked Terri Hatcher, had just walked in… followed by her fat boyfriend.

I didn’t expect her to reply.  I just wanted her to know that I had come, and that I wasn’t cross.

Then we spoke again.  And she was so sorry and so excited we were talking again.  And we agreed to meet the next day.  And I was smart this time.  “I’ll come to you”, I said, “I’ll come to Guys and you can check me out in reception”. 

This was going to go well. 

She agreed, and gave me her ‘bleep’ number, so they could call her.

Now, I had gone out with a nurse at Guys before I was married.  Toppy was her name and she was a very young sister on the mental ward and she had the longest legs….

Anyway, I knew Guys and that it had a residential block for the nurses overlooking the Thames.

I bought the tulips, thanked Ellie, tubed to London Bridge and then walked to Guys.  The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day.  This was going to go well.

When I walked in there was nobody on reception.  Nobody.  Just two security guards cavorting with each other in a booth behind reception.

This was strange.

Then another security guard appeared and I explained I was here to meet an off-duty nurse in the nurses' residence.  She looked blankly at me.  And suspiciously.  She pointed at an internal phone.  I dialled the ‘bleep’ number, there was no answer.

This was strange, too.

I gradually realised that Guys wasn’t an A & E hospital any more.  Whatever it was it didn’t  seem to involve many nurses so the nurses' residency had been converted into something else.  The nurses now were scattered in various smaller places.  And the security staff neither knew nor cared where they were.

Um.

I had an idea. As I do. I’ll find a nurse, any nurse, and she’ll be able to help.  The security staff watched but did nothing as I wandered into the hospital in search of a nurse.  The corridors were empty, the canteen – empty.  This was a hospital without nurses, except the one I was there to see.

I went back to reception.  I had another idea.  I couldn’t call Kate because her phone had been stolen and she couldn’t afford to replace it yet.  So I called Guy’s switchboard.  An understanding lady answered.   She called the main residences.  But all the switchboards are automatic and you have to know the room number.  And it’s Sunday, so nobody is in the office.

And I realised what had happened.  Kate is a trainee.  When she’s on duty everyone calls her ‘bleep’.  When she’s off duty everybody calls her room number.  But she’d given me the wrong number.

And she wouldn’t know it’s impossible for a visitor to find her without it.

The switchboard operator was apologetic, and sympathetic (I have a good phone voice) and eventually put me through to the senior manager on duty.  He tried paging her, officially, through the hospital system.  He tried her bleep, but she was off duty so she’d switched it off.

He had no other ideas.

But I had.  I don’t give up easily.  I found out which was the largest nurses' residency – Wolfson.  I found it, through the maze (literally) that is the now largely empty Guys.  In the car park some youngsters were unloading a car from a weekend away.  “Are you trainee nurses?”. “Yes”.  “Do you live here?”. “Yes”.  “Do you know Kate?”.  “No”.

But I had found life and where there’s life there is hope.  This hostel had a manned reception.  The security guard was understandably cautious, his job is to protect his nurses after all, but eventually he said he’d try to help.

I gave him Kate’s surname and he took out six sheets of closely typed names and room numbers.  They weren’t in alphabetical order so he carefully, and meticulously, and labouriously, went through each name, page after page.  Then he reached the end and started over again, because he was a good guy and didn’t want to make a mistake.

No mistake.  Her name wasn’t on his list.  She wasn’t there. 

It was 1.00.  I’d spent two hours trying to find Kate.  I was beaten, and she’d think I hadn’t come.  As if any 40 something would turn down the chance to meet a trainee nurse who looks like Terri Hatchet.

I went to Pont de la Tour and had lunch.  The piano player was playing the Blues again.  Kate was in a Guys residency, somewhere around London Bridge, waiting for me, and I had gone.

peter hero 2006