Story by Big M

Fern looked down at, not one, but three broken nails and cried. Not ‘trying to get my own way’ sort of crying, but the crying that comes from genuine hurt. She couldn’t afford to have her acrylic nails repaired; in fact, she could barely afford to eat. It was only that her sister, Acacia, still had an income that they weren’t pushing their belongings in Coleses trolleys, and wearing all of their coats at once, and searching the gutters for old stogies. This wasn’t entirely true, as their mother, none other than, One-Armed Amber, owned their spacious three-bedroom apartment in Lewisham Heights. Legend had it that she had lost her arm in a gun battle. The truth was that she was a victim to Thalidomide. Be that as it may, Amber was still pretty high up in the underworld, and still carried a Charter Arms Pink Lady .38 Special, because she liked the pink frame, as well as the stopping power of a .38.

Fern was furious with Foodge. The bastard owed her nine week’s pay, plus annual leave, plus over five month’s worth of unpaid superannuation. She’d been a damned good secretary. She could type at twenty words per minute. She kept his BAS statements less than two years behind. She had developed an advanced accounting system for the firm. She’d even gone to technical college to learn about the internet, and was capable of catching up with her favourite television shows at work. She could even send an email with an attachment. God knows where Foodge would find someone to replace her. Certainly not hanging around that stinking ‘Pigs Arms’.  Foodge used to come back to the office smelling of stale beer, cheap tomato sauce and that malodorous block of stuff from men’s urinals. No, he’d go a long way before he’d find someone to replace her. That’s why she was prepared to wait.

How long she could wait was a different question. She was a high maintenance lady. There was, of course, the nails, then the hair appointments, you know, streaks, cuts, placement of extensions, removal of extensions, spray tans, make-up, Zumba classes, going out Friday night, going out Saturday night, going out mid-week, shoes, and, of course, stockings, dresses, and, occasionally, a hat, or two.

 

Then there was poor Acacia, heartbroken by that bastard Dr James. She’d gone to work at the hospital with good intentions; to snare, sorry, marry a doctor, and ended up with a weak, spineless male nurse with a doctorate in nursing. Who’d ever heard of a doctor of nursing?  That generated more expenses; lunching out, ‘just to talk’, dinners out, to look for a new man, piccolos of champers or cocktails. The costs just kept adding up. Thank God for the Viza card!

Fern realised that it was getting late, and that; it was her turn to cook dinner. She began to rifle through the freezer looking at the titles of frozen ‘weight loss’ meals, before she settled on Pad Thai for two.  Was there no end to life’s demands?

 

Acacia had endured a difficult day, which was part of a difficult month. She’d asked to be moved from the position of Dr James’ secretary, to any other position in the hospital, so had been moved to the medical ward, to work as the relieving Ward Clerk. It was all go. The doctors and nurses demanded that she notify the Admissions Department of patient transfers within minutes of the event. She was expected to answer telephone enquiries, to go to Patient Records to collect old notes, and, to top it all off, she had to deal with patients!

Acacia decided it was time to plan for a miracle. She’d heard rumours that Fern’s boss, Foodge, was, in spite of his shambolic appearance, the recipient of a family trust, and that particular family was pretty well off. She started to surreptitiously search the patient database. Foodge’s record was pretty easy to find, and pretty unremarkable: one admission with a broken leg when he was seven years old. There were links to Foodge’s parents, and their medical records, which weren’t available, as they preceded the creation of the database, but, interestingly, it gave their address, which she quickly scribbled down on a ‘post-it-note’. A cunning plan started to foment. She couldn’t wait to get home to tell Fern.