A Good Clean
It wasn’t until Ursula was in hospital with a bladder prolapse that she started thinking about it seriously, or so she told us. The thought had apparently popped into her head from time to time, usually when she was waiting for Roger to climax, which was never soon enough, but, like a delicious dream, the thought was lost by the inevitable wiping up Roger insisted upon. He was just too fastidious for his own good, was Roger. But that’s what you got when you married a heart surgeon, she sighed. I saw her most days, so I’d heard it all before, but the goldfish look on Irene’s face did make me smile.
No drifting off in a wet patch for Ursula, not even a towel as a temporary measure. No; Roger insisted on a complete bed change. Not just the bottom sheet either, but the whole lot, floral pillowcases included, which meant a lot of ironing, I can tell you. It wasn’t as though it was on his side of the bed, the inevitable dribble, but there you go, that was Roger, Ursula said. He’ll be wearing surgical gloves next. Ursula laughed, which hurt her stitches, but that didn’t stop her girlish -giggle, nothing did.
Dirty old farts, Ursula would often laugh. Men, they’re all dirty old farts, they only want one thing and most of them like it down and dirty. Except Roger, I expect. But not maliciously, Ursula was never malicious. She wasn’t like that; a generous soul as my Frank put it, easy to please, always was. A tad overweight, I thought, but still very attractive; we all thought so. Ursula was the beauty of our little group, the Wednesday readers. We all had our strong points, and being easy on the eye was hers. Good job she was so devoted to her Roger and his hygiene, the rest of us said, otherwise we’d all be looking over our shoulders.
So there we all were in the hospital. Ward 18C on the old East Wing overlooking Junction 23. Right at the end she was, a long walk but very convenient for the toilets, as Irene pointed out. Ursula giggled. She didn’t have need of a toilet right that minute, she said with a wink, wheeling her catheter bag from under the bed. Who’d have thought we pass so much, Joyce said, ever the practical one, and we all agreed, though Irene looked a little pale.
So, there we were, finishing off the soft centres and Ursula just came out with it. She’d thought about it from time to time, when Roger was performing, or not performing, as the case may be. Irene’s chin was still hanging, so I popped in a chocolate. Ursula couldn’t, on account of her diabetes. Irene had brought them, the chocolates. That was Irene for you. Lovely woman, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but two bob short, if you know what I mean. Thinking wasn’t her strong point. Joyce had brought flowers, though they did look a bit past their best and I brought sugar-free cordial, a homemade glucose-free carrot cake for Ursula’s dessert and a book, the next book.
That’s what we did, first Wednesday of the month. Talked about murders. Not real murders, needless to say. Fictional ones, from the books we took turns to select. A crime novel a month, though I invariably fitted in a second without making a fuss. An avid reader I am, you see. Others not quite so. Like Irene. She struggled. Dyslexia, I thought, but Ursula just smiled when I said it. Plain Jane super brain and an angel to boot, she’d say as I grappled with the Dyson or polished the brass, we can’t all be as clever as you, can we. But we’ve all got our talents, she’d say, reclining on the couch and -hitching up her huge bosom in that way of hers.
We’d had to beg or borrow chairs from around the ward. No sitting on the beds, the Sister thundered. Poor Irene was quaking in her boots as she’d been the prime offender, perched on the very end like a little wren. Have you all washed your hands, the Sister added, looking at Joyce. I have to confess I knew what she meant. Joyce was one of those people who didn’t look quite clean. I knew she was, of course, but I always wiped the cutlery with one of my handy wipes when I was at hers, just in case. No sex appeal, Ursula often commented about Joyce, or rather mouthed it, as she did if she was being less than charitable. What that had to do with the price of Palmolive, I’ve no idea.
So, there we all were, in Ward 18C. She’d been thinking, she said. The op was a success and everything had been put back where it should be. We had to lean forward on account of her whispering. She jerked her head like a turkey a few times and I thought she was choking before I realised that we were supposed to look behind us at a foreign -looking man with acne and a stethoscope. He was speaking a bit too loudly to the woman across the ward who I’d taken for dead when I borrowed her chair. Ursula had to clear her throat to get our attention again. She was as good as new, she said, and that nice young consultant, who we’d all gawped at by then, had added an extra stitch or two, if we took her meaning. Irene clearly didn’t. She opened her mouth, the question hovered about her lips, but for once she thought twice and closed it again. Now she was a new woman, Ursula continued, there was no stopping her.
Ursula couldn’t join us for our next book club meeting. Just Desserts, it was called, an Inspector Harry Henry mystery, and a good read too, though I’d worked out the murderer from the start. Like all good killers, this one had prepared his revenge well in advance and covered his tracks with skill. Ursula never got round to reading it. Well, she wouldn’t; she was dead by then, wasn’t she. Unexpected complications with her diabetes combined with a dose of MRSA. Must have been you sitting on the bed, Joyce said to Irene on the Wednesday, which I thought was tall coming from her and her dirty hands. We toasted absent friends and fell silent for a while, each with our own fond memories. I’d miss my daily chores with Ursula, I was sure, but then, what, after all, was a halo? It was only one more thing to keep clean.
