𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙼𝙸𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁 || Original Story

2 - tales

Albert returned from Birmingham the next day, fresh with an enthusiasm he'd picked up from his conferences.

He firstly went about unpacking his belongings, joking about how Helena would smack him if he didn't do it before she got home. He then brewed some tea in the largest teapot they had before bringing it to the table, where I had set two mugs down and was currently waiting to him to tell me all about his weekend.

Albert, however, asked me about my weekend, making sure I'd seen to all the patients and double checking the notes I made, which I told him I'd be putting into each individual file this very morning before he came back. He was impressed with what a great job I'd done in his absence and laughed about taking more days off to let me run the surgery.

"Don't look so worried," he chuckled. "I'm only joking. But I tell you what, you'd do a great job by yourself."

"You really think so?" I questioned.

"Oh, absolutely. There's no doubt about it. You might be almost half my age, Arthur, but you've got more experience than I ever gained in all my years in the medical profession."

Albert, of course, was referring to my time in London before and during early part of the war. It was true to say that I had experienced rather a lot during my short career. There had been cases of domestic abuse, murder, attempted murder, and street fights amongst other things like accidents, falls, and down-right stupidity. And that was excluding all the victims of the Blitz. But that was the point. That was what being a doctor was about: witnessing the common and the impossible injuries.

We eventually got round to the subject of Albert's conferences. They had been held in Birmingham's Union Infirmary, a relatively large hospital that had accommodated the one-fifty-seven medical practitioners and allowed some to stay and complete studies. Albert, however, wasn't interested in that. He was more bothered about returning home to his wife and to make sure I hadn't 'accidentally burned the surgery to the ground'.

He said that he liked Birmingham. There was a sad twinkle in his eyes when he spoke of how the city hadn't recovered from the Blitz in 1940. Approximately twelve-thousand houses were destroyed and so were the lives of those living in those homes. War, Albert uttered, hadn't been kind to city dwellers. And I agreed, having felt the brute force of London's bombings. He shook his head and screwed his face up at the mention of my home town, saying how he didn't envy me. I didn't blame him.

He chuckled when he mentioned how that he barely remembered the names of the doctors and surgeons he met, especially those with the Brummie accent, who he couldn't understand particularly well. However, there was one he recollected very well.

"You'll never guess who was there," he said with an amused smile, replying only when I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Your favourite Professor Steele."

Professor Felix Steele was most certainly not my favourite. He was a senior doctor at the hospital I worked at in London when I first did my training and qualified. And just before I left, he earned his professorship. How he earned it was uncertain to me, but it was something that only inflated his ego even more and would give him another excuse to bully his staff.

If England's inflation rates were measured by the same rate his ego inflated, then there'd be nothing left of the country. It'd be in economic shambles. A total collapse.

I said this to Albert before he left for the conferences and he laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.

He knew of Steele when I told him about my experience in a city hospital. I also said that my former superior was instantly recognisable as one would be overwhelmed by his strutting demeanour as well as his egotistical aura. He couldn't be missed.