31 December 2012
‘Are you nervous?’ I turn to my co-presenter as the floor manager counts down.
‘I can’t bloody wait,’ Mum replies.
My mother’s first presenting job in three years has come about because the BBC realized she was the only person in the world qualified for this particular role. We’re being featured as a mother-and-son duo and it really matters to both of us.
I’m aware that most presenters would kill for a guest slot reporting on Hospital Live. If this works out, I might become a regular.
I’m buzzy but in a good way. This year has been totally nuts – I’ve done behind-the-scenes reporting gigs at the Olympics and Paralympics, plus stuff on the Titanic centenary and the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee. The television industry is full of people my age and we have a laugh, though sometimes they make me do stupid things on camera. And when the drugs come out after hours, being a dad gives me the perfect excuse to leave. I’m a total lightweight and I love it. Coke could never compare with hanging out with Leo.
He still loves seeing me on screen, just like the very first time he saw me in the Unbeatables documentary. I close my eyes and imagine his face, as he sits at home with my father in the viewing room, with home-made popcorn and the sugar-free cola Granny insists he drinks.
So long as I focus on the patients’ stories, I can distract myself from my nerves . . .
In my earpiece, I hear the opening titles and the voices of the two main presenters as they introduce the twenty-four-hour New Year special from the Royal Bloomsbury Hospital.
‘And to see 2013 in with some class, we also have a couple of guest presenters today. One you might recognize from many previous New Year live broadcasts. But the other . . . well, there’s an excellent reason we’re kicking off in the kids’ accident and emergency department. Over to you, Lynette Greenaway.’
The light on top of the main camera turns red and Mum switches on her full beam smile. She’s wearing a Scandi jumper and she looks in her element. ‘That’s right. Over here in children’s casualty, it’s a family affair – and we’re no exception. Because my co-presenter for the next week is someone I know rather well . . .’
‘Hello, I’m Joel,’ I read from the autocue. ‘I’m a personal trainer, I make funny videos about staying fit – and I also happen to be Lynette’s son. I’ve had a few mishaps, but Mum’s always been there for me.’
‘Yes, this lad has given me many sleepless nights over the years but somehow we made it through in one piece. Right now, we’re going to meet another young man who has been in the wars . . .’
The camera tracks along as we head towards our first patient, a boy of Leo’s age who fell off the new bike he got for Christmas. There are questions on the autocue but my mother veers gently off script and I try doing the same. It feels risky, after all this time working with anxious directors who literally put words into my mouth. But broadcasting live means the people in the gallery have no real control over what we say.
‘When Joel was your age, he was always in such a hurry, we wanted him to wear a crash helmet in the house, never mind on his bike.’
‘Yes, Mum, but you are the only one in our house to break a bone while icing a cake.’
We tease each other and it relaxes the boy and his mother so much that they’re soon joking around too.
In my earpiece, the director in the gallery counts us out of our segment and the other presenter back in, but I want the cameras to stay on us because this is . . . well, fun.
No, more than that: it’s almost as much of a buzz as football was. As the red light goes off and we thank the boy and sign his cast, I exchange a glance with my mother.
Suddenly I understand completely what she loves about live TV and I realize it might run in the family.
I am on my way back to the broadcast van when I see her.
She’s standing with her back to me outside the convenience store in the lobby, staring at sandwiches in a fridge. Her hair is short, her body swathed in green scrubs, but however hard I try to convince myself I’m wrong, my body knows.
Kerry.
She shouldn’t be here. I checked with Ant, because I know they keep in touch. He’s always a bit cagey – I even wonder if she’s told him not to tell me anything – but he did say she’d almost qualified, and gave me the name of her hospital. It was a big relief when I discovered it wasn’t this one.
But he was wrong.
I am fighting two mutually exclusive instincts: to run towards her, or to run away. While I wait to see what my body decides, I’m staying still enough not to be noticed.
Except she’s turning around. My Kerry. She’s holding a sandwich in her hand – her fingers are ringless, but then, I know they can’t wear jewellery in theatre.
She’s sensed someone is watching her.
I’m walking towards her.
She’s exactly the same, except for a few faint lines on her forehead and a new haircut that curls around the bottom of her ears. When she sees me too, her lips part in surprise and even after all this time, the thing I really want to do is kiss her and . . .
‘You’re wearing make-up,’ she says, incredulous.
I put my hand to my forehead and feel the smoothness of the powder.
‘For TV.’ I gesture a TV camera rolling with my hands, as though we’re playing charades. ‘I’m here for work.’
She shakes her head and laughter lines appear at the edges of her eyes, deeper than before but still mischievous. God, I’ve missed her. ‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, right, Joel?’
‘It’s the truth. Shit, it’s good to see you.’
Around us, staff and patients chatter and stride, but they’re a blur because all that matters is her and me. How do I tell her that?
She’s frowning. Why is she frowning? It occurs to me that she might think I took this job on purpose. ‘I didn’t know you worked here, too, or I would never have . . .’
Kerry nods. ‘Don’t worry, it’s fine. How are you keeping?’
‘Oh, you know. Same old. I had a new ICD fitted which is much smaller and I haven’t had any more arrythmias . . .’ I stop, because she’s stopped looking at me and has pulled her phone out of her trouser pocket.
‘I’m sorry, but I need to get back to the surgical ward.’
‘Surgery. Wow. What’s that like?’
‘Intense. And rare. I don’t get many chances to assist in theatre, mostly I’m on the wards. But it’s all good.’ Her eyes are bright.
‘You look completely at home. I can’t believe you did it, you really are a doctor now.’
‘Better late than never.’ She blinks and it’s as though she’s already back in work mode. There’s a sudden wariness in her eyes. ‘Sorry, we’re on a skeleton staff over New Year, so I really do have to go—’
‘Are you happy?’ I don’t even know why I ask her, but I know immediately it was the wrong thing.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason.’
‘Happy New Year, Joel.’ She turns away.
‘Kerry!’ I can’t resist one last attempt at reconnecting with the people we were, the people we must still be, underneath. ‘How are the jerks?’
She frowns. ‘Sorry?’
‘Our joke. Do you remember, when I was in the ICU? You’d ask about the jerks and I’d answer like you meant the doctors and—’ I stop.
This time when her eyes narrow, she looks like the Kerry I knew: amused, not impatient. She’s remembered. ‘Twelve years,’ she says. I think she’s about to say something else but she blinks and the moment has passed. ‘It’s nice to see you looking so well. Happy New Year, Joel. Give my best to your parents.’
She moves past me, still holding her sandwich.
‘We could grab a coffee,’ I say, trying to walk alongside her towards the lifts. ‘I’m working here overnight but I could hang around, till you finish—’
‘Joel, I’m sorry, but I’ve no idea when my shift will finish.’ Kerry reaches out as though she’s going to touch my arm, but instead, she’s pressing the lift call button. ‘I’m glad you’re doing well, let’s leave it there.’
The doors open, and she steps inside. It’s only as they close again that I realize she was so desperate to get away that she didn’t even pay for her sandwich.
As I return to the van, I’m unsettled. I wouldn’t have expected Kerry to greet me like the long-lost love of her life, but she seemed too different and distant. While they’re broadcasting a VT, I find the researcher who’d been responsible for casting the doctors we should follow for the show.
‘Did you happen to chat to anyone called Kerry? A junior doctor, pretty. Kerry Palmer. Or she might be known as Smith, her maiden name. Probably working in surgery.’
The researcher shakes her head. ‘No one on our hotlist, but let me check my notes . . . yes, I’ve got a Dr Smith.’ She holds up a photocopy of an ID badge: in the mugshot, Kerry is unsmiling. ‘Here we are, she’s an F2.’
Her maiden name. I try not to read too much into it.
‘That’s the one. Did you chat to her?’
The researcher pulls a face. ‘Yeah. Apparently, she’s very bright. But she said no straight away. Told me she didn’t agree with cameras in the hospital, that it was a waste of resources. When I mentioned it to her consultant later, she wasn’t surprised. Apparently Dr Smith doesn’t really suffer fools. And there’s even some doubt about whether she’ll pass her second foundation year.’
‘Why?’
She takes back the print-out. ‘She’s had a few run-ins with management. Not the best idea when you’re at the bottom of the doctor pile.’
‘All right, reset, everyone,’ the floor manager calls out. ‘Ready for the slot on not to make a nuisance of yourself in A & E on New Year’s Eve. That’s with you, Joel, all right?’
I position myself in front of the camera, shake the consultant’s hand and wait for the countdown from the director. Why has Kerry changed so much? I hate the idea that she’s struggling. She was always there for me.
The set is quiet except for the director in my ear. Fixing Kerry will have to wait.
‘Coming to you in five, four, three, two . . . cue Joel!’
‘In a couple of minutes, Mum will be leading a group of hospital volunteers in a “Gangnam Style” dance-off. But first, as fantastic as the casualty teams are, the very last place any of us want to be as the clock strikes midnight is here. So how can you avoid being a party-pooper? Let’s hear it from the doctor in charge . . .’