The International Writers Magazine: Dreamscapes

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First Day • Christine Churcher Monday morning, nine a.m., I tremble as I pass through the long, cold corridors, the smell clinging to the inside of my nostrils, a smell which is tangible, solid, tasting of metal in the back of my throat. It flows into my bloodstream, embedding itself deep in my very being, lingering there as a memory for the rest of my life.

The corridor ends at the base of a dark well, my hand grips the metal rail. As I climb upwards, the walls begin to close in on me, my footsteps tapping on the concrete stairs, which wind up into the shadows of the windowless landing. Only a high, naked bulb struggles to cast a sickly halo on the far off ceiling.

I place my thumb, not my forefinger, as it seems irreverent to use my forefinger in such a place, upon the bell. My hands I can wash later, I decide, as I hesitate to start in motion the changes in my life which are seemingly inevitable. I hear the bell ringing in the distance, down some imagined high windowed dormitory. I wait for a lifetime, frozen to the coconut matting outside the door. Each moment draws out into my future, whilst I resist the urge to flee.

I hear the sound of distant footsteps, coming ever closer; a crash, a shout, a muffled retort, then the sound of clanging keys are in the lock. My heart is trying to escape from my breast as I wonder for the hundredth time what I am doing here. Then the door opens. My stomach flips.
A blast of warm air gushes towards me, catches me up and sucks me towards my destiny.
The woman looks at me enquiringly. "It's my first day," I stammer.
"Oh? Well you'd better come in, then. You should be in uniform."
"Sorry. I wasn't told. I haven't got one yet."

She ushers me in, then, locking the door behind me, turns and marches off down a long gallery, leaving me to wonder what I should do next. Hesitating for a moment, I realise I don't really want to be left alone so I scurry off after her, assuming that she means for me to follow. People are walking about, pacing the floor, tables still laden with the remnants of breakfast: metal teapots, white pyrex crockery scattered on each table. A face looms into mine.
"Give us a fag my lover."
I hesitate, smile, and shake my head. "Sorry."
"Well fuck off then!" She spits back at me.

I hurry on after the rapidly retreating bulk of the key keeper, passing women in crimplene dresses and old ladies' slippers. We pass seemingly endless doors, all tightly closed against, as yet to me, unknown residents, until finally we reach an oasis in the middle of this Victorian chamber of horrors: the ward office.
The room is untidy, a couple of desks and several chairs, filing cabinets, a notice board covered in typed messages, lists of telephone numbers. Sitting at one of the desks is a man dressed in a white coat. I know it must be the Charge Nurse. I am right, of course.
"Jo, this is the new N.A." My keeper introduces me.
Jo is much more welcoming and stands up to face me. "Nice to meet you. It's Linda isn't it? Welcome to the mad house!"
"I'm sorry, I haven't got a uniform yet."
"Don't worry, we'll get you sorted out this morning. I'll show you around in a bit. Get yourself a cup of tea." He indicates a tray laden with teapot and mugs.
"Thank you." Feeling relieved at such a friendly gesture, I pour myself some tea and sit in one of the vacant chairs. Jo returns to his paperwork, whilst I wait.
My key keeper sniffs. "I have to clear the breakfasts." She stalks off, back down the long gallery.
"That's Marion. Don't take any notice of her," Jo informs me. "She's always like that, miserable cow, but she means well."
I sip my tea, looking about me, wondering whether I'll ever get used to all this.

© Chris Churcher March 2008
churcherchris@tiscali.co.uk

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