Harry （Part 1）
We met when I was twenty-three. Harry was almost two years older than me but looked, if anything, a bit younger.
Funnily – and this is the thing that got us talking – we were both in our final months of training, Harry to be a teacher and me to be a nurse.
They’d sent him to one of the worst schools in Maidstone and, that morning, one of the more difficult kids had stabbed his hand with a chisel.
As for me, it was my first day in A&E. I was meant to be shadowing a friendly nurse called Nigel, but his mum had been admitted to Cardiology that morning, so he’d vanished upstairs to attend to her.
Once the doctor had confirmed that nothing important had been damaged by the chisel, I was left alone to disinfect, close and bandage the wound.
‘Sorry, I’m still a student,’ I informed him, as I started to irrigate the gash in his hand. ‘But I think I can probably cope. I am in my final year, so you probably won’t die today.’
‘I’m in my final year, too,’ he said. ‘Teacher training. I thought I could cope as well, but look at me now…’ He nodded towards his hand.
‘He really got you, didn’t he? It’s deep.’
‘Are you going to have to stitch it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘My sewing’s brilliant. I made this entire outfit myself. I just have to decide whether to do you with cross-stitch or zigzag.’
He didn’t look reassured by my humour, so I added: ‘Not really. We use these sticky clip things now, you’ll be fine.’
He was still looking a bit green so I tried humour again. ‘Someone needs to be more careful with his DIY.’
‘Never did like woodwork,’ he said. ‘Now we know why. It’s dangerous.’
Once I’d pulled the wound closed and stuck a clip on to hold it together, I started to wrap a bandage around it. The patient, now visibly perking up, joked by repeatedly trying to shake my hand. ‘Harry,’ he said, each time the bandage came round to his palm. ‘Harry Rawling. How do you do?’
‘Are you always like this?’ I asked, jerking his hand back into position.
‘I am,’ he said, grinning.
‘Then I’m not surprised he stabbed you,’ I said. ‘Hold still!’
‘Harsh,’ Harry said. ‘But fair.’
Once I’d finished, I went off in search of Nigel.
I didn’t know if I could send young Harry back out into the world or if some paperwork needed to be done.
But I couldn’t find Nigel anywhere and, not wanting to get him into trouble for spending time with his mum, I didn’t dare ask the locum.
So instead, I pulled the curtain around us and hoped no one would spot Nigel’s absence.
‘Cosy!’ Harry commented with a sloppy grin. ‘Intimate, even.’
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ I admonished.
To pass the time I pulled a bag of M&Ms from my pocket and offered him one. ‘You still look a bit green,’ I lied. ‘The sugar will do you good.’
‘The sugar will do me good,’ Harry repeated. ‘Now that’s not something you hear often in a medical situation.’ He peered into the bag. ‘Do different colours have different… um … medicinal qualities? Which one do you think I need most?’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘They’re all the same.’
Harry fished out a blue one and held it up between finger and thumb.
‘Oh, except for those…’ I said, with mock seriousness. ‘Blue ones have contraceptive side effects.’
‘Sounds perfect, then,’ he said, popping it into his mouth theatrically.
‘Not keen?’ I asked, leaning over and peeping out through the curtain in case Nigel had returned.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Not keen on becoming a dad? Or maybe you already are?’
Was I flirting? Probably. But I don’t think even I had realised it, yet.
‘Oh, um, no, or rather, yes.’
‘Make up your mind!’
‘I mean, um, no, no kids yet and yes, I rather like them. When they’re not stabbing me, I do, at any rate. Hence the… um… vocation. Teacher.’
‘Right. Of course.’
‘Hopefully one’s own children are a little less…’ He flopped his bandaged hand from side to side and wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. ‘Stabby?’
‘If they are stabby then you’re probably doing something wrong,’ I said, simultaneously tuning in to a conversation I could hear taking place further down the ward. Someone was asking where the hell everyone was today and I was worrying I’d get into trouble.
‘I’m single, actually,’ Harry said, surprising me. ‘So no kids planned right now.’
‘OK,’ I said doubtfully.
‘Oh, I wasn’t, you know… hitting on you,’ Harry said.
I raised one eyebrow.
‘I’m sure people do,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure you have to put up with that all day every day.’ He grinned inanely and wobbled his head from side to side. ‘What with that home-made outfit and everything,’ he added saucily.
‘OK, now you’re scaring me,’ I told him, glancing down at my horrible uniform and trying to picture how someone might think it was sexy.
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘Shut up, Harry! Stop being a dick.’
‘And they don’t hit on us that much, actually,’ I added, because I thought he was being a bit harsh on himself. I was rather enjoying the banter, after all. ‘My patients are generally too busy dying. I have a very low success rate.’
At that moment, Nigel dragged the curtain back and stood, hand on hip, frowning deeply at Harry. ‘Why are you still here?’ he asked. Then, turning to me, ‘Sorry I was so long, but… it’s not looking good. My mother, I mean. And why is he still here? I’ve been gone twenty minutes.’
‘Oh, that’s my fault,’ Harry said chivalrously. ‘I’ve been pretending to feel faint so she’ll let me stay. I love it here.’
‘Do you now?’ Nigel said dryly. ‘Well, time to toddle off back to school, I’m afraid.’
‘Just didn’t want to leave without a phone number,’ Harry said. ‘You know… in case I relapse?’
Nigel began to look annoyed on my behalf so I sent him a wink and a tiny shake of the head to calm things down. ‘It’s fine, Nigel,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know if there was something – some paperwork or whatever – I have to do before I send him on his way?’
‘Oh,’ Nigel said, belatedly picking up on the cheeky vibe Harry and I had going. ‘Well, yes, there is, nurse. You must always give every patient your phone number before they—’
He stopped mid-sentence because our scary locum, who was at that moment striding past, had spun on one foot and doubled back to peer in on our little gathering. ‘Nigel! So you are here. So good of you to show up!’
‘I…’
‘I don’t care. Come with me. Ambulances on the way. Car crash. Big one.’ He nodded at me then marched off, shouting over his shoulder, ‘And bring mini-me with you. Time for her to see some gore. Can’t spend the whole day hiding.’
‘Don’t be long,’ Nigel said, trotting off in the locum’s wake.
‘Gore,’ Harry said. ‘Sounds fun.’
‘It’s what we do,’ I told him. ‘No gore – no job. Anyway, I think you’re free to go.
Keep it clean. Change the dressing if it gets wet or dirty.
You can take the clip off in forty-eight hours.
It just pulls off like a plaster. Oh, and go to your GP if there’s any sign of infection. But I basically think you’ll survive.’
‘Can I have it?’ he asked. ‘Your number? I promise I’m not a psycho.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ I said, as I pulled a sterile wrap from the trolley and scribbled my number on the packaging. ‘That’s exactly what the psychos say.’ I glanced around as I handed it to him. ‘I’m not supposed to do this… most unprofessional…’
‘I won’t tell a soul,’ Harry said, slipping it into his pocket.
Does it sound easy, that I gave him my number? I expect it probably does. And if I tell you that I was already dating someone – a guy called Martin from my course – it will no doubt sound even worse.
But Martin had never been right for me and that was something I’d always known.
Actually, I’m sure Martin knew it, too. It’s one of those weird things really where, looking back, I’m not even sure why we bothered.
But I’d been fed up with being single for a while, I suppose, and Martin had bought me dinner in a French restaurant and stroked my hair after sex.
For a bit, that seemed like enough. After a series of let-downs I’d maybe set my expectations too low, or perhaps it was just that between my nursing degree and part-time job I didn’t have enough time to care.
But now here was someone new and shiny to think about and it took mere seconds for me to make the switch.
Because Harry, with his curly hair and wonky nose, with his lopsided grin and piercing green eyes, was the photofit of my ideal man.
He had a studious geeky cuteness about him that made him seem substantial, combined with a desire to amuse that promised future happiness.
He was like a Kentish version of Hugh Grant in a way – all that bumbling charm without the irritating posh accent.
So yes, I gave Harry my number there and then. And even as he was walking away I was wondering how to end it with Martin.
My first ever date with Harry was in Pizza Hut. Some might say (in fact a nurse friend did say at the time) that it wasn’t a particularly romantic place to take me for a first date. But Pizza Hut suited me fine.
I’d come off a twelve-hour shift and was starving, plus Martin – who I’d broken up with twenty-four hours after meeting Harry – had, of course, taken me to a posh French restaurant for our first date six months prior.
So the contrast between Montmartre Gastronomie and Pizza Hut reassured me.
It was proof that Harry was not Martin, and when you’re young and you change partners that’s always the main quality you’re looking for: that the new flame is nothing like the previous one.
By the way, Martin – in case you’re wondering – didn’t seem too upset. ‘Oh, OK,’ he said when I told him. ‘As long as you’re sure that’s what you want.’ Based on his reaction I felt very sure and I told him so.