Wilf liked fishing. He liked caravans too. He had a host of, err, (interests). If you did not know it upon meeting him, he would tell you within the first thirty seconds, or less. He was like that. Tell you his life-history at the drop of a hat. Indeed it would be true to say that he did not really the need the hat-dropping at all, he would tell you regardless.
My first ten minutes into the new job may well be the most traumatic event in my life…, ever.
Order of Rank – The Head Porter held sway, He had a deputy, appropriately called Deputy Head Porter (this position being held by Wilf); On down the food chain came Senior Porters (all five) and immediately below them came The Porters (many and varied. Encompasses Departments and Areas). - Strictly, on a rung several below the lowly porter, there lurks a ‘Kitchen Porter, but no-one has spoken to one of them in years and rumours of their existence may be stretched.)
Day one – Man down due to flu. Into the breach steps Wilf. New recruit just starting (me) and unto Wilf behoves the role of Teacher of the job. The man was born to this moment.…
Within two minutes I learned of his passion for fishing. I also knew that he had been married (and divorced, twice) had sons, lived alone, went on holidays to fish and had experienced THE MOST heaviest downpour in the whole history of rain. As the shift went on I came to learn much more.
I also learned another thing about him. He knew what to do, he just didn’t do it. He could spend five minutes telling you why he was asking you to do an urgent job when it would have taken only two to do it. He would tell you what he would do if, when you shifted a tray of cups onto the trolley, he was doing it; But he never did it.
I placed trays onto trolleys. I pushed the first one into the lift and dragged the second because as Wilf had pointed out if I pushed it in I would be at the wrong end of the lift to reach the control. I pulled out the first at the appropriate floor and hauled it, under careful guidance from Wilf, and delivered to a spot on the Ward that was verified and scrutinised by Wilf. I returned for the other trolley and delivered it to the Ward on the other side of the building. A job that perhaps in the interest of Patients awaiting their breakfast could have been done at the same time as I had….? Silly of me to contemplate. If he had done that, he could not have mentioned the fact that I had forgotten to stop by the kitchen and lift off the tray of cups so we would have to return and retrieve them because if he had mentioned it beforehand, I might still forget, this way a sharp lesson was learned and I would remember in future to stop at the kitchen…
The same method was used when it came time to collect the rubbish sacks from the wards, something else I needed to learn was the, (don’t forget to put the laundry bags down the chute on the way round) lesson. It went on and on, lessons learned the hard way and talking amiably along the way. Talk is what he did. He got paid for it. In fact, I pay taxes therefore I pay his wages…?
The canteen became a frequent area in which to inform me of further episodes of his life. We stopped by there every time we went off to do another job. The bleep would sound and Wilf, who had charge of the instrument, would answer it and relay the call to me and then we would find ourselves back in the canteen. I bought yet more tea and learned that he had short arms and deep pockets. The other thing is that I came to realise that I just could not believe a word he said about himself. I know for a fact that my co-workers at the time would say the same.
As stories go Wilfs was not a happy one. He always maintained a smiling, slightly fawning, nature when talking at people. (And At is right word, he only ever talked AT you.)
He had led a wide life. Born in Wales and often returns there to spend time in his caravan, fishing from the stream which never fails to flood and endanger the van every year. Tragedy had befallen him early in married life when his son was lost by falling from a cliff where their caravan was parked. He had been in the RAF and had flown as a sort of all-round pilot/navigator/bomb-aimer/gunner and repairer of broken engines under fire, type. The Royal Air Force had lost a good ‘un when they let him go. His Wing Commander had come out specially to see him off and wipe away a tear as he told of how much the service would miss him. Tragedy had struck again when his wife had committed suicide and his second wife had moved in within the week. If he caught a good sized salmon he brought it back with him and presented it to ITU who would auction it off to raise funds for the Unit. He would pack it ice straight from the river. He got a plastic bag of ice cubes every morning from the Hotel down the river about three miles and would haul it back up to his preferred site. A stupid Pilot had nearly caused his death by veering suddenly and causing Wilf to fall over and halfway through a hatch which was open in the floor of the aircraft and headlong he had tumbled, managing only to save himself by jamming his boots in the webbing that held down a crate. His fellow crew had hauled him back from the brink. Why hatch open? Who knows? The divorce was long and bitter, his second wife accusing him of violence (something he vehemently denies, and the red glow in his eyes is only imagined), and an acrimonious end is ongoing. The remaining son does not speak to him but they see each other on a regular basis, once a year when Wilf hands over a cheque for five hundred pounds. The ones that got away held a particular interest for him because he liked to describe them in detail. One fish has been eluding his line for years. It knows him now, but one day he will have it. It is a canny old fish and has been a challenge that Wilf has risen to. It does no good to point out that a salmon lives an average of five years, Wilf has been on his mission for twelve. He has had ailments. The latest of which is a recurrence of one he had about three years ago. It had swollen horribly and would I (the answer here is NOOOO!) like to see it?
And he showed me.
And I ran…
I ran out of the canteen, where he had lifted his leg and described how the only way for him to see it was to sit (in his undies) and use a mirror to reflect the glorious coloured infectious lump, and through the doors and on into the courtyard beyond and there I paused for a moment; I took a deep breath, and I screamed.
I get nods of sympathy from the rest of the crew. They look at me with pity in their eyes and acknowledge that I had become a true Porter.
My first ten minutes into the new job may well be the most traumatic event in my life…, ever.
Order of Rank – The Head Porter held sway, He had a deputy, appropriately called Deputy Head Porter (this position being held by Wilf); On down the food chain came Senior Porters (all five) and immediately below them came The Porters (many and varied. Encompasses Departments and Areas). - Strictly, on a rung several below the lowly porter, there lurks a ‘Kitchen Porter, but no-one has spoken to one of them in years and rumours of their existence may be stretched.)
Day one – Man down due to flu. Into the breach steps Wilf. New recruit just starting (me) and unto Wilf behoves the role of Teacher of the job. The man was born to this moment.…
Within two minutes I learned of his passion for fishing. I also knew that he had been married (and divorced, twice) had sons, lived alone, went on holidays to fish and had experienced THE MOST heaviest downpour in the whole history of rain. As the shift went on I came to learn much more.
I also learned another thing about him. He knew what to do, he just didn’t do it. He could spend five minutes telling you why he was asking you to do an urgent job when it would have taken only two to do it. He would tell you what he would do if, when you shifted a tray of cups onto the trolley, he was doing it; But he never did it.
I placed trays onto trolleys. I pushed the first one into the lift and dragged the second because as Wilf had pointed out if I pushed it in I would be at the wrong end of the lift to reach the control. I pulled out the first at the appropriate floor and hauled it, under careful guidance from Wilf, and delivered to a spot on the Ward that was verified and scrutinised by Wilf. I returned for the other trolley and delivered it to the Ward on the other side of the building. A job that perhaps in the interest of Patients awaiting their breakfast could have been done at the same time as I had….? Silly of me to contemplate. If he had done that, he could not have mentioned the fact that I had forgotten to stop by the kitchen and lift off the tray of cups so we would have to return and retrieve them because if he had mentioned it beforehand, I might still forget, this way a sharp lesson was learned and I would remember in future to stop at the kitchen…
The same method was used when it came time to collect the rubbish sacks from the wards, something else I needed to learn was the, (don’t forget to put the laundry bags down the chute on the way round) lesson. It went on and on, lessons learned the hard way and talking amiably along the way. Talk is what he did. He got paid for it. In fact, I pay taxes therefore I pay his wages…?
The canteen became a frequent area in which to inform me of further episodes of his life. We stopped by there every time we went off to do another job. The bleep would sound and Wilf, who had charge of the instrument, would answer it and relay the call to me and then we would find ourselves back in the canteen. I bought yet more tea and learned that he had short arms and deep pockets. The other thing is that I came to realise that I just could not believe a word he said about himself. I know for a fact that my co-workers at the time would say the same.
As stories go Wilfs was not a happy one. He always maintained a smiling, slightly fawning, nature when talking at people. (And At is right word, he only ever talked AT you.)
He had led a wide life. Born in Wales and often returns there to spend time in his caravan, fishing from the stream which never fails to flood and endanger the van every year. Tragedy had befallen him early in married life when his son was lost by falling from a cliff where their caravan was parked. He had been in the RAF and had flown as a sort of all-round pilot/navigator/bomb-aimer/gunner and repairer of broken engines under fire, type. The Royal Air Force had lost a good ‘un when they let him go. His Wing Commander had come out specially to see him off and wipe away a tear as he told of how much the service would miss him. Tragedy had struck again when his wife had committed suicide and his second wife had moved in within the week. If he caught a good sized salmon he brought it back with him and presented it to ITU who would auction it off to raise funds for the Unit. He would pack it ice straight from the river. He got a plastic bag of ice cubes every morning from the Hotel down the river about three miles and would haul it back up to his preferred site. A stupid Pilot had nearly caused his death by veering suddenly and causing Wilf to fall over and halfway through a hatch which was open in the floor of the aircraft and headlong he had tumbled, managing only to save himself by jamming his boots in the webbing that held down a crate. His fellow crew had hauled him back from the brink. Why hatch open? Who knows? The divorce was long and bitter, his second wife accusing him of violence (something he vehemently denies, and the red glow in his eyes is only imagined), and an acrimonious end is ongoing. The remaining son does not speak to him but they see each other on a regular basis, once a year when Wilf hands over a cheque for five hundred pounds. The ones that got away held a particular interest for him because he liked to describe them in detail. One fish has been eluding his line for years. It knows him now, but one day he will have it. It is a canny old fish and has been a challenge that Wilf has risen to. It does no good to point out that a salmon lives an average of five years, Wilf has been on his mission for twelve. He has had ailments. The latest of which is a recurrence of one he had about three years ago. It had swollen horribly and would I (the answer here is NOOOO!) like to see it?
And he showed me.
And I ran…
I ran out of the canteen, where he had lifted his leg and described how the only way for him to see it was to sit (in his undies) and use a mirror to reflect the glorious coloured infectious lump, and through the doors and on into the courtyard beyond and there I paused for a moment; I took a deep breath, and I screamed.
I get nods of sympathy from the rest of the crew. They look at me with pity in their eyes and acknowledge that I had become a true Porter.
1 comment:
The only hope is to get transfered to the kitchen since no one sees those porters.
(Janus in the kitchen for 30 years and counting)
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