Work Text:
“Mum, have you got a confidential waste bin at work?”
“I expect so, darling.”
Serena barely looked up from her copy of the Guardian at Elinor’s question. There was always something the girl wanted her to do at her workplace - could she “borrow” a set of scrubs for a fancy dress party? Could Elinor film a mini documentary about a day in the life of a CEO (oh, and the bother that had caused!)? Could she get her colleagues to fill in a survey on their perceptions of socio-economic impact of government policy decision on the NHS? That had been the latest one (what was her degree this week - politics? journalism? Serena couldn’t remember), and she had managed to persuade most of her colleagues to fill the damned thing in, although she hadn’t actually done it herself. She had meant to, but…
“Cool. Can you chuck these in it, then - ta!”
And before she could even tell Elinor that while there may be a confidential waste bin somewhere at the hospital, she had no earthly idea where it would be, her daughter was out of the door and gone. As she left, she dropped a folder on the table, but such was her hurry that it slid across the surface, its contents slipping out and cascading to the floor.
“So much for confidentiality,” Serena grumbled, stooping to pick them up. She started shuffling them back into a pile when something caught her eye. It was a single word that had come to represent everything wrong about modern Britain to her; a word that she had grown heartily sick of; a word that she had tried to excise from her vocabulary for the sake of her blood pressure, but there it was, in bold type at the top of the page.
Brexit.
Mindful of her blood pressure, Serena hastily shuffled the papers back into the folder, determined not to let that word spoil her day. But as she slipped the last sheet into the folder, something else, a familiar phrase, caught her eye. Why would the name Holby City Hospital be on the same sheet as the word Brexit?
She drummed her fingers on the Manila folder. Confidential, Elinor had said. What could Elinor be doing with documents linking her own place of work with - that thing? She ran a finger along the edge of the folder thoughtfully, then all of a sudden, she threw her newspaper down on the table, “accidentally” knocking the folder to the floor again.
“Oh, whoops,” she exclaimed, as though there were someone there to witness her unconvincing acting. “I’ll just - pick these up…”
She stooped down to the floor, and there, spread out before her, were the survey responses that Serena had collected from her colleagues, and she saw for the first time the questions they had been asked. Her eyes widened as she read.
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Will Brexit directly affect you, someone in your family, or a colleague?
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Did you vote leave or remain?
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Do you think the NHS will be better or worse off after Brexit?
There were around twenty questions in all, looking at different areas of health policy and the possible impact of Brexit on the NHS, with the final question being the rather obvious one:
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If a second referendum were held today, would you vote leave or remain?
At the end of the survey were some questions about the respondent’s age, gender, ethnicity, salary range, country of origin and so on. Elinor had quite rightly guaranteed that participants would remain anonymous, but she had given them the option to be emailed a copy of the results upon completion of her analysis. Justifying her curiosity by this anonymity, she leafed through the responses quickly, just to make sure everyone she worked with was as right-minded as she expected.
“Good, good, good…” As predicted, although her colleagues had slightly varying views about specific aspects of the whole shambolic affair, they spoke as one in their rejection of Brexit itself. Although a couple of misguided souls had voted to leave originally, they had seen the error of their ways since that fateful June day and were throughly converted to the remain camp.
All, she saw with disbelief, except one. The very last response seemed to have been filled in by the most contrary, wrong-headed person imaginable. Unless they had misread all the questions - was that a possibility? But she didn’t think there was any way of misinterpreting the questions as Elinor had posed them. There really was someone working at Holby City who had voted for Britain to leave the EU, thought that the NHS would be positively impacted by it, and who would vote the same way again. Well, they were lucky it was anonymous, because if she knew who it was, she’d -
They had left their email address to receive a copy of the results.
***
“Thank you for taking the time to be here at such short notice, everyone: it’s very much appreciated, and breakfast has been provided for you - do pass the plate round, won’t you? Help yourself to croissants, pain au chocolat, Danish pastries… ah - Mr Duval, there’s an Eccles cake with your name on it, I know you like your home comforts.”
Xavier Duval looked puzzled at Serena’s words, but as he opened his mouth to question her, she carried blithely on. “Finest Italian coffee all round, as well - do help yourselves. Espresso, macchiato, caffe latte if you must (though I have to say it is neither hot nor strong), or my own choice, an americano. Nicky, would you mind pouring a cup of builder’s tea for Mr Duval? Oh, five or six sugars, I should think. Thank you.”
She paused to take a sip of her own coffee before getting down to business.
“Now then. I’ve called this quick get-together for two reasons - well, two opportunities, really. First of all, I’m excited to announce that Ms Tate has offered to fund a place for one member of our esteemed little unit to attend the European Acute Medicine conference next week, which is being held in that most European of cities, Milan. Who fancies an all expenses paid trip to Milan, I wonder?”
She looked expectantly round the table, to see almost every hand raised, none higher than that of Xavier Duval.
“As I suspected!” She laughed. “Well, we did predict that there might be more than one interested party, so Ms Tate and I discussed the matter at length, and we agreed that it would be a perfect opportunity for a young doctor who is just starting to make a real impression here at Holby, and an ideal opportunity for them to build their portfolio and network with some of Europe’s finest diagnosticians and surgeons.”
From the corner of her eye, she could see Xavier puffing up like a blowfish, sure he was about to be sent to the prestigious conference in the fashion capital of Europe, and she smiled to herself.
“I’m delighted to say that we have cleared your shifts for next week - and a couple of days beyond that, should you feel like staying on as a tourist for a day or two. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time, Dr McKendrick.”
Nicky dropped her croissant and squealed.
“Me? You’re really sending me to Milan? Oh my goodness - thank you, Ms Campbell! I won’t let you down, I promise,” she said earnestly, beaming with astonished delight. Not everyone was so pleased, though.
“Ms Campbell, don’t you think it would be prudent to send someone with a bit more experience? A bit more… sophisticated? Milan’s not like - I don’t know, Kiev or somewhere!” Duval had started off smoothly, trying to project his modern-man-of-the-world persona, but ended on a nastily sneering note. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but few people could curry favour with Serena Campbell by mentioning Kiev.
“No Mr Duval, you’re quite right. Ukraine, of course, is not a member of the European Union, and therefore we have no guarantee of freedom of movement, no right to work and live there, and let us not forget their abysmal record on human rights, either - we have a very great deal to thank the European Court of Human Rights for, believe you me. Milan, on the other hand, is in Italy, which, as you point out, is sophisticated enough to recognise the many advantages of remaining in the EU. No, I think Dr McKendrick is the right woman for the conference.”
There was a murmur of assent around the table, her colleagues genuinely excited for the young woman, who, scatty as she was, had become very popular with her colleagues. Xavier subsided sulkily, with something niggling at him. Where had all this European stuff come from? Okay, it was a European conference, but that had all sounded a bit political.
“Now, I promised you a second opportunity. Equally exciting, some might say, is the chance to help a colleague, your unit, your hospital, and by extension, your local community.” She smiled brightly. “Now, Dr McKendrick will have a lot of preparatory work to complete before the conference - though of course, the one thing she needn't worry about is applying for a visa, thanks to our current membership of the European Union,” she laughed gaily. “Consequently, as well as clearing her shifts for the week of the conference, I am looking for volunteers to fill her shifts this week as well. Unfortunately we’re not in a position to pay overtime, as naturally we will be covering Dr McKendrick’s salary this week as well as next. So it’s an excellent opportunity to demonstrate your passion for the job, your care for our patients, and your commitment to the NHS, however beleaguered we may be by recent political blunders.”
There was only the briefest of pauses before the odd hand went up round the table, as colleagues offered to step in for Nicky. Donna Jackson piped up. “I know I'm not a doctor, but I can pull a few extra shifts to help lighten the load if it helps?”
“Thank you, Donna, that’s extremely kind of you, but I think Mr Duval made an excellent point earlier about more senior members of staff pulling their weight, so I’m quite sure the only reason he hasn’t volunteered already is that he wanted everyone to have the opportunity - but you’re clearly the right man for this job, Mr Duval.” She smiled blandly at him, quite unphased by the thunderous look he directed at her.
“I’m already working a forty hour week, Ms Campbell - I think you’ll find it’s illegal for me to work any more than that.” His voice was triumphant - at least to his own ears. To everyone else he sounded merely petulant, but Serena took it all in her stride.
“Oh, bless you, Mr Duval - we don’t worry about all that nonsense now, do we? That rule comes form the EU Working Hours Directive - and we’re taking back control, aren’t we? Doesn’t that feel good? Isn’t it fun to get one over on the EU? Why wait until Brexit, hey - let’s take back control right now! Good - that’s settled. Nicky, Mr Duval will be covering your shifts this week - perhaps you could bring him back a little something from Milan to show your appreciation? Or just a postcard. You choose.”
She stood abruptly, signalling the end of the meeting.
“Right - that’s it folks - time to get back to work. Chop chop! But do come for drinks after your shifts to help Nicky celebrate this lovely feather in her cap - I expect to see you all there,” she said, looking meaningfully at Xavier.
***
Poor Xavier’s shift hadn’t improved after the meeting. By sheer coincidence (for what else could it be?) his every patient was an EU foreign national, everyone of whom sang the praises of the NHS and the reciprocal health insurance arrangements currently in place, and bemoaned the potential loss of their status in the UK. By the time he made it to Albie’s, all he wanted was a long, ice cold pint of Peroni.
But as he stood at the bar, Serena interrupted his order. “Oh, don’t worry about that, Mr Duval - I’ve already got one for you. here you are - a nice pint of warm mild - as English as it gets!”
She turned to her assembled colleagues and proposed a toast to Dr McKendrick, who was glowing as much from the attention as the Italian Pinot Grigio she was drinking. Serena raised her own glass of Spanish Shiraz and clinked it against Fletch’s German lager, and Donna’s French Sauvignon Blanc.
“A second toast!” She declared. “To the EU, to the Remainers, and to a second referendum!” As they cheered her stirring little speech, her friends and colleagues touched their glasses together, and Xavier Duval, finally knowing when to give in, wearily clinked his glass against Serena’s and downed his pint, grimacing at the tepid beer.
Serena smiled at him, and whispered, “Well done, Xavier - better late than never. Welcome back - you and I will cover Nicky’s shifts between us.” Turning to the bar, she ordered him another drink, “A nice cold, ice cold Peroni for the gentleman, please - and,” - she was unable to resist - “perhaps a little something to munch on, lunch on, something he can crunch on?”