Not a Foetus by Sean Hodgson
‘C’mon Doc,’ begged Mrs. Wiltshire, ‘he’s getting really uncomfortable. Can we induce?’
‘How long’s it been?’ asked Doctor Hogan.
Mrs. Wiltshire mimed counting on her fingers, ‘243 months.’
An echoey voice called out, ‘It’s very comfortable thank you. I’m not coming out.’
‘Do be quite Robert,’ said Mrs. Wiltshire gently patting her tummy and trying to settle her hot, sweaty body on the examination table.
‘It’s all snuggly and warm in here,’ said Robert while sipping his favourite drink, a Strawberry-Lemon Mojito. ‘It’s horrible out there with chores to do, going to work and doing the shopping. I’ve got everything I need thank you.’
‘Oh Bobsie, have a word with the doctor. Oww!’ Mrs Wiltshire winced in pain and looked up at Doctor Hogan. ‘Now the little devil’s digging his heels in.’
‘And don’t call me Bobsie,’ snapped Robert. ‘I’m an emeritus professor in drylands permaculture - I’m not a child.’
Doctor Hogan thought about her own long, arduous working week, exhaled, and asked, ‘What? Is he retired?’
‘He’s a bit precocious at times,’ Mrs. Wiltshire replied.
‘Well, we’ve been here before haven’t we.’ Doctor Hogan leaned back in her chair, paused and saw a diminished Mrs. Wiltshire looking desperate. She also thought she could hear gun fire and the screech of car tyres, but dismissed it. ‘I’m not sure I have the equipment or the training to…’ She tailed off as she saw Mrs. Wiltshire’s face glaze over and her whole body sagged from the shoulders down, like a sack of potatoes that were rotting from the bottom up. ‘This is more of a psychological and counselling issue and isn’t a quick fix.’ There it was again, the distinctive clack-clack-clack of an AK 47.
‘Oh I’m so sorry, that’s his Playstation, day and night, he’s been addicted ever since I got him that cinema screen TV - 65 inches.’ Mrs. Wiltshire placed her hand on her abdomen and caressed it. ‘It’s my fault isn’t it. I’ve spoilt him. The thing is I could use that space for a paying lodger.’
‘Ok, I’ll have a word.’ Doctor Hogan reached into her draw and, as Mrs. Wiltshire looked on, a little disconcerted, strapped a mini torch to her forehead. ‘It’s ok,’ she said as she eased Mrs. Wiltshire back until she was flat on the examination table, ‘Trust me, I go caving at weekends,’ and within seconds she was gone.
Mrs. Wiltshire’s belly swelled, wobbled and gurgled as Doctor Hogan prepared to breach the cervical canal. A momentary satisfied smile radiated across her face. Then there was a brief pause. Mrs. Wiltshire looked down.
‘I suppose I’d better leave these behind,’ called Doctor Hogan as two stiletto shoes appeared where you least expect them to appear. ‘Can you look after these? They’re Manolo Blahnik’s, I don’t want them to get stained.’
Mrs. Wiltshire smiled again as the doctor manoeuvred her way back towards the cervical canal, then heard, ‘I’m going in.’
The belly swelled again and rippled like the wave machine at the swimming pool. Halfway along the canal Doctor Hogan rested, wiped her brow and called out, ‘Well I can tell you the first problem, you’ve got the heating up way too high. It’s like a sauna in here.’
‘It’s not a sauna,’ said Robert. ‘It’s my Jacuzzi and you’re not invited.’
‘Well I’m here now,’ replied Doctor Hogan as she plopped out into what can only be described as a snazzy and cavernous bachelor pad. ‘Is that a snooker table?’
Robert’s distance voice replied, ‘Don’t be daft, it’s a pool table. Did you bring my pizza with you? I ordered it about 40 minutes ago and the delivery man’s a bit reluctant to come this far.’
‘Where are you? I can’t see with that mirror ball flashing in my eyes.’ Doctor Hogan carefully made her way through the detritus of beer bottles, discarded Chinese takeaways and a pile of what had been cleaned and pressed washing that had fallen on the floor and was now the bed for a sleeping Rottweiler. ‘Where are you Robert?’
‘I’m on the balcony, the west facing balcony on the second floor. Oh and bring some ice with you from the kitchen, and be careful, when mum dropped off my clean clothes she forgot to take Benji out for a walk, he may have made a mess.’
Too late, but at least she was glad she’d left her shoes behind. As she made her way upstairs, she wondered if shag pile carpet was the most suitable in this environment. She passed the gym equipment next to the guest bedroom suite and onto the balcony where she eased herself into one of the La-Z-Boy chairs, ‘Now. Robert.’
‘Doctor. Don’t, even, think about it. We’ve always got economic uncertainty, job uncertainty and then the coronavirus lockdown isolation. Hey, I was ahead of the game on that one. I’ve got everything I need, so give me one good reason to go out there.’
Doctor Hogan sipped the Strawberry-Lemon Mojito Robert had placed in the La-Z-Boy’s cup holder and thought about her one bed flat, the seventy minute commute to work and her humongous mortgage.
Three Strawberry-Lemon Mojitos later and after taking a tour of the kitchen to get ice she made her way back to the consulting room. Along the way she gave her patient yet another satisfied smile as she manoeuvred around Mrs. Wiltshire’s inner workings.
‘So Doc, can you sort him out?’ asked an over expectant Mrs Wiltshire.
‘Wow! That is roomy in there. I had no idea and the facilities, impressive. But I’m sorry, you’ve made it far too comfortable for him.’
‘But he’s costing me a fortune.’
‘Well I do have one solution, how much would you charge for the guest bedroom?’
Written by Sean Hodgson
Sean Hodgson lives in Oxfordshire, with a garden that has three plastic pink pigeons because this is Faringdon, Oxfordshire. He used to be a police officer but since getting better he generally keeps quiet about that.