at the Citizens Advice Bureau, and then six months later when she had been asked if she would like to train as a counsellor. She had protested that she was not experienced enough to give advice to others, that her life, her relationships were very far from perfect, and certainly did not justify her handing out advice to others.
‘The more problems our counsellors have faced in their own lives, the better they are at listening compassionately to the problems of others,’ she had been told crisply.
She sat down and opened the folder.
She had recently attended a national conference on the effects of long-term unemployment and redundancy on people. She frowned as she read through the notes she had made. They were certainly getting an increased number of people coming to them for advice on how to cope with their unemployment—women in the main, anxious not just about the loss of income but the effects of their husband’s redundancy and consequent loss of self-esteem on the men emotionally, and on the family as well.
If the gossip going round following Andrew Ryecart’s suicide was correct in suggesting that it had been caused by financial problems with Kilcoyne’s, it seemed likely that the town would soon have more men out of work. The company was one of the town’s main employers, one of the last light engineering companies left in the area. There would be no alternative jobs for people to go to.
Elizabeth nibbled the end of her pen. She had suggested at last week’s general staff meeting that it might be an idea to put together a special package formulated specifically to help such cases. People were individuals, of course, with individual problems, but …
‘It’s a good idea,’ her boss had agreed. ‘But we simply can’t spare anyone to work on it at the moment, unless …’
‘Unless I do it at home in my spare time,’ Elizabeth had offered wryly.
‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth,’ her boss had apologised. ‘But you know how things are: we’re all suffering cutbacks and underfunding, just like everyone else.’
That was true enough. Richard had been complaining that the hospital now seemed to employ more accountants to watch over its budgets than they did nurses to watch over its patients.
‘Richard, have you got a minute?’
Richard paused, frowning as he glanced at his watch.
‘Barely,’ he told the hospital’s chief executive. ‘My clinic starts in half an hour and I’ve got a couple of phone calls I need to make first.’
‘I really do need to talk to you, Richard,’ the other man insisted. ‘We’ve got a committee meeting coming up soon and we still have to go through your budgets.’
Richard grimaced, suppressing his instinctive response, which was to say that he was a surgeon, not an accountant. It was pointless losing his temper with Brian; he was just as much a victim of the financial cuts being imposed on them as he himself was.
‘Look, let’s go into my office,’ Brian suggested, taking advantage of his silence.
Irritably Richard followed him, shaking his head when Brian offered him coffee. ‘No, I forgot for a moment—you’re a tea man, aren’t you?’
‘I drank too much coffee when I was a student and a young intern,’ Richard told him. ‘They talk about working long hours now, but when I first qualified … Still, we didn’t have the same pressures on us then that they do now, nor the huge diversity of skills and facts to learn. These days there seems to be a new drug on the market every day and a new set of complications to go with it, never mind all the new operating techniques, and then of course there’s the paperwork …’
Brian Simmonds watched him sympathetically. He had remarked at last month’s meeting to the new area health chief administrator that it was perhaps unfair to expect some of their senior and older medical staff to be able to absorb the intricacies of the new technology and the tighter control of finances as speedily as the younger ones.
‘If that’s the case, then perhaps you ought to be thinking about pensioning a few of them off,’ had been David Howarth’s cold response. ‘It appals me to see how much money we’re wasting paying top salaries to people who could quite easily be replaced by someone younger—and cheaper.
‘The whole area health system needs reorganising and rationalising. We’ve got far too many small specialist units competing with one another. It would make much more sense to nominate specific hospitals to deal with specific areas of expertise. Out of the eighteen hospitals in this area, a good number of them have specialist heart units, and both your hospital and the Northern have specialised microsurgery units. Older surgeons like Richard Humphries …’
‘Richard Humphries was the first local surgeon to specialise in his field,’ Brian had protested defensively. ‘He really pioneered the treatment in his area …’
‘But Richard Humphries is a man not far off sixty who, no matter how excellent a surgeon he might be, has made it plain that he just isn’t equipped to deal with the financial implications of working in an independent hospital. Christopher Jeffries at the Northern, in contrast, has already shown that he has an excellent grasp of the way we’re going to need to operate in future to make sure we’re financially viable, and he’s twenty years younger than Richard.’
Brian hadn’t repeated their conversation to Richard. Richard and David had taken a dislike to one another virtually at first sight, and Brian already knew from past experience that Richard was simply not a man to compromise on what he believed were the best interests of his patients for any mere financial reasons.
Richard epitomised all that was best in the Health Service, its principles and its goals, while David on the other hand represented the new financial cutting edge that was being imposed on it to try to counteract the burden of a growing population and the rapid advances made in medical technology.
He sighed to himself, knowing that the problem was one thing, but finding the answers to it was something else again, and while David and his like believed that the answer was a far more hard-nosed response to the provision of health services, and while publicly Brian might feel it was politic to agree with him, privately he couldn’t help but sympathise with Richard’s totally opposite point of view.
Sympathising with him was one thing, failing to get across to him the message that if financial restraints were not self imposed then they would be imposed from outside was another matter, and one that could potentially prejudice the whole hospital’s future.
‘Our accountant was on the phone yesterday,’ he told Richard now. ‘It seems that she still hasn’t received your budget forecasts for the next quarter …’
‘What exactly is the hospital paying me for?’ Richard countered irritably. ‘Filling in forms or operating on patients?’
Brian sighed again. ‘Richard, I know how you feel, but try not to make too much of an enemy of people like David.’ He moved uncomfortably in his seat. ‘There are areas where savings can be made. The Northern——’
‘The Northern has a far lower post-operation recovery-rate than we do here,’ Richard interrupted, and added bluntly, ‘And you already know my opinion on the reasons for that …’
‘You’re getting too old and too idealistic, Richard,’ his GP son-in-law had told him drily the last time they had met. ‘And if you think you’ve got problems you should sit at my desk for a
