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He smiled again with a charm which caused her to smile back at him.
‘She likes you, you know, she says you have a beautiful face.’
Her smile faded although she didn’t look away from him. ‘That’s not true,’ she told him, and was deeply mortified when he agreed: ‘No, I know it’s not, but I know exactly what Klara means.’ He got up. ‘I’ll not keep you out of your bed any longer, and thanks for the coffee.’ He stuffed a hand into his pocket and drew out some notes and put them on the table. ‘I hope this will be enough.’
Samantha eyed the money. ‘It’s far too much,’ she told him roundly. ‘Half of that…’
He smiled. ‘Spend what you need,’ was all he said. ‘I’ll see myself out. Sleep well.’
For a large man he moved with a good deal of speed. She heard the front door close while she was still framing a suitable goodbye sentence.
Although she was so tired, she didn’t sleep very well, being disturbed by dreams which she dismissed as absurd. It was, she told herself as she rose long before her usual time to make herself a cup of tea, because Doctor ter Ossel had been the last person she had seen before she went to bed that she had dreamed so persistently of him. She wandered into the sitting room, trying to shake the memory of him out of her still sleepy head, and found a bowl crowded with daffodils and tulips on the table and a note from Sue, who had been off duty during the afternoon.
It read simply. ‘These came for you. Who’s the boyfriend?’
CHAPTER TWO
THE NINE-THIRTY TRAIN from Waterloo to Weymouth was half empty. Samantha found a carriage in the front of the train and sank into a corner seat with a sigh of relief. It had been a rush to get to the station, but it was well worth it, she told herself. There were four days ahead of her and she intended to enjoy every minute of them. The last night of her duty had been busy and she had spent some of her precious free time shopping for Juffrouw Boot, who, just as the doctor had promised, had a list on her locker. It had been merely a question of pointing to which items she wanted in her own incomprehensible language while Samantha read them in the English written neatly beside them. She had taken upon herself to buy a few extra things too—more flowers, sweets, a bottle of perfumed eau-de-cologne, even a Dutch newspaper which she had discovered one morning and taken on duty that night. She and Brown had rigged up the table so that Juffrouw Boot could see to read it; it meant taking her glasses on and off, of course, and turning the pages for her, but it had been well worth the trouble to see the pleasure on her face.
Samantha leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She had been paid; that meant that she had some money to give her grandmother, an undertaking of some delicacy because that lady had a good deal of old-fashioned pride, but once that was done, she might even, once she had paid her share of the flat’s rent and the housekeeping and put some money aside to pay for her meals in the hospital, have sufficient over to buy one of those short jackets from Fenwick’s—a brown one, she mused sleepily. She could wear it with her brown slacks and the tweed skirt she was so heartily sick of. She was trying to work out if there would be enough over to buy a thin sweater when she fell asleep. She slept until the train stopped at Southampton and woke to the suspicious stare of the woman seated opposite her; the woman didn’t approve of her, that was evident; perhaps she felt that a girl should be wide awake at that hour of the morning after a sound night’s rest. Samantha closed her eyes again, but this time she didn’t sleep; Doctor ter Ossel’s arrogant features superimposed themselves upon her eyelids and refused to go away. A bad-tempered man, she had no doubt, and far too outspoken; she was thankful that she had kept meticulous account of the money she had spent on his behalf, and left the change, together with a stiff little note, in Juffrouw Boot’s locker. He hadn’t said how long he was going to be away; almost certainly he would be gone again by the time she returned to duty. She felt a vague, unreasonable regret about this as she drifted off to sleep again.
The train filled itself at Bournemouth; she forced herself to wake up and look out of the window at the familiar scenery, so that she was quite alert by the time the train stopped, finally, at Weymouth.
Her grandfather was waiting for her, sitting in the driver’s seat of the elderly Morris. He was an old man now and driving, because of his arthritis, was becoming increasingly difficult, but he always insisted on meeting her when she went home. She swung into the seat beside him, cast her case on to the back seat and embraced him with affection. He and her grandmother had looked after her since she had lost her parents at the age of twelve. They had given her a loving home, educated her well, although it had meant digging deep into their capital, and never grudged her a thing. Not that Samantha had ever asked for much; she had realized soon enough that there wasn’t much money and what there was was being spent on her. That was why, now that she was earning her own living, she insisted on helping them each month; they didn’t like it, but she suspected that they had very little besides their pension, although they were far too proud to tell her that.
‘Lovely to see you, Grandpa,’ she told the spare old gentleman as he drove through the town and out on to the Portisham road, and she went on to entertain him with some of the lighter aspects of hospital life until they reached the turning to Langton Herring, a narrow lane which meandered through fields and pleasant little copses before it arrived at the village; a mere cluster of houses about the church and almost at the end of the lane which wandered, its surface getting rougher at every yard, uphill and then down again until it ended at Chesil Beach and the coastguards’ cottages.
Mr Fielding drove round the church, past the big open gate leading to the Manor, and stopped neatly before a small grey stone house with a very small garden before it. Its door stood open. Samantha flung out of the car and ran into its narrow passage, straight into the arms of her grandmother. Mrs Fielding was a little shorter than her granddaughter and a good deal plumper; they shared the same ordinary face and the same pretty twinkling eyes, but whereas her grandmother’s hair was short and white and curly, Samantha’s long brown hair was skewered rather severely above her slender neck.
They hugged each other, both talking at once, until Mr Fielding came in with her case and they all moved into the sitting room, where Samantha was regaled with several cups of strong tea and the cream of the local gossip was skimmed off until her grandmother looked at the clock and declared that it was high time that they had their dinner, and went off to the kitchen to dish up.
They all helped with the washing up in the small, pleasant kitchen and then, with her grandparents ensconced by the sitting room fire for their afternoon nap, Samantha went upstairs to her room. It was a small apartment, its window built out over the porch so that if she had a mind to, she could see anyone coming up the lane. But she didn’t look out now. She unpacked the few things she had brought with her and put them tidily away and did her hair again, this time in a ponytail, and sat on the narrow bed, looking around her at the rather elderly furniture, the rosebud wallpaper and the little shelf of her favourite books by the bed. It was nice to be home again. She heaved a sigh of content and went quietly downstairs, laid her gifts of tobacco and chocolates on the kitchen table, took down an old tweed coat hanging behind the door, and went out. She walked past the church, stopped to say a word or two to the vicar when she met him, and then went briskly down the lane towards the sea, meeting no one else on the way. It was a dull afternoon and the water, when she reached it, looked dark and cold and the mean little wind blowing in over Chesil Beach made everything look very uninviting. Samantha turned and walked back, her hands in the pockets of her deplorable coat, frowning to herself, because for no reason at all, she was thinking about Doctor ter Ossel again.
It was the next morning, over breakfast, that Mrs Fielding mentioned casually that they had all been bidden to dinner that evening at the Manor.
‘But, Granny,’ said Samantha, astonished, ‘we only go at Christmas and New Year and once or twice in the summer.’
Her grandmother looked vaguely puzzled. ‘Yes, dear, I know, but I met Mrs Humphries-Potter a few days ago and she told me that she was on the way to visit us in order to invite us all for tonight. She was most particular about it—I can’t imagine why, excepting she said that she hadn’t seen you for a long time.’
‘Christmas! I’ve nothing to wear!’
‘Oh, I’m sure you have, darling—it’s not a party, just us, I believe. That was a pretty dress you had on yesterday.’
Samantha eyed her grandmother with tolerant affection. A Marks & Spencer jersey dress, and she had had it for more than a year. But she could dress it up a bit, she supposed, there was that lovely belt someone had given her for Christmas and she had a decent pair of shoes somewhere. ‘OK,’ she agreed cheerfully, ‘I’ll wear that.’
They got out the car to go to the Manor, for although it was a very short drive, her grandfather wasn’t much of a walker these days. This time Samantha drove, first packing the elderly pair into the back of the car and then, at her grandmother’s agitated request, went back into the house to make sure that Stubbs, the cat, was safely indoors. They had had Stubbs for a long time now, he was part of the family, his every whim pandered to, and much thought given to his comfort. Samantha got into the driving seat at last, assured her companions that Stubbs was cosily asleep, and drove off up the lane, round the corner, through the open gate and up the winding drive, to park the car on one side of the sweep before the house.
The Squire, an elderly man, become rather stout with advancing years, came to meet them as Mrs Mabb, who did for the Humphries-Potters, opened the door. He was followed by his wife, a commanding lady of majestic aspect and possessing one of the kindest hearts in the district. She pecked Mrs Fielding’s cheek in greeting and then did the same for Samantha, commenting as she did so that the dear child looked far too pale. The Squire kissed her too, rather more robustly, and slapped her in avuncular fashion as well, for they had known her since she was a small girl. Carried along on a burst of cheerful conversation, they crossed the hall and arranged themselves in a circle round the fire to drink their sherries and gin and tonics. Samantha was listening to Mrs Humphries-Potter’s plans for the church bazaar, when that lady’s rigidly coiffed head bent to a listening angle. ‘There is the car,’ she pronounced, and even as Samantha framed the question: ‘Whose car?’ Mrs Mabb threw open the door with something of a flourish and Doctor ter Ossel walked in.
Under Samantha’s startled gaze he greeted his host and hostess, was introduced to Mr and Mrs Fielding, and finally, to herself. The look he gave her was bland as they shook hands, faintly amused and tinged with an innocent surprise which she suspected wasn’t innocent at all.
‘We have already met,’ he informed Mrs Humphries-Potter suavely, ‘at Clement’s, you know.’
His hostess smiled graciously. ‘Of course—dear Sir Joshua.’ She tapped the doctor playfully on his well tailored sleeve. ‘If it hadn’t been for him we should never have made your acquaintance or had the pleasure of your company here.’
‘A mutual pleasure, Mrs Humphries-Potter.’ His eyes rested briefly on Samantha, standing between them and wishing she wasn’t. ‘And what a strange coincidence that—er—Samantha should be here too.’
Samantha felt Mrs Humphries-Potter’s hand on her shoulder. ‘The dear child,’ she said with real affection. ‘We have known her for a good many years, for the Fieldings are neighbours of ours…’ She broke off as the Squire came over with a drink for the newcomer and Samantha, with a wordless murmur, slipped away to join her grandmother. Presently the three gentlemen struck up a conversation, and Samantha, sitting between the two older ladies, listening with half an ear to their gentle criticisms of the latest books, the newest fashions and the terrible price of everything, had ample opportunity of studying Doctor ter Ossel. Apart from the fact that she disliked him, he was rather nice; a handsome man, tall and commanding and very sure of himself, and, she decided in a rather muddled fashion, very likeable, if one happened to like him—which she didn’t, she apostrophized herself sharply, and just as well as it turned out, for she was quite sure that he didn’t like her all that much, either.
But as the evening wore on she was bound to admit that he was allowing none of his true feelings towards her to show; indeed he was friendly in a cool kind of way, although he made no effort to single her out. He spent a good deal of time talking to Mrs Fielding, whose cosy chuckles and tinkling laugh bore tribute to the pleasure she was having in his company. Her granddaughter, listening to the Squire boring on about winter grazing and the price of animal foodstuffs, wished, quite unfairly, that her grandmother wasn’t enjoying herself quite so much; it was ridiculous of her, old enough to know better, to succumb to the man’s charm so easily.
‘You’re frowning, Sam,’ the Squire interrupted himself to say. ‘Perhaps you don’t agree with me about this question of silage.’
Samantha’s wits were quick enough behind her placid face. ‘The Common Market countries—’ she began, apropos of nothing at all and hoping that it might mean something to her companion.
It did. ‘Clever girl,’ he praised her, ‘you’re thinking of the price of beef…’ He launched himself happily into a further explanation which only necessitated her saying: ‘You don’t say,’ or ‘Yes, I see,’ or ‘Well, I never,’ at intervals. She had turned her shoulder to her grandmother and the doctor, but she could still hear her grandmother’s delighted chuckles.
They left soon after ten o’clock, and Samantha, who was driving again, was deeply mortified when she clashed the gears and put the Morris into reverse by mistake, in full view of the Squire and the doctor, who had come out to see them off. It was dark except for the powerful lights from the house; she had no doubt that if she could have seen Doctor ter Ossel clearly he would have been both amused and mocking.
That her grandparents had enjoyed themselves was evident from their conversation during the short drive home, and over their bedtime cocoa Mrs Fielding remarked: ‘I liked that Doctor what’s-his-name—Giles. Such a nice young man, don’t you think, Sam?’
Samantha was filling hot water bottles at the sink. ‘I don’t know, Granny,’ her voice was prim. ‘I suppose he’s all right.’
Her grandmother spooned the sugar from the bottom of her cup and gave her a bright glance which she then turned upon her husband, ending it with a wink. He lowered a wrinkled eyelid himself and rumbled obligingly:
‘Yes, yes—a very good sort of chap, I thought. Humphries-Potter tells me that he’s considered very promising as a physician, too—does quite a bit of consulting work, I gather, and comes over here from time to time. Quite young, too.’
A bait to which Samantha rose. ‘How young?’ she wanted to know.
‘Thirty-five,’ declared her grandfather in an offhand manner. ‘He has a practice in Haarlem, I’m told. Got his M. D. Cantab. too, as well as a fistful of Dutch degrees. Clever fellow.’
Samantha, washing cups and saucers, was thinking up a few careless questions to follow this interesting information, but her grandfather was a little too quick for her. He stood up and walked to the door.
‘Well, I shall turn in,’ he observed, and after kissing her, stumped upstairs, leaving her with her curiosity sufficiently aroused to prevent her from falling asleep for quite a long time.
She was up early, all the same, taking up tea to the old people, attending to Stubbs’ wants, pottering round the little house, tidying up and getting breakfast, so that it was after that meal was finished and the remainder of the chores done that she was up in her room again, doing something to her face. The beds were made, the coffee hot on the side of the stove; there was little left to do. Samantha sat before the old-fashioned dressing table, not seeing her own reflection but Doctor ter Ossel’s strong features. She closed her eyes upon it, brushed her hair into a shining brown curtain and tied it back with a ribbon. She was pulling at its loops when there was a knock on the front door and she poked her head out of the window to see who it was before going downstairs.
There were two people; Mrs Humphries-Potter and Doctor ter Ossel, and as that lady was already looking up at the window Samantha had opened, it was impossible to withdraw her head and pretend she wasn’t there.
She called down politely: ‘Good morning, I’m just coming,’ and heard her grandfather going to open the door as she spoke.
In the kitchen she added two more cups and saucers to the coffee tray and carried it in the sitting room, where Doctor ter Ossel politely took it from her while Mrs Humphries-Potter exclaimed: ‘Giles is so anxious to see the Beach, and I’m such a bad walker, as you know, so I hit on this perfectly splendid idea of Samantha acting as guide in my place. She knows this district so well and can answer any questions Giles might ask.’
She turned her head, crowned with a mud-coloured Henry Heath hat, and smiled at Samantha, who didn’t smile back. ‘I’ve a great deal to do,’ she started to say. ‘There’s lunch to get ready and I was going to make some cakes…’
Her grandmother wasn’t on her side, though. ‘Nonsense, Sam,’ she said quickly, ‘you’ve done everything, I saw you with my own eyes, and the cakes can be made after lunch. You run along and enjoy yourself, dear.’
‘I could always go alone,’ interposed the doctor in a voice which somehow conveyed bravely concealed resignation at the prospect. ‘I daresay there are plenty of books I can read to discover what I should want to know.’ He turned his eyes upon Samantha and they were dancing with mirth. ‘I shouldn’t like to impose…’
She all but ground her teeth at him. ‘I’ll go and put a coat on,’ she told him ungraciously, and fled upstairs, to fling on the old tweed coat, bundle her hair under its hood, snatch up some woolly mitts, and run downstairs again, her face a little pink with temper and some other feeling she refused to acknowledge.
It wasn’t much of a morning; they walked briskly down the lane which led seawards under a sky covered with high grey cloud, while a fitful wind blew in their faces. The doctor, hatless and wearing a Burberry which emphasized the width of his shoulders as well as being gloved expensively in pigskin, didn’t appear to notice the weather, however. He carried on a cheerful conversation about nothing in particular, to which Samantha contributed but little, answering with a determined politeness and a faint coolness of manner, for she had no intention of succumbing to his charm. She had no doubt, she told herself crossly, that if there had been another girl boasting the good looks she didn’t have, he wouldn’t have come near her that morning.
They had walked right down to the coastguards’ houses facing Chesil Beach itself, and she began to explain with meticulous thoroughness, as though she were a guide making something clear to a foreigner, that the Beach was seventeen miles long, that the stones at one end were much larger than those at the other, that if he chose to search, he might find Wolf’s rock from Cornwall, Devon granite, quartz rock and banded rhyolite, that if he were interested there was no reason why he should not take one of the larger pieces home with him—people used them for paperweights. ‘The Beach changes from day to day,’ she went on, a little prosily. ‘The tides…’
‘Why do you dislike me?’ He cut her off in full spate and left her openmouthed. ‘Or rather, why will you not let yourself like me?’
She remembered to close her mouth while she sought for words. ‘I—’ she began, and then burst out with: ‘What difference could it possibly make?’ Her hazel eyes were bright with sudden rage. ‘I don’t know anything about you; I shan’t ever see you again…’
He smiled faintly. ‘But you don’t enjoy my company? Come, let us be honest.’
She said wildly: ‘But I’ve not been in your company—I don’t…’
‘Know me? Don’t repeat yourself, Samantha. Perhaps given the opportunity, you might get to know me better.’ He sounded so very sure of himself that she said instantly, not meaning a word of it: ‘I have no wish to know you better—no wish at all. We’d better go back or you’ll be late for your lunch.’
He appeared not in the least put out by this display of rudeness; they climbed the rough road again and began the walk back to the village, the doctor whiling away their journey with a discourse on igneous rock, lapilli, tuff and schist, and as she had never heard of any of these, she was forced to remain silent. At her grandparents’ gate they came to a halt and she said awkwardly: ‘Well, goodbye, Doctor ter Ossel.’
His cheerful goodbye in reply was vexing in the extreme; still more vexing was his remark: ‘I’m going back to London tomorrow morning—such a pity I am unable to give you a lift—you don’t return for another day, do you, but in any case, there is no point in mentioning it, is there, for I am sure that you would not have come with me, would you?’ He went on blandly: ‘One should never waste one’s leisure in the company of someone one doesn’t like.’
He had gone, walking unhurriedly up the lane, leaving her a prey to a variety of feelings, all muddled and none of them nice.
She spent the rest of the day indoors with the excuse that her grandmother’s cushion-covers in the sitting room needed to be washed and ironed and it was just the day in which to do them. Her grandparents forbore from pointing out that a light drizzle was now falling and enquired discreetly as to her walk with the doctor. Samantha replied calmly that it had been nice, cold on the beach, though, and that Doctor ter Ossel was interested in a variety of stones, and before either of her listeners could ask, volunteered the information that he was returning to London the following morning.
She was upstairs making the beds when he called the next morning; she had peered out to see who it was at the door and had almost fallen over in her haste to get her head back inside again in case he should look up. Which he didn’t, Samantha stood behind the curtain to see. She took a long time over the beds, telling herself that she didn’t want to see him again, and was inordinately peeved when he left without anyone so much as calling up the stairs to tell her he was there, and when she went down after a suitable interval, Mrs Fielding mentioned placidly that she hadn’t bothered her because he had only come in for a moment to say goodbye and had told them that he had already bidden her farewell after their walk the day before. ‘Just fancy,’ breathed her grandmother to no one in particular, ‘he’s going back to Holland tonight, although he’s going to see his poor housekeeper in Clement’s first.’
And that, said Samantha silently, is that, adding for good measure: and a good thing too. It was probably the relief of knowing that she wouldn’t meet him again which gave her such a curious sensation of emptiness; rather as though she had lost something.
But she hadn’t lost anything; when she got back on duty two nights later, he was there on the ward, chatting up Sister Grieves, so that lady, usually so severe, was all smiles and pinkened cheeks. Samantha gave him an austere good evening and waited neatly by the desk, very clean and starched in her uniform, not a brown hair out of place, her eyes on Sister’s animated face. They flew to Doctor ter Ossel’s handsome countenance, though, when he said: ‘Well, Samantha, I hope you left your grandparents well?’
She bristled; calling her Samantha in front of Sister, indeed! ‘Perfectly well, thank you,’ she assured him indignantly, and he gave the smallest of smiles as he turned back to Sister Grieves.
‘Well, I won’t keep you from your work, Sister. Good night, and many thanks, you have been more than kind.’ He smiled at her. He turned to Samantha then and allowed the smile to become mocking. ‘And good night to you Staff Nurse.’
It was Sister Grieves who answered him as he went away. Samantha had no words to say at all.
‘I had no idea that you were on friendly terms with Doctor ter Ossel,’ Sister Grieves remarked almost accusingly. It was the sort of question it was hard to answer without being down-right rude; Samantha murmured something about his visits to Juffrouw Boot and didn’t explain about her grandparents at all, so that Sister Grieves positively sizzled with curiosity as she gave the report.
The ward was full; Samantha nipped round, greeting the patients she knew and getting to know the new inmates of beds which had stood so briefly empty. It had not, thank heaven, been operating day, and although there were several ill patients there was nothing really dire. Night Sister did her round and Samantha gave out pills, medicines and where necessary, injections. By eleven o’clock the ward was quiet, more or less. Brown went to the kitchen to make coffee and Samantha went noiselessly to the desk and sat down to con the Kardex once more; she was a good nurse and careful; besides, when Brown came back with their drinks they would go over it together once more, so that the junior nurse, who was expected to plunge straight into work when she came on duty, knew as much as possible about the patients.
She was half way through the Kardex, conning Juffrouw Boot’s notes, and paused to think about that lady; a nice old thing, she decided—she had become quite fond of her—with a good deal of courage and very grateful for anything which was done for her. She had learned a few words of English too; she could say yes and no and pain and bedpan, and it was remarkable what interesting conversations the nurses had with her when there was the time. She had taught Samantha a few Dutch words too while her hands were being treated during the night and had chuckled at her efforts. Samantha was glad to know that her hands were healing nicely. She flipped over the card and heard the door behind her open.
‘Thank heaven,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were never coming.’
‘Now that is quite the nicest thing you have said to me.’ Doctor ter Ossel’s whisper was in her ear; he had bent down over her chair and she turned sharply to find his grey eyes within an inch or so of her own. A little short of breath, she managed: ‘Grandmother told me that you had gone to Holland.’
‘Quite right. Now I’m back—to see someone.’
Samantha got up with as much dignity as space permitted, for he hadn’t moved an inch. ‘If you’ve come to see Juffrouw Boot, it’s rather late, she’ll be asleep.’
‘I saw Klara this evening.’
‘Then who?’
‘Ah—the someone. I’ve seen her. I popped in while passing merely.’
‘Oh.’ Considering how much she disliked him, the feelings engendered by this remark made no sense. Samantha stared up at him, wishing she knew who the someone was—there were pretty girls galore in the hospital, and several young and attractive doctors besides. She was wondering how she could find out when Brown came creeping in through the door with two mugs of coffee. She stopped when she saw the doctor, spilled some of the coffee down her apron and whispered: ‘Oh—do you want some coffee too?’
He took the mugs from her and set them down on the desk, his smile earning him an answering one from her round young face. ‘No, thanks, my dear, I’m just going. Keep an eye on this staff nurse of yours, will you? I don’t believe she’s ever heard that one about all work and no play…’ He nodded briskly to the pair of them and slid his bulk soundlessly through the door.
Brown let out a noisy breath. ‘Well, whatever did he mean, Staff?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Samantha tartly.
‘He’s foreign, remember; I daresay he’s got his metaphors mixed.’ She wasn’t sure if that was the right expression, she had a sneaking doubt that it hadn’t been a metaphor at all, but it sounded most convincing and Brown, who was a good girl but not very bright, didn’t appear to question it. They drank their coffee and conned the report and in the welter of questions and answers, forgot all about their visitor—or almost. As they got to their feet to do a ward round, Brown whispered: ‘He’s nice, isn’t he, Staff—so romantic—he turns me on.’
Samantha picked up her torch, suddenly and surprisingly aware that to speak truth, he turned her on too, although she had no intention of admitting it. ‘He’s quite nice,’ she agreed quenchingly, and was conscious of her companion’s pitying glance; probably the girl considered her an old maid at twenty-four; she was, in all fairness, right.
It was during the following week that the ancillary staff of the hospital decided to go on strike, not all of them willingly. But as Betsy, the elderly ward maid, pointed out to Samantha when she came on duty to find the supper dishes still unwashed: ‘It’s not that I likes the idea, Staff—it’s the money, they says it ain’t enough.’ She jerked a grubby thumb over her shoulder. ‘Them poor cows in the ward, I’ates ter leave them.’
Samantha knew what she meant, even though her description of the ladies lying in the ward beds was hardly one she would have used herself, but old Betsy’s heart was in the right place even if her mode of speech was a thought rough; she had been told not to work, but that didn’t prevent her from stating her opinion of the situation. ‘I’m not supposed to be ’ere, neither,’ she confided. ‘I just popped up to see ’ow yer was managing.’ She made for the door. ‘Well, ta-ta, ducks, be seeing yer.’
It wasn’t too bad for the first couple of days; the nursing staff shared the extra work; the day nurses staying on later and going on duty earlier and the night staff doing the same, apportioning the washing up, the sweeping and dusting between them. It was when Sir Joshua White, doing his round a little early on the third morning and finding Samantha in the kitchen long after she should have been off duty, washing the endless cups and saucers while Sister Grieves vacuumed the ward floor, spoke his mind.
‘You are two hours late off duty,’ he pointed out to Samantha, quite unnecessarily. ‘It is impossible for you to carry out your nursing duties and be a maid of all work at the same time—the patients are liable to suffer.’
‘No, they aren’t,’ said Samantha, careless of her manners because she was half asleep and wanted her breakfast.
He studied her tired face through his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘No—I shouldn’t have said that, I apologize, but you’re going to be worn out, young lady. I shall have to think of something.’
He stalked away and she could hear him in the ward, surrounded by scurrying nurses trying to get the ward straight, addressing Sister in outraged tones, raising his voice a little because she still had the Hoover on.
That evening, when Samantha went on early so as to give a hand with the supper dishes, she went straight to the kitchen as usual, for Sister Grieves would be writing the report, and although the ward wasn’t taking any fresh cases because there was no linen for the theatre, there was more than enough to do. She flung open the door to find Doctor ter Ossel at the sink while Sir Joshua, wielding a tea towel with the same assurance as he did his scalpel, dried up. Both gentlemen were in their shirtsleeves and both were smoking their pipes, so that the atmosphere, already damp and redolent of burnt toast, baked beans and the peculiar odour of washing up done on the grand scale, was enriched by volumes of smoke from one of the more expensive tobaccos.
‘I told you that I would think of something,’ Sir Joshua greeted her. ‘Did you get any breakfast?’
‘Well—I have a meal when I get to the flat. I sleep out, sir.’
He eyed her narrowly, made a rumbling noise in his throat and applied himself to the spoons and forks. It was Doctor ter Ossel who put his pipe down on the shelf above the sink and turned to ask: ‘What sort of meal?’
Samantha was stacking the trolley ready for the evening drinks. ‘Oh, tea and toast and marmalade, of course.’
He picked up his pipe again. ‘Not enough—you’ll lose weight.’ He grinned at her and she felt her cheeks go red; her slight plumpness was something she was sensitive about—perhaps he thought of her as fat.
‘And what about our little Nurse Brown?’ he wanted to know. ‘Does she live out too?’
Samantha shook her head. ‘She’s only eighteen.’ She sounded almost motherly. ‘She lives quite close by, so she goes home for breakfast and supper.’
She went to the shelves and picked up the Ovaltine, the Bengers, the Nescafé and the Horlicks and arranged them in an orderly row on the trolley. ‘Shall I take over now?’ she asked.
