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After lunch Aunt Vera and Grandmother Greenslade wandered off to the drawing room, for what they called their weekly chat, and Uncle Giles bore Max van Oosterwelde away to his study, saying over his shoulder that there were plenty of apples for the picking at the end of the garden. Penny and Benjamin needed no second bidding, and tore away, followed more sedately but Sophy. Ten minutes later, however, sedateness forgotten, she was sitting astride a convenient fork in a tree, with a basket half filled on her arm, and a half eaten apple in her hand. It was pleasant there; the autumn sun still had warmth; the apples smelled good. She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to be free preferably driving about the country in a shining Bentley. It was only a small step from thinking of the Bentley to its owner; that was why his voice, coming from beneath her, sent the ready colour pouring over her face.
‘Are these your shoes?’ he asked.
Sophy curled her toes inside her stockings. ‘Yes. I was afraid I’d spoil them.’
‘Come down and put them on, and I’ll get the rest of the apples for you, shall I?’
Penny and Benjamin had joined him, laden with their own spoils. She whisked down the old tree, intent on getting to the ground unaided. She should have known better. She was plucked from it while she was still some feet from the ground, and set lightly on her feet. Then he was gone, and a moment later, she saw him balanced on a sturdy branch, reaching above his head and throwing the apples down to them. He looked enormous, but somehow not in the least out of place. The apples safely stowed, they went back to the drawing room, where Uncle Giles had switched on the television. He was following the incredible activities of a cowboy, apparently holding off a mob of howling Indians single-handed. He took his eyes from the screen long enough to recommend them to sit down and watch too, and soon there was silence, broken only by the sounds of celluloid battle. The telephone brought a discordant note amongst the war cries. Uncle Giles frowned, and turned the sound down, and Sophy, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. It was Staff Nurse.
‘Sister, I thought you’d want to know that the internal injuries is coming up at five-thirty, but Cas rang through to say they’ve got an abdominal that might have to be done first. They’ve had a road accident in, and Mr Carruthers is there now.’
Sophy looked at her watch; it was almost half past four. ‘Lay up for an abdominal, Cooper, and put in the general set and all we need for nephrectomy and splenectomy, and remember they’ll probably want to do an intravenous pyelogram.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And a few bladder tools, too. Have you got Vincent there?’
Staff’s voice came briskly back. ‘Yes, Sister. She’s been to tea.’
‘Good, tell her to get your tea now, before you dish up. I’ll be with you very shortly. Goodbye.’
Before she could hang up, Pratt’s voice cut in. ‘Sister Greenslade, Mr Carruthers wants a word with you.’
Tom’s quiet voice sounded urgent. ‘Sophy, is Max van Oosterwelde there?’
She looked across the room; the big Dutchman was sprawled in a chair, watching her. She beckoned him, and said, ‘Yes.’ He took the telephone from her and she went to slip away, but he caught her by the hand.
‘No, stay. It probably concerns you too.’
He listened quietly, and said at length, ‘We’d better do her first. We’ll be back in five minutes. No, not at all; I’m glad I can help. You’ve enough to get on with, I imagine.’
He was still holding her hand, she tried not to notice it while he talked. ‘There’s a girl in. Twelve years old—she’s been stabbed. Carruthers says there are six entries in the abdomen for a start. He’s got his hands full with the RTA. We’ll do the girl first; she’ll be a long job, I expect, but they can keep the other case going until we’re ready.’ He had been speaking quietly, so that only she could hear. Now he got up and went over to Mr Radcliffe. By the time Sophy had got her coat, he was saying goodbye in the unhurried manner of a man who had business to do, and knew how he was going to do it. As she made her own hurried goodbyes, she could hear him telling Penny and Ben that he would call for them on the following Wednesday. She longed to know more about it, but there was no time. They went round to the garage at the side of the house, and got into the Bentley and drove rapidly through the quiet streets. He left the car outside the hospital and they went in together, he to Cas, she to hurry upstairs to theatre. A few minutes later, capped and masked, she was scrubbing up while Cooper dished up the last of the instruments. They had five minutes. Vincent, the junior nurse, was nervous but willing; Staff, Sophy knew, would be a tower of strength; she always was. She went over to her trolleys and checked them carefully, and set about threading her needles and getting the blades on to their handles. It suddenly struck her that she didn’t know who would be assisting. Carruthers was tied up in Cas.; the other two consultants had weekends; their houseman would probably be away too, leaving their patients to the care of whoever was on duty. The porters wheeled in the trolley, with Dr Walker, the senior anaesthetist, pushing the Boyles. He said ‘Hullo, Sister’ in a vague voice, and went back to his cylinders and tubes. She liked him very much; he was unflappable and very sure of himself.
The surgeons came in; the second one was Bill, looking excited and a little scared. She smiled at him behind her mask, and nothing of it showed except the little laughter lines round her beautiful eyes. He took the sponge holders she was holding out to him, and used them, and then waited while Max van Oosterwelde examined the small body between them. The wounds were hard to see, and for every one there would be two or three internally. When he’d finished he said,
‘Have they got the fiend who did this?’
‘Yes, sir. Her stepbrother. He says she had thrown away his drugs and he was suffering from mental stress…’
The professor’s eyes blazed and he said something in Dutch. Sophy thought it sounded like a good earthy Dutch oath—which it was. He put out a hand without looking at Sophy, and said, ‘Ready, Sister.’ She handed him the knife and he stood, relaxed, almost casual, with it in his hand.
‘We’ll do a lower right paramedian, shall we, and see how far we get?’
He was looking at Bill; accepting him as a partner. The boy looked back at him, flushing slightly. He’d been scared stiff until that moment; now, suddenly, he knew that he’d be all right.
It took two and a half hours; it wasn’t a job to hurry over. Van Oosterwelde kept up a steady flow of quiet talk, and Sophy watched Bill relaxing under the older man’s skilful guidance, until he was playing his full part.
They were checking swabs, and the two men stood quietly while Sophy counted and agreed the total with Nurse Vincent.
‘How is your end, Walker?’ asked van Oosterwelde; he was already busy with the mattress stitches.
‘Very nice—she must be a tough little thing—she’ll need some more blood, though. How much longer do you want?’
‘Five minutes.’ Bill cut the gut for him, and he threw the needle back on to Sophy’s trolley. He caught her eye as he did so, and said, ‘We didn’t get our tea, did we?’
She handed him the Michel clip holder, but he waved it away towards Bill, and pulled off his gloves. Sophy smiled behind her mask; he had been very kind to Bill. She called Vincent over and asked her to take a tray of tea to her office. Dr Walker and van Oosterwelde were standing together, looking down at the child’s face.
‘I’d like to wring that fellow’s neck,’ Dr Walker sounded vehement.
‘I’ve got one of my own,’ he added, ‘so I feel strongly about it.’
The Dutchman said softly, ‘I also would kill him, but,’ he added, ‘he will be sent to an institution for observation, and in five or ten years’ time, he will do the same thing again.’ He turned around, and cast a casual eye on Bill’s work. ‘Very nice,’ he commented.
The second case took as long as the first, for it involved a splenectomy as well as a nephrectomy. Despite a hastily-snatched cup of tea, Sophy was tired. She had sent Vincent off duty, and Cooper was doing her own work and Vincent’s too. The night staff were far too thinly stretched to borrow any of their number. The Orthopaedic theatre was still going, so was Cas. They would manage; they always did. It was close on eleven as the patient was wheeled back to Intensive Care. The men followed him down; they wanted to look at the girl as well. Sophy and Cooper plunged into the chaos of used instruments and needles and knives, while a night porter swabbed up. It was almost an hour later when the two girls parted company at the end of the theatre corridor. Sophy slipped quiet as a mouse through the dim corridors, and down the stairs, calling a soft goodnight to the porter as she passed his box, and so through the big swing doors. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde was on the top step, leaning against its iron balustrade. He took her arm lightly above her elbow, and they went down the steps together and into the big car. She sat back against its leathered comfort and let out a tired breath.
‘Are they all right?’ she asked, as he moved away from the kerb. ‘Have you been there all this time?’ And blushed at her question.
‘I’m not sure about the girl—the man’s all right for the moment. Do you always have to clear up after a case at night? Don’t the night staff help?’
She explained about the nurses having more than enough to do and added, ‘You weren’t—that is, you didn’t wait for me, did you?’
He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Yes.’
She waited for him to say something else, but he remained silent, as he brought the car to a quiet halt outside her home.
‘Thank you very much, sir. It was very kind of you.’ Honestly compelled her to add, ‘But I always walk home by myself after a late case. I’m not lonely or nervous.’
She put a hand on the door, but his came down to hold it and prevent her.
‘Is there someone at home to give you a hot drink?’
She gave a gurgle of tired laughter; saw his raised eyebrow and said, ‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t being rude—it’s just that I’ve never met a senior consultant surgeon who bothered with things like hot drinks for nurses. Everyone will be in bed, but Sinclair will have left a thermos of cocoa for me…’
‘Sinclair?’
She was really very tired, but she thought she had better answer his question; he was the sort of man, she thought sleepily, who expected to be answered. ‘He was my father’s batman during the war. He came back with him afterwards and has been with us ever since. I’ve known him nearly all my life; he’s a tower of strength and a friend and he’s marvellous at housework too. He gave us the Blot, and he found Titus in a gutter; when my parents died, he made us keep on—it was a bit…difficult at first.’
He got out and came round and opened the door and walked up the little path with her, and took the door key from her hand and opened the door. There was a light in the hall. She went past him, and then turned on the step to look at him.
‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Miss Greenslade. I made a mistake today. You do not need any gilding.’
She awoke early, after a short night of heavy sleep and ridiculous dreams about lilies. She went on duty determined to be sensible. She wasn’t a silly young girl; she was a woman with responsibilities and not much time for romantic ideas. She was breathtakingly efficient in theatre during the morning, and at coffee time went on a mythical errand which lasted until it was time to scrub again. It was really quite easy to avoid being alone with him. She went to her dinner late, and went straight back to work. The list was an uncomplicated one that afternoon; they could be done by five, if they didn’t stop for tea. There was one case left, when Jonkheer van Oosterwelde called a halt. Even then, she sent the nurse in with the tea tray, and elected to stay in theatre, although there was really nothing for her to do there. He appeared in the doorway five minutes later, smiled charmingly at the nurses and said in a silky voice it would have been hard to disobey:
‘Your tea is getting cold, Sister.’
She had opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t want any tea, but the three nurses had all paused in their work and were watching with a lively interest that needed quelling. As she went ahead of him down the corridor she thought bitterly, that he was the pin-up boy for practically the whole staff already, then hated herself for the thought. He had, after all, been very kind to her, and he had treated Bill decently. All the same, he was too sure of himself, too certain of getting his own way.
She went into the little office, and Dr Walker and Bill got up while she squeezed past them to sit in her chair. She was drawn at once into their conversation and was surprised to find how much she was enjoying it. Perhaps, after all, she need not avoid him—not when there were other people around. She became aware that Bill was speaking to her, and said,
‘I’m sorry, Bill—I didn’t hear you.’
He flushed faintly. ‘I only wondered if you would mind if I took Penny to Hampton Court on Saturday afternoon.’ His flush deepened; the other two men had stopped talking and were listening. ‘I’ll bring her back after tea,’ he finished doggedly.
Sophy gave him a gentle smile. ‘Of course you can, Bill. Stay to supper if you’re off duty; you’re the only one who can do her trig homework, anyway.’
He gave her a grateful look, and got up to take the tea tray back.
Sophy, aware that Jonkheer van Oosterwelde was looking at her intently, studied the off-duty chart on her desk, until she felt compelled to meet his gaze. Something in his expression made her lift her chin, and he chuckled. Kindly Providence, in the shape of Dr Walker, intervened.
‘That boy’ll make Penny a good husband one of these days,’ he said comfortably. ‘Not the sort to change his mind, either.’ He looked at Sophy. ‘About time you got settled, isn’t it, Sophy? How old are you?’ She didn’t resent his questions; she had known him for years; he had always been outspoken. She answered without rancour.
‘I’ve not found anyone who wants to settle with me, Dr Walker, and I’m twenty-six next birthday.’
‘God bless my soul, you don’t look it, Sophy. Luke will be finished in a couple of years, won’t he? He should try for an appointment here and keep an eye on the others while you go off for a cruise…’
‘A cruise, Dr Walker?’ She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, to find a husband. I’ll think about it.’ She got up. ‘In the meantime, I’ll get scrubbed.’ She skipped through the door, avoiding van Oosterwelde’s eye.
The list was finished for the day, and Sophy was sitting in her office, neat and fresh in her dark blue and white uniform, writing up the theatre book. The men had gone some time ago. The theatre was ready again for any emergency; Staff was in charge; she herself was going home as soon as she could get her books done. She heard the steps in the corridor, and when they stopped outside the door, she called, ‘Come in,’ and as the door opened said, ‘Now don’t tell me, there’s an appendix in and you’d like to…’ She looked up. The professor was leaning in the doorway, his head carefully bent to avoid the door frame; the very epitome of a well-dressed gentleman of leisure.
He stayed where he was and said, ‘Are you not off duty, Sister?’
Sophy frowned. ‘Yes,’ she said shortly, ‘I am, but I have books and things to fill in. I can’t do them in the theatre,’ she said with heavy sarcasm.
He looked indifferent. She shot a cross look at him, thinking that probably he thought she was inefficient.
‘I’ll not take up your time then. I wished merely to say that I have asked Penny and Benjamin to come out with me on Wednesday afternoon. It wasn’t until I heard young Evans asking your permission to take Penny out that I realised that I should do the same.’
Sophy, listening to his cool voice, thought that he made her sound like a fussy aunt. It was her day off on Wednesday, too; she determined then and there to go away for the day—for the whole day, until quite late, so that there was no chance of meeting him. She raised a cheerfully polite face to his.
‘How kind of you,’ she said warmly. ‘They’ll love it.’ She allowed her hand to hover over the telephone, and he saw the gesture as he was meant to, and wished her a rather curt goodnight. She listened to his steps receding, and then got up slowly, said goodnight to Staff, and walked in her turn down the corridor to change, and go home.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS striking ten as Sophy let herself into the house on Wednesday evening. True to the promise she had made herself, she had gone out just before lunch; spent the afternoon with Tom Carruthers’ wife, stretching her visit for as long as good manners allowed, and then walked most of the way home. Even then it had been far too early, and she had been forced to spend a long hour drinking cups of coffee she didn’t want, while she reflected on the waste of a precious day off.
The hall was dim and quiet. It smelled of polish and the tantalising post-prandial aroma of toasted cheese. She felt her appetite sharpen, and went straight to the kitchen. Sinclair always made tea for himself before bedtime; she would have one with him and enquire about the cheese; there might be some left. Sinclair looked up as she went into the cosy, old-fashioned room and jumped to his feet.
‘Thought you might be in, Miss Sophy,’ he said. ‘How about a nice cuppa, and there’s a slice of Quiche Lorraine I’ve kept warm.’ He pushed the elderly arm chair by the Aga invitingly in her direction. ‘Sit down.’
Sophy did as she was bid, tossing her hat and gloves on to the table.
‘You’re tired, Miss Sophy.’ He handed her a plate, and she picked up a fork and started to eat with a healthy appetite.
‘Yes, Sinclair.’ She took a satisfying draught of the black, syrupy tea Sinclair preferred. ‘I wish I wasn’t plain,’ she said, apropos of nothing at all. Sinclair seemed to understand.
‘You’re not plain, Miss Sophy; you only think you are, especially when you’re tired or upset or down in the dumps.’
She smiled at him. ‘You are a dear, Sinclair. Did the children have a nice trip?’ she asked in a carefully casual voice.
He nodded. ‘They went to Canterbury.’
‘Canterbury? But that’s miles away.’
‘Yes, miss, but not in a Bentley, it isn’t. They went all round the Cathedral and had a bang-up tea. They were back by half-past six. This doctor, he stayed to supper; very merry they were too. Helped Master Ben with his Latin too.’ He got up and put the cups in the sink. ‘They went to bed punctual, miss.’
Sophy got up and went slowly to the door. ‘I’m glad they enjoyed themselves,’ she said tonelessly. ‘Goodnight, Sinclair.’
Her grandmother was in the sitting room as she went in. She looked up, pencil poised. ‘Hullo, darling. What’s a fanatical artist making a bid?’
Sophy went and sat near the fire on a little velvet-covered stool and held her nicely-kept hands out to its warmth. ‘Rabid,’ she said. ‘How are you, Granny?’
Her grandmother wrote rapidly. ‘You’re right, darling. How clever of you. Did you have a nice day?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, ‘The children had a lovely afternoon with Max…’
Sophy stirred. ‘Max already,’ she thought, and said out loud, ‘How nice for them. They were back before supper, so Sinclair tells me.’
‘Yes, dear. Max stayed; he looked lonely. We had Quiche Lorraine, and Sinclair made a lovely treacle tart—we saved some for you. Where was I? Oh, yes. Max ate a good supper, but he’s a big man, isn’t he? He helped Ben with his Latin…’
‘It’s like listening to a gramophone record,’ thought Sophy, and at the same time waited eagerly for anything else her grandmother had to say. She wondered what it was about this man that could make Sinclair and her grandmother so interested in him—and me too, she added honestly. ‘I’ve thought about him ever since I first saw him.’
‘I wonder how old he is?’ she mused.
‘Thirty-nine, and not married. He lives close to a small river in Holland—it’s pretty there, he said, and near Utrecht. He’s a Senior Consulting Surgeon at a hospital there, and teaches the students, too. He’s got a spaniel called Meg, and a bulldog called Jack.’
Mrs Greenslade paused to draw a much-needed breath, and Sophy said, ‘Granny, what a lot you know about him.’
Her grandmother looked at her shrewdly. ‘Nothing that he wouldn’t have told you, if you’d asked him, my dear Sophy. I thought it would be nice if he lunched here on Sunday—it’s your day off, isn’t it?—I know you see him most days, but I don’t suppose you get to know much about the people you work with in that theatre—why, I don’t suppose you see the patients as people; just—something, under a lot of sterile sheets. And as for working there, how can you possibly get to know anybody when all you can see of them is their eyes?’ She sounded indignant.
Sophy twisted round on her stool. ‘It’s not like that at all, Grandmother,’ she cried. She was remembering the Dutch surgeon’s face when he had bent over the little girl the previous Sunday. ‘He…we all mind about the patients, and when we’re working it’s like a team.’
Her grandmother looked across at her. ‘I’m glad to hear it, Sophy. I was beginning to think you didn’t like Max.’ She took no notice of her granddaughter’s gasp. ‘We’ll have roast pork, I think, and follow it with a mince tart and cream, and Sinclair shall go to that funny little grocer’s shop where there are all those cheeses. Men always like cheese,’ she added. She took off her glasses, and looked ten years younger. ‘I think I’ll go to bed, I’m quite tired.’ She didn’t look in the least tired. She folded the newspaper carefully, so that the crossword was on top, ready for the morning, and got up. Sophy got up too, unwilling to be left alone with her thoughts. She wished Grandmother Greenslade a good night, and went upstairs to her room. Once there, she didn’t undress but stood in front of the big, old-fashioned mirror, gazing intently at her face. It seemed to her that however she looked at it, it was still a plain one.
The next morning, she offered a surprised and delighted Cooper Sunday off in her place—Staff was so wrapped in her good luck that she lent only half an ear to Sophy’s singularly thin reasons for wishing to make the change; which, thought Sophy, was just as well. Sophy said nothing at home until Saturday evening, and received the sympathetic remarks of her family with a quietness which they put down to her disappointment at missing Sunday luncheon. She was feeling horribly guilty, especially as Jonkheer van Oosterwelde had been so pleasant in theatre.
It was a fine morning as she walked to the hospital on Sunday. There was a blue sky and the sun shone, although there was no warmth in its rays, but Sophy’s spirits did not match the morning; for all she cared, it could have been blowing a force nine gale, with rain to match.
She spent the first part of the morning in theatre, teaching the two junior nurses who were on duty with her. The place was in a state of readiness and uncannily quiet—their voices sounded strange against the emptiness of the big tiled room. After a time, she set the girls to cleaning instruments and went off to Orthopaedic theatre to have coffee with Sister Skinner; a lovely blonde who looked like a film star and fell in and out of love so frequently that Sophy had long ago given up trying to remember who the men were; but she was always prepared to lend a sympathetic ear while Skinner discussed her latest conquest. Inevitably, she wanted to know about the new surgeon.
‘I must meet him,’ she exclaimed. ‘I saw him leaving the other day; he didn’t see me,’ she added, ‘or he might have stopped.’
Sophy chuckled. ‘Of course he’d have stopped…’
Skinner put down her coffee. ‘Sophy, ring me when you have a coffee break on Monday—you’ve got a list, haven’t you? We haven’t. I’ll pop over and borrow something, then you can introduce me.’ She looked at Sophy with a puzzled frown. ‘Is he as nice as he looks?’
Sophy nodded. ‘Oh, yes. He’s very good at his job, and he never loses his needle or throws swabs on the floor…’
‘Silly, I didn’t mean his work. Look, Sophy, he’s good-looking and distinguished and a marvellous surgeon—if I’d been in your shoes I’d have been out to dinner with him by now.’
Sophy laughed. ‘I know you would; but I’m not you, my dear. You’re so pretty men look at you and want to take you out—but if you were a man, would you look twice at me?’ She spoke without rancour as she got up to go. ‘I’ll ring you about eleven on Monday. Tom Carruthers will be assisting; I’ll get him out of the way, and leave you alone to exercise your charms.’
She called in on Casualty on her way back, but although it was full, there was nothing for the theatre. She sent the nurses to their dinner, and went into her office and started on her books, but after a few minutes she got up again, and stood by the window, watching the coming and going in the inner courtyard below. She was just turning away, when she caught sight of Bill Evans and Max van Oosterwelde strolling through the archway from X-Ray. They were deep in discussion, although Bill seemed to be doing most of the talking; he was a tall young man, but the Dutchman dwarfed him. Half way across the yard, they met Tom Carruthers, and stopped. She wondered what they could be talking about; nothing serious, for there was a good deal of laughter. Anyway, Jonkheer van Oosterwelde wasn’t on call; she supposed he’d come in to see someone. He looked up suddenly, and although he was too far away for her to be sure of his expression, she was sure that he frowned when he saw her. She backed away from the window—how awful to be caught peeping. She went into the theatre, and prowled around moving things that didn’t need moving, and after a few minutes went back to her office again, and peeped cautiously from the window. He had gone. She got out the instrument catalogue and started to make a list of replacements, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was contemplating an excellent illustration of Syme’s aneurism needle with little more than tepid interest, when she heard the faint squeak of the swing doors at the end of the corridor. It wouldn’t be the nurses; they had only been gone ten minutes or so; and the third year nurse wasn’t due on until one o’clock. She sat up straight—it was a man’s tread, and she knew whose tread it was. She quelled a strong urge to rearrange her cap and do something to her face, and waited, hands in lap, with her eyes to the door.
