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‘The car’s running well,’ remarked Mrs Hastings as they started back. ‘I had no idea that one new plug could make so much difference.’
‘Yes, I’m surprised—it’s almost as though she’s been over-hauled—it’s surprising what a new plug will do. They only charged five gulden too. I must get the bumper fixed when we get home.’ Which remark led her to think of the stranger again.
The next day they travelled the few miles to Schoonhoven, along a charming country road with little traffic upon it and a warm sun shining down on the flat green land around them, and spent the whole day wandering in and around that little town. A great deal of their time was taken up with a visit to the Edelambachthuis on its main canal, watching the silversmiths for which the place was famous and so enchanted with their work that they spent more than they could really afford on some silver teaspoons because Mrs Hastings declared them to be exactly right for the Dresden tea-set she still cherished. They parked the car in the town and lunched at the hotel on the edge of the river and then crossed by the nearby ferry to walk along the dyke on its other bank until they remembered that they still had to be weighed on the Witch’s Scales in Oudewater. They went back the way they had come, with the little river running beside the road the whole way and the car windows open to the afternoon heat of the sun. When they got back they had tea at the hotel, examining their diplomas guaranteeing them immunity from a witch’s fiery end and then making their plans for the following day—their last day.
They left Oudewater the next day with regret. The regret on Mrs Hastings’ part was for the comforts of the little hotel and the cheerful bustle of the little town; Emma’s was for quite another reason. The further they travelled from Oudewater the less likely it was that she would ever see the owner of the Rolls-Royce again.
They went slowly, admiring the trim little villas as they went; there were bigger houses too, not so easily seen from the road, but a mile or so from the town Emma slowed the Ford to a sedate pace so that they could stare their fill at a tall red brick house with a handsome double stair leading up to its massive front door and rows of enormous windows. It stood in full view of the road, but well back from it, and the big iron gates which led to it stood open.
‘My dear, the curtains—it would take miles and miles,’ said Mrs Hastings, and then, ‘I’d love to see inside.’
Emma nodded. The house attracted her in some way, it looked a little austere from the outside perhaps, but inside she imagined that it might be very beautiful. She said thoughtfully, ‘I daresay some of the curtains are the original ones put up when the house was built.’
Her gaze shifted to the garden, very formal and full of colour, and she couldn’t help but contrast it with the small cottage in which her mother lived, with its pocket handkerchief of a lawn at its front and the small stretch of garden behind, probably her mother was thinking the same thing. She patted her parent’s hands lying on her lap and said comfortingly, ‘Never mind, darling, the garden at home is very pretty.’ And they smiled at each other, remembering the lovely garden they had had in the old house, before her father died. Emma missed it still; it would be even worse for her mother. She took a final look and put her foot, in its neat sandal, down on the accelerator.
They dawdled along the dyke road bordering the Lek and stopped for a picnic lunch by the water, watching the barges chugging their way up and down its broad water as they ate, and presently, when they resumed their journey, they caught their first glimpse of the castle as they approached Wijk bij Duurstede, its round red brick towers standing out amongst the trees, but the miniature town itself they didn’t see at all until they turned off the road on to a narrow street which brought them to a cobbled square, shaded by enormous trees and lined with tall old houses and a handful of shops. The hotel faced the square; an old building with a balcony on either side of its door and called, rather inappropriately, thought Emma, ‘de Keizer’s Kroon,’ for its homely appearance hardly justified its royal title. But even if the hotel wasn’t royal, their welcome was. They went inside, straight into a vast room with a bar at one end, a billiard table in the middle and a number of tables around its walls; most of these were covered with the little woollen rugs Emma rather liked, but half a dozen tables were laid for dinner with starched white cloths and highly polished silver and glass. Standing proudly amid them was the landlord, a large, genial man who listened carefully to Emma’s request for rooms and led them through a double door into a narrow passage with an equally narrow staircase. ‘Two rooms?’ asked Emma hopefully as they started to climb, then came to an abrupt halt as he shook his head and broke into regretful Dutch, holding up one finger to clinch his argument, and then beckoned them on.
The room was at the back of the hotel, with two enormous windows, a very high ceiling and large enough to house the vast furniture in it twice over. Emma stared fascinated at the bed with its carved headboard putting her in mind of the Coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, greatly enlarged, but this awe-inspiring piece of furniture was offset by a small but modern washbasin and everything in the room shone with soap and polish, besides which the landlord, rather in the manner of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat, flung open a door at the end of a little passage to disclose a very large bathroom containing a very small bath. They agreed most happily to take the room and presently, when they had tidied themselves, went downstairs, where over a cup of tea they made the landlord understand that they wanted tickets for the Son et Lumière performance that evening. It was disappointing when he shook his head and after some thought, said, ‘Many people.’
‘We’ll go and see anyway,’ said Emma. ‘Perhaps there’ll be a couple of cancelled seats.’
The castle wasn’t hard to find, for the town was so very small and its roads few. There was a gate leading to the grounds around the castle with a hut beside it and a man sitting inside, and when Emma asked about tickets she was delighted to hear the beautifully pedantic English with which he answered her. She exclaimed warmly, ‘Oh, how well you speak, and how nice for us,’ and he smiled and replied, ‘I’m the schoolmaster here,’ as though that explained everything.
Emma said a little anxiously, ‘They said at the hotel that there weren’t any seats left for tonight. We’re going back to England tomorrow and we were told by—someone that we really should see it.’
He stared at her as she spoke; now he asked slowly, ‘Someone you met?’ and when she nodded, went on, ‘It just so happens that I have two returned tickets. How lucky you are, ladies.’
The price seemed very modest, but perhaps it wasn’t a very lavish affair. Emma paid up cheerfully and after a few minutes’ talk she and her mother walked through the gateway; it seemed a good idea to see the castle now that they were so close to it. It was an impressive sight, even though partly ruined, and the trees and shrubs around it added to its impressiveness. They looked their fill, and very pleased with themselves, went back to the hotel for dinner.
There were quite a number of people dining and even more drinking coffee. They sat in the window eating a simple well-cooked meal and, because it was their last night in Holland, drinking a glass of wine with it. The performance was to start at nine o’clock, but long before then the little town came alive with cars and bus loads of people, and by the time Emma and her mother arrived at the gate to the grounds, there was a throng of people. It took them a little while to find their seats, but Emma, who had a persevering nature, showed their tickets to a successive number of people until they at length arrived at them. They were good seats; the man at the gate hadn’t exaggerated when he had told them that they were in an excellent position. They sat down and Emma looked around at the sea of strange faces. Not all strange though, for coming towards them with an unhurried stride was the man in the Rolls-Royce.
Emma’s first reaction was one of pure pleasure, the second, satisfaction that she had put on the coral pink silk shirtwaister, an ordinary enough garment, but the colour suited her, but it could have been mud-coloured sacking for all the good it did her. His glance was as brief as his polite greeting before he addressed himself to her mother. It was then that Emma saw that he wasn’t alone.
A majestic middle-aged lady, beautifully coiffured and gowned, accompanied him, so did a tall willowy girl with glowing golden air and an outfit which Emma would have sacrificed her eye-teeth to possess. He introduced them with a cool charm as ‘My aunt, Mevrouw Teylingen, and Saskia,’ which did nothing to clear up the question as to who he was himself. The majestic lady smiled nicely, shook hands and sat down between Emma and her mother. Her nephew took a seat beside Mrs Hastings, and Saskia, after more handshaking, sat beside him. ‘And that,’ thought Emma, sadly put out, ‘is that.’
It was her mother who asked, ‘May we know your name? You haven’t told us, you know,’ she smiled. ‘I don’t know what Emma calls you, but I think of you as the man with red hair, and that really won’t do.’
He laughed. ‘I must apologize. Teylingen, Justin Teylingen.’ His voice sounded friendly enough, but Emma, from where she sat, got the impression that he had been reluctant to tell them and she couldn’t begin to guess why. After all, they were leaving Holland in the morning, and they didn’t even know where he lived. She wondered if her mother, who had no inhibitions about asking questions, would ask him that too and watched her framing the words on her lips, but Mijnheer Teylingen must have been watching too, because before her mother could get the question out he asked her a question of his own which presently led the conversation right away from the subject, and even if Mrs Hastings had been clever enough to slip her inquiry in again, there was no chance now, for the performance had begun.
It was fascinating; Emma sat entranced even though she couldn’t understand the words, but the programme had an explanation in English anyway, and to watch and listen was enough—besides, from time to time the aunt whispered an explanation or two which Mrs Hastings passed on to Emma in a rather scamped fashion, but Emma hardly listened. She was back in the past, her pleasant face enrapt.
It was over too soon. She sat back, aware of the bustle of people around her preparing to go home.
‘You enjoyed it?” Mijnheer Teylingen slid into the seat just vacated beside her, and Emma nodded. ‘Lovely—just lovely,’ she said inadequately, and since he was so close and it was really the first—and last?—opportunity of studying him, took a good look; older than she had supposed, even in the lamplight she could see that he was nearer forty than thirty, despite the hair and the alert green eyes, pale in the uncertain moonlight, and his nose was just as she had remembered it—perhaps not quite so formidable as Wellington’s but certainly a very good copy of it. His mouth was a little too stern perhaps…
‘I hope I come up to expectations,’ said Mijnheer Teylingen gently, and when she jumped visibly, ‘That’s what you were doing, was it not? Assessing my points?’ He smiled with real amusement. ‘Let me help you. I’m forty, more or less, my teeth and my hair are my own, my nose is an unfortunate family appanage; I am ill-tempered at times, fond of children and animals, like pretty girls and am used to having my own way.’
Emma blushed and was glad that the light was poor enough for it to go unnoticed. She began. ‘I—I—that is, I didn’t mean…’ She came to a halt, flustered.
‘Don’t apologize. Tell me, do you go home with your mother or return to your hospital?’
She wondered how it was that he was familiar with her profession and then remembered that he had looked at her passport. Feeling she owed him something, she replied, ‘I shall take my mother home first and then go back to Southampton, where I work.’
‘You enjoy your work?’
She supposed that he was making conversation. ‘Very much,’ she said, and wished she could have thought of something interesting to say; normally she was by no means so tongue-tied; she felt like a young girl, uncertain and shy, and wondered why he should have such an effect on her. Fortunately there was no need to strain her conversational powers any more, for his aunt joined them, to embark on a short conversation upon the evening’s performance before wishing Emma goodbye. Saskia wished her goodbye too, casually but staring at her thoughtfully as she did so.
Mijnheer Teylingen made his farewells with a charm rather spoilt by its brevity, and marshalling his two companions before him, disappeared in the opposite direction to the one in which Emma and her mother were to go, without so much as a backward glance.
Emma, with her arm tucked into her mother’s, walked back to the hotel listening to her parent’s remarks about the evening and adding very little of her own. Nor did she have much to say later as they prepared for bed in the large old-fashioned bedroom, although it seemed to her that Mrs Hastings dwelt with unnecessary length on Mijnheer Teylingen. The fact that she herself had almost nothing to say on the subject did nothing to alter the fact that long after her mother was asleep, her thoughts were still busy with him.
They left the next morning and began their journey home, making a leisurely trip southwards to Zeebrugge, and then because Emma lost the way, having to race the last few miles, to join the end of the car queue with only minutes to spare. They slept on board in a cabin to themselves because Emma wanted to push on to Dorset the moment they landed and there was no hope of getting any rest on the boat otherwise; it was crowded with young and boisterous students and a large party of elderly people who sang ‘Knees up, Mother Brown’, with a good deal of vigour and without showing any signs of settling down for the night.
They were last off the boat, of course, but still succeeded in getting away before a good many other cars owing, declared Mrs Hastings virtuously, to their honest faces. ‘The Customs men could always tell,’ she added smugly as they started on the long trip home.
CHAPTER TWO
EMMA was in the theatre getting ready for the morning’s list, while Sister Cox, the Theatre Superintendent, stood in the middle of the large tiled apartment, watching her. Emma had been back two days and despite the fact that her nice little face still bore the light tan she had acquired on her creamy skin and the dusting of freckles she despised upon her ordinary nose, her holiday in Holland already seemed like a pleasant dream. She had had a day at home getting her mother settled in once more, organizing her own clothes, fetching Flossie the spaniel from the kennels and getting Kitty’s room ready for her return from medical school before getting the little car out once more and driving herself back to Southampton to plunge immediately into the strict routine of theatre work. And for once she had welcomed it, for what was to have been a perfectly ordinary holiday had been in fact turned into a dream—by Mijnheer Teylingen, who, to her great annoyance, she was having the greatest difficulty in dismissing from her thoughts. Which she had told herself repeatedly and soberly was ridiculous; she was no callow schoolgirl to lose her heart to the first handsome man she met, despite her lack of looks. She was neither dull nor dowdy and possessed a charm which did more for her than all the good looks in the world; she had never lacked for boyfriends even though their attitude towards her had been of a brotherly nature, and she had twice refused offers of marriage, so it wasn’t a question of being swept off her feet. It was just, she admitted to herself, that he had seemed different.
She sighed as she laid up her trolleys, and Sister Cox, watching her, sighed too, but for a different reason. She was a cosy-looking woman, with black eyes which appeared to have no expression in them, but her disposition was by no means cosy. The regular theatre staff did their work and kept out of her way; the student nurses, sent to do their three months’ stint in theatre, trembled and shook for the whole of that period, counting the days until they could get away from her despotic rule. Emma, however, despite her quiet manner, had a disposition every bit as tough as Sister Cox. She had worked with her for two years now and was completely unworried by that lady, bearing with equanimity her bad temper without apparent ill-effects and taking care not to pass any of it on to the junior nurses. It was possibly because of this that the Theatre Superintendent occasionally showed her human side, something she was doing now. ‘Two months,’ she was saying in a voice which boded ill for someone, as Emma, having arranged her trolleys to an exact nicety, proceeded to lay them up with the instruments in the wire baskets brought from the autoclave. ‘He’ll eat you alive in a week.’
‘More fool he,’ said Emma with calm, and laid two rib raspatories neatly side by side, ‘for then he’ll have no one in theatre at all, will he? Don’t worry, Sister, I’ll not be gobbled up by some bad-tempered surgeon—though only rumour says he’s bad-tempered, doesn’t it? Anyway, the longer you leave your toes, the worse they’re going to get.’
Sister Cox looked down at her feet in their hideously wide shoes needed to accommodate her hammer toes. ‘You’re right,’ she said, her voice sounding cross as well as resigned. ‘I’ll take the first case, you take the second; Staff can lay up for the third while we’re having coffee, and for heaven’s sake keep that great fool Jessop from under my feet. What possessed Matron to send her here…’ She started for the theatre doors, still talking to herself, and Emma, standing back to survey the first of her completed trolleys with all the satisfaction of a hostess decking her dinner table, asked idly, ‘What’s this horror’s name, anyway—the one who’s going to eat me?’
Sister Cox rotated her chubby form slowly to face Emma. ‘He’s a foreigner—brilliant at chest surgery, so I’m told, but I’ll have to see it first.’ She snorted disdainfully. ‘He’s got some technique or other—name’s Teylingen.’ She turned back to the door, saying as she went, ‘Red hair, so I hear, so you’d better look out, you know what they say about red hair and bad temper.’
Emma stood quite still, looking astonished. It couldn’t be the same man; on the other hand, why shouldn’t it be? And if it was, what would he say when he saw her again? She shook out the sterile towel for her second trolley and holding it by its corners with the Cheatles forceps flipped it open with the ease of long practice, allowing it to fall precisely on the trolley before beginning the task of arranging yet another set of instruments upon it. This done to her satisfaction, she covered her handiwork with another sterile cloth, took one all-seeing look around the theatre and left it, casting off her gown as she went along to the tiny kitchen. Here the rest of the staff were gathered, drinking as much coffee as they had time for and wolfing down biscuits with an air of not knowing where their next meal would come from. They got to their feet as Emma went in and she said at once, ‘No, don’t get up—you’ll need your feet this morning. Staff, will you scrub in time to lay up for the third case?—It’s the oesophagectomy—I’ll be taking it.’
Staff Nurse Collins, a small dark girl with large brown eyes in a pretty face, said simply, ‘Thank God for that, Sister. Mad Minnie seems determined to hate this professor type before he’s even got his nose round the door. She’s as cross as two sticks already, she’ll be really ratty by the time the morning’s half over.’
‘Sister Cox is preoccupied with her feet,’ said Emma quietly, not wanting to snub Staff, whom she liked, but mindful that she really mustn’t allow the nurses to call the Theatre Superintendent Mad Minnie—not in her hearing at any rate. She turned her attention to the other two nurses. ‘Jessop, count swabs for the first case, please’—that would keep the poor girl out of Sister Cox’s way—’ and, Cully, you see to lotions and take the bits when they’re ready.’ She turned back to Jessop, a large girl, naturally clumsy and rendered more so by Mad Minnie’s vendetta against her, but who, in Emma’s opinion, had the makings of a good nurse if only she could stop herself from dropping things and falling over anything within a mile of her awkward feet. Emma smiled at her now and said encouragingly, ‘The third case will be a long one, Nurse Jessop. I shall want you to keep me supplied, and be ready to fetch anything I may need. You’d better count swabs for the second case too, and be very careful, won’t you, because I often get the total wrong.’
Which was a great piece of nonsense but served to inflate Jessop’s sadly flattened ego. She left them with a little nod and another smile and went unhurriedly down the passage to the office where she and Sister Cox wrestled with the off-duty, the stores, the supplies of theatre equipment and the laundry and from where the Theatre Superintendent blasted, by telephone, the various ward sisters who hadn’t conformed to her wishes concerning the arrival and departure of the various cases which had been sent up for operation. Occasionally one of the sisters, fuming over some new rule Mad Minnie had imposed would come tearing in, to spend a tempestuous ten minutes in the office before Emma, if she was on duty, calmed the two ladies down with tea.
The office was small; it was also crowded. Sister Cox was sitting at the desk, looking more orbicular than ever, and most of the remaining space was taken up by the four men with her. Mr Soames, the senior consultant surgeon of the unit, was leaning against the desk, apparently unaware of Sister Cox’s cross looks at the pile of papers he had disarranged in doing so. With him were his senior Registrar, William Lunn, six foot two inches tall and naturally enough known throughout the hospital as Little Willy, and the senior anaesthetist, Mr Cyril Bone, middle-aged, a natty dresser and known to chat up the nurses whenever he had the opportunity to do so—he was also very good at his job and popular with everyone, even Sister Cox, whom he could butter up in the most extravagant fashion. The fourth man was the owner of the Rolls-Royce, who dominated the scene by reason of his height and size and autocratic nose, not to mention the brilliance of his hair and the elegance of his dress and this despite the fact that he managed to convey the impression that he was of a retiring disposition. Emma, standing just inside the door, was aware of all this without having actually looked at him, she was also aware of an alarming pulse rate. It was Mr Soames, who liked her, who saved her from making any possible foolish and impulsive remark by saying at once, ‘Ah, Emma, meet Professor Teylingen from Utrecht. He’s here for a couple of months to show us some new techniques which I think we shall all find interesting.’
Emma advanced two cautious steps and held out her small capable hand. ‘How do you do?’ she asked politely, and added ‘Professor,’ hastily.
He took her hand briefly. ‘How delightful to meet you again, Sister,’ he remarked in such a mild voice that she gave him a faintly startled look, to find the green eyes staring into hers with a most decided twinkle. ‘I have been looking forward to this,’ he went on, ‘ever since we met in Holland,’ and explained to the room at large, ‘You see, we are already acquainted,’ which remark was met with a chorus of ‘Oh, really?’ and ‘How extraordinary!’ a chorus to which Emma didn’t add her voice, being far too occupied in restoring her calm. It was only when she realized that five pairs of eyes were watching her that she managed weakly:
‘Yes, it’s a small world, isn’t it?’ and followed this profound remark with a more businesslike one to the effect that the theatre was ready.
Professor Teylingen said at once, ‘Splendid. I look forward to a most interesting morning.’ He smiled at Sister Cox as he spoke and to Emma’s surprise that formidable lady smiled back and got out of her chair with a show of willingness quite unusual to her. Probably the old battleaxe was holding her fire until they got into the theatre, where the professor would only have to ask for something she either hadn’t got or didn’t want, for her to flatten him. Emma took the opportunity to look at him as he stood talking to Little Willy—no, he wouldn’t be easily flattened; it would remain to be seen who would come off best. She slid away from the office, put on her theatre cap and mask and went to send the nurses into theatre. She found them bunched together in the anaesthetic room and said urgently, ‘For heaven’s sake—he’s about to scrub up!’
‘Not before he’s met the rest of the theatre staff,’ interposed the professor’s voice from the door, and she wheeled round to encounter a smile which threw her quite off balance.
‘Oh well—yes,’ she began inadequately, and then becoming very professional indeed, ‘Professor Teylingen, may I introduce Staff Nurse Collins, Nurse Jessop and Nurse Cully—we have a nursing auxiliary too, but she’s not on duty until this afternoon, and two technicians and the porters.’
He said with a little smile. ‘Yes, I met them yesterday evening when I came round with Mr Soames. I feel sure we shall enjoy working together.’
The smile became brilliant as he went away, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jessop spoke first. ‘Golly, Sister, he’s smashing—he doesn’t look bad-tempered either—they said he was.’ Her tone of voice suggested that if anyone thought otherwise they would have to settle with her first. And Cully, who was a little older and a little wiser, observed, ‘He’s quite old, isn’t he, but it doesn’t notice—it makes the medicos look like schoolboys.’ And Staff, who was engaged to be married and should have known better, asked, ‘Is he married?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Emma calmly, ‘and since he’s only here for a couple of months and doesn’t live in England, there isn’t much point in getting turned on, is there?’ She added in a quietly severe voice, ‘Now into theatre all of you, please—Sister will want us all to give a good impression.’ She paused as she went. ‘And Nurse Jessop, do try not to drop anything.’
The first case was a lengthy one and Mr Soames did it with the professor assisting and Little Willy making himself useful. It was the repair of a hiatus hernia which involved a partial gastrectomy and some excision of the oesophagus. Mr Soames was good at it; he did a great many week after week, and being familiar with his work was completely relaxed—as was the professor. The two of them talked as they worked, frequently including Little Willy and Mr Bone in their conversation, and even Sister Cox, who didn’t agree with talking in theatre unless it was strictly business, so that her answers were short and a little snappy.
‘You don’t like conversation in theatre, Sister?’ asked the professor at his mildest. She shot him a darkling glance over her mask.
‘No, sir, I can’t say I do,’ she said huffily. ‘We’re here to work.’
She snapped her Cheatles angrily above her head and Emma, interpreting their clatter, nodded to Cully standing ready with her receiver to take what Mr Soames held dangling from his forceps. He flung it lightly, forceps and all, in her general direction and she caught it with a dexterity which would have done justice to a first-class cricketer in a Test Match, and disappeared in the direction of the sluice, acknowledging Mr Bone’s thumbs-up sign with a soundless giggle. The professor, without looking up from the little bit of sewing he was engaged upon, remarked:
‘I must compliment you upon your dexterous staff, Sister Cox,’ and when she gave an impatient grunt, went on, ‘I hope I shall not put you out too much while I am here. I find I work much better if there is a certain amount of talk. It is relaxing, you know—so vital to our work, do you not agree?’
Emma could see by the look on Mad Minnie’s face that she had no wish to agree but felt it expedient to do so. After all, the wretched man was important, though why they had to bring foreigners into the country to teach them something they could do better she did not know. Emma read her superior’s mind like an open book and suppressed a smile as Sister Cox’s eyes widened as the professor went on, ‘I daresay you find it most vexing to have to put up with a foreigner for even a short time. I’m sorry to hear about your—er—feet. I take it the operation is to be quite soon?’
She looked as though she would explode. ‘In two days’ time,’ she handed him a grooved director which he accepted politely and didn’t use. ‘You’ll have to manage with Sister Hastings—by the time I’m back you’ll be gone.’ Her tone implied ‘and a good riddance too’.
‘Regrettably,’ said Professor Teylingen gently, ‘but I am sure your operation will improve you in every way, Sister Cox.’
Mr Soames made a muffled sound behind his mask and Mr Bone and Little Willy dealt with sudden coughs and the nurses, who had the rest of the day with Sister Cox to face, saved their giggles until they could get down to the dining-room, where they would recount the conversation word for word, together with a thorough description of the handsome Mr Teylingen.
The professor accepted another needle and gut into his needleholder and began to stitch with the finicky concentration of a lady of leisure working at her petit point, while Emma nodded to Staff to go and start scrubbing, ready to retire to one corner of the theatre and lay up for the next case. The professor, she noted, was a meticulous worker but a fast one, something which he chose to disguise under a deliberate manner which could be deceiving. He had also, to confound rumour, remained perfectly good-tempered throughout the lengthy operation, though there had been nothing to arouse his ire—no dropped dressings, no lotion splashed on the floor by Jessop’s too quick hand; nothing in fact to spoil the calm of the theatre’s atmosphere, only Mad Minnie’s tartness, of course. Emma had got so used to her that she had rather overlooked the fact that a stranger coming into their circle for the first time might find her a shade dictatorial. She picked up the dressing lying ready under the trolley and arranged it correctly around and over the drains and tubes which the two surgeons had stitched into the patient with all the care of a dressmaker stitching in a zip, aware as she did so of the close proximity of the professor to her.
They had coffee at the end of the case while the nurses bustled around theatre, readying it for the next case, and Staff, sterile in gown and gloves, waited patiently by her trolleys. The office, thought Emma, was hardly the place for the social drinking of coffee by five people. She perched uneasily on the second chair while Sister Cox sat behind the desk, looking murderous, and the men lounged against the walls, drinking coffee far too hot and eating biscuits with all the enthusiasm of schoolboys while they discussed the case they had just finished. That the talk was highly inappropriate to the drinking of coffee, or for that matter, the drinking or eating of anything, didn’t worry Emma in the least; for several years now she had reconciled herself to taking her refreshment to the accompaniment of vivid descriptions of any number of unmentionable subjects. Now she listened with interest while the professor explained why he had found his method of performing the next operation so satisfactory—something which he did with a nice lack of boasting. She went away when she had finished her coffee and started to scrub up and was almost ready when the three men sauntered in to join her at the sinks.
‘Taking the case?’ inquired the professor idly, and when she had said that yes, she was, she added, ‘Are there any particular instruments you prefer to use, sir, or any you dislike?’
He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Very considerate of you, Sister Hastings. I like a blade and a blade holder—always. I like Macdonald’s dissector, I take a size nine glove if you have them and I prefer Hibutane solution. There is no need to bother about these today, though I should be grateful if the gloves could be changed.’
Emma said, ‘Yes, sir,’ and went into theatre. She sent Staff for the correct size and stood quietly while Cully tied her into her gown and then opened the glove drum so that she could take her own size sixes. The operation would be a long one—the removal of an oesophagus in a patient with cancer; the man was still young enough to make the operation worthwhile, severe though it was, and as it had been diagnosed in good time, there was every chance of success. She went without haste to her trolleys and began the business of counting swabs and sponges, threading needles and checking the instruments before making sure that all the complicated machinery needed was in position and that the technicians were ready. Sister Cox wasn’t in theatre; she had gone to see the orthopaedic surgeon about her feet, so that the atmosphere of the theatre was a good deal lighter than it had been, although there was no let-up in the strict routine. Emma reflected that it was nice to see Cully and Jessop so relaxed, and Jessop, by some miracle, hadn’t dropped anything at all.
The patient was wheeled in with Mr Bone at his head and propelling his anaesthetic trolley with him. He winked at Emma as the porters arranged the patient on the table and she returned the wink, for they had been friends for several years and indeed she was one of the few who knew that his wife had been in a nursing home for years and was very unlikely to come out of it—a wife whom he dearly loved. The three surgeons walked in and behind them, Peter Moore, the houseman, who was coming to watch. Peter was young and awkward, very clever and just about as clumsy as Nurse Jessop. Emma heaved a sigh as she saw him, for if Jessop didn’t do something awful, he certainly would.
She handed the sterile towels and watched while the surgeons arranged them with meticulous care and then fastened them with the towel clips she had ready. The professor asked placidly, ‘Is everything fixed, Sister?’—a question she knew covered not only the actual operation itself but the patient’s immediate aftercare as well. She said briefly, ‘Yes, sir,’ and proffered a knife.
He took it without haste. ‘Good—I take it we’re all ready,’ and made a neat incision.
The operation seemed to be going very well. The professor dissected and snipped and probed and cut again and after a long time he and Mr Soames started to stitch the end results together. They were perhaps half-way through this delicate, very fast process when Jessop, about to change the lotion in the bowl stand beside the professor, made one of her clumsy movements and lurched against him, pouring a jugful of warm saline over his legs, and for good measure, touching him with her hand. Emma prayed a wordless little prayer as she said calmly:
‘Another gown for the professor, Staff. Nurse Cully, fetch another set of bowls. Mr Moore, be good enough to stay by me in case I should need anything.’ She handed a tetra cloth to Mr Soames, and the professor, after one short, explosive sentence in his own language, stood back from the table so that Staff could take his unsterile gown. He nodded to Mr Soames before he went to scrub again and Mr Soames said, ‘Right, old chap, Will and I will carry on, shall we?’
No one else had said anything—what was there to say at such a time? Poor Jessop, quite overcome, had fled out of the theatre, and Emma had let her go, for she would be worse than useless now, and a good wholesome cry in the kitchen would restore her nerve more quickly than anything else.
Professor Teylingen came back presently and Staff with him to relieve an uneasy Mr Moore, and the operation was finished without further mishap with the men talking among themselves in a deliberate, calm manner which Emma felt sure that in the professor’s case was assumed, for she could sense his rage, well battened down under his bland exterior, and felt sure that once he had finished his work he would make no bones about unleashing it.
He did, but not immediately. The patient had gone back to the IC Unit, the theatre had been cleared and got ready for the next, luckily short case and Emma was scrubbing up once more before he appeared beside her. He wasted no time on preliminaries, but, ‘Sister, you will be good enough to see that Nurse Jessop remains out of the theatre while I am in it. I will not have my patients’ lives jeopardized by a nurse who cannot do her work properly.’ He picked up a nailbrush and gave her a cold look. ‘Perhaps I should speak to Sister Cox.’
‘Don’t you dare!’ said Emma before she could stop herself, and then remembering who he was added, ‘Sir,’ and saw his lips twitch faintly.
‘No one—I repeat, no one, Sister Hastings—tells me what I may dare to do or not to do.’
Now she had made him even more angry. Poor Jessop! ‘Listen,’ she said earnestly, quite forgetting to say sir this time, ‘don’t tell Mad M…Sister Cox. You see she’s…she didn’t want Nurse Jessop here in the first place and so she thinks she’s no good, and Jessop’s scared stiff of her. I know she’s clumsy and slow, but if she’s given a chance she’ll be a good nurse one day. Give her that chance, I’ll keep her on swab counting if you like…but if only someone would tell her she’s not a fool.’ She sighed. ‘People are so stupid,’ said Emma indignantly, and glared at him over her mask.
‘And I am included amongst these—er—stupid people?’ He sounded interested.
Her ‘Yes’ was a mumble. She had got herself into a fine mess. Probably he would request Mad Minnie to keep her out of the theatre too and that would leave only Staff to scrub…and serve him right. She began to scrub the other hand with her usual thoroughness and had the brush taken from her as he twisted her round to face him.
‘I don’t seem to be starting off on the right foot, do I?’ he asked mildly. ‘I don’t make a habit of making girls cry, you know—but the patient comes first, don’t you agree? Would it help if we were to go and find this nurse and endeavour to calm her down? You say she is going to be a good nurse—who am I to dispute your opinion?’
They found Jessop in the kitchen, squeezed behind the door with reddened eyes and a deplorable sniff. Emma said at once, ‘Ah, there you are, Jessop. I shall need you in theatre in a minute or two, so stop crying like a good girl. No one’s angry—here’s Professor Teylingen to tell you so. Now I’m going to scrub and when professor goes to scrub too go into theatre and make sure everything’s ready, will you?’
She walked away, leaving him to deal with the situation, and presently when she went into theatre, evinced no curiosity as to what he had said to Jessop, who was standing, gowned and masked, waiting for her. The operation was to be a comparatively simple one. The patient had suffered a stab wound some weeks previously, had recovered from it, and now was back in hospital with an empyema. Now he was going to have an inch or so of rib removed and a drainage tube inserted—a fairly quick operation which Jessop should manage to get through without doing anything too awful. Emma counted her swabs, signed to Jessop to tie the surgeon’s gowns, checked the contents of the Mayo’s table and handed the first of the sterile towels to Little Willy.
A quarter of an hour later she was clearing up her instruments once more and Jessop was carefully unscrewing the sucker jar. The men, with a brief word, had gone, Staff and Cully would be back in twenty minutes or so and Mrs Tate, the auxiliary, would be on duty in a couple of minutes. Emma put the last of the instruments into one of the lotion bowls and said, ‘All right, Nurse, you’re off at one, aren’t you? Mrs Tate can finish that,’ and bent to do her sharps as Jessop said: ‘Thank you, Sister,’ and ploughed her way to the door, narrowly avoiding two electric cables and a bucket, and then turned round and ploughed all the way back again. ‘He’s lovely, Sister,’ she breathed. ‘He told me that when he was a medical student he forgot he was scrubbed up and turned on the diathermy machine and everyone had to wait while he took off his gown and his gloves and scrubbed up again and on his way back he touched the surgeon’s gown. He says he’s never forgotten it, and he said,’ she went on rapidly, ‘that you have to do something awful like that just once and then you never do it again, so I’m not to worry.’
She looked rather imploringly at Emma. ‘He is right, isn’t he, Sister?’
‘Yes,’ said Emma firmly, ‘he’s quite right, and he’s been very kind too—you realize that, don’t you? You could have done a lot of damage to the patient. Supposing Professor Teylingen had jerked his hand—he was stitching, remember?’
Jessop looked crestfallen. ‘Yes, I know, Sister. I—I thought I had—that’s why I ran away. I’m sorry I did. He said I must never run away again because we’re a team and we can’t manage without each other. I thought…that is, Sister Cox said I was a nuisance…’
Emma started on the needles. ‘No, you’re not—you’ll do quite well, especially if you remember that bit about one of a team. And remember too that Sister Cox has had a lot of pain with her feet and she’s been in theatre so long, she’s forgotten just a little how difficult it is at first.’ She smiled. ‘Now go off duty, Nurse.’
Jessop went to the door again. At it she said, ‘Goodbye, Sister—you’re nice.’
And let’s hope I stay that way, thought Emma, and don’t get like Mad Minnie. The prospect was daunting; she closed her mind to it and began to think about Little Willy’s invitation to go with him to see the latest film that evening. They had been out together on several occasions, but although she liked him, that was as far as it went and she suspected that it was as far as it went with him too. She supposed she would go, and along with the thought came a speculative one as to what the professor intended to do with his evening, and where he was living, and with whom.
In the Sisters’ dining-room, where she went a short time later, she was greeted with expectant faces and a great many questions.
‘You lucky devil,’ remarked one of her closer friends, Madge Freeman from Men’s Surgical. ‘I saw him in the distance this morning—that hair—and his smile!’ She groaned in a theatrical manner. ‘A trendy dresser too. What’s he like, Emma?’
Emma looked resignedly at the cold meat on her plate and helped herself to two lettuce leaves and a radish. ‘Very neat worker,’ she stated. ‘He’s here to demonstrate his theory about…’ She was stopped by a concerted howl from her companions.
‘Cut it out, Emma,’ one of them begged. ‘Who cares about his theories? Is he married—engaged? What’s his voice like? Does he speak with an accent? Is he…?’
Emma peered at the potatoes; being late, there wasn’t much choice. ‘Cold,’ she pronounced, ‘and hard,’ and seeing the astonishment on her friends’ faces, hastened to add, ‘The potatoes, and it’s no good asking me. I don’t know a thing about him, I really don’t. He’s got green eyes,’ she offered as an afterthought, ‘and a deep voice.’
‘Dark brown velvet or gravelly?’ someone wanted to know.
‘A bit of both,’ said Emma, having thought about it, ‘and he’s got almost no accent.’
She applied herself to her dinner amid cries of discontent from her table companions. ‘Well, don’t carry on so,’ she advised kindly. ‘He’ll be going to the wards to see his cases, won’t he?’
She looked at Madge, who brightened visibly and asked, ‘What’s he got this afternoon—something for ICU, I suppose.’ She looked round the table. ‘Margaret isn’t here—she’ll get it.’
