Читать книгу Never the Time and the Place - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

MR VAN TACX was standing with his back to the door, looking out of the window at the view; the windowless wall bounding the theatre wing, separated from the gyny ward by a strip of grass supporting a plane tree. He turned round as Josephine went in so that his massive person shut out most of the daylight, and leaned against the window frame.

‘Do you ever look out of the window?’ he asked.

‘Only if I have to. Is there something you want, sir?’

‘I should like to go over the notes of the post operation cases…’

He paused as the door opened and Joan came in with the tea tray. She stopped short and said, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were here, sir.’

She glanced at Josephine. ‘Shall I get another cup, Sister?’

Josephine ignored his slow smile. ‘Why, yes, Staff, and stay will you? Mr van Tacx wants some notes—Mrs Shaw, Mrs Butterworth, Miss Price and Mrs King.’ She sat down at her desk and picked up some forms lying on it. ‘Mrs Butterworth’s Path Lab report’s back.’ She lifted her eyes to Mr van Tacx’s impassive face. ‘I daresay you took a look at it, sir.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he said to surprise her. ‘I should dislike it very much if you were to poke around my desk, and I rather fancy you would feel the same way.’ He smiled his charming smile again and she found herself smiling back.

‘Oh, that’s better,’ he said quietly as Joan came back with the tea cup. Josephine, who seldom blushed, found herself doing just that, too. But she poured the tea in her usual calm manner, laid the notes on the desk and offered her chair. He waved that aside, however, and went to sit on the radiator and sip his tea and read through the notes. Presently he held out his hand for the Path Lab report and studied that, too.

‘Radiotherapy, I think, don’t you, Sister? Let us get her on her feet first though, so that she feels she is making good progress. You keep your patients in for that?’

‘Usually, it depends on the patient…’

‘Yes, of course. And these other ladies…’ He passed his cup for more tea and began on the other notes. Josephine drank her own tea and watched him. She had to admit that he was very good looking but she wasn’t sure if she liked his faint air of arrogance. Accustomed to getting his own way, she decided, and probably quite nasty if he didn’t.

He looked up suddenly and returned her look with a long cool one of his own. He said quietly, ‘I think that we must get to know each other, Sister Dowling.’ And then he got up to go.

When they were alone, Joan said, ‘He’s nice, isn’t he? I don’t mean good looking and all that, he’s got every nurse in the place on her toes. I’m not sure what it is but if I were in a tight corner I’d shout for him…’

Josephine gave her Staff Nurse a surprised look. Joan Makepeace was one of the most level headed girls she had ever met, popular with nurses and the students and house-men alike, not particularly pretty but kind and hard working and while not lacking dates, she had made it plain that she had no intention of taking anyone seriously until she had achieved what she had set out to do; have a ward of her own. She admired Josephine. Indeed, her ambition was to be exactly like her, calm and serene and able to cope with any emergency which might arise. She knew that she had a chance of getting Josephine’s job when she left to marry, but genuinely regretted her going. She said carefully, ‘I haven’t thought about him, Joan…’

‘Well, I don’t suppose you would—I mean you’ve got Malcolm.’

Josephine, who hadn’t given Malcolm a thought for the best part of the day, agreed.

The period of quiet was over, there was still ten minutes to go before visiting time was over; Josephine went into the ward, cast a quick eye over the four operation cases, agreed to talk to their visitors presently and made her way slowly round the ward, to be stopped every few yards by relatives and friends. Some of their questions she couldn’t answer, they were better dealt with by one of the surgeons; she would have to get Mr Bull’s registrar, Matt Cummings to come up to the ward. But all the other questions she answered patiently and helpfully, knowing that to the people concerned they were important. Back in her office she phoned Matt and then, one by one, invited the anxious mothers and sisters and daughters to come and talk. There were never any husbands in the afternoon, they came in the evening, clutching flowers and things in paper bags and sometimes they rather shyly offered her a gift. Chocolates mostly, sometimes a bag of oranges or a melon and as Christmas approached, nuts. She accepted them with gratitude because it was nice that in the middle of what was to most men a domestic upheaval, they remembered the nurses.

Malcolm was waiting for her; she had got off duty rather later than usual and had hurried to change and make her way to the front entrance. He was standing by the entrance, reading an evening paper, and she paused, unseen as yet, to look at him. Not over tall, stoutly built, nice looking in a smug kind of way. It struck her forcibly that she couldn’t possibly marry him. In ten years time he would be satisfied with his life, following in his father’s footsteps, content to take over from him and probably when his father died, having his mother to live with them… He had never been keen on an evening out, she suspected. No, she knew now that once they were married, she would be expected to stay at home or at best visit his family. The enormity of it all shook her; she felt guilty and mean, but surely it was better to cry off now rather than go through with an unhappy marriage? And why, she asked herself miserably, should she suddenly be aware of these things? True she had had doubts from time to time but she had supposed that was natural enough in an engaged woman, but now it wasn’t doubts, it was dreadful certainty.

She walked on again and he looked up and saw her. His, ‘Hullo old girl,’ did nothing to reassure her, nor did the perfunctory kiss he dropped on her cheek, but she struggled to respond to it, feeling guiltier than ever so that she responded rather more warmly than usual and he drew back with a ‘Hey—what’s got into you, Jo?’ And when she just shook her head, ‘Had a busy day, no doubt—well, we’ll go to a cafe and have a meal. That’ll set you on your feet again.’

She longed to tell him that a cafe wouldn’t help in the least; champagne and an exotic dinner at some fashionable restaurant might have helped, but she doubted that even. She said urgently, ‘Malcolm, could we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?’

‘Quiet? Why do we want to be quiet?’ He was ushering her into his car as he spoke. He added rather irritably, ‘I’m not made of money, you know…’

A rather unfair remark, she decided, sitting silent beside him.

The restaurant was fairly full and noisy. They found a table for two and he said as they sat down, ‘Steak for you?’ And when she said that no she would have a poached egg on toast, he observed shortly, ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jo? I always order a steak for you…’

She said lamely, ‘I’m not hungry, Malcolm,’ and then trying hard to recapture something she knew was lost for ever, ‘Have you had a busy day?’

‘Oh, God, yes. I’ll be glad to be shot of the Hampstead practice, there’ll be just enough to keep me busy with Father, there’s nothing like a country practice—one knows everyone in the district, a settled routine…’

‘Is that what you want, Malcolm? Don’t you want to—to stretch your wings? Use your knowledge?’

He laughed. ‘Jo, you’re not yourself this evening, what on earth’s got into you. Why should I want to wear myself out when I can drop into a comfortable country practice with my father?’

She abandoned the egg on toast. She was appalled to hear herself say, ‘Malcolm, I don’t want to get married.’

He finished his mouthful before he replied. ‘Rubbish, Jo. You’re just tired—you don’t know what you are saying.’

She said doggedly, ‘But I do. I—I’ve felt uncertain for a week or two but I thought—well, I thought I’d get over it, but I haven’t, Malcolm. I’d make you a bad wife—there are all sorts of reasons—living so far away and being so near your parents. Your mother doesn’t like me much, you know that; she thinks I’m too keen on clothes and don’t know enough about keeping house, and I want to do more than just be a housewife—and I’m not sure that I love you enough, Malcolm.’ She paused and went on bravely. ‘I’m not even sure if you love me enough. You see, I think, perhaps you’re mistaken in me—I don’t like being told what to do and being taken for granted. Why do I have to eat steak when we go out just because you think I want to? Can’t you see that if you expect me to eat steak because you order it for me, you’ll expect me to do everything else you think is good for me.’

Malcolm gave an indulgent laugh, which infuriated her. ‘You are just being silly, Jo. Good Lord, we’re to be married in a couple of months, you can’t break everything off now.’

‘You mean to tell me that you think we should go ahead with the wedding even when I know in my heart that I don’t want to marry you?’

He shrugged. ‘You’ll feel differently in the morning. Besides, what will everyone say…’

‘They’d say a lot more if I ran away after we were married.’

‘You don’t mean that. Why do women have to exaggerate so?’

She saw that she wasn’t going to get through his smugness. She said soberly, ‘I’m not exaggerating, Malcolm, I mean every word.’ And she took the ring off her finger and pushed it across the table towards him. ‘Please will you take me back to St Michael’s.’

He picked up the ring and put it in his pocket. ‘If that’s how you feel, the quicker we part company the better. You’re not the girl I thought you were.’

She agreed sadly, ‘You’ll meet some girl who’ll make you happy, Malcolm. I’m very sorry, but it’s far better to part than to be unhappy for the rest of our lives.’

He muttered something, and because she was a kindhearted girl and blamed herself she was honest and said so, to be brought up short by his, ‘Oh save that, I’m beginning to think that once I’ve got over the awkwardness of it all, it’ll be a good thing.’

He paid the bill and they went out to the car and got in without speaking. They still hadn’t said a word when he drew up at the Hospital entrance.

Josephine opened her door. ‘Well, goodbye, Malcolm— I’m sorry…’

He presented an unmoved profile to her. ‘I doubt that,’ he told her, and caught the door and slammed it shut and drove away without another word.

She stood for a moment watching the tail lights receding and then pushed the glass swing doors open. Mr van Tacx was standing just inside, barring her path.

‘Hullo,’ he observed ‘had a tiff?’

It was a bit too much; Josephine lifted a pale face to his, blinking back tears. ‘What do you know about tiffs?’ she asked him bitterly and sped past him, intent on getting to her room so that she could have a really good cry.

It was a good thing that most of her friends were out for the evening or had retired to their beds. She lay in a very hot bath, crying her eyes out, and then as red as a lobster and quite worn out, got into her bed. She had expected to stay awake all night, but she fell asleep at once and didn’t wake until she was called in the morning. Nothing could disguise her swollen eyelids or her still pink nose; she did the best she could with make-up and was grateful when her friends said nothing at breakfast even though they cast covert glances at her.

It was perhaps a good thing that her day turned out to be so busy that she had no time to spare for herself; there was no sign of Mr van Tacx, which considering his nasty remark on the previous evening, was a good thing, but Matt did a round, pronounced himself satisfied, declared himself delighted that Mrs Prosser would be leaving them in the morning and had a cup of coffee before he went away again. But not before he had stopped on his way out of the ward to speak to Joan. Josephine, coming out of her office behind him, saw Joan’s pink face and her smile; whatever the girl said, she couldn’t hide the pleasure at whatever Matt was saying. Bereft of her own romance, Josephine was delighted to see another blossoming under her nose. Matt was quiet and solid and nothing much to look at, but he was a clever surgeon; Joan would suit him admirably. Josephine went on down the ward, already busy with plans to arrange the off duty so that Joan would be free when Matt had his half days.

The next day they admitted three patients for operations on the morrow; Mrs Prior, a timid little lady with an over-bearing husband who button-holed Josephine and demanded to know just exactly what was to be done to his wife. She asked him mildly if his own doctor hadn’t already explained it to him.

‘’Corse ’e ’as. But ’oo’s ter believe ’im, eh? The missus ain’t all that ill, and ’oo’s ter look after me?’

‘You?’ said Josephine gently. ‘Most husbands manage very well. I’ll get one of the surgeons to see you if you like. Your wife will have her operation in the morning and you can phone about one o’clock and come round in the evening and talk to someone about her.’

She was glad to see him go and she suspected that his wife, meek though she was, was just as glad. The other two ladies were easier to deal with; both married and middle aged with worried husbands anxious to do the right thing. She put their minds at rest and when they had gone went along to have a little chat with the three women. Mr Bull had fallen into the habit of letting her describe their operations to his patients; most of them wanted to know exactly what would be done and more importantly, if it was going to hurt. Josephine reassured them, gave them a clear idea of what the surgeon intended doing and suggested that they should get themselves unpacked, bathed and into bed, ready for the House Surgeon to examine them. He was new to the team, enthusiastic about his work and tended to frighten the patients by his sheer earnestness. Josephine took care to be with him so that she could tone down some of his more frank remarks. Frankness, she felt, should be left to the registrar, or better still, the consultant gynaecologist.

The next morning, being theatre day, was busy, but after the trauma of getting Mrs Prosser away Josephine welcomed the business with relief. Dr Macauley, the anaesthetist, had seen the patients on the previous evening and now they lay in their beds, looking strangely alike in their white theatre gowns and caps. Mrs Prior was to go first, Josephine drew up the pre-med, and went along to Mrs Prior, lying meekly, waiting uncomplainingly for whatever was about to happen to her. She slowed her steps as the ward door at the far end opened and Mr van Tacx came unhurriedly in. He was dressed impeccably, the very picture of a successful consultant in his dark grey suit and subdued tie and he brought with him a distinct air of assurance and at the same time a feeling of ordinariness so that the three ladies, waiting, outwardly calm and inwardly wishing with all their hearts that they might jump out of their beds and go home, were instantly put at rest. His ‘good morning, Sister,’ was uttered in the casual tones of one greeting the milkman on his round and when he sat down on the end of Mrs Prior’s bed, she gave him a look which Josephine could only describe to herself as adoring.

He talked to each one of them in turn, in a calm, pleasant voice which she could only admire. The thought crossed her mind that if she had to have an operation at any time, then Mr van Tacx would do very nicely for the surgeon. The three ladies obviously felt the same way, for they smiled and nodded and Mrs Prior hardly noticed when she slid the premed into her arm.

Josephine took them to the theatre, leaving Joan in charge, something she had started when she had taken over the ward, for she had discovered soon enough that the patients, semi-conscious as they were, were wheeled away with quieter minds if they knew that she was with them. Once in the anaesthetic room and the patient out cold within seconds of the anaesthetist’s skilful insertion of the needle, she handed over to a Senior Student Nurse.

She felt regret at having to do this, she would dearly have loved to have watched Mr van Tacx operating. She went back to the ward and set about the daily routine until they phoned from the Recovery Room to say that Mrs Prior was ready to be fetched and would she send up the next case please.

She whisked the next lady up to the anaesthetic room; a placid person, already half asleep and uncaring, and then went to supervise the return of Mrs Prior.

Mrs Prior seemed to have shrunk, her small pale face smaller and paler than ever. Josephine received her instructions from Fiona, the Recovery Room Sister, nodded briskly and saw her safely back to the ward and into her bed, detailing a Student Nurse to take fifteen minute observations and report if she was worried. ‘And you nip off to dinner,’ she told Joan, ‘and take Nurse Thursby and Nurse Williams with you, there’s still Mrs Gregory to go up but she’s a straightforward Colpol—and Mrs Clark shouldn’t take more than an hour. With luck we’ll be clear by five o’clock…’

‘Your dinner, Sister?’

‘Oh, I’ll have a sandwich and a pot of tea later on.’

The day wore on, Mrs Clark came back, smiled vaguely at Josephine as she gave her an injection and she went peacefully to sleep, leaving her free to do a round of her patients and check Mrs Prior once more. There was a little colour in her cheeks now and Josephine checked the blood transfusion and cast an eye over the nurse’s observation board. Joan was back by now with the two nurses, and Josephine sent the Senior Student Nurse to her dinner; she would have to wait for her own pot of tea; Mrs Gregory had been gone for some time and she must be on the ward when she came back.

They rang shortly afterwards and she went along to collect her patient; ‘straightforward,’ whispered Fiona, ‘and what a duck Mr van Tacx was to work for. Lucky you,’ she added and winked over her mask.

‘That’s as maybe,’ hissed Josephine peevishly, ‘I want a meal—I missed coffee and it’s gone two o’clock.’

‘We stopped for coffee after Mrs Prior,’ said Fiona smugly, ‘and I managed a sandwich before Mrs Gregory.’

Josephine was getting that lady settled in her bed and giving instructions to Nurse Thursby at the same time. A good little nurse, reliable but uncertain of herself. She listened now, repeating Josephine’s instructions rather apprehensively.

‘And don’t be scared,’ begged Josephine, ‘the bell’s there, I or Staff will come at once and in any case I’ll be popping in and out to see how things are.’

She became aware that Nurse Thursby’s eye had strayed to a spot behind her and looked over her shoulder. Mr van Tacx was there, immaculate again just as though he hadn’t spent the morning in theatre gear and rubber boots. Indeed, he had all the appearance of a prosperous stockbroker or something executive in the city, accustomed to a pen in his hand and not the scalpel. He nodded to Josephine, smiled at Nurse Thursby and bent over his patient, who opened her eyes blearily and closed them again.

‘She’s had her morphia?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ Josephine’s voice was quiet but it had a faint edge. ‘Mrs Gregory has just returned to the ward and been put to bed.’

He nodded again. ‘The other two?’

Josephine went with him to Mrs Clark, still peacefully sleeping and then to Mrs Prior. He stood for a minute looking at her, read her chart, took her pulse and held the curtain aside for Josephine to go past him.

‘Your office, Sister?’

She led the way, pausing to tell Joan to give Mrs Gregory her injection. Despite her busy day she looked serene and very beautiful, even if a little untidy about the head.

In the office she sat down behind her desk and Mr van Tacx sat down cautiously in the canvas chair which sagged and creaked under his weight.

‘Could we have a pot of tea?’ he enquired. ‘It’s rather late for lunch and I have a teaching round in half an hour.’

She beamed at him. ‘I’m so glad you’ve asked. I missed coffee and dinner, too. Just a sec.’

She left him sitting and crossed the landing to the kitchen where Mrs Cross, the ward orderly, was getting the tea trolley ready for the patients’ teas. She looked up as Josephine went in and left the trolley to turn the gas up under the kettle. ‘Not ’ad yer dinner,’ she said accusingly, ‘I can ’ear yer stomach rumbling from ’ere. Tea and a sandwich or two—you go back ter the office and I’ll bring it.’

‘You’re a dear, Mrs Cross, and could you put on another cup and saucer? Mr van Tacx missed his lunch and he’s famished as well as thirsty.’

‘Is ’e now? A fine body of a man like ’im needs ’is food. If yer was to ring them so-and-so’s in the kitchen, they could send up a bit of ’am.’

Mr van Tacx was lying back at his ease with his eyes shut. Josephine lifted the receiver but he didn’t open them.

‘Mr van Tacx has missed his lunch. Will you send up some ham for sandwiches please, right away…’

‘Cheese?’ He asked softly with his eyes still shut.

‘And cheese,’ she added firmly, ‘and please be quick. He has a teaching round very shortly.’

‘I can see that we are going to get on very well together.’ His eyes were still closed.

‘I hope so, sir.’

He opened one eye. ‘A whole month—do you suppose we shall be able to keep this affability up?’

She gave him a wary look. ‘I cannot see why not, sir.’

‘I hope that if and when we meet out of working hours, you will refrain from addressing me as sir.’

‘If you wish that—but we are very unlikely to meet.’

‘There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we may.’ He opened the other eye. ‘Your William Shakespeare, or to put it more simply, “Nothing is so certain as the unexpected”.’

And while she was still staring at him.

‘Mrs Prior…’ He was businesslike now. ‘I’m afraid we may be too late there but we’ll do what we can. She is married? Husband? Children?’

‘A husband. There’s a son in Australia.’

‘Would she be cared for if we sent her home?’

‘I doubt it. Mr Prior was concerned about himself when he talked to me. He may have been worried, of course.’

‘I’ll see him. If necessary we’ll send her to a convalescent home and she can come back for radiotherapy in a week or two.’

Mrs Cross came in then, bearing a loaded tray which she dumped on to Josephine’s desk. ‘There yer are, Sister, there’s enough for the pair of yer—as nice a bit of ’am as I seen for a long time and real cheese, not that stuff they send us for the diabetics when we ’ave ’em. On account of you being important,’ she explained kindly to Mr van Tacx who was looking at her with a fascinated eye. ‘Now eat up and there’s more tea if yer fancy it.’

Josephine thanked her and when Mrs Cross had gone said demurely, ‘She doesn’t mean to be familiar—she’s above rubies and has been here for heaven knows how many years. She has never gone on strike or gone slow and once or twice when there’s been a flap on, she’ll just stay in the kitchen making tea to keep us going.’

She poured the tea, a strong, dark brew which she milked generously before she passed it with the sugar bowl.

Mr van Tacx helped himself lavishly and sipped appreciatively. ‘I have acquired the habit of drinking tea,’ he remarked. ‘In Holland we drink coffee, and tea is milkless and much weaker. This would drive a train.’

He settled into his chair and Josephine said severely, ‘If you don’t sit still the chair is going to collapse. Have a sandwich.’

They sat for a moment in a pleasant companionship but presently Mr van Tacx started to discuss the patients and Josephine became at once a Ward Sister who knew exactly what was expected of her. She replenished their cups, passed the sandwiches to his side of the desk and got out her pen; like Mr Bull, he fired off instructions at an alarming rate and she couldn’t hold all of them in her head.

Presently he got up to go. ‘I’ll be in later,’ he told her, ‘and ring down to the lodge when Mr Prior gets here. You’re on this evening?’

She didn’t tell him that she should have been off duty at five o’clock but as so often happened on theatre day, she had stayed on duty.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m on until eight o’clock, Mr van Tacx, and I’ll phone down for you. But will you be here?’

He said coldly, ‘Did I not make myself clear, Sister?’

A remark which effectively wiped away the faint liking she had begun to admit to.

At supper, when she was at last off duty, several of her friends wanted to know why she hadn’t gone off duty. ‘How’s that new man?’ they wanted to know. ‘Slow?’

She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, but the first case took about twice as long as he had expected and then I stayed on because that particular patient’s husband was coming to visit. He was a bit difficult yesterday. Mr van Tacx came up to see him…’

‘And what’s Malcolm going to say to that?’ asked a voice, ‘staying on duty just to oblige a consultant and him too good looking to be true.’ The speaker sighed gustily. ‘I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes, Jo…’

Josephine put her knife and fork carefully together on her plate. She didn’t like the girl who spoke; the Medical Ward Sister, a good nurse but spiteful at times. ‘You can jump in any time you like,’ she said calmly, ‘for my part you can have carte blanche, and as for Malcolm, since we are no longer engaged, he has no say in the matter.’

She got up from the table and walked out of the canteen and the hapless girl who had spoken was attacked from all sides. To her cries that she hadn’t known and she hadn’t meant any harm anyway she met with a forthright warning to hold her silly tongue in future and mind her own business.

Josephine went to her room, took off her cap, wrapped a tweed coat over her uniform, pulled her leather boots over her black tights, and left the nurses’ home by the side door nearest the car park used by the staff. She wasn’t very clear as to what she intended to do or where she was going—it was already dark, a nasty blustery evening and chilly. She wanted above all things to go home but that was too far. She unlocked the Mini and got into the driver’s seat and sat there, her mind a miserable blank.

‘And where are you going?’ asked Mr van Tacx gently, and poked his head through the open window.

She had let out a squeak of fright which she covered in a dignified but breathless, ‘Out, Mr van Tacx, and I do not care to have the wits scared out of me…’

‘Sorry.’ He sounded not in the least sorry and he made no attempt to remove his head from the window. ‘Feeling low, aren’t you? It’s unpleasant to be jilted…’ She muttered furiously and he went on calmly, ‘Oh, several persons have told me, you’re a nine days wonder you know. You’ll get over it.’

‘I do not care to discuss my affairs with you, Mr van Tacx and I cannot think of what possible interest they can be to you anyway.’

‘Well, no—why should you? All you really need now is a shoulder to weep into and someone to listen. I haven’t felt the need of a shoulder myself but I’m willing to lend you mine—you’ll feel better when you’ve talked about it.’

She said furiously, ‘How could you possibly know?’

‘Because I’ve been jilted myself.’ He opened the door. ‘Move over, I’ll drive somewhere where we can have coffee or a drink.’

She opened her mouth to refuse, realised that it would be useless anyway and found herself squashed into the other seat. The small part of her brain that wasn’t numbed by surprise, noted that a Mini really wasn’t a car for a man of his size.

‘Do you mind where we go?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Is the tank full?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. We’ll keep to this side of town shall we? Do you know Epping Forest? Buckhurst Hill—the Roebuck—we can get something there.’

He didn’t speak as they took the little car through Hackney and on to the dreary bricks of Leyton and Wanstead, but then going north towards Epping Forest, he began to talk. Later she couldn’t remember what he had said, but his voice had been pleasantly soothing and she had relaxed. By the time they reached the Roebuck she had pulled herself together, even felt a little ashamed of herself. Next time, she promised herself, she would be armed against being taken unawares, and anyway, by the morning the whole Hospital would know…

The pub was very much to her taste, actually a country hotel with a comfortable bar nicely filled. Mr van Tacx parked the Mini and marched her briskly inside and sat her down at a table in a quiet corner.

‘Coffee and a brandy with it and sandwiches?’

She nodded, suddenly remembering that she was still in uniform and that she had done nothing to her hair or her face. It was disconcerting when he observed, ‘You look quite all right and no one can see the uniform.’

He wandered off then to the bar and came back presently with coffee and the brandy, followed a moment later by a plump smiling girl with the sandwiches.

‘I went to supper,’ said Josephine.

‘Did you eat anything?’

‘Well, no…’

‘Eat up, we can’t have you wilting away while Mr Bull’s gone—I need all the help I can get.’

She didn’t believe that; he looked the kind of man who would never need help, certainly not with his work. She said, searching for a safe topic, ‘There’s a long waiting list…’

‘I know.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Drink your brandy. What do you intend to do?’

Her eyes watered as she sipped. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t be a dim girl. Get him back? Forget him and dedicate yourself to nursing for ever and ever? Or turn your back on him and start again? There are plenty of fish in the sea, you know, and you’ve the looks to pick and choose.’

Later on, she thought, when she had the time to think about it, his words were going to annoy her very much, but at the moment nothing seemed quite real. She took a sip of coffee to counteract the brandy and said with dignity, ‘I prefer not to discuss it with you. I appreciate your kindness in bringing me here, I really do, but my—my private life can be of no interest to you…’

‘Don’t be so priggish. What you mean to say is mind your own business. How old are you?’

Really, there was no end to the man’s arrogance. ‘Twenty-five almost twenty-six.’ She hadn’t meant to answer him, normally she wouldn’t have done but she wasn’t quite herself, it was, after all, only five days since she and Malcolm had split up and somehow the hurt of it was biting deeper now than it had done to begin with. She had her mouth open to remind him that that wasn’t his business either when he observed casually, ‘At least you’re not an impetuous young girl,’ and ignoring her affronted glance at this, ‘I’m thirty-four, a good age for a man to marry should he find the right girl.’

Josephine bit into another sandwich. Temper had sharpened her appetite.

‘That sounds very cold blooded…’

‘Indeed not, I enjoy female companionship, I enjoyed, too, falling head over heels in love—unfortunately the young lady in question threw me over for a man with rather more worldly goods than I…’

Josephine asked the obvious question. ‘Was she pretty?’

‘Delightfully so.’

‘And—and you loved her very much?’

‘Very much.’

She was a kind-hearted girl. She said warmly, ‘I’m sorry, I really am, you must feel awful.’

‘One learns to live with it.’ He got up. ‘I’ll get more coffee.’ She watched him cross to the bar. He didn’t look like a man with a broken heart, but she supposed that he was a man who kept his feelings hidden. She sipped the rest of her brandy and felt it warm her cold insides. It loosened her tongue, too. She said chattily as he sat down, ‘I don’t suppose that’s why, you’re so—so… You were awfully rude when we met—I daresay you hate all women. I didn’t like you, you know, I’m not sure if I do now.’

She drank some coffee; perhaps she shouldn’t have said that. She glanced at Mr van Tacx, staring at her from across the table, and was reassured to see that he was smiling. All the same she said uncertainly, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ and then like a child, ‘I’m not used to drinking brandy.’

His voice was bland. ‘You’ll sleep well after it. Drink your coffee, we’re going back.’

She felt pleasantly tired as he drove away from the Roebuck. She closed her eyes and slept soundly until he stopped the car in the car park, and lifted her head from the shoulder she had rested it on. He studied her sleeping face for a few moments before setting her upright, smiling faintly. He said briskly, ‘Wake up, Josephine…’

She opened her eyes at once and blinked round and then at him. ‘Oh, we’re back—I’m sorry, I fell asleep. Oh, dear, what must you think…’

He leaned over and opened her door. ‘Jump out while I lock the car.’

He sounded abrupt and she made haste to do as he asked and then took the keys from him. ‘Thank you,’ she began in a rush, ‘I do appreciate your kindness…’

He then looked at her unsmiling. ‘Good night, Josephine!’ And when he had nothing more to say, she stood uncertainly for a moment and then went away.