Читать книгу Two Weeks to Remember - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

MISS HUDSON’S RUMOUR must have had some truth in it, for Charity saw nothing of Professor Wyllie-Lyon for the whole of the following week. It made her workload much lighter, of course, but she found herself missing him. She went home each evening to spend it in the company of her aunt and father and an occasional visitor, dropping in for a drink or after-supper coffee. True, she could have gone out on at least two occasions, once with the assistant dispenser, a short earnest young man with no sense of humour, and on the second occasion with the surgical registrar, who was married with a wife and family somewhere in the depths of rural Sussex. She had declined both invitations in her pleasant, rather shy manner and found herself wondering what she would have done if it had been Professor Wyllie-Lyon who had asked her out. Leapt at the chance, she had to admit, and then told herself sternly that she was being silly; for one thing he wasn’t there and for another he had never been known to date anyone at the hospital. Even at the annual ball, which she had attended on two occasions, he had circled the floor with grave dignity with the senior ladies present and then gone to play bridge in an adjoining room.

She did the shopping on Saturday morning, met an acquaintance unexpectedly and had coffee with her, and then walked unhurriedly back home, to come face to face with Sidney when she was half-way there. He had a girl with him, someone she knew slightly, and they both looked embarrassed, whereas she felt nothing but pleased relief that Sidney should have found a successor to herself so quickly. Once or twice she had felt guilty about him, but now she saw that there was no need for that. She beamed at them both, passed the time of day and went on her way with her groceries to give a hand with the lunch and then catch a bus to visit an old school friend who had married and gone to live in Putney.

Sunday held no excitement either; church in the morning and then an afternoon in the garden, encouraging the chrysanthemums and tidying up the flower beds for the winter. Charity, restless for no reason at all, was quite glad to go to work on Monday morning.

Miss Hudson was in a bad temper; she had missed her usual bus, lost her umbrella and started a cold. Charity hurried to put on the kettle and offer a soothing cup to cheer while she sorted through the pile of work waiting for them. There was quite a lot. She accepted the major portion of reports since, as she was quick to point out, Miss Hudson didn’t feel able to cope, and they settled down to a morning’s work.

They were interrupted after an hour or so by Symes’s elderly voice growling over the phone. Would Miss Graham take her notebook to Women’s Medical, as Professor Wyllie-Lyon wanted notes taken during his round.

Miss Hudson was indignant. ‘Leaving me alone here to get through all this pile of work. I shall have something to say about it, I can tell you! You’d better get along at once, Charity, and be sure you are back in time for me to go to the canteen. I feel very poorly and it is essential that I have a break.’

Charity gathered up her notebook and pencil. It would make a nice change from the typewriter; besides, she would see Professor Wyllie-Lyon again. She didn’t waste time in wondering why she was pleased about this but nipped smartly along the passage, into the entrance hall and up the stairs. She wasn’t supposed to use the main staircase but it would take all day to go round to either of the smaller staircases used by the nurses, and the lifts were out of the question. Anyway, she disliked lifts.

The round had started; Charity, peering cautiously round the ward doors, met Sister’s frowning gaze and then, obedient to her beckoning finger, and very aware of her size and bursting good health, walked just as cautiously down the ward between the beds occupied by a variety of limp-looking ladies with pale faces who gazed at her with a kind of disbelief that anyone could be as pretty and full of life. Miss Hudson would have been more suitable, thought Charity, gaining the group of solemn-looking people round a patient’s bed, and doing her best to hide herself behind the social worker.

‘Ah, good morning, Miss Graham,’ observed Professor Wyllie-Lyon, yards away from her and with eyes in the back of his head. ‘If you will be ready to take notes at the next patient’s bed, if you please.’

He hadn’t turned round as he spoke, so that she addressed his white-coated back with a polite, ‘Certainly, sir,’ while admiring what she could see of him—which wasn’t much, what with his registrar and housemen and a clutch of earnest medical students. Sister had the best place, of course, at his elbow, ready with X-Rays, forms and the proper answers to his questions. Charity wondered what it would be like to be clever enough to know what he was talking about and what to say in reply. She allowed her thoughts to wander. It was a pity that she was really too old to train as a nurse, although she wasn’t sure if she would be much good at it—the actual nursing that is; she enjoyed learning about the various conditions and ailments she typed about each day, but she wasn’t so sure about the practical side of them.

She became aware that there was a general movement towards the next bed and hastily held her pencil at the ready. A good thing, too, for Professor Wyllie-Lyon began at once. ‘Now, this is Mrs Elliott, whose case we might discuss, with her permission.’ He sat himself down on the side of the bed and spoke to the elderly lady lying in it. She smiled and nodded and he then turned to address the students round him.

‘You are ready, Miss Graham? Now, this patient is suffering from a comparatively rare complaint…’

Charity, standing close by so that she wouldn’t miss anything, kept her mind on her work. And again, a good thing that she did; she was grateful when he paused to ask her if she had got Thrombocytopenic Purpura down correctly. A few more tongue twisters like that and she would throw her notebook at him and gallop out of the ward.

She hoped that she had got everything down correctly, as she hurried back to the office; Miss Hudson would be in a fine state, for she was missing part of her dinner time. Charity, short of breath from running down the passage, was greeted by her irate superior, even more irate by reason of the delightful picture Charity made: cheeks pink from her haste, her magnificent bosom heaving.

‘Ten minutes,’ snapped Miss Hudson. ‘I said to be back on time…’

‘Well,’ said Charity reasonably, ‘I couldn’t just walk away before Professor Wyllie-Lyon had finished, could I? I’ve run all the way back.’

Miss Hudson sniffed. ‘I shall take the ten minutes out of your dinner time. I don’t see why I should suffer. Really, you young women, you have no sense of responsibility.’ She flounced out, leaving Charity to make sense of this, and since she couldn’t she sat down at her desk, polished off the Path. Lab reports awaiting her attention and then turned to her shorthand notes. Professor Wyllie-Lyon hadn’t said that he wanted them at once but she had no doubt that he did.

Miss Hudson was as good as her word. She came back ten minutes late, viewed the fresh pile of work which the porter had just brought to the office with a jaundiced eye and asked, ‘Have you finished those notes, then? There’s more than enough to keep us busy until five o’clock.’

The phone rang and she answered it, then said crossly, ‘You’re to take Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s notes down to Women’s Medical as soon as they’re ready. I must say he’s got a nerve…’

‘He is the senior consultant,’ Charity pointed out in her reasonable way. ‘I expect he’s got the edge on everyone else. Anyway, I’ve almost finished; I’ll drop them in as I go to dinner.’

‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ said Miss Hudson, ‘and they’ve overcooked the cabbage again.’

Charity, who was famished, would have eaten it raw.

Women’s Medical was settling down for the afternoon. There was the discreet clash of bedpans, scurrying feet intent on getting done so that their owners could go off duty, and the faint cries of such ladies who required this, that or the other before they could settle for their hour’s rest period. Charity knocked on Sister’s office door and went in.

Sister was at her desk. She was a splendid nurse and a dedicated spinster with cold blue eyes and no sense of humour. Her ward was run beautifully and her nurses disliked her whole-heartedly.

Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting opposite her, perched precariously on a stool much too small to accommodate his vast person. He looked up as Charity went in, put down the notes he was reading and got to his feet. Sister gave him a surprised look.

‘What do you want, Miss Graham?’ she asked.

‘I was told to leave these notes, Sister.’

The professor took them from her. ‘Ah, yes. Splendid. Good girl. You never let me down, do you? But shouldn’t you be at your dinner?’

‘Oh, that’s all right, Professor. I’m on my way now…’

‘It is desirable for the smooth running of the hospital catering department that staff should be punctual at mealtimes,’ interrupted Sister severely.

‘In that case, Miss Graham, run and get your coat and we’ll go and find a sandwich somewhere. I’m even more unpunctual than you are.’

Sister’s disapproval was tangible. ‘That does not apply to you, Professor Wyllie-Lyon, although I’m sure that you are joking.’

He was at the door, waiting for a bemused Charity to go through it.

‘No, no. How could I joke about such an important matter? I must set a good example, must I not? I’ll be back during the afternoon, Sister, and thank you.’

On the landing Charity said, ‘That was very…’ And then she closed her mouth with a snap and blushed.

‘Go on,’ he encouraged.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot who you were; I can’t say things like that to senior consultants, I’d get the sack.’

He was propelling her gently away from the ward. ‘No, you won’t—I promise I won’t tell.’

She shook her head again, suddenly shy. ‘I must go—I’m late…’

He said patiently, ‘Well, we’ve already discussed that, haven’t we? Get your coat, there’s a good girl, I’m very hungry.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘I shall call you Charity, a pleasant name. Also I still haven’t been told what went wrong.’ He gave her a gentle shove and she went back to the office and fetched her coat, muttered about shopping to an inquisitive Miss Hudson, and found him waiting where she had left him.

She was quite sure that she was doing something absolutely outrageous in the eyes of such as Miss Hudson or the sister on Women’s Medical. Prudence urged her to make an excuse and go to the canteen, but for once she turned a deaf ear; it struck her with some force that life, as she lived it, was becoming increasingly dull and she was shocked to discover at the same time that Sidney had done nothing to enliven it. Looking at the large man standing beside her, it seemed likely that he might brighten it, even if only for half an hour. She smiled with sudden brilliance at him and he blinked.

‘No time for a decent meal,’ he observed pleasantly as they went down to the entrance and, under old Symes’s eye, crossed the hall. ‘There’s a tolerable pub round the corner where we might get a decent sandwich. You don’t mind a pub?’

Sidney had never taken her into one; ladies, he had said, never went into bars.

‘The Cat and Fiddle? Where all the students go? The nursing staff aren’t allowed…’ She beamed at him. ‘But I’m not a nurse…’

‘And I hope never will be.’ They were walking along the busy pavement and he took her arm to guide her down a side street.

She said worriedly, ‘Oh, would I be so bad at it? I wondered if I might train—I’m a bit old…’

She was annoyed when he answered placidly. ‘Far too old. But you’d like to change your job?’

‘Well, yes. The work is interesting but I never see anyone but Miss Hudson.’

‘And me.’ He opened the pub door and ushered her inside the saloon bar, empty but for a handful of sober types drinking Guinness and eating something in a basket.

The professor swept her to a table in the corner, sat her down and asked, ‘Drinks—what will you have?’

She found his company exhilarating. Gin and tonic, which she never drank, would have been appropriate. ‘Oh, coffee, if I can have it—I’ve a mass of work this afternoon.’

He smiled gently. ‘So have I. Sandwiches, or something in a basket?’

‘Sandwiches, please. I cook a meal when I get home in the evening.’

‘After a day’s work?’ He sounded vaguely interested, no more.

‘Oh, I like cooking.’ She looked away so that he wouldn’t ask any more questions and he went over to the bar to give their order.

They didn’t talk much as they are; they hadn’t enough time for that, but over their coffee he asked, ‘So what went wrong?’

He didn’t give up easily, thought Charity, and she was wondering how to get out of telling him when he went on, ‘Consider me as an elder brother or an uncle.’ And somehow he contrived to look either the one or the other.

She glanced at her watch; there were still ten minutes left.

‘Well, there is nothing to tell. I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to go on sort of waiting for Sidney. I mean there wasn’t anything definite; I suppose we’d just drifted into taking it for granted that we’d marry one day.’ She sighed. ‘I got home late and he didn’t like having to wait for me…’

‘I think that’s my fault. I gave you that extra work.’

‘Not your fault at all,’ said Charity with some spirit. ‘If it hadn’t been you it could have been anyone else. It’s my job, isn’t it?’

Professor Wyllie-Lyon sat back in his chair as though he had nothing to do for the rest of the day. ‘Do you ever feel that you would like to change your job, Charity?’

She said seriously, ‘Oh, yes, but what could I do? I’m nothing but a shorthand typist, you know.’

‘A good one, if I may say so. But you are a capable young woman, you can cook and presumably keep house and you get on well with people, don’t you?’

She said with sudden fierceness. ‘I want to travel, see other countries; soon it will be too late.’ She stopped, ashamed of her outburst, but he didn’t seem to notice that.

‘You would like to marry and have children?’

‘Oh, yes.’ She was off again, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘A large rambling house with a huge garden and dogs and cats and a donkey and children—not just one or two.’ She stopped for a second time, going slowly pink under his gaze, wondering what had come over her, talking such nonsense to someone she hardly knew. ‘I really must get back,’ she said, with a briskness which brought a quiver to the professor’s mouth.

He agreed unfussily and talked of nothing much on their brief journey back to the hospital, and at the door he thanked her pleasantly for her company and hoped that her afternoon wouldn’t be too busy.

She darted down the passage, her thoughts a fine muddle. She had enjoyed being with him, she liked him; on the other hand she had allowed her tongue to run away with her. Perhaps he had been bored? She burst into the office, blushing furiously at the very idea, so that Miss Hudson gave her a surprised look and said with unwonted concern, ‘Well, there’s no need to break your neck, dear. You’re scarlet from hurrying. You’d better have a drink of water.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You’re not late.’

Charity looked rather wildly at her. ‘Oh, good—I rather forgot the time.’ She hung her coat in the cupboard, obediently drank a glass of water and went to her desk. A lot of reports had come in while she had been away and, as usual, she had the lion’s share. Not that she minded; the more she had to occupy her, the better, and in future she would keep out of Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s way.

She had no need to worry; there was no sign of him. And a very good thing too, she told herself severely; she was becoming far too interested in him. She had to remind herself of this several times during the following week; the days seemed long and purposeless and her quiet evenings at home excessively dull. She welcomed Saturday at last, with the prospect of the Church Fête, an annual affair which tried everyone connected with it to their utmost. Weeks ago she had agreed to help her aunt with a stall: fancy goods, which meant handiwork done by the ladies of the parish. She spent Saturday morning arranging tea cosies, hand-painted calendars, embroidered trayclothes, aprons and a variety of crochet work, some items of which she was unable to recognise.

She and Aunt Emily hurried back home for a hasty lunch and then presented themselves, in the nick of time, before the church hall doors opened to the public to allow the small crowd in. Most of them made for the jumble stall, crowding round it impatiently while a film star of the lesser kind made an opening speech. Charity, re-arranging knitted egg cosies, listened with half an ear. The star had a faint lisp, which became irksome after a few minutes, but she received hearty applause, although whether that was because she had finished talking and everyone could get down to the business in hand, or because they admired her oration, was a moot point.

Talking animatedly to the vicar, she did a round of the stalls, but not of course the jumble, and left presently, the richer by a number of useless articles she didn’t want, and almost totally unnoticed by the audience she had so recently addressed.

Charity, persuading a haughty lady from the better end of St John’s Wood to buy a crocheted bedjacket in a revolting pink, had just taken the money and popped the garment into a bag before she could change her mind, when she looked up and saw Professor Wyllie-Lyon, head and shoulders above everyone else, coming towards her. She handed change, assured the lady that she would never regret her purchase and, swallowing back pleasure at the sight of him, wished him what she hoped was a cool good afternoon.

He didn’t bother to answer that. ‘Is this how you spend your leisure?’ he wanted to know. ‘I must say you have remarkably persuasive powers; no woman worth her salt would wear a pink monstrosity such as you have just sold her.’

‘This is a bazaar; people buy things they don’t want—it’s quite usual.’ She re-arranged some baby bootees in sky-blue. ‘How—how did you get here?’

‘By car.’

‘Oh, well, yes. Of course. I mean, do you know anyone here?’

‘You.’

‘Oh, I thought—that is, have you been away, Professor?’

‘Ah—you missed me.’ He smiled in a self-satisfied way so that she felt impelled to say, ‘I missed all the work.’

‘You sound tart.’ He looked around him. ‘How long does this go on for?’

‘Until half-past five.’ She became aware that Aunt Emily was sidling towards her end of the stall, intent on being introduced. She said clearly, ‘Aunt, this is Professor Wyllie-Lyon from the hospital—my aunt, Miss Graham.’

She had always thought of him as being a reserved man, very large and learned, and with a mind way above church bazaars and the like; she had been wrong. He listened with every sign of interest to her aunt’s rambling discourse encompassing church bazaars in general, her own stall in particular and the amount of work it involved. ‘Although of course it would be far harder if it wasn’t for Charity’s help—such a dear girl; a real support to her father and myself.’ Aunt Emily, quite carried away, went on, ‘Such a pity about Sidney, you know. We quite thought…’

Charity’s voice throbbed with feeling, even though it was quiet. ‘I don’t expect that the professor is interested.’

Aunt Emily prided herself on being able to take a hint. ‘Of course, dear, how foolish of me.’ She peered up at him, studying his impassive face. ‘I dare say you’re very clever and learned—Charity’s father is, you know—a bookworm, as I so often tell him. I like a nice romantic novel myself, but he prefers first editions…’

‘Indeed?’ Professor Wyllie-Lyon had focused all his attention on Aunt Emily. ‘A man after my own heart; I’m a collector myself.’

Aunt Emily beamed. ‘Well, but how interesting; you must come and meet my brother, I’m sure you would have a lot in common.

The professor’s eyes rested briefly on Charity’s face. ‘I believe that we have.’

Charity, counting out change to a very pregnant young woman who had bought three pairs of bootees, stretched her ears, anxious not to miss a word.

‘If you are free this evening?’ began Aunt Emily. ‘We close the bazaar in half an hour—perhaps you would care to come back with us and meet my brother? I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’

The professor’s heavy-lidded eyes took in the look of consternation on Charity’s face and he smiled very faintly. ‘That would be delightful,’ he observed blandly. ‘I have my car outside; may I give you a lift? I’ll be outside when you are ready to leave.’

He took his leave, gave Charity a casual nod, and wandered off to try his luck on the bottle stall.

‘Such a nice man,’ declared her aunt. She turned rather vague blue eyes on to Charity’s. ‘So easy to talk to. Do you see much of him, my dear?’

Charity was totting up the takings. ‘Very little, Aunty, although I do see a great deal of his work.’ She added worriedly, ‘I can’t think how he got here.’

‘By car, dear,’ said her aunt, adding, ‘So nice to get a lift home; my feet ache.’

The bazaar wound itself to a close, the last stragglers left, the takings were handed over to the vicar and the contents of the stalls were bundled into bags and boxes, to be stored until the summer fête next year—proceedings which took very little time, for the various ladies who had manned the stalls were longing for their tea. All the same, Charity and her aunt were among the last to leave, for the latter could never resist a quick gossip with her friends. He’ll be gone, thought Charity gloomily as they went out into the October dusk. But he wasn’t; he was sitting in his car, showing no sign of impatience. He got out when he saw them, ushered them both into the back and drove the short distance through the quiet suburban streets.

‘Here we are,’ declared Aunt Emily, quite unnecessarily. ‘Do come in. Did you have tea? I shall make some at once, for we had none, although I dare say you would prefer a drink with my brother.’

Charity, following her aunt into the house and then standing on one side while that lady ushered him in, didn’t look at him. She felt awkward in a situation thrust upon her; probably the professor had absolutely no wish to meet her father. After all, there was no earthly reason why he should, even if he did collect books. She had the awful feeling that Aunt Emily had seized the opportunity to invite him under the impression that he might be Mr Right. Charity squirmed at the thought; her aunt had been going on for years about Mr Right and just for a little while Sidney had filled the bill; now she would start her well-meant matchmaking again.

She murmured a nothing and sidled into the kitchen to get the tea. Pray heaven that, by the time it was ready, he would be in her Father’s study drinking whisky or, better still, on the point of departure.

Neither of those hopes was to be fulfilled. Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting, very much at his ease, in the sitting room with her aunt on one side of him and her father on the other. Her aunt was taking no part in the conversation, understandably, for the two gentlemen were discussing Homer’s works and arguing pleasantly over which of the seven cities had the honour of being his birthplace. They paused, however, while Aunt Emily handed tea and cake and chatted about her afternoon. ‘Very successful,’ she declared in tones of satisfaction. ‘Was it not, Charity?’

Charity agreed; she had had very little to say and now her father observed with vague kindness, ‘A pleasant afternoon out for you, my dear; I’m sure you enjoyed it.’

She said that, Oh, yes, she had, and got up to fill the teapot, and presently the two men excused themselves on the plea that there was a particularly fine first edition her father wished to show to his guest. Charity, listening to them prosing on about Homer, tossing bits of poems in the original Greek to and fro, felt rising frustration. She must be tired, she decided, clearing away the tea things and conferring with her aunt as to what they should have for supper.

‘Do you suppose he’ll stay?’ wondered Aunt Emily hopefully. ‘There’s that quiche you made this morning, dear, and we could have a salad and biscuits and cheese.’

‘He won’t stay,’ said Charity.

It was her father who put his head round the kitchen door to inform them that Professor Wyllie-Lyon would be staying for supper; most fortunately he had declared that he had nothing much to do that evening, and it was a splendid opportunity to leaf through the Walter Scott first edition her father had been fortunate enough to pick up that week.

Charity sighed and began to prepare the salad. The professor had been a kind of secret delight to her, an interest in her otherwise rather staid life, but that was all. She had never imagined him even remotely associated with her life; indeed, she considered it highly unlikely that he would welcome the idea. It was obvious to her that they came from different backgrounds, their only mutual interest being the hospital. Why or how he had come to visit the bazaar was something she couldn’t begin to guess at. That was bad enough; what was worse was having him here, in the house. With regret she had to admit that things wouldn’t be the same again.

She sliced tomatoes and began to arrange them in a neat pattern on the lettuce, to stop suddenly at the awful thought that he might imagine that, because he’d had tea at her home, he would need to be friendly at the hospital. Of course, he had always been that in an austere kind of way, but now he might feel under an obligation. Her cheeks grew hot and her aunt, coming to see how the salad was going, remarked with some concern that she looked feverish.

She had worked herself into a state for nothing; at supper Professor Wyllie-Lyon behaved towards her as he had always done—friendly in a casual, slightly absent-minded way, placidly eating his supper, keeping the conversational ball rolling without once taking control of it, giving anyone who hadn’t met him the impression that he was a friend of the family who had dropped in for a pleasant evening.

She bore the remains of their meal away to the kitchen and took coffee into the sitting room, and presently he got up to go with the remark that Mr Graham must at some time visit him so that he might browse through his library. His leave-taking of Miss Graham was everything that lady could have wished for, and as for Charity, she was swept to the front door and was not quite sure how she had got there.

‘A very pleasant evening,’ said the professor and waited, his eyes on her face.

‘Why did you come?’ It sounded a bit bald, but she wasn’t a girl to mince her words.

‘Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?’ He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her; so often, being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone. ‘Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.’

She asked abruptly: ‘Have you any friends?’

‘Oh, lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully. I so seldom have any free time…’

‘This afternoon…’ She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.

‘Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?’ He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he observed in a non-committal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car. She stood there, watching him drive away, and found herself looking forward to Monday.

Which, as it turned out, was just like any other day! Miss Hudson still moaning on about her lost umbrella and the remnants of her cold; no central heating because the engineers were having a meeting to decide if they could take industrial action over something or other; and a load of reports waiting to be typed.

‘The Path. Lab must have been working overtime at the weekend,’ grumbled Miss Hudson. ‘Of course they get double time if they do. I have a good mind to go on strike myself.’ She sniffed in a ladylike fashion. ‘Charity, you’ll have to change your dinner hour with me. I’ve a dental appointment.’

‘More teeth?’ Charity asked, her mind on other things.

‘You have no need to be funny at my expense,’ said Miss Hudson huffily. ‘I’ll do Dr Clarkson’s ledgers, you can get on with those reports.’

Dr Clarkson’s correspondence was always commendably brief and, what was more, written clearly; some of the reports had presumably been scribbled by a spider. Charity sighed, and attacked the first; it was full of long words, like cephalhaematoma and cinchocaine hydrochloride, which hadn’t been written clearly in the first place and which she couldn’t spell anyway. By twelve o’clock she was glad to go to her dinner.

The meal was unappetising; presumably the engineers’ meeting had disorganised the kitchens as well, for slabs of corned beef, baked beans and instant mashed potato were offered on a take-it or leave-it basis. Charity, sharing a table with several theatre nurses who were discussing the morning’s list in colourful detail, wished she had gone to Reg’s café, but if she had done that she might have missed Professor Wyllie-Lyon. The thought sprung unbidden into her mind and she made haste to bury it under the grim details concerning a patient’s gangrenous appendix. All the same, it would brighten a dull day if he were to bring his letters to the office…

Which he had done while she was in the canteen.

‘No hurry for that lot,’ explained Miss Hudson, nodding at the little pile he had left on her desk while she titivated herself for her own dinner. ‘And I must say, that’s unusual. And X-Ray came up for that report about the man with multiple injuries—you hadn’t done it—I had to interrupt my own work…’

Charity sat down at her desk, disappointment welling slowly inside her; a good-natured girl, she was suddenly peevish.

‘I’ve had to do the same for you often enough,’ she snapped, and flung paper into her machine, taking no notice of Miss Hudson’s gasp of surprise.

‘Well!’ said that lady. ‘Well! I have never been spoken to like that in all my years here. I must say, Charity, if that is to be your attitude you might do better in another job.’

She flounced away and Charity pounded away at her reports. Another job might be an idea, give her a fresh outlook on life; but work was hard to come by these days and her salary was needed at home. It would need a miracle.

It seemed that they still occurred; the door opened and Professor Wyllie-Lyon came in without haste. ‘Ah, good morning, or is it afternoon?’ He bent an intent eye on her still-cross face. ‘I wondered if you would consider giving up your job here and coming to work for me?’