Читать книгу Heaven is Gentle - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

SHE had expected someone—a woman from the village she had just passed through, perhaps—as faded and neglected as the house to open the door, not this enormous, elegant man with his dark crusader’s face, dressed, her quick eye noted, with all the care of a man about to stroll down St James’ to his club, instead of roughing it in this back-of-beyond spot. The owner of the place? A visitor?

She became aware that the rain was trickling down the back of her neck and she frowned. ‘I’m the nurse,’ she stated baldly, since it seemed there were no niceties of introduction. ‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to let Professor Wyllie know that I’m here.’

The tall man made no move, indeed he blocked the whole of the doorway with his bulk; for one awful moment Eliza wondered if she had come to the wrong place and added anxiously: ‘Professor Wyllie is here, isn’t he?’

He nodded, and now she could see that his dark eyes were gleaming with laughter. ‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ he said slowly, not addressing her really; merely confirming his own thoughts. ‘Five foot ten and buxom…’

She stared at him in amazement. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was acid—forgivable enough; she wanted to get in out of the rain and a cup of coffee would be welcome. She added crossly: ‘I’m getting wet.’

She was plucked inside as though she had been a wet kitten. ‘Forgive me.’ His voice was politely concerned, but she could sense his amusement too. ‘Is that your car?’

‘Yes.’

He stared down at her. ‘Such a pretty girl, and such a pretty voice too, though decidedly acidulated at the moment.’

He paid her the compliment and took it away again with a lazy charm which infuriated her. ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ she wanted to know.

He looked faintly surprised. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘Then perhaps you will tell me where I can find Professor Wyllie, since you seem unwilling to take me to him.’ She added nastily: ‘My case is in the car.’

He chuckled at that and opened the door again, so that she immediately felt forced to exclaim: ‘You can’t go out like that—you’ll ruin that good suit!’

He looked down at his large person. ‘The only one I have,’ he murmured apologetically.

‘Well, then…Professor Wyllie?’

He turned without a word and led her down the hall, past a rather nice staircase which needed a good dust, and opened a door. The room was a study, overflowing with books and papers, and sitting in the middle of it all was an elderly gentleman, who looked up as they went in, peering at them over his half glasses with guileless blue eyes.

‘Miss Eliza Proudfoot,’ announced the large man blandly, and now there was no hiding the amusement in his voice.

‘God bless my soul!’ exclaimed Mr Wyllie, and took off his glasses and polished them.

Eliza took a few steps towards the desk at which he sat. She was fast coming to the conclusion that either she was dealing with eccentrics, or the whole affair was some colossal mistake. But she had been dealing with men of every age and sort, and ill at that, for a number of years now; she said in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘You weren’t expecting me.’

She had addressed the older man, but it was the man who had admitted her who answered. ‘Oh, indeed we were, although I must admit at the same time that we weren’t expecting—er—quite you.’

She gave him a cool look, she wasn’t sure that she liked him. ‘That’s no answer,’ she pointed out, and then suddenly seeing his point, cried out: ‘Oh, I’m the wrong nurse, is that it? Five foot ten and buxom…but I really am Eliza Proudfoot.’

‘What was old Harry about?’ demanded Professor Wyllie of no one in particular. ‘Why, you’re far too small to be of any use, and no one will make me believe that you’re almost twenty-nine.’

She winced; no girl likes to have her age bandied about once she is over twenty-one. ‘I’m very strong, and I’ve been in charge of Men’s Medical at St Anne’s for more than five years, and if you are acquainted with Sir Harry Bliss you’ll know that if he said I could do the job, then there’s no more to be said.’

‘We don’t know about being motherly yet, but she’s tough,’ remarked the large man. He was sitting on the edge of the desk, one well-shod, enormous foot swinging gently.

She shot him an annoyed glance and walked deliberately across the room to stand before him. It was a little disconcerting when he rose politely to his feet, so that she was forced to crane her neck in order to see his face. ‘You have done nothing but make remarks about me since you opened the door,’ her voice was crisp and, she hoped, reasonable, ‘and I can’t think why you are trying to frighten me away—because you are, aren’t you? But since you only own the house—and you should be ashamed to have let it lapse into such a neglected state,’ she admonished him in passing, ‘I really can’t see why you should interfere with my appointment. I’ve come to work for Professor Wyllie, not you.’

The dark face broke into a slow smile. ‘My dear young lady, I must correct you; you have come to work for me too.’ He held out a hand that looked as though it had never seen hard work in its life. ‘I quite neglected to introduce myself—Professor Christian van Duyl.’

Eliza allowed her hand to be wrung while she recovered from her surprise. She was still framing a suitable answer to this bombshell when he gave her back her hand and started for the door.

‘I’ll see about your luggage and put the car away,’ he told her, ‘while you and Professor Wyllie have a chat.’ He turned to the door. ‘You would like some coffee, Miss Proudfoot?’

She nodded and then looked at the elderly gentleman behind the desk. He was smiling, a friendly smile, she was glad to see. ‘Excuse me getting up, girl…I shall call you Eliza if I may—which means that I grow abominably lazy. You came up by car?’

She sat down in the chair he had indicated. ‘Yes,’ and she couldn’t refrain from asking innocently, ‘How else does one get here?’

He grinned. ‘Helicopter?’

‘If I had known that this place was so remote, I might have thought of that.’

He was studying her quietly. ‘It’s beautiful here in the autumn and late spring.’

‘Surely the climate is all wrong for asthma cases?’

He chuckled. ‘That’s part of the exercise. Professor van Duyl and I have established that the stress and strain of modern life are just as much deciding factors in bringing on attacks as the wrong climate—now we need to prove that. We have ten volunteer patients with us—five Dutch, five English, and we intend to test our theory. If it holds water, then it gives us a lead, however slender, in the treatment of the wretched complaint.’

‘Why did you want a nurse, sir?’

‘We want the patients to feel secure—it is remarkable what a nurse’s uniform will do on that score, and you will have work to do—general duties,’ he looked vague—’ and of course you will need to deal with any attacks which may crop up—one or two of the men are cardiac cases, but we will go into all that later. They warned you, I hope, that I’m an asthmatic myself with a touch of cardiac failure—I daresay you will be a lot busier than you think.’

He looked up as the door opened and Professor van Duyl came in, followed by a stocky, middle-aged man bearing a tray set neatly with a large coffee pot, milk, sugar and a selection of mugs. He set it down on a table which Professor van Duyl swept free of papers and books, smiled paternally at her, and disappeared discreetly. She wondered who he was, but as no one volunteered this information, she supposed him to be one of the staff, then forgot him as she poured the coffee.

She learned a good deal during the next hour; she liked Professor Wyllie, even though he did get carried away with his subject from time to time, leaving her a little out of her depth, and as for Professor van Duyl, he treated her with a tolerant amusement which annoyed her very much, while at the same time telling her all she would need to know. It was he who outlined her duties, gave her working hours and explained that the ten patients were housed very comfortably in a Nissen hut, left over from the war, and now suitably heated and furnished to supply a degree of comfort for its inmates.

‘Professor Wyllie and I sleep in this house, and so do those who work with us. We are connected by telephone to both the Nissen hut and your cottage, and although we hope that this will not be necessary, we should expect you to come immediately should you be asked for, day or night.’

She nodded; it seemed fair enough. ‘Is there someone on duty with the patients during the night?’ she wanted to know.

‘No—we believe there to be no need. They have but to telephone for help, neither will it be necessary for you to remain on duty all day; they are all of them up patients—indeed, if they were home, they would be working.’ He looked at Professor Wyllie. ‘Is there anything else you want to talk to Miss Proudfoot about?’ he asked. ‘Would it be a good idea if she were to go over to the cottage and settle in before lunch? You will need her all the afternoon, I take it—she will have to be taken through the case notes.’

Professor Wyllie nodded agreement. ‘A good idea—take her over, Christian, will you? Hub knows she’s here, he’ll be on the lookout presumably. Sheets and things,’ he added vaguely. For a moment he looked quite worried so that Eliza felt constrained to say in a rallying voice: ‘I shall be quite all right, sir. I’ll see you later.’

She walked beside the Dutchman down the hall and out of the door into a light drizzle of rain, casting round in her mind for a topic of conversation to bridge the silence between them, but she could think of nothing, and her companion strode along, deep in his own thoughts, so that she saw that any idea she might have about entertaining him with small talk was quite superfluous. They went round the side of the house and took a narrow muddy path which was overgrown with coarse grass and shrubs. There was a sharp bend in it after only a few yards, and the cottage stood before them. It was very small; a gardener’s house, or perhaps a game-keeper, she thought, looking at its low front door and the small square windows on either side of it.

Her companion produced a key, opened the door and stood aside for her to enter. It gave directly on to the sitting room, a surprisingly cheerful little apartment, with a window at the back and three doors leading from it. Professor van Duyl gave her no time to do more than glance around her, however, but went past her to open one of the doors.

‘Bedroom,’ he explained briefly, ‘bathroom next door, kitchen here.’ He swept open the third door. ‘You will eat with us, of course, although when you have your free days you may do as you wish. There’s a sitting room up at the house which you are welcome to use—there’s television there and books enough. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one—we don’t have tea, but Hub will fix that for you. Supper at eight, but that will depend on how the day has gone.’ He turned to go. ‘Hub will bring your case along in a minute and light the fire for you.’ He eyed her levelly. ‘And don’t get the idea that this a nice easy job—you’ll not only have the patients to see to but a good deal of paper work as well, and remember that you will be at our beck and call whether you’re off duty or not.’

Eliza eyed him coldly in her turn. ‘Charming! I’m not quite sure what you expected, but I’m not up to your expectations, am I? Well, I didn’t expect you and you’re not up to mine—I expected a nice old gentleman like Professor Wyllie, so at least we understand each other, don’t we, Professor?’ She walked towards the bedroom, saying over her shoulder:

‘I’ll see you at lunch. Thank you for bringing me over.’

She didn’t see the little gleam of appreciation in his dark eyes as he went. The door shut gently behind him and she dismissed him from her mind and began to explore her temporary home. It was indeed very small but extremely cosy, the furniture was simple and uncluttered and someone had put a bowl of hyacinths on the little table by one of the two easy chairs. There were nice thick curtains at the windows, she noticed with satisfaction, and a reading lamp as well as a funny old-fashioned lamp hanging from the ceiling. The bedroom was nice too, even smaller than the sitting room and furnished simply with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a mirror, with a shelf by the bed and a stool in one corner. There was no wardrobe or cupboard, though; presumably she would have to hang everything on the hooks behind the bedroom door. The kitchen was a mere slip of a place but adequately fitted out; she wouldn’t need to cook much, anyway, but it would be pleasant to make tea or coffee in the evenings before she went to bed. She was roused from her inspection by the rattle of the door knocker and when she called ‘come in’, the same elderly man who had brought the coffee tray came in with her case. He smiled at her, took it into the bedroom and then went to put a match to the fire laid ready in the tiny grate.

‘I can do that,’ exclaimed Eliza, and when he turned to shake his head at her: ‘You’re Hub, aren’t you? Are you Mr Hub, or is that your Christian name, and are you one of the staff?’

When he answered her she could hear that he wasn’t English, although he spoke fluently enough. ‘Yes, I’m Hub, miss—if you will just call me that—I’m one of the staff, as you say.’ He added a log to the small blaze he had started and got to his feet. ‘You will find tea and sugar and some other groceries in the kitchen cupboard, miss, and if you need anything, will you ask me and I will see that you get it.’

She thanked him and he went away; he was a kind of quartermaster, she supposed, seeing to food and drink and household supplies for all of them; she couldn’t imagine either of the professors bothering their clever heads about such things.

She remembered suddenly that she had promised that she would telephone her mother when she arrived; she would just have time before she went to lunch. She picked up the receiver, not quite believing that there would be anyone there to answer her, but someone did—a man’s voice with a strong Cockney accent, assuring her that he would get the number she wanted right away.

Her mother had a great many questions to ask; Eliza talked until five to one, and then wasn’t finished. With a promise to write that evening, she rang off, ran a comb through her hair, looked at her face in the mirror without doing anything to it because there wasn’t time and went back to the house.

Lunch, she discovered to her surprise, was a formal meal, taken in a comfortably furnished room at a table laid with care with good glass and china and well laundered table linen. There was another man there, of middle height and a little stout, pleasant-faced and in his late forties, she guessed. He was introduced as John Peters, the pharmacist and a Doctor of Science, and although he greeted her pleasantly if somewhat absentmindedly, he had little to say for himself. It was the two professors who sustained the conversation; a pleasant miscellany of this and that, gradually drawing her into the talk as they sampled the excellent saddle of lamb, followed by an apricot upside-down pudding as light as air. Eliza had a second helping and wondered who did the cooking.

They had their coffee round the table, served by Hub, and she had only just finished pouring it when Professor van Duyl remarked smoothly:

‘We should warn you that we start work tomorrow and are unlikely to take our lunch in such comfortable leisure. Indeed, I doubt if we shall meet until the evening—other than at our work, of course. You see, each attack which a patient may have must be recorded, timed and treated—and there are ten patients.’ He smiled at her across the wide table, his head a little on one side, for all the world, she thought indignantly, as though he were warning her that she was there strictly for work and nothing else. The indignation showed on her face, for his smile became mocking and the black eyebrows rose.

‘You have had very little time to unpack,’ he observed with chilling civility, ‘if you like to return to the cottage and come to the office at—let me see…’ he glanced at Professor Wyllie, who nodded his head, ‘half past two, when you will meet the rest of the people who are here before seeing the patients. This evening we can get together over the case notes and explain exactly what has to be done. You have your uniform with you?’

She was a little surprised. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good. May I suggest that you put it on before joining us this afternoon?’

‘Very wise,’ muttered Professor Wyllie, and when she looked at him enquiringly, added hastily: ‘Yes, well…h’m’ and added for no reason at all: ‘You have a raincoat with you too, I trust? The weather in these parts can be bad at this time of year.’ He coughed. ‘You’re a very pretty girl.’

She went back to the cottage after that, poked up the fire and unpacked her few things, then rather resentfully changed into uniform. As she fastened the silver buckle of her petersham belt around her slim waist, she tried to sort out her impressions; so her day had been arranged for her—her free time was presumably to be taken when Professor van Duyl was gracious enough to let her have any. A very arrogant type, she told herself, used to having his own way and bossing everyone around. Well, he had better not try to boss her! She caught up the thick ankle-length cape she had had the foresight to bring with her, huddled into it, and went back to the study. Professor Wyllie was sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, snoring quite loudly. She was debating whether she should go out again and knock really loudly, or sit down and wait for him to wake up, when Professor van Duyl’s voice, speaking softly from somewhere close behind her, made her jump. ‘He will wake presently, Miss Proudfoot—sit down, won’t you?’

But first she turned round to have a look; he was standing quite close with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a pair of spectacles perched on his splendid nose; his dark eyes looked even darker because of them.

She sat, saying nothing, and jumped again when he said: ‘You are very small and—er—slight, Sister.’ He made it sound as though it were a regrettable error on her part.

She didn’t turn round this time. ‘Oh, so that’s why you don’t like me.’

He made an exasperated sound. ‘My dear good girl, I have no personal feelings about you; just as long as you do your job properly while you are here.’

Eliza tossed her pretty head. ‘You really are…’ She spoke in a hissing whisper so that the nice old man behind the desk shouldn’t be disturbed, but he chose that moment to open his eyes, and although he smiled at her with evident pleasure, she thought how tired he looked. She was on the point of saying so, with a recommendation to go to bed early that evening, but he spoke first.

‘Christian, you have the notes sorted out? Good. We’ll deal with those presently.’ He got up. ‘Now, Eliza, if you will come with us.’

He led the way from the room with Eliza behind him and Professor van Duyl shadowing her from behind. They went first to a small, rather poky room where Mr Peters was busy with his pills and phials.

‘Each patient has his own box,’ he told Eliza, ‘clearly marked. Syringes and needles here,’ he indicated two deep enamel trays, ‘injection tray here—for emergency, you understand. Kidney dishes and so on along this shelf. I’ll have them all marked by this evening. I’m on the telephone and you can reach me whenever you want. If I’m not here, young Grimshaw will help you.’

He nodded towards a pleasant-faced young man crammed in a corner, checking stock, and he and Eliza exchanged a smile and a ‘Hi’, before she was led away to what must, at one time, have been the drawing room of the house. It had several tables and desks in it now and a small switchboard. ‘Harry,’ said Professor Wyllie, waving a friendly hand, ‘sees to the telephone—house and outside line. Bert here does the typing and reports and so on and sees to the post.’ He crossed the room and opened another door. ‘And this is Doctor Berrevoets, our Path Lab man—does the microscopic work, works out trial injections and all that. He’s Dutch, of course.’

Unmistakably so, with a face like a Rembrandt painting, all crags and lines, with pale blue eyes and fringe of grey hair encircling a large head. He made some friendly remark to Eliza, and his English, although fluent, was decidedly foreign. She thought him rather nice, but they didn’t stay long with him, but went back the way they had come while Professor Wyllie explained that they all slept in the house and that should she ever need help of any kind, any one of them would be only too glad to assist her. He flung open another door as he spoke. ‘The kitchen,’ he was vague again; obviously it was a department which had no interest for him at all. Hub was there, pressing a pair of trousers on the corner of the kitchen table, and another man with a cheerful face was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. Eliza smiled at Hub, whom she already regarded as an old friend, and walked over to the sink.

‘Did you cook lunch?’ she wanted to know.

He had a rich Norfolk accent as well as a cheerful face. ‘I did, miss—was it to your liking?’

‘Super. Are you a Cordon Bleu or something like that?’

He grinned. ‘No such luck, miss, but I’m glad you liked it.’

Outside in the dusty hall again, Professor van Duyl said blandly: ‘Well, now that you have the staff eating out of your hand, Sister, we might settle to work.’

She didn’t even bother to answer this unkind observation. ‘Who does the housework?’ she enquired, and was pleased to see the uncertainty on their learned faces. ‘Who washes up and makes the beds and dusts and runs the place?’

They looked at each other and Professor van Duyl said seriously: ‘You see that size has nothing to do with it, after all. Motherly, we said, did we not?’

His elderly colleague reminded him wickedly, ‘No looks, and not young.’

Eliza listened composedly. ‘So I’m not what you expected? But excepting for my size, I am, you know. I can be motherly when necessary and I—I’m not young.’ She swallowed bravely. ‘You are both quite well aware that I am getting on for twenty-nine.’

Professor Wyllie took her hand and patted it. ‘My dear child, we are two rude, middle-aged men who should know better. You will suit us admirably, of that I am quite sure.’

He trotted away down the hall, taking her with him. ‘Now, as a concession to you, we will have a cup of tea before visiting the patients.’

Hub must have known about the tea, for he appeared a moment later with a tray of tea things. ‘Only biscuits this afternoon,’ he apologised in his quaint but fluent English, ‘but Fred will make scones for you tomorrow, miss.’

Eliza thanked him and poured the tea, and looking up, caught Professor van Duyl’s eyes staring blackly at her; they gleamed with inimical amusement and for some reason she felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t added his own apologies to those of his elder colleague.

The Nissen hut was quite close to the house, hidden behind a thick, overgrown hedge of laurel. It looked dreary enough from the outside, but once through its door she saw how mistaken she had been, for it had been divided into ten cubicles, with a common sitting room at the end, and near the door, shower rooms, and opposite those a small office, which it appeared was for her use. She would be there, explained Professor van Duyl, from eight in the morning until one o’clock, take her free time until half past four and then return on duty until eight in the evening.

‘The hours will be elastic, of course,’ he told her smoothly, ‘it may not be necessary for you to remain for such long periods as these and we hope that there will be no need for you to be called at night.’

She looked away from him. What had she taken on, in heaven’s name? And not a word about days off—she would want to know about that, but now hardly seemed to be the time to ask.

She met the patients next; they were sitting round in the common room reading and playing cards and talking, and although they all wore the rather anxious expression anyone with asthma develops over the years, they were remarkably cheerful. She was introduced to them one by one, filing their names away in her sharp, well-trained mind while she glanced around her, taking in the undoubted comfort of the room. Warm curtains here, too and a log fire in the hearth, TV in one corner and well stocked bookshelves and comfortable chairs arranged on the wooden floor with its scattering of bright rugs.

‘Any improvements you can suggest?’ asked Professor Wyllie in a perfunctory tone, obviously not expecting an answer.

‘Yes,’ she said instantly. ‘Someone—there must be a local woman—to come and clean each day. I could write my name in the dust on the stairs,’ she added severely. ‘The Nissen hut’s all right, I suppose the patients do the simple chores so that you can exclude any allergies.’

Both gentlemen were looking at her with attention tinged with respect.

‘Quite right,’ it was the Dutchman who answered her. ‘They aren’t to come into the house. For a certain period each day they will take exercise out of doors, under supervision, and naturally they will be subjected to normal house conditions.’ He smiled with a charm which made her blink. ‘I am afraid that we have been so engrossed in getting our scheme under way for our ten cases that we rather overlooked other things. I’ll see if Hub can find someone to come up and clean as you suggest.’ He added politely: ‘Do you wish for domestic help in the cottage?’

Eliza gave him a scornful look. ‘Heavens, no—it won’t take me more than half an hour each day.’

As they went back to the study she reflected that it might be rather fun after all, but she was allowed no leisure for her own thoughts, but plunged into the details of the carefully drawn up timetable.

As the time slid by, Eliza saw that she was going to be busier than she had first supposed. Only ten patients, it was true, and those all up and able to look after themselves, but if one or more of them had an attack, he would need nursing; besides that, each one of them had to be checked meticulously, TPR taken twice a day, observed, charted, exercised and fed the correct diet. There would be exercises too, and a walk each day. She asked intelligent questions of Professor van Duyl and quite forgot that she didn’t like him in the deepening interest she felt for the scheme. It was later, when the last case had been assessed, discussed and tidily put away in its folder, that Professor Wyllie said:

‘There’s me, you know. They did tell you?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I’m not much use if I start an attack, I can tell you—you’ll have to act sharpish if it gets too bad. Got a nasty left ventricular failure that doesn’t stand up too well…’

She answered him with quiet confidence. ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll keep a sharp eye on you. Do you carry anything around with you or do I have to fetch it from Doctor Peters?’

‘Got it with me, Eliza—waistcoat pocket; usually manage to get at it myself before it gets too bad.’

‘You’re not part of the experiment?’ she asked.

‘Lord, no. Couldn’t be bothered—besides, I’m a bit past such things.’ He laughed quite cheerfully although his blue eyes were wistful.

‘Come, come,’ she said in the half-wheedling, half-bracing tones she might have used towards one of her own patients, quite forgetting that this nice old man was an important and learned member of his profession and not merely someone who needed his morale boosted. ‘That’s no way to talk, and you a doctor, too.’

‘Motherly,’ murmured Professor van Duyl, and she detected the faint trace of a sneer in his voice. ‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Sister?’

He was dismissing her and she resented it, but she got to her feet.

‘Not at present, thanks. I should like to go back to my office—if I may?’ She didn’t look at him but at Professor Wyllie, who dismissed her with a wave of his hand and ‘Dinner at eight o’clock, Eliza.’

The rest of the day she spent with the patients, getting to know them, and when their supper was brought over from the house she served it, just as she would have done if she had been on her own ward at St Anne’s. It was almost eight o’clock by the time she got back to the cottage, to find that someone had been in to mend the fire and turn on the table lamp. She tidied herself perfunctorily because she was getting tired, and huddled in her cloak once more, picked up her torch and went up to the house.

The dining room seemed full of men with glasses in their hands. They stopped talking when she went in and stared as Professor van Duyl crossed the room towards her. She eyed him warily, expecting some nasty remark about being late, but she couldn’t have been more mistaken; he was the perfect host. She was given a glass of sherry, established beside him, and presently found herself surrounded by most of the men in the room. She had already met them all that afternoon, but there were three missing, someone told her; Harry, the telephonist, who was on duty, Hub and Fred the cook. They would, they assured her, take it in turns to man the switchboard each evening, and what did she think of the local scenery and did she know that there wasn’t a shop for miles around, and how long had she been a nurse?

She answered them all readily enough, but presently excused herself and made her way over to the fireplace, where Professor Wyllie was sitting in a large chair, talking to Doctor Peters, who smiled at Eliza nicely as he strolled away. She perched herself on a stool in front of the old man.

‘I wanted to tell you that I think I’m going to like this job very much. I spent an hour or so in the hut—what a nice lot of men they are, and so keen to cooperate. It’s all rather different from Men’s Medical, though. I hope I’ll do.’ She looked at him a little anxiously.

‘Of course you’ll do, girl—couldn’t have chosen better myself.’

Her lovely eyes widened. ‘But I thought it was you…’

He chuckled. ‘Let me explain.’ And he did. ‘So you see, Christian was a little taken aback when you arrived. He was so certain that Eliza Proudfoot would live up to her name—a worthy woman with no looks worth mentioning and—er—mature.’

‘Motherly, buxom and tough,’ murmured Eliza.

‘Exactly. And instead of that he opens the door on to a fairy creature who looks incapable of rolling a bandage.’

‘Is that why he doesn’t like me?’

The innocent blue eyes became even more so. ‘Does he not? He hasn’t said so; indeed, he agreed with me that you will suit us admirably—a nice sharp mind and the intelligence to use it, and not afraid to speak out.’ He chuckled gently, then went on seriously. ‘I must explain that Christian is engaged to be married to a very…’ he hesitated, ‘high-minded girl—never puts a foot wrong, the perfect wife, I should imagine, and very good-looking if you like her kind of looks.’ He glanced at her. ‘That’s why he chose you, you see. We had a list of names; yours was the only…’ he paused again. ‘Well, girl, it’s a plain sort of name isn’t it? but if you will forgive me for saying so, it hardly matches your delightful person. It was a shock to him.’

‘Well, that’s all right,’ Eliza declared in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He was a shock to me and I don’t like him either, though of course I’ll work for him just as though I did.’

‘Honest girl.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, let us eat our dinner and you shall tell me all the latest news about St Anne’s.’

Dinner was a gay affair because she sat beside Professor Wyllie and Professor van Duyl was at the other end, at the foot of the table. Although she tried not to, every now and then she glanced at him and caught his eyes upon her in an unfriendly stare, his dark face unsmiling. It spurred her on to make special efforts to amuse her companions at table, and by the time they were drinking their coffee, the laughter around her was evident of her success. But she didn’t allow this pleasant state of affairs to swamp her common sense; at exactly the right moment she bade everyone a quiet good night and beat an unassuming retreat. But not a solitary one; Professor van Duyl got to the door—despite the fact that he had been at the other end of the room—a fraction of a second ahead of her, and not only opened it but accompanied her through it. She paused just long enough to catch up her cloak and torch from a chair.

‘Thank you, sir,’ her voice was pleasantly friendly, if cool, ‘I have a torch with me. Good night.’

He took it from her, gently, and opened the house door. It was pitch dark outside and cold, and she felt thankful that it wasn’t raining, for her cap, a muslin trifle, lavishly frilled, would have been ruined. As they turned the corner of the house she slowed her pace. ‘I’m going over to the hut to say good night,’ she informed him. ‘I said that I would.’

He made no answer, merely changed his direction, and when they reached the hut, opened the door for her and followed her inside.

The men were glad to see her; they were, to her surprise, glad to see her companion too. He seemed a different man all at once—almost, one might say, the life and soul of the party, and his manner towards herself changed too; he was careful to let them all see that she was now a member of the team, to be relied upon, trusted and treated with respect; she was grateful to him for that. It struck her then that whether she liked him or not, she was going to enjoy working for him.

They stayed for half an hour while Eliza made sure that they were all comfortable for the night; that they understood what they were to do if any one of them started to wheeze. ‘I’ll be over before I go to breakfast in the morning,’ she assured them. ‘Good night, everyone.’

They left the hut followed by a chorus of good nights and walked in silence to the cottage, and Professor van Duyl unlocked the door for her.

‘Someone came in while I was away and made up the fire,’ she told him. ‘It was kind of them.’

‘Hub—I asked him to. I have a key which I keep in my possession, and I hope that you will do the same.’

‘Of course. Good night, Professor.’ The little lamp on the coffee table cast a rosy glow over her, so that she looked prettier than ever.

He said austerely, ‘And you will be good enough to lock your door when you are in the cottage, Miss Proudfoot.’

‘Well, of course I shall—at night time, at any rate.’

‘During the day also.’

‘But that’s a bit silly!’ She watched his mouth thin with annoyance.

‘Miss Proudfoot, I am seldom silly. You will do as you are told.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ she exclaimed crossly, and without saying good night, went into the cottage and shut the door. She had been in the room perhaps fifteen seconds when she heard the faint tapping on the back window of the sitting room. A branch, she told herself firmly, then remembered that when she had looked out of the window during the afternoon, there had been no tree within tapping distance. It came again, urgent and persistent. She ran to the door and flung it open, and in a voice a little shrill with fright, called: ‘Oh, please come back! There’s something—someone…’