Читать книгу Off with the Old Love - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

THE OPERATION, a lengthy one, was, to all intents and purposes, over.

The man who had been bending over the still figure on the table for two hours or more straightened himself to his great height, spoke a few words to his registrar facing him, made sure that the anaesthetist was satisfied, peeled off his gloves and turned to his theatre sister.

‘Thanks, Sister. I believe we caught him in time.’ His voice was deep and quiet and rather slow and there were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes because he was smiling beneath his mask.

Rachel handed a needle holder to the registrar and a pair of scissors to the house surgeon assisting him. She said, ‘Yes, sir, I’m glad,’ and meant it. It had been a finicky case and she had watched Professor van Teule patiently cutting and snipping and plying his needle in his usual calm fashion. If he hadn’t been successful she would have been genuinely upset; she had worked for him for two years now and they got on splendidly together. He was a first-rate surgeon, a brilliant teacher and a stickler for perfection, all of which he concealed under a laconic manner which new house surgeons sometimes mistook for too easy-going a nature, an error they quickly discovered for themselves. Rachel liked him and admired him; they had a pleasant relationship at work but where he lived or what kind of a life he led away from the operating theatre she had no idea, nor had she ever bothered to find out. His tall vast person, his handsome face and his pleasant voice were as familiar to her as the cloak she wrapped around herself going on and off duty: comfortable and nice to have around but taken for granted.

She nodded to one of the theatre nurses now and the girl slipped out of the theatre behind the Professor to take his gown and mask and warn Dolly, the theatre maid, that he would want his coffee. It was the last case on the morning’s list and he had a teaching round at two o’clock. It was going on for one o’clock already and Rachel, with three brothers, had grown up with the conviction that a man needed to be fed regularly.

The registrar cast down his needle and put out a hand for the dressing and then stood back. ‘You do it, Rachel. You’re handy at it.’

He pulled off his gloves. ‘That was a nice bit of needlework,’ he commented. ‘If ever I’m unlucky enough to be mown down by a corporation dustcart, I hope it’ll be the Professor who is around to join the bits together again.’

‘Refuse collector,’ said Rachel, a stickler for the right word, ‘and don’t be morbid, George, you’ll frighten Billy.’

She twinkled at the young house surgeon as she arranged the dressing just so and then stood away from the table while the patient was wheeled away to the recovery room.

‘Coffee?’ she asked, taking off her mask and gloves and standing still for one of the nurses to untie her gown. ‘It’ll be in the office…’

She went over to where her staff nurse was supervising the clearing away of the used instruments. She was a young woman, but older than herself, a widow with two children at school, and her firm friend.

‘Norah, I’ll be in the office. Professor van Teule wants his next list altered; I’ll try and pin him down to doing it now before he disappears. Send Nurse Smithers to her dinner, will you? And Nurse Walters. Mr Sims’s list isn’t until two-thirty and we’ve got Mrs Pepys coming on at two o’clock.’

They exchanged speaking looks—Mrs Pepys, one of the part-time staff nurses, was tiresome and gave herself airs, talking down to the student nurses and reminding them all far too often that she was married to a descendant of the famous Samuel. ‘We’ll go to second dinner—at least, you go on time and ask them to keep mine for me, will you? And you scrub for the first case, I’ll take the second and Mrs Pepys can take the third,’—Rachel’s pretty face assumed a look of angelic innocence—‘ingrowing toenails!’

A subdued bellow from the other end of the theatre corridor gave her no time to say more. She joined the Professor and his colleagues in her office and listened without rancour while the registrar and Dr Carr, the anaesthetist, made pointed remarks about women gossiping.

‘Go on with you,’ said Rachel mildly, on the best of terms with them both, and poured her coffee and then replenished the Professor’s mug.

He was sitting on a quite inadequate chair which creaked alarmingly under his weight. ‘That will give way one day,’ she pointed out kindly. ‘Won’t you sit in mine, sir?’

‘Only when you are not here, Rachel.’ He watched her settle in her own chair. ‘And now, this list of mine…’

They discussed the changes amicably. The Professor did not offer his reasons for starting his list at eight o’clock in the morning in three days’ time, nor did Rachel evince the slightest curiosity as to why he expected her to struggle with her nurses’ off duty rota and juggle it to suit. He took it for granted that she was prepared to be scrubbed and ready for him at an hour when she was usually in her office, coping with paperwork while her nurses got the theatre ready.

He got up to go presently, taking his registrar and the house surgeon with him. At the door he turned to ask casually, ‘Your weekend off, Rachel?’

‘Yes. The theatre’s closed for cleaning, sir.’

He nodded. ‘Well, enjoy yourself.’

He wandered off to cast a sharp eye over his patient in the recovery room and Rachel began to enter details of the day’s work into her day book, dismissing him completely from her mind.

That done, she went along to theatre, to find Norah on the point of going to her dinner and the two junior nurses back on duty. She spent the next half-hour instructing them; they were very new to theatre work and a little scared and clumsy, but they were keen and they admired her hugely. A highly successful lesson was brought to its end by the appearance of Mrs Pepys, looking, as always, far too good for her surroundings. She bade Rachel good day and ignored the nurses.

‘Hello,’ said Rachel. ‘We’ve laid up for the first case—staff’s back in a few minutes, she’ll scrub. You lay for the second case, please, and take the third…’ She paused on her way to the door. ‘Ingrowing toenails.’

Mrs Pepys’ exquisitely made-up face screwed itself into distaste. ‘Sister, must I?’

Rachel’s thick dark brows lifted. ‘Staff’s off duty early, I’ve a pile of book work, but if you don’t feel you can cope…’

‘Of course I can cope, Sister.’ Mrs Pepys was furious at having her capabilities questioned but she didn’t say so. Rachel was a calm, good-tempered girl, slow to anger and kind-hearted, but she was also a strict theatre sister and her tongue, once she was roused, had a nasty cutting edge to it.

With the two nurses safely in the anaesthetic room, making it ready, and Mrs Pepys huffily collecting instrument packs ready to lay up the second case, Rachel went off to her dinner.

There were only two other sisters still in the dining room: Lucy Wilson from the accident room, who, since accidents never occurred to fit in with the day’s routine, was seldom at meals when everyone else was, and Sister Chalk, verging on retirement but still bearing the reputation of being a peppery tyrant. Rachel, who had trained under her on Men’s Medical, still treated her with caution.

Conversation, such as it was, was confined largely to Sister Chalk’s pithy opinion of the modern nurse, with Lucy and Rachel murmuring from time to time while they gobbled fish pie—always fish on Fridays—and something called a semolina shape. Presently they excused themselves and went their different ways. Dolly would have put a tray of tea in the office and Rachel, with five minutes to spare, was intent on reaching it as quickly as possible.

She took the short cut along the semi-basement passage, thus avoiding the visitors who would be pouring into the entrance hall and the wards, then took the stairs at the end two at a time to teeter on the top tread as Professor van Teule, appearing from the ground under her feet, put out a large arm to steady her.

‘Oh, hello, sir,’ said Rachel and beamed at him. He towered over her, but, since she was a big girl herself and tall, she had never let his size worry her. ‘Short cut, you know.’

‘I often use it myself,’ he told her placidly and let her go. He stood aside so that she could pass him and with another smile and a nod she started off along the passage which would bring her out in the theatre wing. He stood and watched her go, his face impassive, before he trod down the stairs.

Rachel hadn’t given him a second thought; she had five minutes more of her dinner time still. She hurried into her office, saw with satisfaction that the tea tray was on her desk, and stationed herself before the small square of mirror on the wall, the better to powder her nose and tidy her hair beneath her frilled cap. Her reflection was charming: big dark eyes, a straight nose—a little too long for beauty—and a generous mouth, the whole framed in glossy dark brown hair, wound into a thick plaited bun. She pulled a face at herself, rammed a hairpin firmly into place and sailed into the corridor on her way to theatre, where Norah was dealing competently with Mrs Pepys’s airs and graces and the junior nurses’ efforts to be helpful. There was a good ten minutes in hand. The two staff nurses joined her for tea and then went back to theatre so that the two student nurses might have theirs.

Rachel settled down to her desk work, interrupted almost at once by the arrival of Mr Sims and the anaesthetist who, of course, wanted tea as well. They were joined presently by Billy, who, since there was no more tea in the pot, contented himself with the biscuits left in the tin.

‘What is the first case, Rachel?’ asked Mr Sims, who knew quite well.

‘That PP—left inguinal hernia. Norah’s scrubbing.’

‘I want you scrubbed for the second case.’

‘Yes, I know, sir,’ said Rachel tranquilly. ‘It’s that nasty perf.’

‘And the last?’ Mr Sims was a shade pompous but he always was.

‘Ingrowing toenail. Mrs Pepys will scrub.’ She added, ‘Is Billy doing it?’

‘Good idea. That will allow me to leave George to keep an eye on him.’

The afternoon went well with none of the hold-ups which so often lengthened a list. Norah went off duty at four o’clock, and the heavy second case was dealt with by five o’clock, leaving Billy to tackle the ingrowing toenail. By six o’clock everyone but Rachel and one nurse had gone and, leaving her colleague to finish cleaning the theatre and readying it for the night, Rachel sat down once more to finish her books. She would be off duty at eight o’clock and had every intention of driving home that evening. She allowed her thoughts to stray to the two days ahead of her and sighed with anticipatory pleasure before finishing her neat entries.

She had a bed-sitting room in the nurses’ home because, although she would have preferred to live out, there was always the chance that she might be needed on duty unexpectedly. She sped there as soon as she had handed over the keys to the night staff nurse, and tore into the clothes she had put ready—a tweed skirt and a sweater, for the evenings were still chilly at the end of March—snatched up a jacket and her overnight bag, and, pausing only long enough to exchange a word here and there with such of her friends as were off duty, hurried down to the car park where her car, an elderly small Fiat, stood in company with the souped-up vehicles favoured by the younger housemen and divided by a thin railing from the consultants’ BMWs, Mercedes and Bentleys. As she got into the Fiat she glanced across to their stately ranks; Professor van Teule’s Rolls Royce wasn’t there. Fleetingly, she wondered where it was and then dismissed the thought as she concentrated on getting out of London and on to the M3 as quickly as possible.

Her home was in Hampshire, some fifty miles distant—a pleasant old house on the edge of the village of Wherwell, with a deep thatched roof and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers in which her mother delighted. She had never lived anywhere else; her father had been the doctor there for thirty years and, since her eldest brother intended to join him in the practice, she supposed that it would always be home.

The streets were fairly empty and Rachel made good time. Once on the M3, she pushed the little car to its limit until she came to the end of the motorway and took the Andover road, to turn off at the crossroads by Harewood Forest. She was almost home now. She drove through the quiet village and presently saw the lights of her home.

She turned in at the open gateway and stopped at the side of the house. Her father had the kitchen door open before she had got out of the car and she went joyfully into the warmth of the room beyond. Her mother was there and her eldest brother, Tom.

‘Darling! So nice to see you.’ Her mother gave her a great hug. ‘You’ll want your supper…’

Her father kissed her cheek. ‘Had a good trip from the hospital?’ he wanted to know. ‘You look very well.’

Tom gave her a brotherly slap. ‘Revoltingly healthy,’ he pronounced, ‘and putting on weight, too.’

‘No—am I? There’s too much of me already.’ She grinned cheerfully at his teasing. ‘How are Edward and Nick?’

‘Doing well.’ It was her father who answered. ‘Edward’s done excellently in his exams and Nick’s settling down nicely.’

They had sat down at the old-fashioned table with its Windsor chairs at each end and the smaller wheel-backs, three each side. They were joined by Mutt, the labrador, and Everett, the family cat, who sat quietly while they had the soup and cold ham, taking a long time over them for there was so much to talk about.

‘How’s Natalie?’ Rachel wanted to know, passing her cup for more tea.

‘Fine. She’s coming over tomorrow.’ Tom had got engaged to a girl in the next village—the vet’s daughter and someone they had all known for most of their lives. ‘How about your Melville?’

Melville was a producer in television and it was because of him that Rachel neither noticed nor encouraged the advances of quite a few of the medical staff at the hospital. She was quite prepared to be friendly but that was all; she was wholly loyal to Melville and, being a modest girl, had never quite got over her delight and surprise when he had made it clear, after they had met at a party, that he considered her to be his. True, he hadn’t mentioned getting married, but he took her out and about, sent her flowers and, when she had firmly refused to spend a weekend at Brighton with him, had taken her refusal with good grace and no hard feelings. Indeed, he had somehow made her feel rather silly about it and she was honest enough to agree with him. She was, after all, twenty-five and sensible. Too sensible, perhaps. She smiled. ‘Up to his eyes in work but he’s collecting me for a drink on Sunday evening. I’ve got to be back because Professor van Teule wants to operate at eight o’clock on Monday morning.’

Her father lifted an eyebrow. ‘Working you hard? Something tricky?’

‘No, the usual list—most of his cases are tricky, anyway. I expect he wants to get away early.’

‘You like working for him still, darling?’ asked her mother.

‘Oh, yes. He’s always good-natured and easy—we get on famously.’

Her mother gave an inward regretful sigh. She had met Melville only once, and she hadn’t taken to him. This Professor sounded nice—he would be married, of course, and probably middle-aged… She asked, ‘How old is he?’

Rachel bit into an apple. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea? Anything between thirty-five and forty-five, I suppose. I’ve never looked to see.’

They cleared the supper dishes and then, since it was now late, went to bed.

The weekend went too quickly. Rachel, country born and bred, wondered for the hundredth time what on earth had possessed her to choose a job which forced her to live in London. But she had never wanted to do anything else and her family had let her go at eighteen to train at one of the big London teaching hospitals and made a great success of it, too. They were proud of her, although her mother’s pride was thinned by the wish that Rachel would marry, but she never mentioned this.

Rachel drove back after tea; Melville wouldn’t be free until half-past eight and she had plenty of time. It was a blustery evening and there was little traffic, even on the motorway. She parked the Fiat and made her way to her room where she changed into a dark brown suit and a crêpe blouse and exchanged her sensible low-heeled shoes for high heels. Melville liked well-dressed women; indeed, he didn’t care for her job since, as he explained to her in his well modulated voice, it necessitated her wearing the most outlandish clothes.

‘Well, I’d look a fool tripping round the theatre in high heels and a smart hat,’ Rachel had pointed out reasonably, not really believing him.

She had ten minutes to spare; she nipped along to the little pantry the sisters shared in their corridor and found Lucy making tea. Melville had said drinks, which probably meant nothing but bits and pieces to eat with them and she had had no supper. ‘Mother gave me a fruit cake,’ she said. ‘Bring that pot of tea with you and have a slice.’

Lucy followed her back to her room and kicked the door shut. ‘Going out? It’s a beastly night but I suppose Melville will see you don’t get cold and wet. I like the shoes—new, aren’t they?’

Rachel agreed guiltily. Since she had started going out with Melville she had spent more on clothes than she could afford, and they were the kind of clothes she wouldn’t normally have bought. Her taste ran to tweed suits and simply cut jersey dresses with an occasional splurge on something glamorous for the hospital ball or some special occasion.

She drank her tea and gobbled up her cake. ‘I must fly…’ She took a last look in the mirror and Lucy said laughingly, ‘Do him good to be kept waiting, and you needn’t bother to prink; you look good in an old sack.’

Rachel gave her jacket a tug. ‘I’m getting fat,’ she worried. ‘It doesn’t notice because I’m tall, but it will—Melville doesn’t like fat girls.’

‘You’re not fat.’ Lucy picked up the teapot, preparatory to departing to her own room. ‘Just generously curved. There is a difference. Have fun, love.’

Melville’s car wasn’t in the forecourt. Rachel peered round hoping to see him and then took a backward step back into the entrance hall. Her heel landed on something yielding and she turned sharply to find herself face to face with Professor van Teule’s solid front.

She said guiltily, ‘I’m so sorry—have I hurt you badly? I had no idea…’

He glanced down at his elegantly shod foot. ‘I scarcely noticed.’ He eyed her deliberately. ‘You’re very smart. Going out for the evening? If he’s not here you’d better come inside—you’ll catch a cold standing here.’

She obeyed his matter-of-fact advice, and, when he enquired if she had had a pleasant weekend, said that yes, she had. ‘But over too soon—it always is.’ She glanced at his placid face. ‘Is there a case in theatre? You’re here…’

‘There was. I’m on my way home.’

She hardly heard him. Melville’s Porsche had stopped outside and he was opening the entrance door and coming towards them. She half glanced at the Professor, a polite goodbye on her tongue, only he wasn’t going away; he stood, completely at ease, watching Melville who caught her hand and cried, ‘Darling, I’m late. Do forgive me—I got caught up at the studio. You know how it is.’

She said hello and added almost crossly, ‘This is Professor van Teule—I work for him. Professor, this is Melville Grant—he’s in television.’

‘How very interesting,’ observed the Professor. ‘How do you do, Mr Grant.’ He didn’t shake hands, only smiled in a sleepy way and patted Rachel on a shoulder. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your free evening.’

He went on standing there, so that after a minute Rachel murmured a goodbye and went to the door with Melville at her heels.

It shouldn’t have been like that, she thought peevishly—he should have walked away instead of seeing them off the premises like a benevolent uncle.

Melville opened the car door for her with something of a flourish. He gave a quick glance behind him as he did so to see if the Professor was watching. He was.

‘Sleepy kind of chap, Professor What’s-his-name. Don’t know that I’d care to have him nod off over my appendix or whatever.’

Womanlike, Rachel sprang at once to the defence of the man who had annoyed her. ‘You couldn’t have a better surgeon,’ she declared roundly, ‘and he’s far too busy to do appendicectomies—he specialises in complicated abdominal surgery and he’s marvellous with severe internal injuries; even when it seems hopeless, he…’

Melville drove out of the forecourt. ‘My dear girl, spare me the gruesome details, I beg you. Tell me, did you have a happy time with your family? I can see that it did you good, you’re more beautiful than ever.’

Something any girl would like to hear and, to a girl in love, doubly welcome. ‘Lovely, but far too short.’

He had turned the car in the direction of the West End. ‘I thought we might have a drink…’ He named a fashionable club. ‘I had dinner with the producer and you will have had a meal, of course.’

Rachel had her mouth open to say that she hadn’t but she had no chance to speak, for he went on, ‘There’s a party next week—you simply must come, darling. Buy yourself something eye-catching; everyone who’s anyone will be there.’

She thought guiltily of the dresses she had bought in the last few months, worn a few times and then pushed to the back of the wardrobe because Melville had hinted, oh, so nicely, that to be seen more than a couple of times in the same dress just wasn’t on. She said quietly, ‘I’ll have no chance to go shopping and I’ll be too whacked to go to any parties.’ She turned to smile at him. ‘You’ll have to find another girl, Melville.’

She had meant it as a joke; his easy, ‘It looks as though I’ll have to,’ took her by uneasy surprise. She spent the next minute or two mentally reviewing the next week’s lists and the off-duty rota. It was take-in week, too; there was no way in which she could alter the unalterable schedule.

‘Well, let’s worry about it later,’ said Melville and parked the car.

The club was brightly lit and very full. It was also elegantly furnished. They were ushered to a table a little to one side and Melville at once began to point out the well-known people around them. When a waiter came he turned to Rachel. ‘You need bucking up, darling. How about vodka?’

She could hardly mention her empty stomach. Instead she murmured that it gave her a headache and could she have a long cold drink?

Melville shrugged in tolerant good humour. ‘Of course, my sweet. What shall it be?’

‘Tonic with lemon and ice, please.’ She sat back and looked around her. The suit she was wearing had no chance against the ultra-chic women there, but that didn’t worry her overmuch, just as long as Melville liked what she wore.

Their drinks came and with them a dish of crudités, some salted nuts and potato straws. None of them filling, but better than nothing. She nibbled a few carrot sticks and crunched a potato straw while Melville turned his head to wave to an acquaintance. He turned back presently and began on a long and amusing story about the production he was working on. He was handsome and entertaining and paid her extravagant compliments which she never quite believed. Not that that mattered, for he was in love with her; he had told her so many times. One day he would ask her to marry him and she was sure she would say yes. Her eyes shone at the thought so that Melville paused in what he was saying; she really was a remarkably pretty girl, although she was proving disappointingly stubborn about taking more time off. ‘Let’s go somewhere and dance?’ he suggested.

She said with real regret, ‘Oh, Melville, I can’t. We start work at eight o’clock tomorrow morning and I’ll have to be on duty before then.’

He frowned and then laughed and caught her hand. ‘You really are the most ridiculous girl I’ve ever met. I could get you a part in my next production, or find you some modelling work, but you choose to spend your days in your revolting operating theatre.’

‘I don’t want to do anything else. It’s not revolting, either.’

He picked up her hand and kissed it. ‘You dear creature, so earnest. Tell you what, I’ll pick you up tomorrow evening when you’re off duty and we’ll go somewhere and have a meal.’

‘It’s take-in week. I might get held up, but I’d love that. Somewhere where I won’t need to dress up, Melville.’

‘The nearest Lyons,’ he assured her laughingly. ‘And now, before you say it, you want to get back, don’t you? Duty calls and so on.’

They took some time to get out of the club; Melville stopped so many times to greet people he knew. Rachel felt very proud of him. Sometimes, but not always, he introduced her with a casual, ‘Meet Rachel,’ and she smiled at faces which showed no interest in her and listened politely to what they had to say, although none of it made much sense to her.

At the hospital he leaned over and opened her door and then kissed her. ‘I won’t get out, darling,’ he told her. ‘I must go back to the office and work for a while.’

She was instantly worried. ‘Oh, not because you took me out?’ she wanted to know. ‘Now you’ll have to stay up late working…’

‘I’d stay up all night for you, darling.’ He smiled as he closed the door and with a wave shot away.

Rachel went to her room, made a pot of tea, ate the rest of the cake and put her uniform ready for the morning. Lying in a hot bath she mulled over her evening; it had been delightful, of course, because Melville had been with her, but hunger had taken the gilt off the gingerbread. It was a pity, she mused, that she was in love with a man who didn’t always remember to ask her if she were hungry, while there were several young men on the medical staff who would have whisked her off to the nearest café for a meal at her merest hint… She frowned. It was strange that, whereas she would have no hesitation in telling any one of them that she was hungry, she found herself unable to tell Melville.

She got into bed, meaning to lie and think about him. He was very good-looking, she reflected sleepily, not tall but always so beautifully turned out. He wore his dark hair rather long and his voice was soft and his speech clipped. On the edge of sleep, she found herself comparing it with Professor van Teule’s deep slow tones—not a bit alike, the two of them; the professor was twice the size for a start…

The Professor walked into the theatre at exactly eight o’clock and Rachel, however easygoing his manner was, had taken care to have everything ready. Sidney, the theatre technician, was standing ready, her nurses were positioned where they would be most required, Dr Carr and his patient were there, the latter already nicely under, and she herself stood, relaxed with her trolleys around her. He bade everyone good morning and she watched his casual glance taking everything in; he expected perfection and she took care that he got it. George and Billy had taken up their places and the Professor waited quietly while they arranged sterile sheets round the patient before putting out a hand for a scalpel.

It would be a lengthy operation—a gastroduodenostomy—but since most of the Professor’s work was major surgery, involving all the clap-trap modern methods could devise, Rachel went placidly ahead with what was required of her, by no means disturbed by the paraphernalia around her. She sent the nurses in turn to their coffee, and then Norah, and when at last the Professor stood back from the table, she nodded to the nurse nearest the door to warn Dolly that coffee would be a welcome break.

The patient borne carefully away, the other men followed the Professor and Rachel stripped off her gown and gloves, made sure that Norah was laying up for the next case, and went along to her office. There was no room for them all, but somehow they fitted themselves in and left her chair empty. She poured the coffee and handed round the biscuit tin and, since the Professor had already had his, handed him the patient’s notes when he asked for them. He sat hunched up on the radiator, writing up the details of the operation, while the others discussed where they hoped to go for their holidays.

‘What about you, Rachel?’ asked Dr Carr.

George grinned across at her. ‘Oh, our Rachel will be on her honeymoon—somewhere exotic.’

She coloured at that although she answered matter-of-factly, ‘Chance is a fine thing—I can’t very well have a honeymoon without a husband.’

She was aware that the Professor had stopped writing and was looking at her but she didn’t look at him. Although she had to when he asked casually, ‘Did you have a pleasant evening, Rachel?’

The look was grateful; it gave the conversation a turn in a different direction. She didn’t mind being teased in the least—three brothers had inured her to that—but somehow she was shy of talking about Melville.

‘Lovely,’ she told him. ‘We went to a club—I’ve forgotten its name—and it was full of beautiful models and the kind of people you see on the TV.’ She put down her mug. ‘I’ll see if they are ready for you, sir.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘We’re behind time. George, I may have to leave the last case to you, but I’ll be in this evening.’ He got to his feet and went unhurriedly to scrub.

The morning wore on. The nurses went in turn to their dinners and two of them went off duty. Norah, back from her own dinner, was laying up in the second theatre for the afternoon list, a short one—dentals—which she would take and then go off duty for the evening. Rachel had intended taking an afternoon off, but as the hands of the clock crept towards two, she resigned herself to much less than that. The Professor had changed his mind and decided to do that last case himself—a good thing as it turned out for it presented complications which he hadn’t expected. When at last the patient had been wheeled away it was half-past two.

‘Sorry about this, Rachel,’ he said. ‘You’ve missed your dinner. Do you suppose they would send up sandwiches for us both? I’ve an appointment in less than an hour and so can’t spare the time for a meal.’

George and Billy had already left. Rachel left two student nurses to start clearing up, went to have a word with Norah, waiting for her first patient, then went along to phone the canteen. She found the Professor putting down the receiver. ‘I thought they might be a good deal quicker if I rang—you don’t mind?’

She was pinning her cap on to her wealth of hair. ‘Not a bit—they’ll fall over themselves to get here. Dolly’s making coffee.’

Five minutes later they were sitting opposite each other at the desk eating roast beef sandwiches with the added niceties of horseradish sauce and pickles, some wedges of cheese and, for the Professor, a bottle of beer.

‘Well,’ said Rachel, happily sinking her teeth into the beef, ‘is this what you get when you ask for sandwiches? I get two cheese left over from the day before and a nasty snort down the phone as well.’

‘That won’t do at all. You’re no sylph-like girl to exist on snacks; I’ll look into it. Did you have a splendid supper last night?’

His voice was quiet but he glanced at her with intentness. There was something about his calm placidity which invited confidences.

‘Crudités. Melville thought I’d had supper and he’d had dinner anyway.’

‘My dear girl, surely you could have hinted…’

She considered this. ‘Not really. It was so—so…’ She was at a loss for a word.

He said smoothly, ‘The surroundings were not conducive to a plate of steak and kidney pudding?’

‘That’s exactly it. Anyway, I eat too much.’

His inspection of her person was frank and impersonal. ‘You’re a big girl and you use up a lot of energy; it would be hard for you to eat too much.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Rachel and took another sandwich.

The Professor passed her the pickles. ‘You’re on until eight o’clock? Let us pray for no emergencies.’

Perhaps he didn’t pray hard enough. Just as Rachel was closing the last of her books preparatory to sending the junior nurse off duty before going herself, the phone rang.

It was Lucy. ‘Rachel, there’s a gunshot wound coming in and coming up to you as soon as we can manage it. Abdominal and chest. George is here now and intends to ring Professor van Teule. Have you got a nurse on?’

‘Little Saunders; Sidney Carter’s on call, I’ll give him a ring.’ It sounded like a case where the theatre technician might be needed.

She went about the task of getting the theatre ready with Nurse Saunders, keen as mustard but easily put off by anything she didn’t quite understand, trotting obediently to and fro.

Rachel was checking the special instruments that might be needed when the phone went again. The Professor, coming through the theatre corridor doors, answered it. A moment later, he put his head round the theatre door.

‘For you, Rachel. Melville, I believe.’

‘Oh, I can’t…’ she began, and then said, ‘I’d better, I suppose.’

Melville was downstairs, phoning from the porter’s lodge, something strictly not allowed. ‘Put on your prettiest dress, darling,’ he begged her, ‘we’re going to a party. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.’

‘Melville, I can’t possibly. I’m on duty and there’s an emergency case coming up any minute.’

‘Well, hand over your revolting tools to someone else, dear girl. This is some party.’

She said tartly, ‘You’ll have to find somebody else, Melville. I’m on duty.’

‘It’s gone eight o’clock. You told me that you were off duty then.’

‘Well, I am usually, but not when there’s an emergency.’

His voice sounded cold and faintly sneering. ‘Darling, aren’t you just the weeniest bit too good to be true?’

He hung up, leaving her shaking with unhappy rage, and the Professor, who had been standing in the doorway, unashamedly listening, took the receiver from her and replaced it.

‘Is there anyone we can get to take over from you?’ he asked and his voice was very kind. ‘Night sister? Norah?’

She gave him an indignant look. ‘Certainly not, Professor. I’m on duty, and in any case I’m not in the mood for parties.’ She added unhappily, ‘I’ve nothing to wear—I mean, he has seen the dresses I’ve got at least six times.’

‘That is a point,’ agreed the Professor gravely. ‘I have no doubt that, to a man in his type of job, clothes matter a great deal.’

Rachel nodded. ‘Oh, they do, and you see I’ve never bothered a great deal—I mean, not to fuss, if you know what I mean? Brothers never notice what you’re wearing anyway…’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I’m sorry—talking to you like this; I quite forgot who you were.’

If the Professor found this remark a little surprising, he gave no sign. He said soothingly, ‘I am sure you will have an opportunity to go out with, er, Melville again.’ He became businesslike. ‘This man who is coming up—gunshot wounds at close range—I’ve had a look and we’ll need a lot of luck on our side. How are you off for staff?’

She cast him a grateful look. He never failed to see that she had enough help. ‘If Billy is here, I can manage. I’ve a junior on—very new but eager—and Carter’s coming in.’

‘He’s a good man to have about. Right, I’ll take a look at what you’ve put out, shall I?’

They went over the instruments together and then he went away, leaving her to scrub and get into her gown and mask and gloves and lay up.

Dr Carr would be anaesthetising; she had expected that. The Professor and he had worked together for a year or two now. He appeared with his patient and a nurse from the accident room to attend to his wants and keep an eye on the drip they had set up. The Professor, with George and Billy, followed hard on his heels.

It took a very long time; it was an hour short of midnight when at last the Professor finished his patchwork, meticulously done with tiny stitches and infinite patience. He thanked them all, as he always did, and left George to do the tidying up before the man was taken to the intensive care unit.

Rachel started to clear up, and Nurse Saunders, still game, toiled with her until two night nurses appeared to help. Things went more quickly then and presently Rachel and Nurse Saunders were able to take off their gowns and masks and go off duty. But not yet, it seemed. As they went down the corridor George came to meet them. ‘There’s food and drink in the office—we’re all having a picnic; come on.’

The Professor had been exerting his charm again. There were sandwiches and a dish of sausages, a bowl of crisps and a great jug of coffee.

‘However did you get this lot?’ asked Rachel and sat Nurse Saunders down in front of the sausages.

‘It’s a kind of blackmail,’ he explained gravely. ‘You see, if the kitchen superintendent keeps me well fed, she feels pretty sure that, should she need my help at any time, I shall give it gladly and with expertise.’

Rachel forgot the time, that she was tired, that she had missed a glamorous evening with Melville. She looked round at her companions, very contentedly munching, and thought of the man they had worked so hard to save. She would have missed a dozen evenings out just for the satisfaction of knowing that the patient would recover, and as for her companions, she couldn’t think of any better. She caught the Professor’s eye and he smiled at her.

‘Not very elegant and none of us look fashionable, but there’s a satisfaction…’

She beamed at him, her mouth full. He was right, but then he always was.