o’tea,’ she declared contemptuously, ‘and collecting up the dirties—that ain’t much, Sister. Not when I seen you and the nurses covered in blood, mopping up and bandaging and giving them nasty jabs.’
She spoke with some relish, for although she was a dear old thing, devoted to Araminta, zealous in her cleaning operations round the department and with a heart of gold, she enjoyed any dramatic occasion.
‘Go on with you, Betsy,’ said Araminta. ‘You know as well as I do that hot tea is one of the quickest ways of helping someone who’s had a shock to feel normal again—why, if you hadn’t been there with your urn, we should have had twice as much work.’
She took a sip of coffee and bit into a sandwich, and Betsy, looking pleased, pushed the sugar bowl nearer. ‘That young man, ’im with the leg orf—is ’e going ter be OK?’
Araminta pushed her cap to the back of her head, allowing a good deal of her golden hair to escape untidily, she pushed that back too rather impatiently. ‘I hope so, Betsy.’
Her elderly handmaiden trotted to the door, where she paused to say: ‘Well, ’e ought ter get well with Sir Donald tackling ’im. And ’oo was that fine fellow with ’im?’
Araminta declared mendaciously that she didn’t know, for if she had said anything else Betsy would have stayed for ever, asking questions in her cockney voice; probably the selfsame questions to which Araminta herself would have liked to know the answers. She sighed and dragged a formidable pile of Casualty cards and notes towards her, and began, between bites and gulps, to enter the morning’s work into the Record Book. She had barely started when she was called away to cast an eye over an overdose which had been brought in and who Staff didn’t quite like the look of. The man was indeed in a sorry state—they worked on him under James’ patient directions and then coped with a sprained ankle, an old lady knocked down by a bus, a child scalded by a kettle of boiling water and a very old man found unconscious by the police, and he was followed by a baby who had swallowed a handful of plastic beads. There was a pause after that, long enough for them to stop for a welcome cup of tea while the two student nurses, back from tea, cleared up once more.
‘Quite a day!’ observed Araminta, ‘and I’ve got all this wretched writing to do before I can get off duty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time for those two to go, anyway—Nurse Carter’s on at six, isn’t she? and Male Nurse Pratt—he’s good; they both are. A pity Sylvia wasn’t here, but we should be all right now.’ She crossed her fingers hurriedly as she spoke. ‘Oh, lord, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She poured second cups. ‘Get yourself off on time, Dolly.’
‘What about you, Sister?’ Her faithful right hand looked worried.
‘Well, I must get this done before I go, and by the time I’m ready the Night people will be on; they’ve been promised for an hour earlier, you know—I should get away by seven o’clock at the latest.’ She added gloomily: ‘Let’s hope we’ll be slack for a day or two so that you can all get the off-duty you’re owed.’
Dolly got up and tidied the cups on to the tray and picked it up. ‘That would be nice, but I don’t suppose it’ll work that way, do you?’
Alone, Araminta buried herself in her papers, only lifting her head to bid good night to the nurses as they came off duty and thank them for their hard work. Mrs Pink had gone at four o’clock and Dolly went last of all, putting her head round the door to tell Araminta that the two evening nurses had reported for duty and that the Accident Room was blessedly free of patients for the moment.
‘Good,’ said Araminta absent-mindedly. ‘Night staff will be on soon now—I’ll just about be ready by then.’
She was finished by the time they came, but only just, for she had been interrupted once or twice. She gave her report quickly, changed out of uniform and went thankfully out of the hospital doors. There was still some evening left; she would get into a dressing gown and have her supper round the fire—a bath first, perhaps, so that she could tumble into bed as soon as she had eaten it… Her thoughts were interrupted by Doctor van Sibbelt’s quiet voice. ‘Quite a day,’ he commented. ‘You must be tired.’
Indeed she was; it was sheer weariness which made her snap: ‘Don’t you know better than to creep up on someone like that? I might have screamed!’
‘I’m sorry—you need your supper.’ He tucked a hand under her arm and began to walk her down the shabby street. ‘I’ll get it while you have a bath.’
If he had given her the chance she would have stopped in order to express her opinion of this suggestion, but as it was she did the best she could while he hurried her along. ‘I haven’t asked you to supper, Doctor. I’m far too tired to entertain anyone—even if I had wanted to do so, and I don’t.’
He gave a chuckle. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I hardly expect to be entertained, merely to see that you get a good supper. Let me have your key.’
Araminta handed it over, aware that she was putting up a poor fight, but he had the advantage of her. Her head was addled with weariness and the thought that she was on duty again at eight o’clock the next morning did nothing to help. She went past him into the tiny hall, to turn sharply when he didn’t follow her. Quite forgetful of her peevishness, she cried: ‘Oh, you’re not going away, are you?’ for suddenly the idea of getting her own supper and eating it by herself seemed intolerable.
His voice came reassuringly from the dark outside. ‘I’m here, fetching the food.’ He came in as he spoke, carrying a large paper bag from Harrods. ‘Run along now, there’s a good girl, while I open a few tins.’
She had the ridiculous feeling that she had known him all her life; that to allow him—a stranger, well, almost a stranger—to get the supper while she took a bath was a perfectly normal thing to do. She giggled tiredly as, nicely refreshed, she swathed herself in her dressing gown and tied back her hair. Aunt Martha would probably die of shock if she could see her now! Come to think of it, she was a little shocked herself. Something of it must have shown on her face as she went into the sitting room, for Doctor van Sibbelt, carefully opening a bottle of wine, gave her one swift look and said in the most matter-of-fact of voices: ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Do you often get a day like this one?’
She sat down in the little tub chair by the fire. ‘It’s never as bad as today, though we’re usually busy enough.’
‘Nicely organised, too,’ he commented. ‘That young chap should be all right—Sir Donald did a splendid job on him.’
‘You gave the anaesthetic…’
He put the wine down and started for the kitchen. ‘Yes. I’m going to bring in the soup.’
It was delicious—bisque of shrimps. Araminta supped it up, keeping conversation to a minimum, and when he whisked the bowls away and came back with two plates of lemon chicken and a great bowl of crisps, as well as a smaller one of artichoke salad, she sighed her deep pleasure.
‘I can’t think why you should be so kind,’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you a Cordon Bleu cook or something?’
He poured their wine. ‘My dear girl, I can’t boil an egg. I just went along to the food counters and pointed at this and that and then warmed them up on your stove.’
She crunched a handful of crisps. ‘Are you on holiday?’ she asked as casually as she knew how, and was thwarted
