Mrs Green phoned to say that she had a bad cold—we’ll have to share out her patients.’
Claribel got into her white overall, gave her reflection a perfunctory glance and went into the office to con the notes. It was indeed going to be a busy day.
The orthopaedic wing was right at the other end of the hospital and Mr Shutter was doing his rounds in both the men’s and women’s wards. Claribel poked her pretty head round Sister’s office door, announced her arrival and joined the social worker, a nurse burdened with charts and, at the last minute, Sister herself. Just in time, the ward doors swung open and Mr Shutter strode in, bringing with him a great rush of energy and fresh air. Also with him was the man who had given Claribel a lift on the previous evening.
Although she had thought about him a great deal, she hadn’t expected to see him again, but if she had she would have expected him to at least give some sign of recognition. As it was, his dark eyes looked right through her. She was conscious of annoyance. Of course, it wouldn’t have done at all to have spoken to her, but he could have smiled…
She took her place in the group surrounding Mr Shutter and the round started. There were sixteen patients in the ward but not all of them were having physio. It wasn’t until they reached the fourth bed that Mr Shutter said, ‘Claribel, how’s this leg shaping? Is it going to need much more massage? It looks pretty good to me.’ He glanced at the man beside him.
‘What do you think, Marc?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘This is one of our physiotherapists, Claribel Brown. Claribel, Mr van Borsele has joined us for a period—he’ll be taking over for a week or two while I’m away. Well, what do you think, Marc?’ Mr van Borsele had barely glanced at her; only by the slight nod of his handsome head had he acknowledged that she was there. He studied the limb at some length, smiled nicely at the young man lying in the bed and said, ‘Might Miss Brown put this lad through his paces? There’s considerable muscle wastage.’
He and Mr Shutter studied the X-rays and they watched Claribel as she exercised the boy’s fractured leg; it had been taken out of the plaster, the pin taken from the knee and the extension removed only days before, but thanks to her daily visits there was quite a lot of movement. Of course there was muscle wastage, she reflected silently. If Mr van Borsele should ever break one of his legs and she had the task of exercising it… She looked up to catch his dark eyes upon her and a knowing light smile curled his lip. So he read people’s thoughts, too, did he?
By a great effort of will she managed not to blush.
The round wound to a close and presently she was able to leave the ward, armed with a great many instructions, and make her way back to the physio department. The waiting-room was full but it always was: people waiting patiently for their turn, holding crutches or walking aids, nursing arms in slings. She uttered a general good morning and went through to the office where Miss Flute was on the phone—admonishing someone severely by the sound of it. She put the receiver down and remarked, ‘I have very little patience with some people. Well, I suppose you’ve collected another bunch of patients. Your Mrs Snow is waiting.’ She studied Claribel’s face. ‘Have a cup of coffee first. Heaven knows when you’ll get another chance.’
Claribel sipped thankfully. ‘Five more—two discharges to come here three times a week and three on the ward—all extensions. There’s a new man taking over from Mr Shutter—did you know?’
‘Met him yesterday. Dutch—well thought of, I believe. A bit terse, I thought.’
Claribel put down her empty mug. ‘I’ll say. Mr Shutter introduced us; he looked right through me.’
Miss Flute said drily, ‘How could that be possible?’
Claribel frowned. She was a sensible girl, aware that she had more than her share of good looks, and she was accustomed to people remarking on that, but she had no vanity and was quite uncaring of the admiring glances she drew. All the same, for some reason Mr van Borsele’s lack of interest in her had irked her. ‘Perhaps he hates blondes…or he’s a misogynist.’
Miss Flute gave a hoot of laughter. ‘My dear girl, the grapevine has it that he is out and about at all the best restaurants with various lovelies.’
‘Good luck to him,’ said Claribel and went off in search of Mrs Snow. Mrs Snow was elderly, stout and chatty; Claribel rather liked her. She had tripped in her own kitchen and broken an arm and, having passed through Casualty, X-ray and Mr Shutter’s Out-patients, was now in the hands of the physio department. She was a chatty soul and at each session related an instalment of her home life while Claribel massaged her and egged her on to do the exercises she was so loath to do.
‘I seen a nice young man as I come in,’ she observed as Claribel began on the arm. ‘Getting out of ’is car, ’e was—one of them Rolls, ever so posh. ’E went into Outpatients.’
She fixed Claribel with a beady eye; having set a sprat to catch a mackerel, she was hopeful of a good catch.
‘He’s taking over from Mr Shutter for a week or two. You’re due to see him next week, aren’t you? Mr Shutter is having a holiday.’
‘’E deserves it. ’E must be sick ter death of other people’s bones.’ Mrs Snow cringed away from Claribel’s gentle fingers. ‘Ow, that ’urts. Is ’e nice, the new man?’
‘I’m sure he will be very good at his job,’ said Claribel sedately. ‘Now, Mrs Snow, let me see you lift that arm.’
The day wore on with its unending stream of patients. By five o’clock Claribel was bone-weary. Not that she minded; she liked her work and it was satisfying to see arms and legs returned to normal. Of course there was a hard core of elderlies with arthritis who were more or less permanently on the books, but they still benefited, even if they made little progress.
There was a general rush to go home once the last patient had gone, and a good deal of cheerful chatter since it was Friday and the department closed down until Monday morning. They left in a cheerful bunch, pausing to say goodbye to Miss Flute as she got into her Mini and then streaming across the hospital forecourt, intent on getting their various buses. Claribel, intent on getting home for the weekend, raced away to the nearest bus-stop, her mind already dwelling happily on the peace and quiet of her parents’ home in Wiltshire, so that she failed to see Mr van Borsele’s Rolls at the entrance, waiting to join the rush of traffic in the street. She had in fact forgotten all about him.
She went home once a month, an undertaking which called for a strict routine the moment she got into her flat. Shower and change, feed the cats, stow them in their travelling basket, snatch up her already packed weekend bag and get a taxi, not always easy, especially in her unfashionable corner of London. Waterloo station wasn’t all that distance away, but too far to walk with the cats and her bag, and this evening she was later than usual.
She reached the end of Meadow Road and not a taxi in sight, although there was more chance of one in Stamford Street. She paused on the corner by the few rather tatty shops and looked hopefully in either direction. Traffic streamed past but every taxi was occupied; she would have to try for a bus if one came along, although the nearest stop to the station was several minutes away from the station itself.
She didn’t see the Rolls, going the other way, slow, do a U-turn and slide to a halt beside her.
‘Get in quickly,’ begged Mr van Borsele, ‘I’m breaking any number of regulations.’ He had nipped out smartly, taken the basket from her and put it on the back seat, and hurried her round the car into the seat
