little head, assured the infant that he would be as beautiful as any baby that lived in no time at all, a remark which Arthur, who had caught up with her in the ward, gently but seriously pointed out wasn’t quite accurate. Baby Cook would never be beautiful, however well fed he was; his eyes were small and squinted slightly, his hair was sparse and dull and his mouth too large. Annis told the doctor quite fiercely that he knew nothing about it, and sped away.
Baby Cook was to be done first. Annis stayed in theatre, giving a helping hand to the anaesthetist while the surgeons worked, and presently, when their work was finished, she picked up the small creature and bore him gently back to a side ward where one or other of her more senior student nurses would special him for the next twenty-four hours.
Annis laid him gently on to his cot, glanced at her watch and said: ‘We’ll start feeds in—let me see—three and three-quarter hours from now—four mls of glucose, nurse, and then two-hourly feeds alternating with glucose. I’ll let you know when to increase them and I want to know at once if he brings them up.’ She smiled at the girl, gave a final look at Master Cook and sailed away to superintend the dressings.
She had been right, the day was busy and full of small setbacks, so that by the time she got off duty that evening the last thing she wanted to do was go out with Arthur. There must be something wrong with her, she mused; they were such good friends and on the whole she enjoyed being with him, although she was honest enough to admit to herself that he bored her a little more each time she went out with him. No, not bored, she corrected herself. Everything they did together was done from habit, there was no excitement—surely, if she were in love with him, even the littlest bit, she would feel a thrill at meeting him, spending the evening with him, even seeing him on the ward? It was like putting on an old coat one was particularly fond of—it might do nothing for one, but it was comfortable. She frowned and poked around in her wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear. Something different, she decided, something to make Arthur look at her—really look at her. There was a dress she had bought at a sale some months back; it had looked lovely in the window, but when she had got it home it had been too daringly cut. Mindful of Arthur’s views on modesty in women, she had hung it at the back of her more discreet clothes and forgotten about it. Now some imp of mischief made her decide to wear it. It was a pretty colour, soft misty blue, and the material was pretty too, but the neckline was quite outrageous. All the same, she put it on, did her lovely face, allowed her hair to fall free and went down to the hospital entrance, prudently wrapped in a light coat.
‘You’ll be too warm,’ advised Arthur the moment he saw her. ‘It’s mid-May, you know.’
She assured him that she wouldn’t and climbed into the car—a Triumph, kept in tip-top condition and treated with care. A race down a motorway wasn’t in Arthur’s line, he preferred to do a steady fifty in the slow lane because it was better for the engine and didn’t use as much petrol, and in London now he travelled very slowly indeed. Annis who drove well if rather recklessly herself, reminded herself that Arthur was a good, steady driver who would never take risks. He would be a good steady husband too. She sighed and he asked at once: ‘Had a busy day? Children can be the very devil sometimes.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘You and I will have had enough of them by the time we settle down.’
Annis, a good-tempered girl, gritted her splendid teeth, contemplating a lifetime ahead of her settling down in a pristine house with not a single child to muddy the floor or scuff the paint. How dull the future looked, and really it was so silly. She had no need to marry Arthur; it was simply that circumstances had thrown them continuously together for the last three years—besides, he hadn’t asked her, only taken it for granted that she would. Well, she wouldn’t. ‘Arthur…’ she began.
‘I prefer not to talk while I’m driving in town,’ he reminded her kindly. ‘I daresay it’s something that can wait until we’re at the restaurant.’
But once sitting at the table with him, she found it impossible. He was being at his nicest; considerate, thoughtful of her every wish, keeping the conversation pleasant. It was over the coffee that he asked her: ‘What was it you wanted to ask me, Annis?’
It was her chance, but she couldn’t take it after all, he looked so kind—so she shook her head and said that it didn’t matter.
But after a more or less sleepless night, she knew that she would have to do something about it, and the opportunity occurred sooner than she expected. Arthur had done a round with Mr Travers, the paediatrician, and stayed behind to write up fresh instructions on some of the charts. He sat at Annis’s desk while she altered the day book, perched on the only other chair in the little room, and presently, almost finished, he sat back and put his pen down.
‘That was rather a sexy dress you wore last night,’ he observed in a mildly reproving voice. ‘I can’t say that I entirely approve.’
‘You noticed it—that’s something, anyway. I’ve thought that just lately you don’t see me any more, only in the same way as you see your breakfast porridge or—or your stethoscope or pen…’ She went on crossly: ‘As to approving, it’s none of your business what I choose to wear.’
He looked surprised and vaguely displeased, but before he could say anything she went on, getting crosser every minute: ‘Arthur, do you intend to marry me?’
The displeasure was no longer vague. ‘My dear Annis, surely that’s a question which I should ask you?’
She had the bit well and truly between her teeth now. ‘Well, why don’t you?’
‘These things can’t be rushed,’ he told her with a patient tolerance which sent her temper soaring even higher. ‘We’re two busy people, we aren’t able to see each other as much as some men and women do—we have to get to know each other…’
She gaped at him. If you didn’t know someone with whom you worked each day and spent a good deal of your leisure with for the best part of three years, surely you should give it up as a bad job? And what about love, she thought confusedly—falling in love? Surely that came in a blinding flash all of a sudden, not after months of lukewarm affection? If Arthur had been in love with her, really in love, probably she would have married him even though she felt nothing but a deep regard for him. As it was she could see now, very clearly indeed, that she could never marry him. Even if she never married, she wouldn’t regret it. She said now: ‘I’m not the right wife for you, Arthur. I know we’re good friends and we’ve got used to seeing each other every day, but that’s not enough, not for me, anyway.’
He had picked up a chart and had his pen poised to write. ‘If that’s how you feel about it, Annis, then there’s no more to be said, is there?’
She couldn’t refrain from asking him: ‘Don’t you mind?’
He thought carefully before he answered. ‘Yes, at the moment I mind. I’d woven you into the pattern of my future…’
‘Yes, but the present, Arthur—never mind the future!’
He looked surprised. ‘But the future matters, Annis. I must make a success of it; do exactly what I’ve planned.’
‘Did you plan me into it, then?’
‘Oh, yes—later on.’
‘But I’m twenty-seven, Arthur!’
‘Another three or four years and we could have discussed marriage,’ he told her comfortably. ‘Neither of us, I fancy, would want children—our life would have been too busy.’ He smiled at her kindly. ‘If you like, we’ll forget the whole of this conversation.’
