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
