alternative, of course, was to find a millionaire and marry him. She laughed at the very idea, and Sedgwick, the head porter, looked up from his scrutiny of the evening paper.
‘Feeling ’appy, Nurse? On men’s surgical, aren’t you? ‘Ad three nasty cases in today—motorbikes—and there’s another just in, not ’alf an hour ago.’
Venetia poked her head through his little window. ‘What a welcome!’ she observed cheerfully. ‘For two pins I’d turn round and go home again.’
She went unhurriedly across the entrance hall and down the passage to the nurses’ home, where she spent a pleasant hour before bed drinking tea and catching up on the hospital gossip with various of her friends.
There was precious little time to gossip on the following day; the ward was full and, just as Sedgwick had said, the three cases which had been admitted were nasty ones, for not only were they badly injured, they were uncouth youths who raved and shouted and used language which Venetia, for one, didn’t always understand—which was perhaps a good thing. And the fourth case was developing symptoms of a hidden head injury as well as internal injuries. Sister Giles sent for Arthur Miles, who spent a long time examining the man and then disappeared into her office to telephone, and fifteen minutes later Professor ter Laan-Luitinga arrived.
Venetia, trotting briskly out of a dressing-room with a tray of dressings, managed to halt within a few inches of him, and even then she trod on the toe of his large, beautifully polished shoe.
‘Oops, so sorry, sir!’ She smiled widely at him, quite forgetting that when they had last met he had snubbed her quite nastily. He snubbed her now, not by saying anything—his nod was glacial, his dark eyes cold, dismissing her with a glance.
She went on her way, reflecting reasonably that there was no earthly reason why he should so much as smile at her. All the same, he had no need to look as though she weren’t there. She handed over the dressings to Staff Nurse Thomas, who was tall and thin, wore a perpetually cross expression and, although very competent, intimidated the patients. The elderly man having his dressing changed grinned at Venetia as she stood by the trolley ready to pass anything needed; a nice little thing, he reflected, never too busy to turn a pillow or fetch more water. He was on the point of exchanging a joke with her when Sister Giles poked her head round the curtains. ‘Nurse Forbes, Professor ter Laan-Luitinga wants that patient transferred to his unit now. He intends to operate this afternoon. Pack up everything, will you, and go with the patient and hand him over.’
There wasn’t much to pack up, and since the patient was becoming more and more drowsy there was no use in checking his few possessions with him. Venetia made a tidy packet, helped the porters get him on to the trolley, accompanied them to the lift and was whisked to the fifth floor which was the professor’s domain when he was at the hospital. He came out of IC as they proceeded down the wide corridor to the end cubicle and stood watching them. Venetia took care not to look at him and, once the patient was in his bed, busied herself arranging this and that in his locker. Then she stood waiting until a nurse came to relieve her.
The professor came instead. ‘You will be good enough to stay with this patient, Nurse. You will be relieved shortly. Ring the panic bell if you find it necessary. Sister will be here presently.’
‘Sister Giles is expecting me back, sir.’
‘She shall be informed.’
He went away and she glanced uneasily at the patient. It was a relief when the junior sister came in, made sure that he was lying correctly, checked that Venetia knew what to do if he showed signs of distress, and assured her that someone would come the moment she pressed the bell. ‘We’re rushed off our feet,’ she explained. ‘Just as soon as there’s a nurse free, she’ll take over.’
But the professor came first, and one of the anaesthetists was with him. He paused when he saw Venetia, his dark face frowning. ‘You’re still here, Nurse?’
‘Well, there is no one else, sir,’ she pointed out matter-of-factly, and listened to his irritable rumblings. He must be worn to the bone, she reflected. A professor of surgery he might be, but he was also at everyone’s beck and call. She hoped that he had a nice home life to make up for it…
He pressed the panic bell; there was a flurry of feet along the corridor, and Sister and a nurse came in smartly.
‘There is no panic, Sister, but be good enough to find an experienced nurse to remain with this patient.’ His voice was chillingly polite, and Sister shot a look at Venetia as though she were to blame. ‘I thought,’ went on the professor smoothly, ‘that I had made it clear that he needs a trained eye.’ His own eye lighted on Venetia. ‘Go back to your ward, if you please, Nurse.’
She was only too glad to do so. Worn to the bone he might be, she muttered savagely, racing down several flights of stairs, but civil he was not. Downright rude, in fact. It was with regret that she conceded that she wasn’t in a position to tell him so.
CHAPTER TWO
OCTOBER ebbed slowly into November, bringing with it chilly rain and wind and darkening mornings. Watts Ward was busy and Venetia trotted to and fro, and when her days off came round went thankfully to the cottage in Percy Lane. It was pleasant to get up in her own room in the morning and make tea for her grandmother and do the shopping, and all without having to keep an anxious eye on the clock. In the evenings they sat by the fire and talked, which was pleasant, and her grandmother knitted and Venetia wound wool or did nothing at all.
She had seen nothing of the professor. He came very seldom to Watts Ward, but he was to be glimpsed from time to time going in or out of the hospital. It was Caroline who told her that he had gone back to Holland. ‘What a lovely life,’ she added. ‘Think of all the people he meets. He must be rolling in cash—I bet he’s got a marvellous house somewhere.’
‘It’s to be hoped that he has,’ said Venetia sedately. ‘If he’s married his wife and children will need a roof over their heads.’
Caroline giggled. ‘Venetia darling, there’s not a scrap of romance in you. I’ve got a date with one of the housemen in his team—I’m going to find out something more about our professor.’
Venetia raised her eyebrows and then smiled. ‘I dare say if I were as pretty as you, Caro, I’d do that, too.’
But Caroline discovered nothing of the professor’s private life. Tim Dobson either didn’t know or wasn’t going to tell, and Venetia, caught up in a week even busier than usual, forgot to ask.
She felt that days off made a more than welcome break, even when it meant queueing in the cold rain for a bus after a long day. Venetia, struggling off the bus, made for Percy Lane as fast as her tired feet would allow, thinking of her supper and her grandmother’s welcome. It surprised her to see that the cottage was in darkness, and when no one answered the door she had a moment’s apprehension, which she explained away with her usual common sense. Her grandmother had a number of friends living in Hampstead, and it was barely seven o’clock—she could have lingered after having tea with one of them. She got out her key, opened the door and let herself into the narrow hall.
As she switched on the light she called, ‘Granny,’ but the little house was silent. She put down her bag and went into the sitting-room, turning on the light as she did so. The fire had burned low and her grandmother was sitting in her chair, her knitting in her lap, and Venetia knew before she reached her and felt for her pulse that she wouldn’t be able to find it. She said, ‘Granny?’ again in a frightened voice, and put her young arms around the
