around her. They were in a lift by now, though, on their way up to the sixth floor.
The lift door swung open on to a square hall which opened in its turn into a wide corridor. Someone must have given warning of their arrival, for there was a youngish woman in uniform waiting for them.
She smiled as she shook hands. “Hoofd Zuster Doelsma,” she volunteered. “Charity Dawson,” said Charity, not sure what to call herself, “and this is Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek.”
They proceeded smoothly down the corridor, lined with doors along one side and with great glass windows, giving one an excellent view of the wards beyond them, on the other. Half-way down Zuster Doelsma opened a door, revealing a small bright room with a modicum of furniture and a very up-to-date bed. Piped oxygen, intercom, sucker, intensive care equipment—Charity’s sharp eyes registered their presence with satisfaction; there was everything she might need. There was a small, comfortable chair close to the bed and a compact desk and stool facing it, and cupboards built into one wall; she would examine them presently. Now she turned her attention to settling her patient comfortably in his bed, much cheered by the appearance of a little nurse bearing a tray with two cups of coffee on it. Sipping it together, she and her companion decided that the room was nice, that Zuster Doelsma looked friendly, that the hospital, in fact, was very much like the most modern of American hospitals which Mr Boekerchek could call to mind.
He was in the middle of telling her so when the door opened and the giant from Vlissingen walked in, closely attended by his registrar, a houseman and Zuster Doelsma. Charity stood and stared at him with her mouth open, watching as he went to the bed, shook Mr Boekerchek by the hand, spoke briefly and then turned round to face her. If she had been surprised to see him, he most certainly was not. He gave her a cool nod, offered a firm hand and remarked: “Ah, the English Miss Dawson, come to stay with us for a little while. An opportunity for you to demonstrate your talent for languages; you should acquire a smattering of Dutch during that period.”
She felt her cheeks warm under his quizzical look and checked a childish urge to shout something rude at him. Instead she said in what she hoped was a cool voice: “I think there will be no need of that, Professor, for my Dutch would probably turn out to be as bad as your manners.”
They were standing a little apart from the others; she watched his eyes narrow as a smile touched the corner of his straight mouth. “So we are to cross swords, Miss Dawson?” he wanted to know softly.
“Well, it seems likely,” she told him sturdily, “though not during working hours, naturally.”
His laugh of genuine amusement took her by surprise. “A pity,” he observed, “for we shall have little opportunity of meeting.”
She didn’t answer him, for she was fighting disappointment; she had wanted to meet this man again, even though she had never admitted it even to herself, and now, by some quirk of fate, here he was, and obviously not sharing her feelings, indeed, very much the reverse. She promised herself then and there that she would make him change his opinion of her; and this satisfying thought was interrupted by his:
“You look very pleased with yourself about something. Now, supposing we have a talk with the patient.”
She could see within minutes that here was a man who knew his job. He had a measured way of speaking, although he was never at a loss for a word and he was completely confident in himself and the results of the operation he intended to perform, without being boastful. It was also equally apparent to her that whatever his private feelings were towards herself, he had no intention of allowing them to influence their relationship as surgeon and nurse, for when he had talked to Mr Boekerchek he drew her on one side and his manner when he spoke was pleasantly friendly with no hint of mockery or dislike. “I shall want you in theatre,” he told her. “I shall operate at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon and you will be good enough to adjust your duty hours so that you will be available until midnight of that day. You are conversant with intensive care?”
“Yes, Professor.”
He nodded. “You will be directly responsible to me for all the nursing care of Mr—er—Boekerchek. I know that you will be unable to be here all the time, and a nurse has been seconded to share your duties. But please understand that I shall hold you responsible. I will explain…”
Which he did, and at some length, and she listened carefully, storing away facts and techniques and his way of doing things, because he would expect her to know them all.
“You have nursed these cases before?”
“Two—not recently, though. I read your article in The Lancet.”
There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed? I had no idea that The Lancet was read by anyone other than my own profession.”
He was needling her again, but she kept her cool, saying quietly:
“The consultant surgeon for whom I work at St Simon’s lent it to me. I had no idea that it was you…”
“Why should you?” he asked coolly, and turned to go. “You will be in theatre at five to one tomorrow, Sister Dawson.”
She was kept busy for the rest of the day; Mr Boekerchek was to undergo a series of tests, which meant a constant flow of path lab people in and out, And he had to be X-rayed too, an expedition upon which she accompanied him, as well as being seen by various other people connected with his future well-being; the anaesthetist, a youngish man, darkly good-looking and with a charm of manner which Charity was sure must endear him to his patients. He was charming to her too, speaking English, of course, like almost everyone else in the hospital. The professor’s nasty remark had been quite unnecessary and it still rankled; she registered a resolve not to learn or speak a word of Dutch, happily forgetful that she would be the one to suffer from her resolution, not he, and turned to smile at another caller, the professor’s registrar, a short, rather stout young man with a round, cheerful face and a habit of quoting his chief on every possible occasion.
“You will find the operation most interesting,” he assured Charity, standing in the corridor outside her patient’s room. “Professor van Tijlen is outstanding in surgery, you know, and this particular operation is of his own technique—he has done already one dozen and they live yet.”
Charity said tartly: “Marvellous—what else does he specialise in?”
“All illnesses of the stomach and the—the gut.”
“Big deal,” she observed flippantly, and at the look of uncertainty upon her companion’s face hastened to explain: “That’s just an expression in English. It means how—how marvellous.”
Mr van Dungen looked mollified. “He is a wonderful man,” he told her sternly, and then smiled. “You will perhaps call me Dof?”
“Of course. My name’s Charity.” They smiled at each other like old friends and she added: “I say, you’ll help me out if I get in a jam, won’t you?” and had to repeat it all again differently, explaining that getting into a jam didn’t mean quite what it sounded like.
Mrs Boekerchek came over that evening, rather grandly in an Embassy car with a chauffeur who followed her to the door of the patient’s room with a great quantity of flowers and several baskets of fruit which Mr Boekerchek would be unable to eat. Charity soothed his anxious wife and went to fetch Dof van Dungen, whose cheerful manner and sometimes uncertain English might put her patient’s better half at her ease far more than technical details of the operation. It gave her a brief breathing space too, to find
