bent over his patient, examining her with great care and presently Doctor Reed joined him. ‘Difficult to determine hemiplegia,’ muttered the professor, ‘but I’m pretty certain it’s a cerebral thrombosis.’ He straightened up and glanced at Sister Mitchell. ‘Have you any news of Mrs Collins’ family or friends, Sister?’
‘None,’ said Julia, ‘I’ve ‘phoned the police and they’ve drawn a blank so far.’
‘We must hope that they will have success before very long, it would be of considerable help to us. Now, as to treatment…’ The professor never hummed and haa’d, he knew what he wanted done and made his wishes known concisely; what was more, he didn’t like having to repeat his instructions, something Julia had discovered more than three years ago when she had taken over the ward. She had a good memory and was familiar with his ways; she listened carefully, said ‘Very well, sir,’ in the colourless voice she used on his ward rounds, and followed the two men out of the cubicle, beckoning to Nurse Wells to return as she did so.
She accompanied them, as custom dictated, to the ward doors and once through them wished the professor a brisk good morning, to be rewarded by a dark stare. ‘I should be glad of a cup of coffee, Sister.’
Julia gave him a limpid look. ‘Why, of course, professor,’ she spoke in the tones of a much-tried hostess, ‘do go into the office and I’ll see about it.’ She looked at Dr Reed and said warmly, ‘You too, Dick?’
He grinned at her and nodded and she sailed across the landing to the kitchen. Old Meg was there, brooding over the mid-morning drinks trolley. She had been at the hospital for almost all of her life and refused to move with the times; trade unions, strikes, who did what and when, had made no impression on her; she still considered herself an old-fashioned ward maid and took no notice of anyone who tried to get her to think otherwise. She looked up now and gave Julia a reluctant smile. ‘Sister there ain’t no cocoa—I’d like to know where it goes at night, that I would! Want yer coffee?’
‘Not me, Meg—Professor van der Wagema and Dr Reed do. If I get a tray ready will you boil some milk?’
‘For ‘im I will,’ declared Meg, ‘nice gent ‘e is’.
‘Dr Reed?’ Julia was putting cups and saucers on to a tray.
‘Oh, ‘im—’e’s all right, no—the professor, ‘e’s a bit of class, asks me about me corns…!’
Julia’s lovely eyes widened with astonishment. Meg’s corns were a constant source of annoyance to her but she had never complained to anyone but Julia about them. ‘Give me the push if I tells ’em,’ she explained, ‘though I don’t mind you knowing, Sister.’
Presumably she didn’t mind the professor knowing either. Perhaps, thought Julia with a soundless giggle, there was a charming side to him she hadn’t been privileged to discover. She picked up the tray and carried it to her office, where the professor was sitting at her desk, writing, and Dr Reed was perched on the radiator, looking out of the window. He got up and took the tray from her as she went in but the professor didn’t raise his head.
Julia smiled at Dr Reed and whisked herself out of the room again. ‘Rude man,’ she muttered as she closed the door.
There was a great deal to do in the ward; beds were being made, patients were being got up and arranged in chairs and once in them remembered books, spectacles and knitting which they’d left behind on their lockers which made the whole business long winded. Besides that, there were the really ill patients; Mrs Wolff with severe thyro-toxicosis, little Dolly Waters holding leukaemia at bay from week to week and young Mrs Thorpe with transverse myelitis. She was barely in her thirties with a devoted husband and two small children, and had paralysis from the waist down. Several months in a plaster cast had done no good at all, but now she was out of it and the professor was going to examine her again. He hadn’t pretended that he could cure her, but neither had he drawn a gloomy picture for her to worry about and he had promised that if there was anything to be done, he would do it. Julia, helping one of the student nurses to make her bed, reflected that tiresome though he might be, his patients trusted him.
She went back to her office presently; the nurses were going to their coffee two by two, and when they got back she and Pat would have theirs, until then, she would get on with her paper work.
The professor was still in her office, writing busily, he looked up as she went in, said coolly: ‘I am almost finished, Sister.’ Then went on writing. She didn’t go away but stood by the door, watching him. He looked tired; after all, he was no longer a young man and even his good looks couldn’t disguise the fact; she was still annoyed with him about his rejection of her offer of coffee and food, but a pang of something like pity shot through her, instantly doused by his cool: ‘Pray don’t stand there, Sister Mitchell, there must be something you can do and I shall be a few minutes still.’
‘Oh, there is plenty.’ She matched her coolness with his, although she was put out. ‘Only it’s all on my desk and you’re still sitting at it.’ She allowed a small pause before adding, ‘Sir’.
He said without looking up from his writing: ‘How long have we known each other, Sister?’
‘Us? Oh, three years or more on this ward—you lectured me when I was a student nurse but one could hardly say that you knew me, then.’
He glanced up and smiled briefly. ‘That makes me feel very old.’ And then to surprise her entirely: ‘How old are you, Sister Mitchell?’
She said indignantly: ‘That’s rather a rude question…’
‘Why?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you think it rude if I were to ask you that?’
‘Not in the least,’ his voice was bland. ‘I’m forty-one and looking forty-two in the face. I don’t imagine you are forty yet?’
She gasped with annoyance. ‘Of course I’m not, if you must know I’m thirty—today.’
‘Many happy returns of the day.’ He finished his writing and sat back to study her. ‘I must say that you don’t look your age.’
‘Thank you for nothing, Professor.’ Her green eyes flashed with temper. ‘I find this a very pointless conversation and I have a great deal of work to do…’
He got up slowly. ‘When are you and young Longman getting married?’
She blushed and hated herself for it. ‘I don’t know—there’s plenty of time…’
He sauntered to the door. ‘Oh, no there isn’t—once you are thirty, the years fly by.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll be in to see Mrs Collins this afternoon. Good morning to you, Sister.’
Her ‘Good morning, sir,’ was snappish to say the least.
But she forgot him almost at once as she became immersed in her work; there were always forms to fill in, requests to write, the off duty to puzzle out; she worked steadily for half an hour or so; Pat was in the ward, keeping an eye on things and presently when the nurses had been to coffee, they would have theirs and sort out the day’s problems before the various housemen did their rounds. And the professor, of course; an even-tempered woman, despite the fieriness of her hair, and possessed of more than the usual amount of common sense, Julia found herself feeling sorry for him again. Of course, away from the hospital, he might be a devoted
