clipboard was coming towards her. As usual she was full of questions—had there been delayed calls? Had Ermentrude connected callers immediately? Had she noted the times?
Emmy said yes to everything. She was a conscientious worker, and although it wasn’t a job she would have chosen she realised that she was lucky to have it, and it wasn’t boring. She was relieved for her dinner hour presently, and went along to the canteen to eat it in the company of the ward clerks and typists. She got on well with them, and they for their part liked her, though considering her hopelessly out of date, and pitying her in a friendly way because she had been born and brought up in the country and had lacked the pleasures of London. She lacked boyfriends, too, despite their efforts to get her to join them for a visit to a cinema or a pub.
They didn’t hold it against her; she was always good-natured, ready to help, willing to cover a relief telephonist if she had a date, listening to emotional outbursts about boyfriends with a sympathetic ear. They agreed among themselves that she was all right—never mind the posh voice; she couldn’t help that, could she, with a father who was a schoolmaster? Besides, it sounded OK on the phone, and that was what her job was all about, wasn’t it?
Home for the weekend, Mr Foster agreed with Emmy that there was no reason why she shouldn’t be at home on her own for a while.
‘I’ll be at Coventry for a week or ten days, and then several schools in and around London. You don’t mind, Emmy?’
She saw her mother and father off on Sunday evening, took George for a walk and went to bed. She wasn’t a nervous girl and there were reassuringly familiar noises all around her: Mr Grant next door practising the flute, the teenager across the street playing his stereo, old Mrs Grimes, her other neighbour, shouting at her husband who was deaf. She slept soundly.
She was to go on night duty the next day, which meant that she would be relieved at dinner time and go back to work at eight o’clock that evening. Which gave her time in the afternoon to do some shopping at the row of small shops at the end of the street, take George for a good walk and sit down to a leisurely meal.
There was no phone in the house, so she didn’t have to worry about her mother ringing up later in the evening. She cut sandwiches, put Sense and Sensibility and a much thumbed Anthology of English Verse in her shoulder bag with the sandwiches, and presently went back through the dark evening to catch her bus.
When she reached the hospital the noise and bustle of the day had subsided into subdued footsteps, the distant clang of the lifts and the occasional squeak of a trolley’s wheels. The relief telephonist was waiting for her, an elderly woman who manned the switchboard between night and day duties.
‘Nice and quiet so far,’ she told Emmy. ‘Hope you have a quiet night.’
Emmy settled herself in her chair, made sure that everything was as it should be and got out the knitting she had pushed in with the books at the last minute. She would knit until one of the night porters brought her coffee.
There were a number of calls: enquiries about patients, anxious voices asking advice as to whether they should bring a sick child to the hospital, calls to the medical staff on duty.
Later, when she had drunk her cooling coffee and picked up her neglected knitting once again, Professor ter Mennolt, on his way home, presumably, paused by her.
He eyed the knitting. ‘A pleasant change from the daytime rush,’ he remarked. ‘And an opportunity to indulge your womanly skills.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Emmy sensibly. ‘It keeps me awake in between calls! It’s very late; oughtn’t you to be in your bed?’
‘My dear young lady, surely that is no concern of yours?’
‘Oh, I’m not being nosy,’ she assured him. ‘But everyone needs a good night’s sleep, especially people like you—people who use their brains a lot.’
‘That is your opinion, Ermentrude? It is Ermentrude, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and yes. At least, it’s my father’s opinion.’
‘Your father is a medical man, perhaps?’ he asked smoothly.
‘No, a schoolmaster.’
‘Indeed? Then why are you not following in his footsteps?’
‘I’m not clever. Besides, I like sewing and embroidery.’
‘And you are a switchboard operator.’ His tone was dry.
‘It’s a nice, steady job,’ said Emmy, and picked up her knitting. ‘Goodnight, Professor ter Mennolt.’
‘Goodnight, Ermentrude.’ He had gone several paces when he turned on his heel. ‘You have an old-fashioned name. I am put in mind of a demure young lady with ringlets and a crinoline, downcast eyes and a soft and gentle voice.’
She looked at him, her mouth half-open.
‘You have a charming voice, but I do not consider you demure, nor do you cast down your eyes—indeed their gaze is excessively lively.’
He went away then, leaving her wondering what on earth he had been talking about.
‘Of course, he’s foreign,’ reflected Emmy out loud. ‘And besides that he’s one of those clever people whose feet aren’t quite on the ground, always bothering about people’s insides.’
A muddled statement which nonetheless satisfied her.
Audrey, relieving her at eight o’clock the next morning, yawned widely and offered the information that she hated day duty, hated the hospital, hated having to work. ‘Lucky you,’ she observed. ‘All day to do nothing…’
‘I shall go to bed,’ said Emmy mildly, and took herself off home.
It was a slow business, with the buses crammed with people going to work, and then she had to stop at the shops at the end of the street and buy bread, eggs, bacon, food for Snoodles and more food for George. Once home, with the door firmly shut behind her, she put on the kettle, fed the animals and let George into the garden. Snoodles tailed him, warned not to go far.
She had her breakfast, tidied up, undressed and had a shower and, with George and Snoodles safely indoors, went to her bed. The teenager across the street hadn’t made a sound so far; hopefully he had a job or had gone off with his pals. If Mr Grant and Mrs Grimes kept quiet, she would have a good sleep… She had barely had time to form the thought before her eyes shut.
It was two o’clock when she was woken by a hideous mixture of sound: Mr Grant’s flute—played, from the sound of it, at an open window—Mrs Grimes bellowing at her husband in the background and, almost drowning these, the teenager enjoying a musical session.
Emmy turned over and buried her head in the pillow, but it was no use; she was wide awake now and likely to stay so. She got up and showered and dressed, had a cup of tea and a sandwich, made sure that Snoodles was asleep, put a lead on George’s collar and left the house.
She had several hours of leisure still; she boarded an almost empty bus and sat with George on her lap as it bore them away from Stepney, along Holborn and into the Marylebone Road. She got off here and crossed the street to Regent’s Park.
It
