After lunch Aunt Vera and Grandmother Greenslade wandered off to the drawing room, for what they called their weekly chat, and Uncle Giles bore Max van Oosterwelde away to his study, saying over his shoulder that there were plenty of apples for the picking at the end of the garden. Penny and Benjamin needed no second bidding, and tore away, followed more sedately but Sophy. Ten minutes later, however, sedateness forgotten, she was sitting astride a convenient fork in a tree, with a basket half filled on her arm, and a half eaten apple in her hand. It was pleasant there; the autumn sun still had warmth; the apples smelled good. She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to be free preferably driving about the country in a shining Bentley. It was only a small step from thinking of the Bentley to its owner; that was why his voice, coming from beneath her, sent the ready colour pouring over her face.
‘Are these your shoes?’ he asked.
Sophy curled her toes inside her stockings. ‘Yes. I was afraid I’d spoil them.’
‘Come down and put them on, and I’ll get the rest of the apples for you, shall I?’
Penny and Benjamin had joined him, laden with their own spoils. She whisked down the old tree, intent on getting to the ground unaided. She should have known better. She was plucked from it while she was still some feet from the ground, and set lightly on her feet. Then he was gone, and a moment later, she saw him balanced on a sturdy branch, reaching above his head and throwing the apples down to them. He looked enormous, but somehow not in the least out of place. The apples safely stowed, they went back to the drawing room, where Uncle Giles had switched on the television. He was following the incredible activities of a cowboy, apparently holding off a mob of howling Indians single-handed. He took his eyes from the screen long enough to recommend them to sit down and watch too, and soon there was silence, broken only by the sounds of celluloid battle. The telephone brought a discordant note amongst the war cries. Uncle Giles frowned, and turned the sound down, and Sophy, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. It was Staff Nurse.
‘Sister, I thought you’d want to know that the internal injuries is coming up at five-thirty, but Cas rang through to say they’ve got an abdominal that might have to be done first. They’ve had a road accident in, and Mr Carruthers is there now.’
Sophy looked at her watch; it was almost half past four. ‘Lay up for an abdominal, Cooper, and put in the general set and all we need for nephrectomy and splenectomy, and remember they’ll probably want to do an intravenous pyelogram.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And a few bladder tools, too. Have you got Vincent there?’
Staff’s voice came briskly back. ‘Yes, Sister. She’s been to tea.’
‘Good, tell her to get your tea now, before you dish up. I’ll be with you very shortly. Goodbye.’
Before she could hang up, Pratt’s voice cut in. ‘Sister Greenslade, Mr Carruthers wants a word with you.’
Tom’s quiet voice sounded urgent. ‘Sophy, is Max van Oosterwelde there?’
She looked across the room; the big Dutchman was sprawled in a chair, watching her. She beckoned him, and said, ‘Yes.’ He took the telephone from her and she went to slip away, but he caught her by the hand.
‘No, stay. It probably concerns you too.’
He listened quietly, and said at length, ‘We’d better do her first. We’ll be back in five minutes. No, not at all; I’m glad I can help. You’ve enough to get on with, I imagine.’
He was still holding her hand, she tried not to notice it while he talked. ‘There’s a girl in. Twelve years old—she’s been stabbed. Carruthers says there are six entries in the abdomen for a start. He’s got his hands full with the RTA. We’ll do the girl first; she’ll be a long job, I expect, but they can keep the other case going until we’re ready.’ He had been speaking quietly, so that only she could hear. Now he got up and went over to Mr Radcliffe. By the time Sophy had got her coat, he was saying goodbye in the unhurried manner of a man who had business to do, and knew how he was going to do it. As she made her own hurried goodbyes, she could hear him telling Penny and Ben that he would call for them on the following Wednesday. She longed to know more about it, but there was no time. They went round to the garage at the side of the house, and got into the Bentley and drove rapidly through the quiet streets. He left the car outside the hospital and they went in together, he to Cas, she to hurry upstairs to theatre. A few minutes later, capped and masked, she was scrubbing up while Cooper dished up the last of the instruments. They had five minutes. Vincent, the junior nurse, was nervous but willing; Staff, Sophy knew, would be a tower of strength; she always was. She went over to her trolleys and checked them carefully, and set about threading her needles and getting the blades on to their handles. It suddenly struck her that she didn’t know who would be assisting. Carruthers was tied up in Cas.; the other two consultants had weekends; their houseman would probably be away too, leaving their patients to the care of whoever was on duty. The porters wheeled in the trolley, with Dr Walker, the senior anaesthetist, pushing the Boyles. He said ‘Hullo, Sister’ in a vague voice, and went back to his cylinders and tubes. She liked him very much; he was unflappable and very sure of himself.
The surgeons came in; the second one was Bill, looking excited and a little scared. She smiled at him behind her mask, and nothing of it showed except the little laughter lines round her beautiful eyes. He took the sponge holders she was holding out to him, and used them, and then waited while Max van Oosterwelde examined the small body between them. The wounds were hard to see, and for every one there would be two or three internally. When he’d finished he said,
‘Have they got the fiend who did this?’
‘Yes, sir. Her stepbrother. He says she had thrown away his drugs and he was suffering from mental stress…’
The professor’s eyes blazed and he said something in Dutch. Sophy thought it sounded like a good earthy Dutch oath—which it was. He put out a hand without looking at Sophy, and said, ‘Ready, Sister.’ She handed him the knife and he stood, relaxed, almost casual, with it in his hand.
‘We’ll do a lower right paramedian, shall we, and see how far we get?’
He was looking at Bill; accepting him as a partner. The boy looked back at him, flushing slightly. He’d been scared stiff until that moment; now, suddenly, he knew that he’d be all right.
It took two and a half hours; it wasn’t a job to hurry over. Van Oosterwelde kept up a steady flow of quiet talk, and Sophy watched Bill relaxing under the older man’s skilful guidance, until he was playing his full part.
They were checking swabs, and the two men stood quietly while Sophy counted and agreed the total with Nurse Vincent.
‘How is your end, Walker?’ asked van Oosterwelde; he was already busy with the mattress stitches.
‘Very nice—she must be a tough little thing—she’ll need some more blood, though. How much longer do you want?’
‘Five minutes.’ Bill cut the gut for him, and he threw the needle back on to Sophy’s trolley. He caught her eye as he did so, and said, ‘We didn’t get our tea, did we?’
She handed him the Michel clip holder, but he waved it away towards Bill, and pulled off his gloves. Sophy smiled behind her mask; he had been very kind to Bill. She called Vincent over and asked her to take a tray of tea to her office. Dr Walker and van Oosterwelde were standing together, looking down at the child’s face.
‘I’d like to wring that fellow’s neck,’ Dr
