precisely, only that there is too much fluid inside her skull.’
‘It is a fairly rare condition—the several parts of the skull don’t unite and the cerebrospinal fluid increases so that the child’s head swells. There are sometimes mental symptoms, already apparent in Miranda. I should like her to be admitted here and insert a catheter in a ventricle which will drain off some of the surplus fluid.’
‘Where to?’
‘Possibly a pleural cavity via the jugular vein with a valve to prevent a flow-back.’
‘It won’t hurt her?’ she asked urgently.
‘No. It will need skilled attention when necessary, though.’
He straightened to his full height, towering over her. ‘Will you set her to rights? I’ll write to Dr Watts and arrange for her to be admitted as soon as possible.’
Lucy, arranging a nappy, just so, said thickly round the safety-pin between her teeth, ‘You can cure her?’
‘At least we can make life more comfortable for her. Take that pin out of your mouth, it could do a great deal of damage if you swallowed it. What transport do you have?’ He glanced at the notes before him. ‘Sparrow Street, isn’t it? You came by ambulance?’
She shook her head, busy putting reluctant little arms into a woolly jacket. ‘Taxi. I’m to get one to take us back.’
‘My dear girl, it is now five o’clock and the rush hour, you might have to wait for some time. I’ll arrange an ambulance,’ he stretched out an arm to the telephone, ‘or better still, I’ll take you on my way home.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Lucy politely, ‘but it wouldn’t do at all, you know. For one thing the orphanage is in Willoughby Street and that’s even more East End than here, and for another, I’m sure consultants don’t make a habit of giving lifts to their patients—though perhaps you do if they’re private …’
The doctor sat back in his chair and looked her over. ‘I am aware of where the orphanage is and I give lifts to anyone I wish to. You have a poor opinion of consultants … We are, I should suppose, exactly like anyone else.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ said Lucy kindly, ‘only much cleverer, of course.’
His heavy eyelids lifted, revealing a pair of very blue eyes. ‘A debatable point,’ he observed. ‘And now if you will go to the front entrance I will meet you there in a few minutes.’
He spoke quietly and she did as he asked, because she had to admit to herself that he had that kind of voice and she was tired. Miranda had gone to sleep again, but once she woke she would want her tea and her cot and would fly into a storm of tears; to be driven back to the orphanage would be a relief. She was already late and it would be another half-hour or more before she was home. She sat on a bench facing the door so that she would see the doctor when he came, but he came unnoticed from one of the corridors at the back of the entrance hall. He paused before he reached her and gave her a long look; she was pretty enough to warrant it, and seen in profile her nose had a most appealing tilt … He spoke as he reached her. ‘The car’s just outside. It will be better if you carry her, I think; it wouldn’t do to wake her.’
They crossed the hall and he held the door for her and went ahead to open the door of the dark grey Rolls-Royce outside. She got in carefully and he fastened her safety-belt without disturbing the child, and then got in beside her, drove out of the forecourt and joined the stream of traffic in the street.
Lucy waited until they stopped in a traffic jam. ‘You said Sparrow Street, and it is, of course, only the staff and children use the Willoughby Street entrance.’
‘I see—and who uses the Sparrow Street door?’ He edged the car forward a few yards and turned to look at her.
‘Oh, the committee and visiting doctors and the governors—you know, important people.’
‘I should have thought that in an orphanage the orphans were the important people.’
‘They are. They’re awfully well looked after.’ She lapsed into silence as the big car slid smoothly ahead and presently stopped in Willoughby Street. The doctor got out and opened her door for her and she got out carefully. ‘Thank you very much for the lift, it was kind of you.’ She smiled up into his impassive face.
‘I’m coming in with you, I want to see the matron. Where do you live?’
‘Me? In Chelsea.’
‘I pass it on my way home. I’ll drop you off.’
‘I’ll be at least fifteen minutes …’
‘So shall I.’ They had gone inside and he indicated the row of chairs lined up against the wall of the small reception room. ‘Wait here, will you?’
He nodded to the nurse who came to meet them and walked off, leaving Lucy to follow her to the back of the building where the toddlers had their cots and where the sister-in-charge was waiting. It was all of fifteen minutes by the time Lucy had explained everything, handed over the now wakeful Miranda, and said goodnight.
‘Thanks for staying on over your time,’ Sister said. ‘I’ll make it up to you some time.’ She smiled nicely because Lucy was a good worker and didn’t grumble at the unending task of keeping the toddlers clean and fed and happy. We could do with a few more like her, she thought, watching Lucy’s slender shape disappearing down the corridor.
There was no sign of the doctor when Lucy got back to the reception-room. Perhaps she had been too long and he had gone without her, and she could hardly blame him for that—he had probably had a long and tiring day and was just as anxious to get home as she was. All the same, she sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs; there was no one else there, or she could have asked …
He came five minutes later, calm and unhurried, smiling genially, and accompanied by the matron. Lucy got to her feet and, rather to her surprise, was thanked for her afternoon’s duties; it was by no means an uncommon thing for her to take children to hospital to be examined, and she was surprised that anyone had found it necessary to thank her. She muttered politely, added a goodnight and followed the doctor out to his car.
‘Exactly where do you live?’ he enquired of her as he settled himself beside her.
She mentioned a quiet road, one of those leading away from the Embankment, and added, ‘It is very kind of you. I hope it’s not taking you out of your way?’
‘I live in Chiswick. Do you share a flat?’ The question was casual.
‘Me? No. I live with my parents …’
‘Of course, now I remember—is your father an archaeologist, the Gregory Lockitt?’ And when she murmured that he was, ‘I met your parents some time ago at a dinner party. They were just back from the Andes.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed composedly, ‘they travel a good deal.’
‘But you prefer your orphanage?’ His voice was kindly impersonal.
‘Yes.’ She didn’t add to that, to explain that it was a job she had found
