Visiting Consultant

by Neels, Betty

  ‘Are you all right, darling? Tired or something?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, but added, ‘I almost forgot, Uncle Giles telephoned. Just to see how we were, you know. He says he feels better already. He wanted to know if you were looking after Max.’ She broke off and sent an enquiring look across the room to her granddaughter, who returned it calmly, and said,

  ‘Granny, Max is well able to look after himself, and he wouldn’t take any notice of me anyway, so let’s not pretend that he would.’ And to forestall the questions she could see her grandmother was about to launch at her, she embarked on an account of Mary’s attempts to attract the Dutchman; leaving out the bit when he had said that he wasn’t available.

  Grandmother Greenslade laughed gently, and gave it as her opinion that Mary had been wasting her time. ‘I fancy that Max is the type of man to prefer a girl less obvious than Mary,’ she said rather dryly. ‘I rather gathered that he doesn’t lack companionship if he chooses to spend an evening in town.’

  Sophy stirred, so that Titus was forced to put out a sleepy paw and anchor himself more firmly. ‘Tell me some more about the clothes you saw at Wilton’s,’ asked Sophy. Somehow she hadn’t wanted to hear any more about Max and his evenings out.

  She spent her days off catching up on the ever-recurring chores, and went back on Friday singularly unrefreshed, but determined on at least one thing; that no one—and certainly not Max—must ever know how she felt about him. He would be gone in a few weeks, she had argued with herself. ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ she had reminded herself, with a total lack of conviction.

  The ear, nose and throat theatre was temporarily out of service, and the morning was to be given up to Mr Cass, the ENT specialist. Sophy spent a busy few hours handing sponges and guillotines and curettes to be used on a succession of small unconscious cherubs, who would presently regain consciousness in the Children’s Unit, and rage defiance and temper at the patient nurses, until solaced with ice-cream.

  It was a scramble to get ready in time for the afternoon list. Nurse Winters had days off, and although Robins was doing her best, she slowed them up quite a bit. They were to start at half past one. At a quarter past, Sophy told Staff to scrub for the first case, and herself went down for a quick dinner. The case, a second stage skin graft, was just leaving theatre as she went in, ready scrubbed and gowned. Max, standing by the table, pulling off his gloves, gave her a long stare, and nodded briefly in answer to her composed good afternoon. She went over to her trolleys and checked that there was nothing forgotten; Staff was already dishing for the following case. The afternoon passed quickly; she watched Max do a thyroidectomy, an amputation of foot, and a mastectomy with relaxed perfection and a complete lack of tiredness, not shared by his companions who, by five o’clock, were longing for a cup of tea. Sophy sent the nurses, one by one, for their own teas, and thought hopefully that he might call a halt before the last case, but he stood aside, watching them down his long nose while they prepared once more with speedy care, and the theatre porters adjusted the table.

  The moment the men had left the theatre, Robins disappeared into the cubbyhole, to appear a minute later with the words, ‘I’ve made you some tea, Sister.’ Sophy beamed at her, divested herself of her gown and went and sat in the peaceful stuffiness, with her shoes kicked off and her theatre cap pushed anyhow to the back of her head. The tea was delicious: hot and strong and milky. She took a reviving gulp and choked on it. Max van Oosterwelde was standing in the little archway between the cubbyhole and the corridor. She put her cup down, still spluttering, and used her feet in a wild search for her shoes. He said on a gentle enquiring note,

  ‘Did I startle you? No, never mind your shoes. Tom Carruthers has just told me that you have been working all day with only a very short dinner break. I blame myself that I did not think of it; we could have stopped for ten minutes during the afternoon. I am afraid that I forget everything but my work when I am operating. I’m going down to the wards now; I’ll be outside in about twenty minutes, I’ll give you a lift home.’

  Sophy was aware of a little spark of temper flickering under her tiredness. She put down her cup, smiled at him, and said quietly, ‘How kind. But I’m not in the least tired. I shall enjoy the walk.’

  ‘Cum grano salis,’ he murmured.

  Sophy frowned. ‘Eh?’ she asked, with a complete lack of manners. ‘Oh, Latin.’ She pondered, and then said rather crossly, ‘Well, I am tired.’ Her look was apologetic. ‘It was silly to fib about it’

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he agreed equably, and went away.

  The comfort of the big car was almost overwhelming; she sat silent while it wove its way through the sudden spate of evening traffic, carefully not looking at the man beside her: It was easier to be casual that way. Even so, her heart gave its now familiar leap when he spoke.

  ‘Going out tonight, Sophy?’

  A little devil inside Sophy answered before she could stop it. ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied airily. ‘To the cinema and supper afterwards.’

  ‘And now he rears his ugly head,’ Max said softly.

  Sophy allowed herself a brief glimpse, and asked, puzzled, ‘Whose head?’

  ‘Why, the boy-friend’s. Who else?’

  Sophy caught her breath. Her honest nature urged her to confess at once and make a joke of it, but the little devil thought otherwise. ‘He’s not ugly,’ she said. ‘He’s good-looking...and tall. Not too tall,’ she added hastily.

  Max stopped the car outside her door. ‘Black wavy hair and blue eyes?’ he enquired.

  Sophy had the bit between her teeth. She turned wide eyes on to the man beside her, and flicked her eyelashes devastatingly. ‘How did you know?’ she asked, and greatly daring. ‘Have you met him?’

  Max savoured the eyelashes and answered slowly, ‘No, I think not—I don’t know his name, do I?’

  ‘John Austin,’ she said quickly.

  ‘What’s his job?’ He sounded very casual.

  Sophy thought quickly. Not a doctor; that would be too risky. ‘He’s a bank manager. In the City,’ she elaborated.

  The black brows lifted very slightly. ‘Very nice too.’ Max said pleasantly. ‘Well, I won’t keep you, or you’ll miss that film.’

  He opened her door, and she got out and went quickly indoors, to stand against the front door, wondering just what she had started.

  There was no regular theatre list on Saturday, but more often than not the weekly big clean was interrupted by emergencies. There was just such an emergency during the morning. Max van Oosterwelde, with Bill Evans at his heels, arrived quietly; skilfully went to work on the crushed body, sent it back to the Intensive Care Unit, and disappeared again.

  There was an appendix in the afternoon—a perforation. Max worked steadily, giving Bill a good deal to do, and encouraging him as he did it. Sophy, standing small and straight on her platform behind the trolleys, allowed herself the pleasure of watching Max as he worked. He looked up suddenly, and caught her staring.

  ‘Was the film good?’ he asked idly.

  ‘Yes, very.’ She wasn’t lying. Penny had seen it; she was merely passing on what she had said. He nodded, and turned away with the air of a man who had done his duty conversation-wise, and became involved in a highly technical argument with Dr Walters and Bill; it concerned car engines, and effectively excluded her, for she had no idea what went on under a car’s bonnet.

  Despite the necessary interruptions, she got away punctually, leaving Staff with one nurse for company and the rest of an instrument cupboard to turn out. She was so surprised to see Max on the steps that she stopped short.

  ‘Going home?’ he asked smoothly. ‘I’ll drop you— you don’t want to keep the boy-friend waiting.’

  Sophy had forgotten all about that mythical gentleman; it was only when she was seated in the car that she replied belatedly, ‘He’s gone home for the weekend.’

  Max switched on the engine and allowed it to idle and leaned back comfortably; obviously he had
all the time in the world.

  ‘Doesn’t he live in London?’

  ‘Yes, but his family live in—in Harrogate.’ It was the first town that entered her head.

  Jonkheer van Oosterwelde’s brows lifted and the merest suspicion of a twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth; to be instantly suppressed.

  ‘That’s quite a trip. Still, if he had a good car...’ He left the remark in mid-air. Sophy, brooding over the type of car a bank manager might be supposed to own, was relieved when he continued, ‘I’ve tickets for the theatre. The—er—friend I was taking has had to cry off with a heavy cold. It seems a pity to waste them: I wonder if you would care to give me the pleasure of your company?’

  Sophy’s heart leapt; for a fraction of a second her face was alight with pleasure and excitement, then the clean sponge of her common sense wiped the delight from her face, and she answered soberly, ‘Thank you for asking me, but I don’t think...’ She was interrupted.

  ‘Ah, he might not like it. Is that it?’ Max looked sideways at her with a hint of mockery which made her blush. ‘I assure you that he has no need to be uneasy.. .I’m almost old enough to be your father, and as I pointed out to you, I have no desire to flirt with you.’ He watched the blush re-kindle in her cheeks. ‘Let me have his telephone number, and I’ll give him a ring, if that will make you happier.’

  Sophy could conceive of nothing less likely to make her happy. ‘All the way to Harrogate?’ she asked faintly.

  He was surprised. ‘Why not? That’s what telephones are for.’ He already had a slim pocket book in his hand, and pen poised.

  Sophy managed what she hoped sounded like a light laugh. ‘There’s really no need for that. I should like to come very much.’ She was unaware of her almost comical look of relief as he put the book away again, and said,

  ‘Good. I’ll call for you about six-thirty. We’ll dine first, shall we?’

  The short journey was finished in silence, but as they drew up to the house, he leaned over to open the door for her and said,

  ‘Would Claridges suit you? And perhaps after the show we might dance for a little while.’

  Sophy thought that for someone as deceitful as she had been, the punishment hardly fitted the crime; it promised to be a delightful evening. That gloomy old proverb ‘Be sure your sins will find you out’ stalked fierily before her eyes. She gave it a metaphorical kick. She smiled at him, and suddenly looked very pretty.

  ‘It sounds simply gorgeous,’ said Sophy, and jumped out of the car. She swung round. ‘But how can we? You’re on call.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Tom Carruthers is taking over for me until tomorrow morning.’

  He waved a careless hand, and the Bentley shot away in a powerful silence.

  When she came downstairs, almost an hour later, Max was waiting in the hall. Penny and Benjamin were with him, and at the faint rustle of her dress they stopped talking and looked up at her. She had chosen to wear the amber Thai silk; it had a low scooped-out neckline and tiny sleeves, and fell, swirling to her neat ankles. It had a ridiculous neat waist, which showed off her pretty figure to perfection. She had taken great pains with her face and her mousy hair shone with subdued light from its vigorous brushing. She had her mother’s squirrel coat over one arm; she hoped that Claridges and Max—above all, Max— would approve of her. He left the others and crossed the hall to meet her. He was wearing a dinner jacket and looked...she searched for a word...magnificent. She smiled shyly and said rather breathlessly,

  ‘I must say goodnight to Grandmother.’

  He took her coat and put it over his own arm. ‘You look charming, Sophy,’ he said, and gave her a little bow. ‘May I come and say goodnight too?’

  They were escorted to the door by the whole family, and that meant Sinclair and the Blot and Titus, who had to be discouraged from toadying to Max’s well-polished shoes. There was a lot of talk and laughter, which was perhaps why Sophy sat so quiet and thoughtful as Max drove the Bentley through the streets.

  ‘Are you sorry you came?’ he enquired.

  ‘No, of course not; only I don’t get out often... I...I might be rather a dull companion.’

  She had quite forgotten John Austin, and her companion, for some reason best known to himself, didn’t choose to remind her.

  ‘I haven’t found you dull yet; while I am operating, my work is considerably enlivened by you.’

  Sophy frowned, she had striven to become a perfect theatre sister. ‘Do you find me amusing?’ she asked in a cool voice.

  ‘No, but you are a delight to watch. There is nothing to be seen of you but eyes and eyebrows, and it seems to me that you control the entire theatre with either the one or the other, and occasionally both. Only in moments of great urgency have I seen you raise a hand or snap the Cheatles above your head.’

  ‘How can you possibly see all that when you’re operating?’ asked Sophy.

  He shrugged. ‘Surely you too have one small corner of your mind free while you work, where your thoughts are unimpeded?’

  Sophy blushed faintly, remembering that any spare thoughts she had in theatre were of him. Fortunately there was no need for her to reply, for they had arrived at Claridges.

  Their table was a good one, and she noted without surprise that Max was obviously known to the staff; the fact made him seem more remote than ever. She looked up from a menu which read like a gourmet’s dream, and met the cool gaze that could so disconcert her.

  ‘You looked sad. Why?’

  Sophy shook her head and laughed a little, but said nothing, and he didn’t repeat his question, but turned to his own menu.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry.’ He glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘We don’t need to hurry. What would you like?’

  Sophy took another look and said with her usual good sense, ‘I should like you to choose, please; I don’t know enough about it.’

  He gave her an approving look, and she sat quiet while he conferred with the waiter. This done, he smiled at her and said, ‘Would you rather be surprised, or shall I tell you what we are going to eat?’

  ‘Tell me, please,’ said Sophy, ‘then I can anticipate everything with pleasure.’

  ‘All right. Smoked Salmon Muscovite, then Tour-nedos Benjamin...’

  Sophy gave a delighted chuckle. ‘That should be delicious,’ she said. ‘How clever of you to choose it.’

  His eyes twinkled. ‘I couldn’t resist it, I’m afraid. We’ll have a cold Charlotte for a sweet. It’s called Metternich—there isn’t one called Sophy, though I daresay if I asked they would produce one for you.’ He turned away to the important task of discussing the wine list, and Sophy sat idly watching him, wondering how she could have ever thought him too self-assured and arrogant; she was discovering how witty and amusing he could be.

  Dinner was a success, so was the show afterwards, and when Max suggested that they should go somewhere to dance, Sophy agreed happily.

  He took her to a night-club by the river, where they had a candlelit table overlooking the river, and Sophy drank champagne and watched the moon come from behind the clouds to cast pale light on the water. After a while, they danced. Sophy had thought that they might not suit; Max was so much taller than she was. She discovered with an agreeable surprise that it didn’t seem to matter at all. They danced on and on, never at a loss for something to say to each other. She was seeing a side of him she had not guessed at—the side, she thought shrewdly, that he seldom showed. Probably on Monday he would barely notice her.

  It was after two o’clock when she said, ‘I’m having a wonderful time, but I think I should go home.’

  He agreed at once. ‘But one more dance first, don’t you think?’

  She made no demur; indeed, she felt a small glow of satisfaction that he was enjoying himself too.

  They said very little as he drove her home through the almost empty streets—the journey was almost over when she said,

  ‘I have to look at the number-plate of
your car.’

  ‘By all means. May I ask why?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have to see it really,’ Sophy conceded. ‘Perhaps you would tell me. Benjamin said I should have noticed by now, but I forgot...’

  He obligingly told her.

  ‘Your initials,’ she did some mental arithmetic, ‘and the year you were born.’ She gave a chortle of pleasure. ‘How lucky you were to.. .no, it wasn’t luck, was it?’

  He laughed and said apologetically, ‘I’m afraid not, nor can I take any of the credit for finding it—I merely paid someone else to do so.’

  Sophy’s reflection that it must be pleasant to have sufficient money to indulge in whims of this sort was cut short by their arrival. He got out of the car and went to the door with her; and took the key and unlocked it. The hall looked cosy; barely lighted by a small wall lamp. Sophy wondered if she should ask him in, and to his secret amusement decided against it, offering a small, capable hand instead.

  ‘I’ve had a delightful evening. Thank you very much.’ She hesitated. T hope your friend gets over her cold quickly.’ She couldn’t see her companion’s face very clearly, but she had the odd feeling that he was laughing.

  He released her hand, and said, ‘As I hope John— er—Austin had a speedy return from...where was it?... Harrogate. Goodnight.’

  He held the door open for her, and she slipped through, and he closed it behind her. She switched off the little lamp, and went upstairs to bed through the well-remembered dark of her home, with the troublesome presence of Mr Austin stalking beside her.