by Betty Neels
A night’s sleep worked wonders. Rachel ate a good breakfast, discussed yesterday’s emergencies and excitements with her friends and went on duty. There was a list, as the Professor had reminded her; not a very heavy one, she remembered thankfully. She went straight to theatre to see how the nurses were getting on, passed the time of day with Sidney and went to her office. Professor van Teule was there, sitting on her desk. He looked up placidly as she went in; he looked very wide awake, extremely elegant and somehow remote. She beamed at him, wished him good morning and, when he made to get up, shook her head and pulled up a second chair to the other side of the desk. ‘Are you altering the list, sir?’
‘Yes. The cases I should have done yesterday must be done today. I dislike postponing an operation, for the patient’s sake; it’s no light matter to screw up one’s courage to face a certain day and time only to find that it’s all for nothing. Can we possibly do the three from yesterday at the end of the list?’
She said, ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ without hesitating. Everything would have to be rearranged, of course. Normally there were only dentals in the afternoon, but there were only a few cases for that day anyway. She had planned extra off duty for the nurses—Norah could have gone home an hour early and she would have gone off at five o’clock as the second part-time staff nurse would take over. Now she reckoned that theatre would be in use well into the afternoon; Norah would have to stay until five o’clock, and so would Sidney—she would manage with two nurses and let the other two go after second dinner.
‘Thrown a spanner in the works, have I?’ asked the Professor watching her face.
‘Not at all, sir. We’re all on duty, it’s just a question of rearranging things.’
He finished his writing and closed the folder. ‘Your professional calm isn’t easily shaken, is it, Rachel? You should learn to apply it to your own life.’ And, at her astonished gasp, ‘I speak with the best of intentions.’
There was a knock at the door and Norah came in most opportunely, for Rachel couldn’t think what to say to that. They plunged at once into ways and means and presently the Professor went away, remarking that he would return at nine o’clock.
The moment the theatre corridor doors closed behind him Rachel burst out, ‘Sometimes he is quite impossible!’ and, at Norah’s surprised look, ‘Oh, just something he said; nothing to do with work. Now, which two shall I send off duty this afternoon?’
The day, busy though it was, went smoothly enough; theatre was empty and pristine in its surgical cleanliness by four o’clock. Dentals had been finished long ago and even if Norah hadn’t been able to go off duty early at least she had got away punctually, as had the nurses. It only remained for Rachel to clear up her desk, con the next day’s lists for Mr Jolly and Mr Sims and check that CSU had sent up a sufficiency of supplies.
Until she began on this comparatively easy task she hadn’t spared a thought for anything other than her work, but now her mind, free from the day’s urgencies, roamed free once more, and settled, not unnaturally, on Melville.
She couldn’t remember very well what she had said on the previous evening; she had been too tired to think clearly or to remember what she had said. She could remember clearly, however, seeing Melville being ushered out of the hospital by the Professor. She hadn’t cared two straws about that at the time, but now she winced at the memory. Melville would be annoyed and she excused the annoyance, for no one had made it clear why she was tired. If he had been working all day at the studio, he would most likely have had no knowledge of the rioting and the number of casualties. She forgave him without a second thought, never doubting that he had forgiven her once he knew the rights of the case.
The part-time staff nurse came on duty, and Rachel handed over thankfully; an early night, she promised herself, but first she would phone home and, after supper, wash her hair. There were no letters for her but she hadn’t expected any; Melville would write or telephone when he was free and he would know that she wouldn’t want to go out that evening. She had a long satisfying talk with her mother, promised to go home on her next weekend off and went along to the sitting-room to read the papers until it was time to go to supper. Most of her friends were off duty, too, but the talk was desultory. Reaction after yesterday’s activity had set in and they sat about, yawning their heads off and scanning the headlines or watching the television. No one wasted much time over supper either; as if by common consent, they all went to their beds. Rachel curled up and, already half asleep, wondered what Melville was doing. Then rather to her own surprise, she found herself thinking about the Professor. Having an early night, she hoped; he deserved one.
The Professor was doing something quite different, however; he was on a flight to Amsterdam. And as for Melville, fortunately for her peace of mind, she had no means of knowing that he was living it up with one of the actresses working on the current production; a pretty, empty-headed girl, a marvellous companion for an evening’s fun. She knew how to dress, too, and there was no fear at all that she would want to leave early.
The next couple of days were uneventful, enlivened only by the arrival of red roses from Melville. The card said all his love, but there was no mention of him seeing her. Too busy, Rachel decided, arranging them in a vase she had borrowed from the private patients’ wing. Perhaps at the weekend he would be free, at least; if he phoned she wouldn’t go home as she had planned.
The Professor arrived for his usual list in the morning, placid as ever, but with little to say. Only when George asked him if he had had a good time in Holland did he reply briefly that yes, he had. Rachel, pouring their coffee after the list, paused with the jug upheld.
‘Oh, is that where you’ve been?’ She frowned. ‘But you were here at the beginning of the week.’
He spoke briefly. ‘It only takes fifty minutes to fly to Amsterdam.’
Somehow she felt snubbed. She continued her coffee pouring; she wasn’t in the least interested in where he had been anyway, and she would take care not to ask questions again. Just occasionally she glimpsed a side to him which wasn’t placid at all.
Melville phoned that evening; he was desperate to see her but he had to go to Paris—on location, he explained. He would see her the moment he got back; he longed to see her, he added.
She was disappointed, but his job was important to him; she didn’t know much about it, but he wasn’t quite his own master. She thanked him for the roses, told him not to work too hard, told him with candour that she longed to see him again, and rang off. She had quite forgotten all the Professor’s good advice.
CHAPTER FIVE
RACHEL WASN’T unduly worried when she heard nothing from Melville; she had the roses to reassure her and he had told her that he would be away. Besides, she had a lot on her mind. Mr Sims and Mr Jolly both had heavier lists than usual and both theatres were in use. It wasn’t until three more days had gone by that she went on duty feeling vaguely worried. Surely Melville would have had time at least to telephone her? She could always ring his office but he disliked her doing that, so even if she knew where he was there wasn’t much she could do about it.
It was Professor van Teule’s list that morning. It would be a long hard day, for he rarely finished before the early afternoon and although Norah would be there to take dentals, one of the student nurses, Nurse Smithers, a steady, conscientious worker to be relied upon, had days off and Nurse Walters had asked for an evening, which left Rachel with little Saunders. Mrs Crow would be in to take over at five o’clock and the pair of them would manage well enough. Rachel shut the off duty book and looked out of the window. The view wasn’t really a view; the forecourt and beyond it the busy street and a vista of small houses and shabby little shops, but it was a May morning, the sky was blue and the sun shone. It was her weekend off—she would go home even if it meant not seeing Melville. The garden would be lovely and she and Mutt would walk miles and come home to one of her mother’s splendid teas…
‘Nothing better to
do than daydream?’ asked the Professor mildly as he came in. He glanced out of the window in his turn. ‘And it has to be daydreaming with a view like this one.’
She turned to wish him good morning. ‘I was thinking how nice it will be to go home this weekend.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘What about Melville? Surely he will want you to stay in town?’
‘He’s—he’s away…’
‘He’ll be back,’ observed the Professor easily. ‘Take him home for the weekend.’
‘Oh, well, yes— He might find it a bit quiet…’
‘Surely not if you are there, Rachel?’
She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You think so? He might have other plans.’
He sauntered to the door. ‘Remember what I told you? Stick to it, dear girl. I’ll be up in ten minutes or so.’
He didn’t refer to their conversation again. For one thing there was little opportunity to talk and for another, although he was his usual placid self, he was remote, so that even if she had had the chance to say anything she would have hesitated to do so.
At the end of the day, with him gone and the theatre once more ready for use at the drop of a hat, she had time to think about his suggestion. Going off duty presently she decided to take his advice, if and when Melville phoned, and if he was reluctant she would go home all the same.
There was a phone call for her while she was at supper and, quite forgetful of the Professor’s advice, she tore along to the phone in the nurses’ home. ‘Melville!’ she was breathless with delight. ‘I’m so glad you’ve phoned, it seems ages…’
‘You’ve missed me, darling girl?’ He sounded pleased, smug almost.
‘What shall we do this weekend—I hope you’re free?’
‘I’m going home.’ She said it quickly before she could change her mind. ‘Why don’t you come too?’
He was silent for so long that she had time to regret her words, then, ‘Why not? I could do with a breath of country air. I’ll drive you down, darling—Friday evening—but I’ll have to get back on Sunday evening.’
‘I’ll be ready about six o’clock,’ she told him happily, ‘and I don’t mind coming back early. Have you been very busy?’
‘I’m exhausted; you have no idea how hard I work—nose to the grindstone and all that—but it’s going to be a smash hit when it’s finished.’ There was a pause before he said, ‘Must go, darling, there’s a meeting I have to attend—plans for next week and so on. See you on Friday.’
She went back to her supper, cold on the plate by now. She put it on one side and poured herself a cup of tea. ‘You look like a cat that’s been at the cream,’ observed Lucy, eyeing her across the table.
‘I’m going home for the weekend—Melville’s driving me down.’
‘Oh, very nice. Do I hear wedding bells?’
Rachel went pink. ‘Heavens, no. He’s up to his eyes in some new production; he never has a moment to himself.’
They left the table together and Rachel went to phone her mother.
Mrs Downing expressed herself delighted to be seeing Melville, concealing her real feelings in a masterly fashion; moreover she assured Rachel that her father would be equally delighted.
‘What will I be delighted about?’ asked Dr Downing, coming into the room as she put down the receiver.
‘Melville is bringing Rachel down for the weekend, dear. I said you’d be delighted to see him.’
‘Well, I won’t,’ declared the doctor vigorously. ‘I don’t like him and never shall—can’t think what Rachel sees in the fellow. Conceited pompous ass.’ He sat down at the table to eat a delayed supper. ‘Why couldn’t she fall in love with a man? That Professor who brought her down a week or two ago—nice chap. Got a wife already, I suppose.’
His wife murmured suitably. The Professor would do very nicely for Rachel, she thought fondly, and she didn’t believe that he was married; he had looked at Rachel once or twice… ‘Oh, well,’ she said comfortably, ‘things always turn out for the best.’
Her husband grunted; he didn’t think that it would be for the best if Rachel married Melville. He was an old-fashioned man; he couldn’t think why they weren’t engaged if he was so keen on her—she was keen enough on him, more was the pity.
The fine weather held, Friday was a warm day and it was still lovely as Rachel hurried to the hospital entrance just after six o’clock. Melville was there, waiting for her. He didn’t get out of the car. ‘Hello, darling. Sling your bag in the back and hop in. Do we stop for a meal on the way or have something when we get to your home?’
If she had expected a rather more love-like remark, she suppressed her disappointment. ‘Mother will have supper for us,’ she told him and was mollified by his kiss. ‘What a heavenly evening—I’m so looking forward to the weekend.’
‘So am I. Off we go then.’
Too fast as usual, he narrowly escaped the Professor’s Rolls as he turned on to the street. Rachel caught sight of the Professor’s face as they shot past. He didn’t smile; in fact, he looked so stern that she hardly recognised him.
Melville liked to drive fast. Rachel liked to drive fast, too, but she thought privately that sometimes he took risks, overtaking with no regard for oncoming traffic and getting very impatient when he got held up. She wasn’t quite as calm as usual by the time they arrived, but the sight of her mother at the open door quietened her frayed nerves. Melville stopped with a flourish and jumped out, opened her door for her and helped her out, keeping a hand on her elbow as they went the short distance to the door.
Clearly calculated to impress me, thought Mrs Downing, and I’m not impressed. But she greeted him charmingly, kissed Rachel warmly and led the way indoors.
Rachel paused in the doorway though and gave a great sniff of delight.
‘Can’t you smell everything growing?’ she demanded happily.
Melville glanced round him; it wasn’t quite dark and a faint breeze rustled through the trees behind the house. ‘Absolutely heavenly, darling—paradise after town.’
The doctor was in the sitting-room; he kissed his daughter, shook hands with Melville and offered them drinks. Melville embarked on a witty description of his work—he was good at it and they listened with apparent interest, wanting to hear about Rachel’s share in the emergency over the rioting. But there was no chance. Melville held the stage and was of no inclination to allow anyone else on it. He had, allowed Mrs Downing, a certain attraction: an amusing way of putting things, a good line in melting looks, too. My poor Rachel, she thought, don’t let her get too hurt.
Rachel was happy. Melville was at his most amusing; surely her mother and father could see what a successful man he was, and how attractive. She followed her mother to the kitchen presently to help carry in the supper and, once there, ‘You didn’t mind me bringing Melville, Mother?’
‘Not a bit,’ said Mrs Downing stoutly. ‘It was a very good idea of yours, darling.’
‘Actually, it was the Professor who suggested it to me,’ said Rachel, incurably honest, so that her mother, who had been harbouring gloomy thoughts, suddenly felt quite cheerful.
‘The papers were full of that riot.’ She withdrew a steak and kidney pie from the oven. ‘Were you very busy, darling? You said very little over the telephone.’
Thinking about it it didn’t seem quite real. ‘Well, yes, I was, but so was everyone else. I got up at two o’clock and we worked right round until the evening.’
‘And then you went to bed, I hope,’ prompted her mother.
‘Well, no.’ Rachel was dishing young carrots. ‘Melville came round—he didn’t know, you see—but I was too tired to go out. The Professor took me to his house and gave me supper and brought me back to the hospital.’
‘How kind.’ Her mother bent her head over the potatoes she was mashing. Prayers get answered, she reflected vaguely.
‘Supper’s ready,’ she said aloud. ‘Will you fetch the men, darling?’
Melville continued to
entertain them during supper, and when Mrs Downing managed to insert some remark about the rioting and the subsequent state of emergency at the hospital, he paused only long enough to say lightly, ‘Yes, these demonstrations can be so tiresome, Mrs Downing. It’s best to ignore them.’
She was too polite to question that; it was Dr Downing who said gravely, ‘That’s all very well, but if the hospital staff had ignored the casualties, there would have been several deaths—there were some serious injuries, you know.’
‘I’m sure you are right, sir,’ agreed Melville. ‘What would we do without our ministering angels?’
He smiled with charm at Rachel, who smiled back but couldn’t forbear from remarking, ‘Well, we wouldn’t have been much good without the medical staff.’
‘Ah, yes, we must give credit where credit is due, but don’t let’s get gloomy, darling. You’re home now in this lovely old house.’ Melville took the conversation into his own hands again and the hospital wasn’t mentioned again—at least, not until Rachel and her mother had gone up to bed, leaving the doctor to entertain their guest.
Rachel was brushing her hair when her mother came in, sat herself down on the bed and said, ‘Now, darling, I want to hear all about what happened that night, and don’t leave anything out…’
It was nice to be able to talk about it to someone who listened and was really interested. Rachel started at the beginning and recited the night’s events, skating over the bit when Melville had come to take her out for the evening, making the excuse that he had been working all day and hadn’t known anything about the rioting. Mrs Downing, who had her own ideas about this, merely said, ‘Of course, darling. How kind of the Professor to see that you had a meal and went to bed. You must have been exhausted.’
Rachel put down her hairbrush. ‘Yes. I do believe that I was. He’s got a charming house in a quiet little street with trees, and a nice man called Bodkin who runs it; his wife does the cooking.’