by Betty Neels
Considerably cheered by these naïve speculations, Rachel went along to the theatre to tell Norah the news.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVEN IF Melville had got in touch with her—and he hadn’t—she would have had precious little time to spend with him. She had a passport but the details of her flight had to be arranged. She was to travel on Monday morning and she would be met at the airport and taken to the Hilton Hotel where the conference would be held. For some reason the programme of the week’s events had not been sent but, as her friends were quick to point out, what did that matter? She would be staying in great comfort at an hotel which, according to the brochure, was within a few minutes of the shopping centre, she would doubtless meet a great many people and have a marvellous time and never mind the lectures or discussions. Miss Marks had told her that there would be three other theatre sisters from Great Britain attending, but she wasn’t likely to meet them until she got there, for they were from Scotland and the north of England and would fly from different airports.
Busy as she was in her off-duty time, deciding what clothes to take, how much money she would need and the best way to get to Heathrow, she was even busier in theatre, for the Professor’s lists were longer than ever and the off-duty rota had to be adjusted to fit in with her absence.
She had rung her mother with the news and, since she was due a weekend anyway, arranged to drive herself home on Friday evening. There had been no letter from Melville and she had thrust him to the back of her mind; time enough to think about him when she got back. Just for the moment there was far too much on her mind.
The Professor showed little interest in her trip. Beyond cautioning her to attend all the lectures and see all she could of any hospitals she might go to, he hadn’t much to say. Indeed, he was rather more silent than he usually was and certainly, in his placid way, more demanding in his work. Perhaps he had quarrelled with the girl he was to marry…
His list on Friday stretched well into the afternoon, so that by the time theatre was cleared and cleaned and she had handed over to Norah, it was getting on for six o’clock. But it was a splendid evening and driving would be a pleasure after a week of hard work. She hurried to change and get into the Fiat, puzzling over the Professor’s decidedly casual manner as he had left the theatre. Perhaps he was sickening for something. On second thoughts, a ludicrous idea, and why was she fussing so? He had been kind and helpful and she liked him but their friendship was impersonal and revolved round their work.
She started the car and plunged into the evening rush hour.
It was late by the time she got home; getting out of London had taken longer than usual and the traffic on the motorway had been heavy. But there was supper for her and her mother and father were delighted to see her, with Mutt barking his head off at the sight of her. She ate her supper while they discussed her trip to Basle and since she didn’t mention Melville no one else did either.
‘I dare say the surgeons will miss you,’ essayed her mother casually.
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Norah’s there for the big lists and the part-time staff nurse can cope with the small stuff. I’ve not had time to think about it much, I’ve been too busy, but I think it’s going to be fun.’
‘How many will there be?’ asked her father.
‘I don’t know. It’s an international affair, so there should be quite a few. I haven’t got the programme of events—Miss Marks said I should get it when I get there. There’ll be lectures and discussions and demonstrations and visits to hospitals…’
‘And enough time for you to look around, I hope,’ observed her mother.
It was a lovely peaceful two days, pottering in the garden, driving her father on his rounds, taking Mutt for long walks and sitting in the garden, and in the evenings sitting doing nothing with Everett on her lap. She left after tea on Sunday with the promise that she would telephone when she arrived in Basle, and drove back to the hospital to pack the carefully chosen wardrobe, check her tickets and money, wash her hair and go to bed after a good gossip over mugs of tea with half a dozen nurses crammed into one room.
Rachel had decided to drive herself to Heathrow and leave her car in the garage there. She left after breakfast, speeded on her way by those of her friends who were free to wave her away, and watched by Professor van Teule from the windows of Women’s Surgical. The ward sister, flustered at his early arrival, was thrown into a still more nervous state when he bade her a polite good morning and left the ward as suddenly as he had arrived. As she had a lot on her mind it didn’t occur to her that her ward overlooked the forecourt and the parking space reserved for nursing staff. And as for suspecting his interest in Rachel, she never gave it a thought; everyone knew that she was head over heels in love with Melville Grant. As for Professor van Teule, she, like everyone else on the nursing staff, liked him, stood a little in awe of him and had no interest in his private life, for the simple reason that he had never given them cause to do so.
It was at the end of the morning’s list when the Professor told Norah that he would be away for a week. ‘Mr Jolly will deal with anything George considers necessary. Otherwise George will go ahead with Thursday’s list—all straightforward cases.’
Norah took the news calmly. ‘What a good thing that you and Rachel are away at the same time,’ she remarked. ‘She won’t be back until Monday afternoon. Will you have a list on Monday morning, sir?’
‘No. I will not be back until Monday evening or Tuesday morning. George will arrange a list for Tuesday.’ He gave her a kindly smile. ‘You’ve enough staff?’
Norah said that yes, she had. Such a nice man; he and Rachel would suit each other down to the ground. She sighed, but here was Rachel hopelessly infatuated with this man Grant, and the professor, from all accounts, about to get married.
Rachel parked the car, took herself and her case through the customs and in due course settled herself in the plane. She didn’t care for flying but since she had to do so there was no point in getting worked up about it. She ate the odds and ends on the plastic tray she was handed and took out the booklet on Basle which she had unearthed in a bookshop. It seemed a nice city; she only hoped that she would see something of it.
The airport, after the complexity of Heathrow, was a pleasant surprise. It took no time at all to go through customs and walk outside into the warmth of an early summer’s afternoon. She had been told that she would be met and she saw a man bearing a board with her name on it almost immediately. He addressed her in French, to her relief, for she had an adequate smattering of that language, but almost no knowledge of German, and he spoke no English.
The six miles to the city were accomplished in an incredibly short space of time. Rachel, a bit shaken, got out at the hotel entrance, tipped the man and went into the foyer. There were a few people standing about, and at the end of the reception counter was a large board with ‘International Theatre Sisters’ Convention’ written on it. The girl sitting beside the board seemed to know all about her; her name was ticked off on a list, she was given a key to a room on the sixth floor, her bag was handed to a porter, and she was whisked into a lift. All very efficient, but she had no idea what she was supposed to do next. She followed the porter to her room and, when he had gone, inspected it slowly. It was comfortable and the bathroom was more than adequate. There were television and radio, several magazines and a really splendid view from the window. She washed and tied back her hair, then unpacked and, dying for a cup of tea, took herself back to the lifts and down to the foyer.
A large arrow pointed to the coffee shop and she followed its direction briskly. She would have to get a programme and any information there was later but tea was more important.
The coffee shop was pleasant and not too crowded. She drank three cups of tea, ate a mountainous cream cake, and went back to the reception desk.
There was to be an inaugural get-together that evening, she was told, to be held in the reception room on the floor below. When she enquired
as to the morrow’s timetable, she was told that the day’s timetable would be available at breakfast. ‘For the first day will be undemanding,’ said the clerk. ‘The first lecture begins after lunch; you will have the morning in which to integrate. After today, the following day’s programme will be given to you each evening.’
There were any number of people in the foyer now, but whether any of them were nurses like herself she was unable to decide. Of one thing she was certain, there wasn’t much English being spoken—lots of American accents, French and German, and several languages which might have been from any country. She bought a paper at the hotel shop and went back to her room to phone her mother and then sit down and read the day’s news.
The get-together was to be informal, she had been told, and she spent some time debating what she should wear. She decided on an Italian silk jersey dress in various shades of amber, spent an hour lying in the bath and doing her face and hair and, a little after seven o’clock, made her way back to the foyer.
A wide curving staircase led down to the floor below and women of every age, shape and size were going down it. No English, she thought unhappily, exchanging smiles with a stout young woman who addressed her in German and with a delicate little creature, half her size and enchantingly pretty. Rachel, whose ideas about the orient were vague, put her down as someone from the Far East; she looked far too fragile to be a theatre sister.
A get-together wasn’t quite the right word for it, she decided after a few minutes. Everyone there was willing and anxious to be friendly but there should have been someone there to start the ball rolling. It was like a gigantic cocktail party, where no one knew anyone else. And what was the point of it all if they were to be lectured in English when, as far as she could make out, almost everyone there was speaking in their own tongue? She took a second drink from the tray being carried around and addressed the two young women nearest her. They were from Denmark and told her so in an English as good as her own, so that she exclaimed happily, ‘Oh, I was beginning to think that nobody spoke English…’
They laughed kindly. ‘We all speak and understand English but of course we prefer to speak our own language. Are there no other English nurses here?’
‘Oh yes. Three I’ve been told of, perhaps more, only I haven’t met them yet.’
‘You should ask. I expect they will tell you at the reception desk what their room numbers are and their names. We always do that.’
She hadn’t thought of that; obviously she was talking to old hands at the game of nurses’ conventions. It was like being a new girl at school. The drinks were loosening tongues and creating a friendly atmosphere. Several more women joined them, two of them considerably older, the other two French and voluble talkers. Presently they drifted to the long table at the end of the room where the food had been set out. Rachel, quite hungry, tucked into cold chicken and salad and listened to her companions’ talk. The two older women were from Austria and had little to say for themselves although they were friendly enough; the talk was carried along on the shoulder of the French girls, who lapsed into their own language most of the time but contrived to be very amusing all the same.
Rachel, anxious to find the English girls if they were there, drifted to and fro without success although she met a nurse from Texas and another from Toronto. It was an opportunity to find out more about the week ahead of them but neither girl knew much more than she did, and anyway, as the American pointed out, they would be told in the morning. ‘And I dare say it will be a round of lectures and demonstrations and inspecting instruments and how to deal with student nurses.’
At about ten o’clock they began to drift back upstairs and to their rooms. Most of them had arrived that day and were tired; those who weren’t went along to the bar or the coffee shop. Rachel refused several invitations to have coffee and went to her room. Her last sleepy thought was to wonder if the Professor had had a heavy list. Of Melville she didn’t think at all.
She woke early to a lovely day and, since breakfast could be had in the coffee shop from six o’clock onwards, she got up, did her face and hair with more care than usual, got into a sleeveless cotton dress and went along to the lifts. There didn’t seem to be anyone around, but it was still early and they had been told that they would have the morning free.
She got out of the lift in the foyer and the first person she saw was Professor van Teule, elegant in summer suiting, not a hair out of place and looking, if that were possible, more placid than ever.
He came to meet her. ‘There you are,’ he said carelessly, just as though they had arranged to meet. ‘I thought you might be up early.’
She goggled at him, her pretty mouth slightly open. ‘However did you get here?’ she asked, and then frowned because it was a silly question.
‘On an evening flight.’ He smiled slowly and she said sharply, ‘You’re one of the lecturers—why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I had the ridiculous idea that if I had done so you would have decided not to come.’ He didn’t say why, nor did he give her the chance to answer. ‘Shall we have breakfast?’
When they were seated in the coffee shop he said, ‘I hope you aren’t too annoyed that I am here—I only lecture in the afternoons and there will be no need for you to attend.’
‘Well, of course I shall come.’ She met his eye across the table. ‘And I’m not a bit annoyed; in fact, I’m glad. I know I shan’t see you except on the platform but I’ll know you are here. I feel like a new girl at school.’
The waitress came with coffee and a basket of rolls and Rachel ordered scrambled eggs. The Professor asked for bacon, eggs, sausages and mushrooms.
‘I haven’t had a programme of events yet,’ said Rachel, pouring coffee. ‘We’re to get it this morning and the first lecture is this afternoon.’
For answer the Professor pulled a folder from a pocket. ‘Normally they chalk the events up on a board each morning—I daresay they’ll do the same here. But cast your eye over this if you like.’
The first lecture was at two o’clock in one of the smaller conference rooms. And the Professor was giving it. There would be a discussion afterwards, a pause for tea and then a film depicting new theatre techniques. Those attending the conference would be expected to make notes and there would be a room put at their disposal for this purpose. Dinner would be at seven o’clock and afterwards there would be a lecture on modern methods of anaesthesia. Quite a busy day, and, casting her eyes rapidly over the rest of the programme, she could see that all the other days would be busy, too; lectures either in the morning and afternoon and the evening free, or the mornings free and the rest of the day taken up with various studies. Two trips to hospitals, she was glad to see, and since her flight home didn’t leave until around lunchtime she would have several hours leisure on the last day.
She heard the Professor observe, ‘You must see as much of the city as possible while you’re here. I’m at the Basle Hotel. I’ll give you a ring each morning before eight o’clock and we’ll arrange to meet.’
Rachel eyed him thoughtfully. ‘That’s very kind of you, Professor, but just because you are lecturing here doesn’t mean—that you—you have to entertain me.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Besides, there are three other English girls here—I haven’t met them yet…’
‘Don’t try to give me the brush-off, Rachel.’ He sounded amused and she went pink. ‘The three ladies you refer to are very senior members of their profession. I doubt if you would have anything in common save an exchange of views concerning the running of the operating theatre.’
‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’ asked Rachel with a snap.
‘My dear girl, of course, but it wouldn’t be much use for you to glean information from those who, like yourself, have come to be apprised of modern methods.’ He passed his cup for more coffee, his voice as bland as his face.
‘I shall phone you each morning,’ he observed in the placid voice which she had learnt concealed a steely determination to h
ave his own way.
She said meekly, ‘Very well, Professor.’
He went on calmly, ‘The evening lecture will finish about nine o’clock; Dr Geller wants to meet his wife who is flying in on an evening plane from Vienna. I’ll wait in the foyer for you; we’ll go somewhere and have a drink and you can give me your impression of the day’s events.’
She agreed readily. Truth to tell, it would be nice to have something to look forward to at the end of the day, and someone she could talk to freely.
The coffee shop was filling up now. The Professor put down his cup and glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve a meeting in half an hour. I’ll see you this evening.’ He bade her a casual goodbye and wandered away.
She waited for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to think that she was anxious for his company, although it would have been rather nice, she thought wistfully, to have explored a little with him. On her way out she met the three nurses from home. The Professor had been right; they were all on the wrong side of forty, probably first-class theatre sisters but slightly intimidating in appearance. One of them stopped Rachel as she passed them.
‘You’re Sister Downing,’ she observed. ‘You’re very young—which hospital are you from?’
Rachel said, ‘Hello,’ and smiled, for, despite appearances, they might be rather nice—one never knew. She named her hospital and the youngest of the three said, ‘You must be very proud of yourself—you must be very good at your job,’ and returned her smile.
‘I dare say we’re all much of a muchness. It’s a splendid chance to be here and get up-to-date, though.’