by Betty Neels
She didn’t reply. She was picturing him sitting there, reading the morning paper and his post—she wondered if he had any family to write to him. She hoped so; he was so nice. He had gone to the ground-length window and opened it to let in two dogs, a basset hound and a Jack Russell, whom he introduced as Edward and Albert. They pranced to meet her, greeted her politely and then went back to stand by their master.
He said, ‘Do sit down, won’t you? We’ll give them ten minutes to get to know each other. There are cigarettes beside you if you care to smoke.’
She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I only smoke at parties when I want something to do with my hands.’
He smiled. ‘You won’t mind if I light my pipe?’
‘Please do. What will you do about Mrs Brown, sir?’
‘What I said. Pull her together as far as we can in hospital and then let her go home.’
Sarah looked horrified. ‘Not back to Phipps Street?’
He raised his brows. ‘Phipps Street is her home,’ he said coolly. ‘She has lived there for so long, it would be cruel to take her away, especially as she has only a little of life left. I shall arrange for someone to go in daily and do everything necessary, and I think the landlord could be persuaded to clean up the room and perhaps paint it while she is away.’
Sarah nodded, highly approving. ‘That would be nice. Yes, you’re right, of course. She’d be lost anywhere else.’
He had lighted his pipe; now he stood up. He said, quite without sarcasm, ‘I’m glad you approve. I’m going to fetch Mrs Brown—will you wait here? I shan’t be long.’
When he had gone, she got up and began an inspection of the room. It was comfortable and lived-in, with leather armchairs and an enormous couch drawn up before the beautiful marble fireplace. The floor was polished and covered with the same beautiful rugs as there were in the hall. There was a sofa table behind the couch and a scattering of small drum tables around the room, and a marquetry William and Mary china cabinet against one of the walls. A davenport under one of the windows would make letter writing very pleasant … it had a small button-backed chair to partner it; Sarah went and sat down, feeling soothed and calmer than she had felt for the last two days or so. She realised that she hadn’t thought of Steven for several hours; she had been so occupied with Mrs Brown and the ridiculous Timmy—it had been pure coincidence, of course, that Dr van Elven should have asked for her help; all the same she felt grateful to him. He couldn’t have done more to distract her thoughts even if she had told him about the whole sorry business.
Her gratitude coloured her goodbyes when they parted in the hospital entrance hall, he to go off to some business of his own, she to take Mrs Brown to Women’s Medical. But if he was surprised by the fervour of her thanks, he gave no sign. It was only later, when she was sitting in the lonely isolation of OPD that the first faint doubts as to whether it had been coincidence crept into her mind. She brushed them aside as absurd at first, but they persisted, and the annoying thing was that she wasn’t sure if she minded or not. There was no way of finding out either, short of asking Dr van Elven to his face, something she didn’t care to do; for if she was mistaken, she could imagine only too vividly, the look of bland amusement on his face. The amusement would be kindly, and that would make it worse, because it would mean that he pitied her, a fact, which for some reason or other, she could not bear to contemplate.
She drew the laundry book towards her, resolutely emptying her mind of anything but the number of towels and pillow cases she could expect back on Monday.
CHAPTER TWO
SARAH WENT TO SEE Mrs Brown on Sunday. She went deliberately during the visiting hour in the afternoon, because she thought it unlikely that the old lady would have any visitors. She was right; Mrs Brown was sitting up in bed in a hospital nightie several sizes too large for her, looking very clean, her hair surprisingly white after its washing—a nurse had pinned it up and tied a pink bow in it as well.
‘How nice you look, Mrs Brown—I like that ribbon.’ Sarah drew up a chair and sat down, aware of the glances Mrs Brown was casting left and right to her neighbours as if to say ‘I told you so’. She made a resolve then and there to pop in and see her whenever she could spare a minute, and enquired after the old lady’s health.
Mrs Brown brushed this aside. ‘‘E sent a message,’ she stated. ‘Timmy’s ‘ad a good sleep, ‘e said, and eaten for two.’ She fidgeted around in the bed and all the pillows fell down, so that Sarah had to get up and rearrange them. ‘One of them young doctors told me this morning.’ She frowned reflectively. ‘They knows what they’re doing, I suppose? Them young ones?’
‘Yes, Mrs Brown.’ Sarah sounded very positive. ‘They’re all qualified doctors and they’re here to carry out the consultant’s wishes.’
‘So all them things ‘e did to me ‘e was told ter do by the doc?’
Sarah nodded. ‘That’s right. Now is there anything I can do for you while you’re here? Was anyone going to get your room ready for you to go back?’
The old lady looked astonished. ‘Lor’, no, ducks. ‘Oo’d ‘ave the time? Though I daresay someone’ll pop in and do me bed and get me in some stuff.’
Sarah made a noncommittal reply to this remark, and made a mental note to go round to Phipps Street one evening and make sure that there really was someone.
She didn’t see Steven again until Tuesday morning, when Mr Binns had an extra OP clinic. They had barely exchanged cool good mornings, when he was called away to the wards, and didn’t return until all but two of the patients had gone. It was already past twelve, and they were behind time. Dr van Elven had a vast clinic at one-thirty. For once she was glad of Mr Binns’ briskness; he took no time at all over the last patient—a post-operative check-up—thanked Sarah with faint pomposity, and hurried away with Steven beside him. She sent the nurses to dinner, had a few words with Staff, who had come on duty to take the gynae clinic, and then got on with the business of substituting Dr Binns’paraphernalia for that of Dr van Elven. She had almost finished when Steven returned.
He said abruptly as he came in, ‘Where the hell were you going on Saturday with old van Elven?’
Sarah’s heart gave an excited jump. So he minded! She stacked the case notes neatly and consulted her long list of names before she replied, in a calm voice she hardly recognised as her own:
‘Is it any business of yours? And if you refer to Dr van Elven, he’s not at all old, you know.’
He gave an ugly laugh. ‘You’re a sly one—pretending to be such a little puritan and playing the hurt madam with me! How long have you been leading him by the nose? He’s quite a catch.’
He was standing quite near her. She put down her list and slapped his face hard, and in the act saw Dr van Elven standing at the doorway. As he came into the room he said quietly, ‘Get out.’ His voice had the menace of a knife, although his face was impassive.
Sarah watched Steven standing irresolute, one hand to a reddened cheek, the look of surprise still on his face, and then turn on his heel and go. She had never expected him to brazen it out anyway. Dr van Elven was the senior consultant at St Edwin’s, and could, if he so wished, use his authority. She didn’t look at him now, but mumbled, ‘I’m late for dinner …’
‘Sit down,’ he said placidly, and she obeyed him weakly. She had gone very white; now her face flamed with humiliation and temper—mostly temper. She shook with it, and gripped her hands together in her lap to keep them steady. Dr van Elven went over to the desk in a leisurely fashion and put down his case. He said, not looking at her, in a most reasonable voice:
‘You can’t possibly go to the dining room in such a towering rage.’
He was right, of course. Sarah stared at her hands and essayed to speak.
‘You know about me and Steven.’
‘Yes. But I see no need to enlarge upon what must be a painful subject.’
Sarah choked on a watery chuckle, ‘I’m behaving like a heroine in a Victorian no
vel, aren’t I?’ She gave him a sudden waspish look. ‘I’m furious!’ she snapped, as though he hadn’t commented upon her feelings already. He said ‘Yes,’ again and gave her a half smile, then bent over his desk, leaving her to pull herself together. Presently he remarked:
‘That’s better. We have a large clinic, I believe. How fortunate—there’s nothing like hard work for calming the nerves. Might I suggest that you go to your dinner now? I should like to start punctually.’
She got up at once, unconsciously obedient to his quietly compelling voice. ‘Yes, of course, sir. I’ve been wasting time.’
She fled through the door, feeling that somehow or other he had contrived to make the whole episode not worth bothering about. She even ate her dinner, aware that he would ask her if she had done so when she got back and would expect a truthful answer.
There was not time to ask her anything, however. When she returned the benches were overflowing. The air rang with a variety of coughs, and as it was raining outside, the same air was heavy with the damp from wet coats and the redolence of sopping garments which those who had arrived first had had the forethought to dry out upon the radiators. Sarah went swiftly into the consultants’ room, saw that Dr van Elven was already sitting at his desk, adjusted her cuffs and said in her usual serene tones:
‘Shall I fetch in the first one, sir? Mr Jenkins—check-up after three weeks as in-patient.’
He gave her a brief, impersonal glance, nodded and returned to his writing. ‘I’ve seen his X-rays—I’ll want some blood though. Will you get Dr Coles on to it?’
She fetched in Mr Jenkins, waited just long enough to make sure that she wouldn’t be wanted for a moment, and flew to find the Medical Registrar. Dr Coles was tucked away in the little room near the sluice, going through Path. Lab. forms and various reports, so that later, when Dr van Elven wanted to know some detail about one of his patients, he would know the answer. He looked up as she went in and said pleasantly:
‘Hullo, Sarah. Is the chief already here? I’m still choking down facts and figures.’ He grinned and she smiled at him warmly. He was a nice man, not young any more, and apparently not ambitious, for he seemed content to stay where he was, working in hospital. He got on well with the consultant staff and was utterly reliable and invariably good-natured. He was reputed to be very happily married and was apt to talk at length about his children, of whom he was very proud. He got up now and followed her back past the rows of patients. Mr Jenkins was still describing the nasty pain that caught him right in the stomach, and Dr van Elven was listening to him with the whole of his attention. When the old man paused for breath, though, the doctor said, ‘Hullo, Dick’, and smiled at his Registrar. ‘What did you make of Mr Jenkins when he was in?’
The two men became immersed in their patient, leaving her free to make sure that the one to follow was ready and waiting in the dressing room, and that everything that Dr van Elven might want was to hand.
The afternoon wore on, the small room gradually acquiring the same damp atmosphere as the waiting hall. Sarah switched on the electric fan, which stirred up the air without noticeable improvement. She switched it off again and Dr van Elven said:
‘Don’t worry, Sister,’ and then, surprisingly, ‘I am a little ashamed that I can drive myself home, warm, and dry for I imagine, from their appearance, that quite a number of my patients haven’t even the price of a bus fare, and even if they have, won’t be able to get on a bus.’ He caught her eye and smiled. ‘How about tea?’
Over their brief cup, the men discussed the next case and Dr Coles told them about his eldest son, who was doing rather well at school. It was while Sarah was piling their cups and saucers on to a tray that Dr van Elven remarked quietly, ‘Mrs Brown tells me that you visit her regularly, Sister. That is good of you.’
Sarah whipped the next patient’s notes before him and said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Well, I don’t think she has any relations or friends to come and see her, sir. And you know how awful it is for a patient to be the only one in the ward without visitors.’
He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I imagine it must be a miserable experience. She is responding very well, you know. I must see about getting her home.’
Sarah was on the way to the door. She paused and looked back at him.
‘How’s Timmy?’ she asked.
‘The perfect guest—his manners, contrary to his appearance, are charming.’
They finished at last—she sent the student nurses off duty, left Staff to clear up the gynae clinic on the other side of the department, and began her own clearing up. Dr Coles had gone to answer a call from one of the wards, and she was alone with Dr van Elven, who was sitting back in his chair, presumably deep in thought. She bustled about the little room putting it to rights and piling the case notes ready to take back to the office. She was trying not to remember that it was just a week since she had gone out to dinner with Steven, but her thoughts, now that she was free to think again after the afternoon’s rush, kept returning to the same unhappy theme. She had quite forgotten the man sitting so quietly at the desk. When he spoke she jumped visibly and said hurriedly:
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear what you were saying.’
He withdrew an abstracted gaze from the ceiling, stared at her from under half-closed lids, and got up. At the door he said quietly:
‘It gets easier as the days go by—especially if there is plenty of work to do. Good night, Sister Dunn.’
Sarah stood staring, her mouth open. He was well out of earshot when she at length said ‘Good night’ in reply.
There was a message for her when she got over to the Home, from Steven, saying that he had to see her, and would she be outside at seven o’clock. To apologise, she surmised; but he could have done that in his note, and she had no intention of running to his least word. She changed rapidly; she had a good excuse to go out, and was glad of it. She would go and see about Mrs Brown’s room. There was actually plenty of time, but as Dr van Elven had said, being busy helped.
Phipps Street looked depressing; the rain had stopped, but the wind was fresh and the evening sky unfriendly. Sarah banged on the front door and the same man opened it to her. He looked at her suspiciously at first, perhaps because she was in a raincoat and a headscarf and looked different, but when he saw who she was he opened the door wide.
‘It’s you again, miss. Thought you’d be along. Come to ‘ave a look, I suppose, and do a bit o’ choosing. ‘Ow’s the old girl?’
Sarah edged past him. ‘She’s fine—and settled in very nicely, though of course she’s longing to come home.’
He lumbered ahead of her up the miserable staircase.
‘Well, o’course. ‘Oo wants ter stay in ‘ospital when they got a good ‘ome?’
They had reached the little landing and he flung open Mrs Brown’s door with something of a flourish. It was empty of furniture—of everything, she noted with mounting astonishment. Two men were painting the woodwork; one of them turned round as she went in, greeted her civilly and asked if she had come to choose the wallpaper. Her grey eyes opened wide and she turned to the landlord. ‘But surely you want to decide that?’ she wanted to know.
‘Lor’ luv yer, miss, no. What should I know about fancy wallpaper?’ He let out a great bellow of laughter and went out, shutting the door behind him. Sarah looked around her. The room was being redecorated quite lavishly. The hideous piping which probably had something to do with the water tap on the landing had been cased in: one of the men was fitting a new sash-cord to the elderly window frame he was painting. The paintwork was grey, the walls, stripped of several layers of paper, looked terrible. There were several books of wallpaper patterns in the centre of the room, on the bare floor. After an undecided moment, Sarah knelt down and opened the first of them. The man at the window said:
‘That’s right, ducks, you choose something you like; we’ll be ready to ‘ang it soon as the paint’s dry.’
She gave him a puzzled lo
ok. ‘Well, if there’s no one else.’
She was contemplating a design of pink cabbage roses when she heard someone running upstairs and the door was opened by Dr van Elven. He nodded to the two men, and if he was surprised to see Sarah, she had to admit that he didn’t show it. He said, ‘Hullo. What a relief to see you—now you can choose the wallpaper.’
She had to laugh. ‘It’s like a conspiracy—when I got here the landlord seemed to think that was why I had come, and so did this painter. I really only came to see if there was any cleaning to do before Mrs Brown came home.’
‘Not for ten days at least.’ His tone was dry.
She was annoyed to feel her cheeks warming. ‘Well, I wanted to get away from the hospital.’ She turned back to the pattern book, determined not to say more, and was relieved when he said casually:
‘That’s splendid. Have you seen anything you like?’
‘Mrs Brown likes pink,’ she said slowly, and frowned. ‘Surely if the landlord is having this done, he should choose?’ She looked up enquiringly, saw his face and said instantly: ‘You’re doing it.’ She added, ‘Sir.’
‘My name is Hugo,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You are, of course, aware of that. I think that after three years we might dispense with sir and Sister, unless we are actually—er—at work. I hope you agree?’
She was a little startled and uncertain what to say, but it seemed it was of no consequence, for he continued without waiting for her reply:
‘Good, that’s settled. Now, shall we get this vexed question of wallpaper dealt with?’