by Betty Neels
She pushed back the dark curls. ‘Would you like coffee? Mother will be delighted…’
‘I’ve already been to the house, and your mother gave me coffee. I couldn’t go without saying hello.’
Rosie took a grubby hand out of its glove. ‘Please remember me to your mother; it was nice seeing you.’
She offered the hand, rather red in the face because last time he had kissed her and she wanted him to kiss her now.
He didn’t. He shook her hand and smiled a little, and said, ‘We’ll meet again some time, I dare say, Rosie,’ and he had gone before she could utter a suitable reply.
When she went into the house her mother said, ‘Fergus called; did he find you?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t want to talk about him. ‘Those rose beds are in a terrible mess, Mother—it will take a couple of years to get them back to what they were.’
‘Yes, dear,’ agreed Mrs Macdonald, and took care not to mention Fergus again.
* * *
The pair of them left for Edinburgh the following afternoon, and arrived at old Mrs Macdonald’s house to find that lady giving orders right and left, deploring the fact that she had such a heartless daughter, and wanting to know where the rather splendid hat she had worn to her son’s wedding some twenty years ago could be. Rosie found the hat, a masterpiece of black straw, tulle and curled feathers, soothed her grandparent, helped get supper on the table, and retired to bed to lie awake wishing she was the bride and not the bridesmaid. A different bridegroom, of course, she reminded herself as she nodded off—Fergus, free from his shadowy fiancée and in love with her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ROSIE was up early; much as her grandmother decried Aunt Carrie’s wedding, old Mrs Macdonald intended to grace the ceremony in splendour. It took the combined efforts of Elspeth, her mother and herself to dress the old lady to her satisfaction, which gave them little time to get into their wedding finery. Old Mrs Macdonald left first with Elspeth in the hired car, and Rosie, by no means pleased with her appearance, since she had dressed in a great hurry, urged her mother into the car and drove across the city to Tron Church, anxious to get there before the bride.
She had a thankful ten minutes before Aunt Carrie was due to arrive; she saw her mother into a pew at the front of the church, already surprisingly full, and retreated to the porch where she smoothed down the soft silk of her simple dress, made sure that the wreath of flowers was firmly anchored on her curls, and sat down to wait.
Aunt Carrie was a little late—only to be expected—and in a flutter. She had chosen to wear a soft blue two-piece and a charming hat she would never have dared to wear while she had been living with old Mrs Macdonald, and Rosie was quick to tell her how pretty she looked.
‘Oh, well, yes,’ said Aunt Carrie, more disjointedly than ever. ‘Is it all…? That is, it’s too hot. Should I have worn…? I’m not sure…’
‘You look smashing,’ Rosie assured her lovingly. ‘Here, carry your flowers—they go beautifully with your dress. Are you ready?’
Dr MacLeod was giving Aunt Carrie away; they walked up the aisle with Rosie behind them. The unexpected sight of Sir Fergus, towering over the other guests in one of the pews, caused her to falter in her slow pacing, but only for a moment. She went past him, looking ahead of her, apparently lost in the solemnity of the occasion.
The service was simple and short; they were walking down the aisle and out of the church in no time at all, followed by family and friends.
Rosie watched the elderly best man usher the happy couple into their car, and waited for him to accompany her in the first of the cars lined up. He joined her presently, looking harassed. ‘I’d better get your family away first,’ he told her worriedly.
‘I’ll drive Rosie back.’ Sir Fergus’s voice sounded to the bothered man like that of an old trusted friend; indeed, he knew Sir Fergus by sight.
‘So kind,’ he said hurriedly. ‘There are several ladies, you understand.’
‘Oh, I do indeed,’ acknowledged Sir Fergus with what Rosie considered to be unnecessarily fulsome sympathy. ‘Do go ahead and see to them.’
He hardly waited for the best man’s thanks, but whisked Rosie away to the Rolls, and popped her into the front seat.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked.
He got into the car beside her. ‘Your aunt invited me. She made a charming bride, did she not?’ He turned to look at her. ‘And you are a quite beautiful bridesmaid, Rosie.’
She mumbled something, feeling shy and then peevishly furious when he added, ‘A rehearsal for being the bride yourself, perhaps?’
‘Certainly not!’ Her voice was frosty. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be looking after your patients?’
‘Not until this afternoon. They’re off just after one o’clock, aren’t they? Leaving everyone feeling flat. Would you like to come to the Royal Infirmary with me and look around while I do some work?’
‘Oh, may I? I would very much like to. Are you coming to the reception? It’s only drinks and canapés. What time shall I come, and where do I go?’
‘As soon as we’ve seen the happy pair off I’ll drive you to your grandmother’s house—that’s where you are staying, isn’t it?—you can have ten minutes to change. I’ll hand you over to someone who will show you everything you might like to see.’
‘Just like that? Don’t you even have to ask someone?’
His firm mouth twitched. ‘Well, no. I don’t think that will be necessary.’
‘Not even the matron?’
‘Not even the matron. Here we are. Are there to be many guests?’
‘No, just family and William Brodie’s friends and an odd cousin or two of his.’
He parked the car, and they went into the hotel and were at once separated—she to be the centre of the vague cousins’ attention, he to confer gravely with her grandmother, looking, it must be admitted, rather like the bad fairy bent on casting gloom over the party. Not that she was given the chance; Sir Fergus, used to dealing with awkward patients, diverted the old lady’s attention away from Carrie’s happy face, and listened with becoming gravity to a detailed description of old Mrs Macdonald’s fragile state before reassuring her with such a positive manner that she actually accepted a second glass of champagne.
The last of the confetti had barely been thrown when Sir Fergus was at Rosie’s elbow. ‘Come on, I’ve spoken to your mother.’
Rosie found her mother talking to Dr MacLeod. ‘Mother,’ she began, to be interrupted by her mother’s,
‘Have a lovely time, darling. Dr MacLeod will drive Granny and me back. Don’t keep Fergus waiting.’
Outside her grandmother’s house he got out to help her. ‘Ten minutes,’ he reminded her, and as she jumped out and hurried into the house he got back into the car.
She managed it in nine minutes, darting through the door looking as fresh as a daisy in a pretty cotton dress and a little jacket, her hair neatly brushed, her feet thrust into low-heeled sandals with an eye to the hospital corridors she supposed she would traipse up and down later on.
‘What time do you have to be at the hospital?’ she asked as he stowed her back into the car.
‘I have a list for quarter-past two,’ he told her.
‘Oh, plenty of time…’
‘Yes.’ He turned the car and drove away in the opposite direction to which she had expected to go.
‘The infirmary is over there, isn’t it?’ She waved
an arm in its general direction.
‘Yes, but I live in Moray Place. We will have lunch first. I cannot and will not operate with hollow insides.’
Not true, of course; many a time he had, in an emergency, got out of his bed to operate in the small hours and well into the day without so much as a cup of tea. He certainly didn’t stop for a meal if it happened to infringe upon his surgery. His theatre sister swallowed whatever she had time for between cases, and sent her long-suffering nurses to their dinners while the theatre was prepared for the next case, with him standing there like a patient giant.
It was but a short distance to Moray Place. It looked solid and elegant in the early-afternoon sun, and tall houses beautifully maintained, the garden in its centre bright with shrubs and flowers. Sir Fergus stopped before such a house at the end of the semi-circular terrace, and got out.
‘Mrs Meikle will have everything ready,’ he observed as he opened Rosie’s door and swept her across the pavement, and indeed that lady had the door open before they reached it. Sir Fergus paused long enough to make introductions.
‘Twenty minutes, Mrs Meikle, if you can manage that; we need to be away not a minute later than that.’
‘Bless you, Mr Fergus, everything’s waiting to be popped into your mouths.’
He threw an arm around her plump shoulders. ‘Good, we’ll go straight into the dining-room.’
He opened a door in the narrow hall, and ushered Rosie inside. The room was at the back of the house overlooking a pleasant garden, its doors open on to a terrace. Gyp came prancing in, delighted to see them, and Sir Fergus said, ‘Would you like a drink? Sherry?’
The champagne Rosie had had after the wedding was still giving her an agreeably fizzy feeling. ‘No, thank you.’
He pulled out a chair at the circular table, its cloth snowy-white, the silver gleaming on it, the crystal sparkling.
‘Tonic water? Lemonade? Mrs Meikle makes her own.’
A sturdy girl came in with watercress soup, very cold and with a dash of cream in it, and a basket of rolls, and Rosie, who had managed to nibble only a handful of the canapés with the champagne, fell to with unselfconscious pleasure, watched appreciatively by her companion.
The soup was followed by hot cheese puffs and a green salad, and finally coffee, taken in an atmosphere which gave no indication of haste; indeed, Sir Fergus carried on a rambling conversation without looking at the clock once. Nevertheless, they left the house within the half-hour, and when they reached the hospital it still wanted ten minutes to a quarter-past the hour.
Rosie was whisked through the entrance hall and into a lift before she had the time to look around her, walked briskly down a number of corridors, up and down a staircase or two, and was handed over to a fierce-looking middle-aged lady, upholstered in dark blue, and wearing a very starched cap on her iron-grey hair.
The professor flung an arm round her. ‘Becky, dear, here is Rosie, just as I promised. Allow her to poke her nose into whatever interests her, will you? And if I’m not finished by four o’clock or thereabouts sit her down with a good book until I am.’
To Rosie’s astonishment he gave the elderly shoulders a friendly hug, and received a warm smile in return.
‘Rosie, this is Sister Wallace. She used to be my theatre sister, now she is the Theatre Superintendent and only scrubs for me on special occasions. She will take you round the hospital and tell you anything you want to know.’
He gave her a brisk nod and stalked away, and Sister Wallace said, ‘Well, shall we have a cup of tea before we start? There’s a lot to see.’ She turned a bright, enquiring eye on Rosie, ‘You’re a lucky girl, the professor’s doing you a great favour.’
Rosie murmured suitably, and they repaired to Sister’s office, where they drank tea and exchanged small talk until there was no more tea left in the pot.
‘Now where shall it be first? The maternity pavilion? The eye pavilion? Outpatients?’
Rosie put down her cup. ‘I’d like to see where Sir Fergus works, please.’
Sister Wallace’s beady eyes studied Rosie thoughtfully. ‘Why not? You cannot go into Theatre, of course, but you may look through the portholes, and if you are not squeamish you may observe him operating from the gallery.’
The porthole revealed the anaesthetic room, a patient on a trolley and, presumably, the anaesthetist. ‘The patient has had a pre-med,’ explained Sister Wallace, ‘which relaxes him sufficiently to make him composed.’
Then she led the way along a corridor, and opened a door which gave on to a gallery already almost filled with white-coated students.
‘You are sure that you wish to watch? I can’t have you fainting here.’
‘I shan’t faint, although I don’t suppose I shall want to stay for long.’
The patient was on the table surrounded by shrouded figures, and it was very quiet. Sir Fergus, gowned and gloved, came into view, and his ‘Good afternoon, Sister,’ uttered in an unhurried and casual voice, made the surroundings perfectly normal, so that Rosie, peering down and wondering if she should be there after all, felt reassured.
Sir Fergus murmured something to the theatre sister, put out a gloved hand and was handed a scalpel, and Rosie very sensibly closed her eyes.
When she opened them cautiously his vast back obscured her view, which was just as well, and when Sister Wallace plucked at her arm she went willingly enough back to the corridor.
‘I just wanted to know,’ she explained to her companion. ‘I mean, I knew he was a surgeon, but I could only imagine… Does he ever make a mistake?’
Sister Wallace allowed herself a chuckle. ‘No! Would you like to see his wards?’
‘Yes, please.’
The afternoon flew by; Rosie, led from one end of the hospital to the other, was enthralled. She poked her pretty head into every corner she was permitted, asking endless questions which Sister Wallace answered patiently, if briefly, until at last she was led back to that lady’s office and told to sit down while a tray of tea was brought.
With it came Sir Fergus, looking the epitome of the well-dressed gentleman who wouldn’t know a scalpel if he saw one.
‘You look different,’ remarked Rosie.
‘Er—in what way?’ he wanted to know.
‘Well, I suppose it’s the clothes; you looked so—so as though everyone in the theatre would do what you told them to do without asking why.’
He took the tea Sister Wallace handed to him.
‘I should jolly well hope so, or the place would be bedlam!’
Sister Wallace allowed herself a chuckle. ‘We were in the gallery.’
‘Only I closed my eyes when you took that knife,’ Rosie said, and then, ‘When I opened them again I could only see your back.’ She bit into the petit beurre biscuit she had been offered. ‘Are you going to operate again or have you finished for today?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Outpatients in half an hour, and then a quick check-up of today’s cases.’
‘Not to mention a couple of private patients this evening and letters to dictate,’ added Sister Wallace drily.
‘Then I’ll go now. Thank you for letting me see round the Infirmary, I really was interested,’ Rosie said enthusiastically.
She got to her feet, shook Sister Wallace’s hand, offered a hand to Sir Fergus, and made for the door. He was there before her.
‘I’ll drive you back.’
He sounded like a man with noth
ing to do for the rest of the day.
‘A breath of fresh air will be welcome.’ He looked over his shoulder at Sister Wallace. ‘Thanks, Becky, let them know in OPD, will you?’
Rosie, a calm girl, found that calm shattered.
‘I can go back on my own,’ she pointed out as they started their devious journey back to the entrance. She might just as well have been addressing the air, for Sir Fergus took no notice of her.
She tried again. ‘There is no need…’ This also was ignored; instead she was swept out to the Rolls, shoved into the front seat with surprisingly gentle hands, and driven back, through the Grassmarket, past the library, down the Mound, into Princes Street, and so eventually to her grandmother’s house.
Rosie had sat silent, but now she said, ‘Will you come in? I’m sure Granny will be pleased to see you.’
He was already getting out of the car, and had opened her door before he replied, ‘No time.’ He bent and kissed her swiftly, and got back into the car and drove away.
Rosie glanced at her watch; Sister Wallace had told her that he was a stickler for punctuality. He was going to have to drive very fast…
She went indoors to find her mother in the drawing-room with a tea-tray before her. ‘Your Granny is tired, she’s having a cup of tea in her room, she said. Sit down, darling, and have a cup with me. Did you have an interesting afternoon?’
‘Very. I went everywhere with the theatre superintendent.’
‘You didn’t see Fergus?’ Mrs Macdonald’s voice was indifferent.
‘Oh, yes. I watched him operate, but only for a minute or two, and then I didn’t look… He brought me back.’
‘He didn’t want to come in?’
‘He has an Outpatients clinic this afternoon.’
‘Oh, well, perhaps he will find time to pay us a visit before we go back.’ Mrs Macdonald cast a look at her daughter’s downcast face. ‘I thought we might go home in a couple of days—there’s no hurry.’