“My dear good girl, I take a fatherly interest in the nurses who work for me.”

Dr. Everard van Tijlen didn’t look in the least fatherly. He looked shockingly handsome, very sure of himself and slightly amused. Charity’s tongue spoke the words she had thought but never intended to voice. “You didn’t look in the least fatherly the other evening.”

Her green eyes sparkled with rising temper, not improved at all by his laugh. “I’m flattered you were sufficiently interested to notice us,” he said smoothly, “but I must point out that I said I was fatherly toward my nurses.”

She bit savagely into a sandwich. If that wasn’t a snub, she would like to know what one was. “I’m not in the least bit interested,” she began haughtily.

He was smiling faintly. “A pity….”

About the Author

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

The Gemel Ring
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE QUEUE of cars waiting to go aboard the ferry which would take them across the River Schelde to Breskens, so that they might continue their journey to the Dutch border, was large, untidy and impatient, and not the least impatient of the car drivers was Lieutenant-Colonel Dawson, retired, whose somewhat peppery disposition was ill-equipped for delays of any kind. After only a few moments of coming to a halt behind an enormous trans-continental transport, he was already drumming on the wheel with his fingers, poking his head out of the window, and snorting in a rising indignation, actions which caused his wife, sitting in the back of the car with their younger daughter, to murmur soothingly: “Think of your blood pressure, dear,” and exchange a wary glance with her companion. Her well-meaning remarks did nothing to help, however her husband began a growling diatribe about foreigners and blew out his military moustache, a sure sign of growing ill-temper—a sign noted by the girl sitting beside him, for she said with an affectionate matter-of-factness: “Don’t worry, Father—I’ll go and see what the hold-up is—it can’t be anything much.”

She got out of the car as she spoke and began to make her way towards the head of the queue. She was a tall, well-built girl, her rich, red-brown hair tied back with a silk scarf, her attractive face, with its straight nose and nicely curved, too-big mouth, made almost beautiful by a pair of green eyes, fringed by lashes whose curly length, while genuine, gave rise to a good deal of speculation amongst those who met her for the first time.

She made her way now through the press of cars, intent on finding the cause of the delay, feeling a little guilty about it, for it was at her suggestion that her father had agreed to return across Holland from Bremen, where they had been visiting an old friend, instead of driving down through Germany to Cologne and across to the coast to catch the ferry. It wasn’t the first time they had made the trip; each time she had wanted to see more of Holland and each time there had been some reason why they shouldn’t. And now she had had her own way and it looked as though it was to result in her fiery parent having a fit of bad temper.

She sighed and caught the admiring glance of a lorry driver as she wormed her way between the cars; he called to her and she answered him readily in his own language in her well-taught boarding-school French. She could see the cause of the delay now—the small group of people crowding round an Opel Rekord, peering in at a man lying back in the driver’s seat, while one of the dock police bent over him. Charity sighed again, foreseeing a lengthy delay before they could get on to the ferry; the man, if he were ill, would have to be taken away by ambulance or taxi; his car would have to be moved too, for it was the first in line and was blocking one lane of traffic… She edged her way to the policeman’s side and enquired if she could help. “I am a nurse,” she explained, and at his blank look repeated the remark in tolerable German.

The man understood her this time and broke into voluble talk, half German, half Dutch—the driver of the car had slumped across the wheel of his car with no warning, he explained, luckily he was at a standstill—no one had noticed at first, not until he had made no move when the barrier was raised for the cars to start going on board the ferry.

Charity nodded as she undid the man’s collar and tie and took his pulse. It wasn’t too bad, a little rapid, perhaps, and he was very pale. A faint, probably—it was a warm day in late June and even though there was a wind blowing from the sea, it was hot sitting in a car in the sunshine. She leaned across him, tilted his chair back and slipped a cushion behind his head. It wasn’t a heart attack, she was sure, nor did he look desperately ill; all the same she asked: “A doctor? There may be one in one of the cars.”

The policeman nodded and spoke to someone in the group; he moved away at a rapid trot and Charity asked a little diffidently: “Could you get rid of this crowd?”

They melted away at the policeman’s order and she bent over the man again. His pulse had improved, she was counting it when the door on the opposite side of the car was opened and she looked up to encounter the gaze of a very large man whose grey eyes, after the briefest of glances, dropped to the unconscious man between them.

“You’re a doctor?” asked Charity, speaking in her stiff, correct German and giving him no time to reply. “His pulse is better and quite strong—his pupils are all right too, though he has a squint…”

“It will be better if we speak English,” said the man, with only the faintest trace of an accent. He was opening his bag as he spoke. “You have a very marked English accent, you know.”

She would have liked to have made some telling reply to this piece of rudeness; her German was good enough not to have merited it, but she was forced to remain silent because he was using his stethoscope and by the time he had finished examining his patient, the man was showing signs of returning consciousness and presently opened his eyes.

It was apparent when he spoke that he was an American; it was also apparent that he had no idea why he had fainted. In answer to the doctor’s few inquiries he admitted to a tingling sensation in his hands. “I felt kinda jerky,” he explained. “I guess I’ve been overdoing it a bit.”

To the doctor’s suggestion that he should spend the rest of the day at an hotel, have a good night’s sleep and continue his journey on the following day, he agreed without enthusiasm, although when the doctor went away to make arrangements to have the car moved and a taxi fetched he raised no objection. His colour was normal again, indeed, he seemed perfectly well again—it must have been the heat, thought Charity, and wondered uneasily about the squint, because the man wasn’t squinting any more.

“I’m grateful to you, little lady,” he said gallantly, and Charity, a nicely curved five feet ten inches in her stockings, suppressed a giggle. “My name is Arthur C. Boekerchek, from Pennsylvania, USA, I’m at The Hague, attached to the Trades Mission.” He gave her a hard stare. “And what’s your name, ma’am?”

“Charity Dawson, from England, and if you’re sure you’re quite all right, I’ll be getting back to our car.” She put out a hand. “I hope you’ll be quite fit after a rest, Mr Boek—Boekerchek. Goodbye.”

He shook her hand. “You a nurse?” he wanted to know, and when she nodded: “Which hospital?” She told him, said goodbye for a second time and turned on her heel.

Charity couldn’t see the doctor anywhere as she went through the crush of cars and transports. She admitted to herself that she would have liked to have seen him again, if only to tell him that his manners were bad. She wondered which country he came from; his English was faultless, but he wasn’t an Englishman. She had almost reached her father’s car when she caught sight of him, strolling ahead of her to the back of the queue. Six feet and several inches besides, she guessed, and with the shoulders of an ox. Not so very young either, with that grizzled hair, but very good-looking. His laconic manner had irritated her, and she frowned, remembering it, as her father said: “Well, what on earth was it all about, Cherry?”

She got into the car and explained why she had been so long, making rather less of the doctor than she need have done, so that her mother asked: “Wasn’t he a nice man, dear?” and Lucy wanted to know: “And what was he like?”

Charity bit her lip. “I only said about two words to him, Mother, so I couldn’t possibly know if he’s nice—and I didn’t notice what he was like.” Which wasn’t true.

She saw him again—when they drove off the ferry at last, on the south side of the river and started up the road towards Sluis and Belgium. He passed them, driving a white Lamborghini Espada. He was travelling fast too. Charity pondered the fact that such a placid man as he had appeared to be and not young any more either should own such a powerful car and drive it, moreover, with all the nerve of someone half his age. She kept her surprised thoughts to herself, however, even when her father made some derogatory remark concerning the youth of today driving flash cars they probably couldn’t afford.

“They’re very expensive,” pointed out the Colonel. “Probably some pop singer,” he added disgustedly, and Charity, her head bent over the map, wondered what the doctor would have said to that. It was a great pity that she would never know.

She still had a few days of her holiday left; driving down to Budleigh Salterton beside a calmed and rested parent, she was thankful for them. She hadn’t really wanted to go to Bremen; she would have preferred to have stayed at home, pottering in the garden and taking the dogs for long walks on the common, but somehow she had found herself agreeing to accompany her parents and sister, mainly because she knew that her calm common sense could cool her father’s little rages when her mother or Lucy aggravated them.

He was getting elderly, she thought lovingly, glancing sideways at him as they drove westwards; small things annoyed him, and Lucy, younger by five years than herself, had a gentle nature whose acceptance of his contrariness merely irritated him still further. Her mother, of course, was perfectly able to manage him, but she was recovering from a bout of ill-health and hadn’t yet regained her usual fire and spirit. He was a devoted husband and a kind and indulgent father; his irascible nature had never bothered her—it didn’t bother her brother George, either, although now that he was away from home, he seldom encountered it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by her father’s enquiry as to where they should stop for lunch and her mother’s “Somewhere quiet, dear,” and Lucy’s “We’ve just passed such a nice hotel,” were neither of them much use. She said peaceably before he could speak: “How about that place in Petersfield? It’s right on the square and easy to park the car.” Even as she made this sensible suggestion she was wondering with one tiny corner of her mind where the doctor was now. She moved restlessly in her seat; it was strange how he had remained in her thoughts. She told herself with her usual sense that it was probably because he had annoyed her and had been so very good-looking.

They arrived home in the early evening and the next few hours were taken up with fetching Nell and Bliss, the two English setters, from the kennels, unpacking and helping her mother to get a meal. It was nice to be home again, back in the unpretentious Edwardian house perched up on the hill behind the little town, with its large garden and only a glimpse between the trees of the neighbouring houses. Charity had been born there and been brought up—with suitable intervals at boarding school—in its peace and comfort. She knew, now that she was older, that there wasn’t a great deal of money, but looking back, she couldn’t remember feeling anything but secure and well cared for, and although the house was a little bit shabby now, it still provided the same comfort.

She went up to her room, and instead of unpacking, hung out of the window which overlooked the side of the house where her father grew his roses; they were in full bloom now and their scent filled the evening air. For some reason which she couldn’t guess at, she sighed, unpacked and went downstairs again to undertake the task of setting the supper table so that Lucy, who was more or less engaged to the doctor’s son down the lane, could pay him a quick visit.

The remaining days of Charity’s holiday went far too quickly, taken up as they were with the pleasurable occupation of discussing Lucy’s still distant wedding, taking her mother to Exeter to shop, exercising the dogs and helping her father sort through the mass of papers he had spent years in collecting, with an eye to writing a book on military strategy during the last war. She thought, privately, that the book might never be written, but her father so much enjoyed his hours of research that she took care not to voice her doubts; besides, it gave him something to do when the weather interfered with his gardening.

She left early in the morning, in the MG which had been a present from her godmother on her twenty-first birthday and her most treasured possession, for it was a means of getting home for a weekend at least once a month as well as for her holidays. She was a good driver and a fast one, so once over the winding road which crossed Woodbury Common she joined the main road and put her foot down. She was on duty the next morning, and she wanted an hour or two to settle in once more before she went on the ward. Her brain was already busy with the work ahead of her; there would be two new student nurses to absorb into the staff of the Men’s Surgical ward she had been running for two years now; her staff nurse would need—and deserve—a long weekend off; there was that little tussle with Matron before her, concerning the new ward curtains—and there was Clive Barton, the Surgical Registrar, who had shown signs of becoming serious about her, and for some reason she couldn’t quite understand, she didn’t want to encourage him. Which was silly really, for she liked him very much, perhaps she was a little fond of him even and might get fonder, but she hesitated to commit herself.

She whizzed past a couple of slow-moving transports, wondering why it was that Lucy, quiet and retiring and shy, who had little or no opportunity of meeting any men, should have known the moment she had set eyes upon David that she wanted to marry him.

Charity’s dark winged eyebrows drew together in a frown. Perhaps she was never going to meet a man who would make her feel like that—willing to hand over her whole life without question. She slowed down to go through Axminster, to get caught up in the early morning traffic filtering its way through the narrow, curling main street. She glanced at her watch; she was doing nicely, she would stop for lunch just before she got on to the M3 and then press on, for London would take a bit of getting through even outside the rush hour.

She reached St Simon’s Hospital in time to join her friends in the Sisters’ sitting-room for an early tea. They hailed her with pleasure and a spate of questions about her holiday, brought her up to date with the hospital news and settled down to drink their tea and eat as much bread and butter and jam as time allowed.

“Did anything exciting happen, Charity?” Nancy Benson wanted to know as she got up to fill her cup.

Charity sat down on the arm of the chair. “No—at least, not exciting, exactly; a man fainted while we were waiting to cross one of the ferries—an American, Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek…” There was a shriek of laughter. “Yes, I know it’s a gorgeous name, isn’t it—I couldn’t believe my ears.”

“I suppose you did your Florence Nightingale act?” a small girl remarked, “or was there a doctor around?”

Charity, a little belatedly, discovered that she didn’t want to tell anyone about the doctor. She said briskly: “Oh, yes—someone or other came along, and the American was taken to a hotel to rest. It wasn’t in the least exciting. Tell me, how is our Alice doing with Mr Wright?”

“Our Alice” was Accident Room Sister, a quiet retiring girl in her early thirties. Her younger colleagues had despaired of her seeming content to remain single, and when Mr Wright, the assistant radiologist, equally quiet and retiring, had shown interest in her, they had combined in a conspiracy to bring them together as often as possible. Her inquiry was met with a triumphant cry of: “They’re engaged—isn’t it marvellous? After all our hard work and patience.”

“I wonder who’ll be next?” asked Nancy, and looked at Charity, who said instantly and strongly: “Don’t look at me—I’ve no one in mind,” which wasn’t quite true, but how could one be serious about a man one had glimpsed for the briefest moment of time and would never see again?

They dispersed very soon after that, most of them to go back on to their wards, the lucky ones off duty to change for an evening out, and Charity to her room to unpack and get ready for the morning.

She had only been away a fortnight, but there were a number of new patients, although old Mr Grey, who had been in the ward for some time, was still there, as were Mr Timms and Charlie Green. During her absence, she noticed, they had contrived to get moved into the four-bedded, partitioned area at the top of the ward where doubtless they were continuing their cosy little card parties whenever it was possible to get someone to push their beds together. There was a fourth man there, and she passed from her patients’ glad cries of welcome to his bed—a small, cherubic-faced elderly man, recovering from a not too serious operation, and, as Charlie was quick to tell her, a tip-top rummy player. She smiled at them in a motherly fashion, begged them to be good boys and went on down the ward.

The patients here were all new, so she began the task of getting to know them—twenty-odd men who had been admitted during her fortnight’s absence—supported after a while by her staff nurse, Lacey Bell, who presently, at Charity’s invitation, followed her into her office, where they drank their coffee together while Lacey added a few details about the patients—details best left unsaid in the ward. She was a good nurse, thought Charity, listening to her astute summing-up of the cases, and one day she would make a good Sister—perhaps she already had aspirations to step into her own shoes. Charity was very well aware that the hospital expected her to marry Clive Barton.

She gathered her scattered thoughts together and said cheerfully: “Thanks, Lacey, you’ve done a good job while I’ve been away.” She smiled at the girl opposite her. “How about a weekend off? I’m sure you’ve some overtime to work off.”

Her staff nurse looked pleased. “Lovely, thank you, Sister, if you’re sure it’s OK.” She got up. “I’ll just go and make sure the ward’s straight, shall I?”

Charity nodded. “Do—I’ll flip through these notes, and mind you’re at hand during Mr Howard’s round, I may need a reminder.”

She had never needed a reminder yet, thought Lacey as she swung down the ward once more. Sister Dawson might be one of the most eye-catching girls at St Simon’s, she was also one of the brainiest; she had never been known to forget anything; she learned new techniques within minutes and she had been the Gold Medallist of her year—a sufficiency of talents to swell her pretty head, and yet they hadn’t; she never mentioned her medal, nor for that matter had she ever been heard to tell anyone that she had the Advanced Driver’s Certificate, could speak fluent French and passable German, even if with a strong English accent; that she swam like a fish and played a first-class game of tennis, and had received more proposals of marriage than any other female in the hospital.

She deserved better than Clive Barton, mused her faithful staff nurse, plumping up pillows and straightening counterpanes while she kept a stern eye on the student nurses. Clive was all right, but Charity Dawson needed someone even cleverer than she was and with a brain just that much quicker; someone to be the boss, however gently he did it. Lacey, reviewing the eligible males to hand, couldn’t discover one who might do. It vexed her so that she spoke rather more sharply than she had intended to Mr Grey, and then had to tell him she hadn’t meant a word of it.

Charity, left alone, started on the notes, she read them fast and carefully and when she was half way through them, got up to peer at herself in the small mirror behind her desk. She was by no means vain, but no ward Sister would wish to do a round with one of the consultant surgeons, with her pleated muslin cap at an incorrect angle; she adjusted her headgear minutely, wrinkled her nose at her reflection, and sat down again. She was studying the last of the notes when Clive Barton came in.

Charity raised her green eyes for a moment and smiled. “Hi,” she said briefly, “I shan’t be a tick—there’s some cool coffee on the tray and a mug behind you.”

She bent her head again while her companion did as she had suggested and then took the chair opposite her. He was a middle-sized young man, with a pleasant face and pale hair already receding a little. He looked to be a mild man too, but Charity knew that there was a good deal of determination behind his placid features. Clive wanted to get to the top—to become a consultant—he had been a registrar for several years now and was liked and respected by the consultants he worked for. Sooner or later one of them would retire, and he, if he was lucky, would have a chance of stepping into his shoes. He sat quietly now, admiring Charity; he was almost in love with her, he certainly liked her enormously and she would make him a splendid wife. Besides, she was known to all the consultants and a great many of the local GP’s and they liked her, a fact which would be of considerable help to him. She was certainly a good-looker, although he had sometimes wished that she weren’t so clever. Not that she ever paraded the fact; there was no need, it was so obvious, and he had never quite liked her hair, it was so vivid, and somehow the simple knot she wore above her slender neck made it all the more so. A vague longing to change her into someone smaller and meeker and less spectacular entered his head, to be instantly dismissed as treason; Charity was a darling girl; he made the thought positive by asking: “How about coming out this evening? I’m sick of canteen food.”

She slapped the notes tidily together and smiled across the desk at him. “I’d love to—how I loathe coming back—it seems worse than usual.”

“Meet anyone interesting?” he asked her idly, and because she sensed that he didn’t really want to know, she was able to say composedly: “Father’s friends.” Her ear had caught the sound of feet. “Here’s Mr Howard.”

The round went off well; Mr Howard was in good spirits, which meant, naturally enough, that those who accompanied him were in good spirits too, even though they were forced to listen to his often-told jokes, but better that than the sharp questions he fired at them; medical students who so often regrettably gave the wrong answers.

There were no operations that day; the routine of dressings, getting patients up who didn’t want to get up, and keeping in bed those who were determined to get out of it, conducting Miss Evans, the Principal Nursing Officer, round the ward, dealing with various house-men, physiotherapists, visitors and those of her staff who wanted her private ear for some reason or other, kept Charity busy until she went off duty at five o’clock. She was to meet Clive at seven; there was plenty of time to bath and change, so she went along to the sitting-room and ate her tea in company with such of her friends who were off duty too, talking shop as usual, and presently went upstairs to her pleasant little room.

Clive hadn’t told her where they were going, she supposed it would be the quiet little restaurant close to the hospital where they had been several times before. She chose the lime green wild silk with its matching jacket and brushed her chestnut hair until it shone, before running downstairs to meet him at the Home entrance. She hoped uneasily that he wasn’t going to ask her to marry him; he had started to once before and she had gently dissuaded him, knowing that she was only postponing the inevitable.

She wasn’t even sure what she was going to say when he did propose; she was attracted to him, perhaps she was a little in love with him, but she didn’t think the feeling was enough to last a lifetime. Love, she felt sure, should sweep one off one’s feet, and leave one uncaring about anything or anybody else, and Clive hadn’t done that—besides, she wasn’t even sure that he loved her. She had no conceit, but she couldn’t help but be aware that she was a striking-looking girl, one whom men liked to be seen out with; she was also aware that she had intelligence as well as looks. She sighed and shrugged and then smiled at Clive waiting patiently in the hospital courtyard.

They dined pleasantly together, and over coffee he asked her to marry him, and looking at his earnest face across the table, she very nearly said yes. Only a fleeting memory, the tail-end of a dream, of a laconic giant of a man who didn’t like her accent, prevented her. But because Clive was so persistent, she did promise to think it over.

“I have to be quite certain,” she told him. “You see, when I marry it will be for the rest of my life—oh, I understand that sometimes divorce is inevitable, but perhaps it could sometimes be prevented if the people concerned had been quite sure before they married.” She grinned engagingly. “Aren’t I a pompous ass? I’m bossy too, you know—you might hate that.”

She hoped that he would say something about making sure that she would never get the chance to boss him, but he didn’t, only smiled and said that he wouldn’t mind—a remark which strangely disquieted her.

It was when they were leaving the restaurant that a girl ahead of them fell in the foyer. Both Charity and Clive went to help her, for the girl’s companion was elderly and stout and past bending. The girl was a wisp of a thing, slim and golden-haired and blue-eyed, who to Charity’s faint disgust, gave way at once to easy tears even as she assured Clive prettily that she had only tripped and not hurt herself in the least. And Charity, glancing at Clive’s face, could see that he rather liked this feminine display of helplessness, a disquieting thought, for she had been brought up to control her feelings in public and reserve her tears for the privacy of her own room, something she had sometimes found difficult when she had longed to have a good cry without having to wait until she was by herself, when quite often, by that time, she had no wish to weep any more. But this pretty little creature she was supporting now had no such inhibitions; she cried with ease and charm so that Charity felt compelled to suggest that they should retire to the powder room and repair the damage, if there was any.

The girl cheered up under Charity’s kindly eye, introduced herself as Margery Cross, and after a few minutes of re-doing her face, followed Charity back into the foyer where the two gentlemen were chatting quite happily together. There was another round of introductions before Margery thanked Clive with all the fervour of one who had been rescued from untold horrors, and with several backward glances, accompanied the stout gentleman, who it turned out was her doting father, to the taxi waiting for them. Charity stood patiently beside Clive while he waited on the pavement, staring after it until it had disappeared round a corner, before taking her arm and starting on their walk back to the hospital.

“Poor child,” he remarked. “It’s so unusual to find someone so sensitive in these days; most girls are so self-sufficient.”

“They have to be,” said Charity mildly.

He glanced at her quickly. “You were a dear, taking her under your wing like that—her father was most grateful. That’s what I like about you, Charity, you always know what to do.”

But she didn’t, she told him silently; she didn’t know if she wanted to marry him, did she? And if she had known what to do at Vlissingen, she would have found a way of talking—even for a few minutes—to that doctor who remained so persistently in her thoughts, just to convince him that she wasn’t a priggish English girl, boastful about her knowledge of German and resentful of his criticism. She admitted now that it was his complete unawareness of her which had so annoyed her, and if she were to be quite honest, she might as well admit at the same time that she didn’t dislike him. On the contrary.

“You’re very silent,” observed Clive. “I expect you’re tired, Charity.”

She agreed with him; not tired in the least, but it would be easier to agree than try to explain that she felt, all of a sudden, dissatisfied with life. They parted at the entrance to the Home and Clive kissed her goodnight, and although she enjoyed it, as any normal girl would, she felt no stirring within her. The fact frightened her a little as she got ready for bed. Perhaps she would never love anyone; some people had no great depth of feeling, supposing she should be one of these unfortunates? She went to sleep finally, worrying about it.

She had been back for two weeks when Miss Evans sent for her soon after eight o’clock on a day which bade fair to be both hot and busy. Theatre day, and the temperature already in the seventies. Charity muttered under her breath, bade the invaluable Lacey Bell take over, and sped through the hospital to its very heart where the PNO had her office, ringed about by lesser nursing officers whose duty it was to hold back those too eager to take up her time. But today Charity received no rebuff, no delay even, she was swept through to Miss Evans’ sanctum before she had time to do more than straighten her cap and adjust her cuffs. She had no idea why she had been sent for and there had been no moment in which to review the happenings of the last few days to discover what she had done wrong. She braced herself, took up her position before the desk and wished her superior a good morning.

It was a surprise when Miss Evans smiled at her, a rather vinegary smile, it was true, but still a smile. It was still more of a surprise when she was bidden to take a chair.

“I realise that you are busy,” began Miss Evans, a shade pompously, “but there is a matter of importance concerning yourself which I must discuss with you without delay—an urgent matter, I might say, and somewhat unusual. I have received a visit from a member of the American Embassy staff this morning with the request that you should be released from your duties here in order to nurse a member of their trade delegation in The Hague.” Her rather cold eyes studied Charity’s quiet face with interest. “A Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek—an extraordinary name—I understand that you have already met him.”

Charity felt surprise and excitement and kept both feelings firmly under control. “He fainted in a car at the ferry—I did very little, I just happened to be there…”

Miss Evans held up a hand. “The details are irrelevant, Sister. I merely wished to know that you were indeed the person they ask for, although it is a puzzle to me that it must be you and no one else—one would have thought that there was a sufficiency of nurses in a large city such as The Hague. However, I found it impossible to refuse their request on Mr Boekerchek’s behalf without giving offence; you will be good enough to make ready to leave for Holland some time tomorrow.”

Charity’s green eyes glinted dangerously. “But perhaps I might not wish to go to Holland, Miss Evans,” she prompted gently. “I wasn’t aware that I had been asked.”

Her superior’s face went a rich puce; at any moment, thought Charity naughtily, she’ll begin to gobble—she had never liked Miss Evans; few of her staff did, she wasn’t too good at her job, but she was nearing retirement; for the most part they allowed themselves to be dictated to and quietly went their own way without minding overmuch. But this time, Charity did mind. She got to her feet.

“I’m afraid that I must refuse to go, Miss Evans,” she said politely. “And now, if you will excuse me, I should go back to the ward—it’s theatre day.”

She was immediately immersed in the tasks which awaited her—drips to supervise patients to send on time to the theatre, dressings to do, nurses to keep an eye on—she urged on her team of helpers, the faithful Bell at her right hand. There was certainly no time to think about her interview with Miss Evans; that she would hear more of it was a foregone conclusion. Which she did, very shortly and hardly in the manner which she would have expected.

The last case came down to the ward just after twelve o’clock. Mr Howard, whose operating day it was, worked fast and expected everyone else to do the same; he arrived hard on the heels of his patient, still in his theatre trousers and a terrible old sweater, his cap pulled untidily over his hair, his mask dragged down under his chin. He marched up the ward to where Charity was connecting the quiet form in bed to the various tubes vital to his recovery, and said impatiently: “Morning, girl—I’ll see that first case—wasn’t very happy about him.”

They were bending over the unconscious man when Mr Howard asked: “What’s all this I hear about you going to Holland, eh?”

Charity reconnected a tube and said with calm: “Matron had arranged for me to go, but I refused.”

He let out a barking laugh. “Did you now? Why?”

“I was told nothing about it until the arrangements had been made. That annoyed me, sir.”

They had moved on to the second of the patients and Mr Howard was deep in his notes when a student nurse slid silently to Charity’s side.

“There’s someone to see you, Sister,” she breathed, “he says it’s important. He’s an American.”

Mr Howard, for all his sixty years, had splendid hearing. “Run along, girl,” he advised Charity. “I don’t doubt you’re about to get a handsome apology, so you can come down off your high horse and offer your services, after all.” He cast her a quick, friendly look. “Not that I shan’t miss you.”

“How did you know…?” began Charity, and was told to hush and get on with it and leave the student nurse, pale with fright, in her place.

The man waiting for her was elderly, with a narrow, clever face and a penetrating voice which he strove to quieten out of deference to the patients. He wasted no time after he had introduced himself. “If I might have a word?” he begged, and on being shown into Charity’s office and bidden to sit, did so.

“I’ve come to apologise, my dear young lady,” he began. “I had no idea that you had been told nothing of our request—indeed, I was led to suppose that you knew of it and had consented to go.” He coughed gently. “However, the—er—misunderstanding has been put right, and I hope that if I ask you personally to come as nurse to our Mr Boekerchek, you will agree to do so.”

He was rather nice, despite his American accent and enormous horn-rimmed spectacles—he reminded her of Mr Boekerchek, they both had nice smiles. She found herself smiling in return. “I’ll come whenever you want me to,” she told him, and was surprised at herself for saying it. “Miss Evans told me that you had asked if I would leave tomorrow.”

He nodded. “It is an urgent matter, if you could arrange to go to The Hague as soon as possible. Mr Boekerchek has a rare condition—multiple insulinomata—the fainting fit which he experienced when you so kindly went to his aid was an early symptom of it, I believe. When he was told yesterday that surgery was imperative, he agreed to undergo it on condition that you could be found to act as his nurse.” He grinned engagingly. “He is certain that you will bring him good luck.”

Charity was thinking about multiple insulinomata, and trying to remember all she knew about it. She had only seen two or three cases of it and none of them had recovered—she recollected the squint and the tingling hands and knew now why they had aroused her interest; they were two of the earliest symptoms. Probably Mr Boekerchek’s condition had been discovered in good time; she enjoyed a challenge, if she could, and she would do everything to help him to make a complete recovery. “I’ll do my best,” she told her visitor. “I can be ready by tomorrow and if possible I should like to drive myself, only I’ve no papers for the car.”

He brushed that aside. “That can easily be attended to. If you will let me know what time you intend to leave, everything will be arranged and all you need will be sent here to you this evening.”

She blinked. “How nice—there’s a ferry leaving at midday from Dover.” She added doubtfully, “It’s the holiday season…”

“Don’t worry about that.” He was comfortably efficient; obviously she was to have no worries on the journey. He left in another five minutes, the tiresome details dealt with, leaving her with nothing further to do but pack; fill up with petrol and telephone home, all of which she was forced to do that evening when she came off duty, having had not a moment to call her own until then.

She didn’t see Miss Evans again before she left, a message telling her to take what uniform she needed with her, and to notify the Office as soon as she knew the date of her return, was all the official acknowledgment she received of her departure, an omission easily made up for by the enthusiastic help of her friends, who assisted her to pack, provided the odds and ends she had had no time to purchase for herself, and even volunteered to tell Clive, whom she had completely forgotten in the excitement of the moment. She dashed off a note to him the next morning just before she left and then forgot about him almost immediately.

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS A smooth journey, even if crowded, but Charity hardly noticed that; she was immersed in a copy of The Lancet she had borrowed from Mr Howard after she had asked him urgently on the previous afternoon to tell her all he could about her patient’s complaint.

“Oh, so you’re going after all?” he had snorted at her. “I can do better than tell you, there was a first-class article about it in last week’s Lancet.” And he had brought it down to the ward that evening, when he came to do a final check of his patients.

She studied it now, learning it almost word for word, so that later on she would know what everyone was talking about. It was a well-written article, written by a professor at the Utrecht School of Medicine, a certain Everard van Tijlen, a man, she considered, reading it through for the last time, who knew what he was about—a fine decisive style and sound knowledge of the subject. She put it away in her case and went up on deck to watch the flat coast of Belgium creep nearer.

She made good time from Zeebrugge to the Hague; it was only a little after seven o’clock when she drew up smartly before the address she had been given. The block of flats was large and modern and obviously luxurious and in a pleasant part of the city. She wasted no time, but got out, locked the car, went into the foyer and asked to be taken to the fifth floor by the porter.

Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek lived in style, she discovered when his apartment door was opened by a small woman with an unhappy face; the hall was large and square and furnished with taste and there seemed to be passages and doors leading off in all directions. The woman smiled uncertainly.

“Oh, are you the English nurse?”

Charity smiled and said that yes, she was. This, unless she was very much mistaken, was Mr Boekerchek’s wife. “I’m sorry to arrive so late,” she apologised. “If I could just put my car away and get my luggage…”

Her hostess went back to the door where the porter still lingered and spoke to him and then turned to Charity. “If you would let him have the keys,” she suggested, “he’ll put the car away—there’s an underground garage—and bring up your cases,” and when Charity had done this and closed the door the poor lady burst into tears.

“I never thought you’d come,” she sobbed, “and Arthur was so dead set on having you and no one else, and I thought if you wouldn’t come, he’d refuse surgery and then what would happen?”

Charity put an arm round the little lady’s shoulders and led her across the hall to a half-opened door which she hoped was a sitting-room. She was right, it was. She settled Mrs Boekerchek in a chair and sat down close by. “But I am here,” she pointed out cheerfully, “and we’ll have your husband on his feet again in no time at all.”

Her companion sniffed, blew her nose and made a great effort to calm down. “I don’t know what I expected,” she confided, “but you’re quite different, I reckon—no wonder Arthur wouldn’t budge.” She got up quickly. “There, see what an old fool I am—you must be tired to death and I’m wasting your time. There’s a meal for you—I’ll get Nel to serve it…”

Charity had got to her feet too. “That sounds lovely, but could I have five minutes to tidy myself and then go and see Mr Boekerchek? Will his doctor be coming this evening?”

“No—tomorrow morning. He’s to go to Utrecht, you know. The ambulance is coming at nine o’clock to take him to the hospital there—I’ve forgotten its name—Dr Donker said he’d see you before you went.” She was leading the way across the hall again and into one of the passages. “This is your room. I hope you’ll be comfortable—there’s a shower room beyond. Shall I come back for you in a few minutes?” She sounded wistful; Charity guessed that she needed company to take her mind off her husband’s illness.

“Give me ten minutes,” she agreed readily.

The room was luxurious; a pity, thought Charity, tidying herself hastily, that she would only have one night here. After that it would presumably be the Nurses’ Home in Utrecht. She fancied that it might be very like the Home at St Simon’s. She cast a lingering look round the room and turned to smile at Mrs Boekerchek at the door.

Mr Boekerchek certainly looked ill. He was pale and decidedly irritable despite his pleasure at seeing Charity. He had lost a lot of weight too, and confided to her that he was quite unable to work any more and suffered from a depression which was a blight both to himself and his wife.

“Hyperinsulinism, that’s my trouble,” he declared, “that professor what’s-his-name who’s going to carve me up, explained it to me—can’t say I made head or tail of it, though. But I trust him all right—lucky I’d already met him.” He managed a thin smile. “Just as long as you know what he’s talking about, eh? I’m glad they got hold of you. I do declare that I wouldn’t have agreed to surgery unless they had. I’m a daft old man, aren’t I? but thank God, I’m important enough to be humoured.”

Charity stayed with him for the rest of the evening, studying the notes the doctor had left for her before settling him for the night, eating a hasty supper and then going to sit for half an hour with his wife, whom she tried, not very successfully, to comfort before going to her room and bed. It seemed to her that her head had barely touched the pillow before Nel was shaking her awake with a cup of tea on a tray and the news that it was six o’clock, something the city’s carillons let her know, a dozen times over.

Mindful of the doctor’s visit at eight o’clock, she dressed, in uniform this time—and went along to her patient’s room. He had slept well, he told her, and was positively cheerful at the idea of getting things going at last. She helped him wash and shave, made sure that he was comfortable, checked his packed case, and went along to the kitchen. Mrs Boekerchek was up too, fussing round the stolid Nel while she prepared their breakfast. Mr Boekerchek, naturally enough, had very little appetite. Charity saw to his wants first and then made a healthily sustaining meal herself while her companion drank quantities of scalding coffee and jumped up and down like a yo-yo. She wasn’t going to Utrecht with them; Charity was to telephone her later on in the day, and tell her what had been decided, and when the decision to operate had been taken she would go over to the hospital and stay if it were considered necessary.

Charity discussed Mrs Boekerchek’s plans at length and in a cheerful voice and was rewarded by seeing the unhappy little woman’s face brighten. “Wear something pretty when you come,” she advised her, “something your husband likes; it will help him enormously, you know, if he’s feeling weak and ill, to see you looking pretty and nicely dressed—and don’t be upset when you see him after the op. He’ll look very pale and strange and there’ll be tubes and things all over the place—they look dramatic, but he won’t notice them, so don’t you either.”

Her words had the desired effect. Mrs Boekerchek fell to planning various outfits and even pondered the advisability of a visit to the hairdresser. “I have a rinse, you know,” she confided. “It needs to be done every week or so—Arthur is dead set on me not going grey, I reckon.” She eyed Charity’s burnished head with some envy. “Yours is real, I guess,” she asked wistfully.

“Well, yes,” Charity felt almost apologetic about it, “but quite often people think it isn’t.” Her pretty mouth curved in a smile. “Do you mind if I go to my room and make sure everything is ready? We mustn’t keep the ambulance waiting and I’m not certain how long the doctor will take—it’s almost eight o’clock.”

He came a few minutes later, a small dark man with thick glasses and hair brushed carefully over the bald spot on the top of his head. He spoke English with a fluency she instantly envied and plunged at once into instructions, details of his patient’s illness, and dire warnings as to what might go wrong and what she was to do if they did. She listened attentively, collected the necessary papers he had entrusted to her care, wished him goodbye and rejoined her patient. Ten minutes later they were in the ambulance, on their way to Utrecht.

It was a journey of forty miles or so, and since they travelled on the motorway for almost the entire distance and the ambulance was an elegant sleek model built for speed, they were soon on the outskirts of the city, but here their progress slowed considerably, and Charity, bent on keeping her patient’s mind on the normal things of life, encouraged him to describe the city to her, and looked when told to do so through the dark glass windows, trying to identify the various buildings he was telling her about. He had become quite cheerful during their ride together and had told her about his work and his family and home in the USA.

“This country’s OK,” he told her, “but a bit cramped, I guess—why, you can drive from one end to the other in the matter of a few hours, now, back home…” He paused. “I guess it’s OK, though, like I said—nice people, no need to learn the language, and a good thing too, for it’s a tongue-twister, all right. Where are we now?”

Charity had a look. “Going up a narrow lane, walls on either side—the backs of houses I should think. Oh, here’s a gate and a courtyard—I believe it’s the hospital.”

She was right. The ambulance passed the main entrance and drew up before a double swing door. Within minutes Mr Boekerchek was stretched tidily under his blankets on a trolley and they were making their way through the corridors and vast areas filled with crowded benches—Outpatients Charity guessed, and wished that there was more time to look around her. They were in a lift by now, though, on their way up to the sixth floor.

The lift door swung open on to a square hall which opened in its turn into a wide corridor. Someone must have given warning of their arrival, for there was a youngish woman in uniform waiting for them.

She smiled as she shook hands. “Hoofd Zuster Doelsma,” she volunteered. “Charity Dawson,” said Charity, not sure what to call herself, “and this is Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek.”

They proceeded smoothly down the corridor, lined with doors along one side and with great glass windows, giving one an excellent view of the wards beyond them, on the other. Half-way down Zuster Doelsma opened a door, revealing a small bright room with a modicum of furniture and a very up-to-date bed. Piped oxygen, intercom, sucker, intensive care equipment—Charity’s sharp eyes registered their presence with satisfaction; there was everything she might need. There was a small, comfortable chair close to the bed and a compact desk and stool facing it, and cupboards built into one wall; she would examine them presently. Now she turned her attention to settling her patient comfortably in his bed, much cheered by the appearance of a little nurse bearing a tray with two cups of coffee on it. Sipping it together, she and her companion decided that the room was nice, that Zuster Doelsma looked friendly, that the hospital, in fact, was very much like the most modern of American hospitals which Mr Boekerchek could call to mind.

He was in the middle of telling her so when the door opened and the giant from Vlissingen walked in, closely attended by his registrar, a houseman and Zuster Doelsma. Charity stood and stared at him with her mouth open, watching as he went to the bed, shook Mr Boekerchek by the hand, spoke briefly and then turned round to face her. If she had been surprised to see him, he most certainly was not. He gave her a cool nod, offered a firm hand and remarked: “Ah, the English Miss Dawson, come to stay with us for a little while. An opportunity for you to demonstrate your talent for languages; you should acquire a smattering of Dutch during that period.”

She felt her cheeks warm under his quizzical look and checked a childish urge to shout something rude at him. Instead she said in what she hoped was a cool voice: “I think there will be no need of that, Professor, for my Dutch would probably turn out to be as bad as your manners.”

They were standing a little apart from the others; she watched his eyes narrow as a smile touched the corner of his straight mouth. “So we are to cross swords, Miss Dawson?” he wanted to know softly.

“Well, it seems likely,” she told him sturdily, “though not during working hours, naturally.”

His laugh of genuine amusement took her by surprise. “A pity,” he observed, “for we shall have little opportunity of meeting.”

She didn’t answer him, for she was fighting disappointment; she had wanted to meet this man again, even though she had never admitted it even to herself, and now, by some quirk of fate, here he was, and obviously not sharing her feelings, indeed, very much the reverse. She promised herself then and there that she would make him change his opinion of her; and this satisfying thought was interrupted by his:

“You look very pleased with yourself about something. Now, supposing we have a talk with the patient.”

She could see within minutes that here was a man who knew his job. He had a measured way of speaking, although he was never at a loss for a word and he was completely confident in himself and the results of the operation he intended to perform, without being boastful. It was also equally apparent to her that whatever his private feelings were towards herself, he had no intention of allowing them to influence their relationship as surgeon and nurse, for when he had talked to Mr Boekerchek he drew her on one side and his manner when he spoke was pleasantly friendly with no hint of mockery or dislike. “I shall want you in theatre,” he told her. “I shall operate at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon and you will be good enough to adjust your duty hours so that you will be available until midnight of that day. You are conversant with intensive care?”

“Yes, Professor.”

He nodded. “You will be directly responsible to me for all the nursing care of Mr—er—Boekerchek. I know that you will be unable to be here all the time, and a nurse has been seconded to share your duties. But please understand that I shall hold you responsible. I will explain…”

Which he did, and at some length, and she listened carefully, storing away facts and techniques and his way of doing things, because he would expect her to know them all.

“You have nursed these cases before?”

“Two—not recently, though. I read your article in The Lancet.”

There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed? I had no idea that The Lancet was read by anyone other than my own profession.”

He was needling her again, but she kept her cool, saying quietly:

“The consultant surgeon for whom I work at St Simon’s lent it to me. I had no idea that it was you…”

“Why should you?” he asked coolly, and turned to go. “You will be in theatre at five to one tomorrow, Sister Dawson.”

She was kept busy for the rest of the day; Mr Boekerchek was to undergo a series of tests, which meant a constant flow of path lab people in and out, And he had to be X-rayed too, an expedition upon which she accompanied him, as well as being seen by various other people connected with his future well-being; the anaesthetist, a youngish man, darkly good-looking and with a charm of manner which Charity was sure must endear him to his patients. He was charming to her too, speaking English, of course, like almost everyone else in the hospital. The professor’s nasty remark had been quite unnecessary and it still rankled; she registered a resolve not to learn or speak a word of Dutch, happily forgetful that she would be the one to suffer from her resolution, not he, and turned to smile at another caller, the professor’s registrar, a short, rather stout young man with a round, cheerful face and a habit of quoting his chief on every possible occasion.

“You will find the operation most interesting,” he assured Charity, standing in the corridor outside her patient’s room. “Professor van Tijlen is outstanding in surgery, you know, and this particular operation is of his own technique—he has done already one dozen and they live yet.”

Charity said tartly: “Marvellous—what else does he specialise in?”

“All illnesses of the stomach and the—the gut.”

“Big deal,” she observed flippantly, and at the look of uncertainty upon her companion’s face hastened to explain: “That’s just an expression in English. It means how—how marvellous.”

Mr van Dungen looked mollified. “He is a wonderful man,” he told her sternly, and then smiled. “You will perhaps call me Dof?”

“Of course. My name’s Charity.” They smiled at each other like old friends and she added: “I say, you’ll help me out if I get in a jam, won’t you?” and had to repeat it all again differently, explaining that getting into a jam didn’t mean quite what it sounded like.

Mrs Boekerchek came over that evening, rather grandly in an Embassy car with a chauffeur who followed her to the door of the patient’s room with a great quantity of flowers and several baskets of fruit which Mr Boekerchek would be unable to eat. Charity soothed his anxious wife and went to fetch Dof van Dungen, whose cheerful manner and sometimes uncertain English might put her patient’s better half at her ease far more than technical details of the operation. It gave her a brief breathing space too, to find Zuster Doelsma; she hadn’t been to the Nurses’ Home yet, a large, gloomy-looking building at the far end of the hospital courtyard. It was a good chance to slip over now, the Dutch girl agreed; she would lend a nurse for a few minutes to show her the way to her room.

“Tomorrow we treat you better, Sister Dawson,” she said kindly. “Today is bad, no time to yourself, for I must ask you to stay on duty until the night nurse comes on, but tomorrow do not come on duty until ten o’clock, so that you will have an hour or two to yourself. I think that Professor van Tijlen told you that he wishes that you stay on duty until midnight; it is better for the patient, you understand? It will be a long day for you, but there is a good nurse to relieve you, and after the first day it will be easier. Now if you wish to go to your room? and when you return we will go to supper together.”

Fair enough, thought Charity, accompanying the little nurse detailed to take her to the Home where she was delighted to find its dull exterior concealed a very modern and bright interior. Her room was on the fourth floor in the Sisters’ wing, an airy, fair-sized room, nicely furnished and with the luxury of a shower concealed in one of its cupboards. The little nurse, whose English was fragmental, having pointed out this amenity with some pride, grinned, said “Dag, Zuster,” and scuttled off, leaving Charity to tidy herself. She would have liked time to unpack, but it seemed she was to have none for the moment; she wasted no time therefore in getting back to the ward, where she found Zuster Doelsma bowed over the Kardex.

“I’ll just go and see Mr Boekerchek,” Charity suggested. “When do you want me back?”

“Supper in ten minutes,” the Dutch girl smiled at her. “That is a funny name which your patient has.”

Charity chuckled. “Yes, I expect his ancestors came from Russia, but the Arthur C. makes it very American, though, doesn’t it?”

Mrs Boekerchek was on the point of leaving. “But I’ll be here tomorrow—about six o’clock, that nice young doctor said.” She looked anxiously at Charity. “You’ll be here, won’t you, honey?”

Charity assured her that she would. “I’m coming on a little later in the morning and I shall stay with Mr Boekerchek until quite late in the evening, and there’s a very good nurse to relieve me at night, so don’t worry, everything will be fine.”

Her companion’s pleasant elderly face crumpled and then straightened itself at the warning: “Now, baby,” from the bed, and Charity turned her back and busied herself with the flowers, thinking that she wouldn’t much like to be addressed as baby, not by anyone—anyone at all; the professor was hardly a man to address anyone endearingly… She checked her galloping thoughts, telling herself that she must be tired indeed to allow such nonsense to creep into her head, and bestirred herself to accompany Mrs Boekerchek to the lift at the end of the corridor, where the little lady clasped both her hands and asked: “It is going to be OK, isn’t it, honey?”

“Of course,” Charity sounded very certain of it. “Professor van Tijlen is just about the best surgeon for this particular operation, you know.”

Her companion nodded. “I’m sure he is—such a dear kind man, too. He came today and explained to me just why he had to operate on Arthur, and when I cried like the old silly I am, he was so comforting. I trust him completely.”

Charity, diverted by her speculations concerning the professor comforting anyone; made haste to answer and was a little surprised to hear herself agreeing wholeheartedly with Mrs Boekerchek, and still more surprised to find that she believed what she was saying, too.

She met a number of the Dutch Sisters at supper; they all spoke English in varying degrees of fluency and she found herself with more invitations to do this, that and the other than she could ever hope to have time for, so that she went back to Mr Boekerchek quite cheered up; even if she wouldn’t have much time to go out, at least the other girls were friendly.

She set about the routine of getting her patient ready for the night and when the night nurse, one Willa Groene, arrived, a sturdy fair-haired girl of about her own age, she relinquished him to her with a relief which, though concealed, was none the less real. It had been a long day—and a surprising one, she reminded herself as she was on the verge of sleep.

Mr Boekerchek wasn’t in a good humour when she reached his room the next morning. His surly “What’s good about it?” in answer to her own greeting told her all she needed to know. His surliness, she had no doubt, hid a nasty attack of nerves; that terrible last-minute rebellion against a fate which had decreed that the only way out was to trust the surgeon. She had encountered it a hundred times: it passed swiftly but she had learned to help it on its way. She began the task of doing just that. There was quite a lot to do before they went to theatre; and she began, with cheerful calm, to do the numerous little jobs which would lead finally to his premed, talking unhurriedly for most of the time, pretending not to notice his silence, and after a while her patience was rewarded; he asked about her room in the Nurses’ Home and was she being well treated?

“Like a queen,” she assured him, and led the conversation cunningly away from hospital. She had succeeded in making him laugh, telling him about the professor’s Lamborghini and her father’s opinion of those who travelled in such splendid cars, when she realized that there was a third person in the room—the professor, filling the doorway with his bulk and looking as though he had been there for some time. He had.

“Your father’s stricture makes me feel every year of my age,” he remarked good-humouredly as he advanced to the bedside. “My only excuse for driving a Lamborghini is that I was given one when I was twenty-one, and twenty years later I haven’t found a car I like better.”

“What about a Chrysler?” asked his patient, quite diverted from his own troubles.

“A good car—but I think that I am now getting too old to change.” He stared at the wall, thinking his own thoughts. “Perhaps—if I were to marry—the Lamborghini is hardly a family car.” His manner changed and he began at once to talk to Mr Boekerchek, to such good effect that that gentleman remained cheerful until the moment he closed his eyes in the peaceful half-sleep induced by the injection Charity had given him.

The theatre, when they reached it, reminded her forcibly of quite another sort of theatre; there was the audience, peering down through the glass above their heads, and the instruments, while not the musical variety, tinkled musically as they were laid out in their proper places. Charity, who had remained with her patient in the anaesthetic room, his hand comfortably fast in hers, took up her position by the anaesthetist and watched Mr Boekerchek’s unconscious form being arranged with due care upon the operating table. This done to Theatre Sister’s satisfaction, a kind of hush fell upon the group of people arranged in a kind of tableau in the centre of the theatre.

Into this hush came Professor van Tijlen, dwarfing everyone present, his mask pulled up over his splendid nose so that only his eyes were visible. He paused by the table, greeted Theatre Sister, said a few words to his registrar, murmured briefly to his houseman, hovering nervously, stared hard at Charity—a stare which she returned in full measure—and turned his attention to his patient.

Charity watched him make a neat paramedian incision and then, stage by stage, demonstrate his actions to his audience. It was a pity that she couldn’t understand a word he said, but she was kept so busy that it didn’t really matter; blood sugar samples had to be taken every fifteen minutes, blood pressures had to be read, and the anaesthetist kept her on her toes with his requirements. But she managed, all the same, to see something of what was going on. The professor was a good surgeon, with no pernickety ways; he was relaxed too, even though his concentration was absolute. There was a little sigh of satisfaction as he found and removed the adenoma which had been the cause of Mr Boekerchek’s illness; he spent some time searching for any more which might be there, with no success—presumably everything was as it should be; he began on his careful needlework and presently, when that was finished, stood back to allow the other two men to finish off the suturing. He left the theatre as the anaesthetist slid a fine tube down Mr Boekerchek’s nostril while Theatre Sister attended to the dressing, and Charity, kept busy with odd jobs, didn’t see him go. For so large a man he moved in a very self-effacing manner.

He turned up again, just as silently, half an hour later, when having got her patient into bed under his space blanket, checked the infusions of blood, dextrose saline and another, special solution, all located in various limbs and all running at a different rate; made sure that the cannula for the taking of blood samples was correctly fixed, and made certain that the blood pressure was being properly monitored, Charity was taking Mr Boekerchek’s pulse.

Beyond giving her a laconic hullo, the professor had nothing to say to her, but bent at once over his patient. It was only when he had satisfied himself that everything was just as it should be that he straightened his long back and came to take the charts from the desk. “You are familiar with the nursing care?” He looked at her, smiling a little. “Am I insulting you? I don’t mean to, but if there is anything you are not quite certain about I shall be glad to help you.”

Very handsomely put, she had to admit. “Thank you—I’m fine at the moment, but I’ll not hesitate to let you or Mr Van Dungen know if I’m worried.”

He nodded. “One of us will be available for the next twenty-four hours. Start aspirating in an hour and a half, if you please, and give water as ordered as soon as the patient is conscious. You will have help as and when you require it, but I must emphasise that you are in charge of the case and are responsible to me and no one else. You understand?”

There was a lot to do during the next few hours, but by the end of that time Charity had the satisfaction of seeing her patient sitting up against his pillows, the blanket discarded, nicely doped and doing exactly as he ought. She had been warned to send a message to the professor when Mrs Boekerchek arrived that evening; he arrived as she entered the room, her face held rigid in a smile which threatened to crack at any moment.

The professor glanced at Charity. “Go and get a cup of coffee,” he told her. “I shall be here for ten minutes or so—stay in the duty room.”

She went thankfully; she had been relieved for fifteen minutes for a hasty meal on a tray in the office, but now she longed for a cup of tea, but coffee it was and better than nothing.

She sat in the austere little room, her shoes kicked off, her cap pushed to the back of her head. There were still several hours to go before she could go off duty, but that didn’t matter; Mr Boekerchek was out of his particular wood provided nothing happened to hinder him. She swallowed a second cup of coffee, straightened her cap, shoved her feet back into their shoes and went back along the corridor.

The professor was ready to leave, taking Mrs Boekerchek with him. She had been crying, for her husband was in no state to warn her not to. The tears started again as she saw Charity, whom she kissed soundly. “I’ll never be able to thank you—you two beautiful people,” she said with a gratitude which wrung Charity’s kind heart, and was borne away by the professor, who, without a word to Charity, closed the door quietly as they went.

He opened it a minute later to say: “I should be obliged if you would come on duty at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You will be relieved later in the day, but I prefer you to be here while Mr Boekerchek is ill. Naturally any time you have owing to you will be made up.” He turned to go again. “Thank you for your assistance today, Sister Dawson.” His goodnight was an afterthought as he closed the door once more.

He certainly had no intention of sparing her, but she fancied that he didn’t spare himself either where his patients, important or otherwise, were concerned. She dismissed him from her mind and started on her duties once again until she was relieved by the night nurse at midnight. It had been a busy day; as she got wearily into bed she wondered if the professor was still up, making his silent way through the hospital, or whether he too was in bed. She tried to imagine where he lived—probably in one of the old houses they had passed coming to the hospital on the previous day. She began to think about him, yawned, then yawned again, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

THERE WAS no time to spare for any thought other than that required of her work the next day, Mr Boekerchek was doing nicely, but there was a multitude of tasks to be done and none of them could be skipped, skimped or done carelessly. She took blood sugars, aspirated, checked drips, kept her patient comfortable and under sedation. The professor came in the morning half an hour after she had taken over from the night nurse, and in the afternoon he came again, expressed his satisfaction, consulted with Mr van Dungen, and went away again. And at the end of a long day Mrs Boekerchek came with such an overflowing gratitude for what she called Charity’s devotion to duty, that Charity was quite reconciled to the few brief moments which she had had to herself.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.