“You clever girl,” said Maggy, dropping a kiss on the little girl’s straight hair. She looked at Paul.

“Isn’t she beautiful, Doctor?”

“The most beautiful girl in the world.” But he wasn’t looking at his small patient. He bent forward, and Maggy felt his lips on hers. She stood quite still, looking at him, her cheeks very pink, but her brown eyes met his gray ones squarely.

“I don’t intend to apologize, Maggy,” he said, almost lazily.

Maggy forced her voice to normalcy. “There is no need, Doctor. I don’t doubt you’ve kissed many a girl before me, and will kiss many more. I’m sure it means nothing to you.”

“Just a minute, Maggy. Are you sure of that?”

She looked over her shoulder at him. He was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at her with a faint mocking smile on his face.

“Aye,” she said slowly, “I’m sure.”

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. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

A Match for Sister Maggy
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE SWING DOORS were almost noiseless, but old George had been head porter at St Ethelburga’s for so many years now that his ears were familiar with the faintest whisper of sound and identified it at once. He now put down his paper and peered through his cubbyhole window at the man who had just come in. A big man—a very big man; well over six and a half foot tall and broad with it; who strolled in leisurely fashion towards him. He was a handsome man too, with grey eyes, a straight nose and a wide firm mouth and dark hair, liberally sprinkled with grey. George was sure that he knew who he was; he beamed at him and said,

‘Good morning, sir. Dr Van Beijen Doelsma, isn’t it?’ The big man, so addressed, winced slightly at the mutilation of his name by George’s Cockney tongue, but smiled and nodded and said, ‘Good morning,’ in a pleasant voice. ‘I believe I am early?’

George turned to his switchboard. ‘If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll ring Sir Charles, he told me to let him know when you arrived.’

Dr Doelsma nodded again, put vast hands into the pockets of his elegant suit, and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He appeared very relaxed—slumbrous, in fact, with eyes half closed. They flew open however as his attention was caught by a figure tearing across the hospital forecourt. It was a woman, and she ran well, and he wondered why a Ward Sister in all the dignity of navy blue and white uniform needed to race around in such an unheard-of fashion. In his experience, hospital Sisters moved calmly and with a self-confident authority, designed to gain respect both from the nurses under them and the doctors they themselves worked for. The swing doors burst open with a crash, and George, waiting for his connection, looked over his shoulder, tut-tutted loudly and put his old head through his little window.

‘One day you’ll get caught, Sister MacFergus, running like that; you ought to know better!’

The girl came to a halt in front of the cubbyhole, and Dr Doelsma, as yet unnoticed, looked her up and down in a leisurely fashion. She was a tall young woman, well built and nicely rounded; she reminded him of the women of his own native Friesland, save for her hair, which was a bright chestnut and inclined to curl, but tidily confined in a French pleat at the back. She put up a large shapely hand and gave her starched cap an impatient tweak, and he observed that despite her haste she was not in the least breathless. She bent her noble proportions to George’s level.

‘Am I late? Has he come, George? Nine o’clock for a lecture! The man ought to be shot!’ She had a soft voice, with a lilt of the Highlands in it. ‘There’s Staff Nurse off sick, and four test meals, and do send a porter over, there’s someone for X-ray.’ She frowned heavily above magnificent dark eyes, and her splendid bosom heaved with exasperation.

‘Why are you looking at me so strangely, George? I know I’m late; I’ll just have to creep in unobserved.’ She paused and looked down at herself. ‘Well, not unobserved, perhaps—but he’ll not notice. He’ll be elderly and shortsighted and fat and bald, and I’ll not understand a word the poor wee man says.’ She caught the faint sound wrung from Dr Doelsma’s lips, and glanced over her shoulder. She smiled at him kindly and said, ‘Good morning. I didn’t see you. Am I keeping you waiting?’ She turned back to look at George’s disconcerted face and added severely, ‘Don’t gobble, George,’ and with a starched rustle swept away round the corner of the long corridor, and out of sight.

George pushed his old-fashioned steel spectacles down his nose and peered at Dr Doelsma, and was relieved to see that the doctor was laughing softly. The sight emboldened him to say:

‘Sister MacFergus was a bit worried, sir; she’d be that upset if she knew who you were—you couldn’t get a nicer young lady…’He broke off as an elderly man came rather vaguely towards them. Dr Doelsma straightened and went to meet him, and the older man shook hands, smiling delightedly.

‘Paul, my dear boy, I’m delighted to see you again. How is your mother?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but took the younger man’s arm. ‘Matron’s got the hall full of nurses waiting for you; shall we go before they become restless?’

The elderly doctor and his former pupil, who had carved such a brilliant career for himself, set off down one of the interminable gloomy corridors so beloved of all old hospitals. Half way down it they encountered Matron—a handsome woman with a high-bridged nose, a formidable bust, and an unshakable air of authority acquired from years of seeing that nurses did the things she wanted them to do, without being too aware of the fact. Dr Doelsma remembered her when he had been Casualty Officer at St Ethelburga’s—she didn’t appear to have altered in the least. They greeted each other like old friends, and the three of them continued on their way to the lecture hall. It was familiar to them all, but even if they had been strangers to the hospital they would have found it just as easily—the subdued roar of a great many women talking could clearly be heard as they approached its doors. The sight of Matron entering, however, turned the tumult into a silence that could be felt, followed by the sound of several hundred well starched aprons crackling as their wearers rose to their feet. Matron reached the chair on the small platform and sat; the doctors followed suit, the wearers of the aprons, obedient to a nod from Matron, also sat, with a combined rustle which was deafening. The sisters were at the back of the hall; Dr Doelsma was immediately aware of the beautiful Amazon he had encountered in the entrance, sitting head and shoulders above her neighbours. Even at that distance he could see the consternation on her face—her mouth was slightly open—he wished he was near enough to see her eyes. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he removed his gaze.

While Matron, followed by Sir Charles Warren, made the speeches usual to such an occasion, Dr Doelsma settled his vast bulk into his chair, and surveyed his audience. From where he was sitting most of them looked very pretty; those who were not were at least attractive, although his keen eye detected one or two really plain girls; he sighed—for the plain ones always asked questions. He had been lecturing for several years now; he knew what to expect. He supposed it was something to do with their egos. He rose to his feet, replied gracefully and briefly to the speeches and began his lecture. He was an excellent lecturer, and within a few minutes he had his audience’s attention, and kept it. He made his subject, the malignant conditions of the stomach and their latest treatment, sound enthralling. He was a specialist in this field of medicine, and such was his interest and enthusiasm for his work that he had no difficulty in holding the attention of every girl there. Even the rebels, who hadn’t wanted to go anyway, felt sorry for their colleagues who had been left on the wards.

Sir Charles, watching him from his side of the platform, thought what a first-rate man Paul had become. A pity he wasn’t married, he mused, for he must be all of thirty-five. Too busy with his work, perhaps. It was nice for Henrietta to have such a son, though. He himself had known Paul’s mother for years; his father too. Since the latter’s death he had not lost contact with either of them. She would be coming over on a visit from Friesland in a few days. Behind the attentive façade of his nice elderly face, he began to make plans for her entertainment.

Matron, listening to the doctor’s deep attractive voice discussing enzymes and their complex working, felt thankful that she no longer needed to know much about these new-fangled theories. In her day, a gastric ulcer was a gastric ulcer; you either recovered from it, or you died; nobody bothered with enzymes. So simple. Her massive bosom inflated on a sigh and she turned her full attention on to the nurses before her—rows of rapt attentive faces all looking at the lecturer. ‘You’d think he would feel uncomfortable,’ she mused, and transferred her gaze to the object of their attention, and studied him carefully. He was enough to catch the eye of any woman under eighty. He had a hawk-like distinction to crown his good looks, and as if that were not enough, his very massiveness made it impossible for him to go unnoticed. Her eyes swept the ranks of nurses before her, and she suppressed the chuckle which rose to her primly set mouth. No wonder they were all so attentive! No doubt they would all be dreaming of him tonight, and tomorrow there would be a queue of them outside her office, wanting to know if English-trained nurses were accepted in Dutch hospitals.

The applause at the end of the lecture was such that Dr Doelsma was surprised; it was, of course, more for him than for the lecture, but he was a man of little conceit, and that idea had never occurred to him. He was used to his size attracting stares, and although he had the self-confidence and assurance of a man of breeding and wealth, he was essentially modest. Now he waited patiently for the clapping to stop and then asked mildly.

‘Has anyone any questions to ask?’

As he had foreseen, the plain nurses rose one by one and put their questions. They weren’t particularly intelligent queries, either, but he was a kind man, and answered them in turn with a grave courtesy, leaving each of them in a rosy glow of satisfaction. He enjoyed answering the points raised by the more senior nurses and sisters; they showed a lively comprehension of his lecture and a shrewd knowledge of the subject. He had not looked at the back row since he had got to his feet; now he allowed his gaze to rest there for a moment. The Amazon of the entrance hall was in earnest conversation with her neighbour, who nodded and then got to her feet. The question she asked, ‘What alternative is there to the use of vitamin B12 when both stomach and liver are diseased, making the storage of the vitamin an impossibility, and thus failing to check the anaemia?’ had been well thought out. He had a shrewd suspicion as to the originator; he leaned back against the table in the middle of the platform, setting the water jug and glasses jangling, and looked over the rows of upturned pink faces, staring blandly at the big girl in the back row. Even at that distance he could see her blushing. He smiled gently and addressed himself to her.

‘My answer would depend largely upon the patient. An elderly, ill patient would be best treated with palliative methods, as and when symptoms arose. But in the case of the younger person, and bearing in mind that the liver has six other functions than that of storing the anti-anaemic factor, it might be well worth attempting a liver transplant provided that the stomach condition could be controlled until such time as the resistance of the patient was sufficiently restored to warrant conservative surgery on the stomach. The hazards would be great, but in my opinion, worth while in suitable cases.’ He paused, then added, ‘I should like to add that this question showed a high rate of intelligence.’ He didn’t look at her any more after that, but after the closing speeches, followed Matron and Sir Charles out of the hall without a backward glance.

‘Most successful,’ breathed Matron. ‘Coffee, I think, in my office.’ She turned to Dr Doelsma. ‘You’re lunching with the consultants, I believe, but I hope I shall see you before you go.’

She led the way into her office, and they drank Nescafé, disguised in her best china. Dr Doelsma made himself very pleasant and asked a great many questions, so that after a few minutes he was able to discover that Sister MacFergus was in charge of Women’s Medical. Over his second, unwanted cup, he blandly suggested that a quick tour round that particular ward would be highly interesting; there were doubtless several gastric cases there—he had remembered the four test meals. Sir Charles agreed readily enough, and politely invited Matron to accompany them. Rather to the doctors’ surprise, she accepted with alacrity, and at once swept them out and away and up a series of staircases which eventually brought them on to the landing outside Women’s Medical.

Their arrival was seen only by a small junior nurse, who looked at them in patent horror and scuttled, head down, to a door marked ‘Sister’s Office’, where she knocked and entered. Dr Doelsma’s lips twitched, but he avoided Sir Charles’ amused look, and remarked politely upon the tasteful display of flowers on the window ledge. He turned from their contemplation in time to see Sister MacFergus emerge from her office. She looked cool and dignified, concealing the faint unease she was feeling. She addressed herself politely to Matron, and waited to hear what was wanted of her. She had smiled warmly at Sir Charles, who smiled back, but she carefully avoided the visiting doctor’s eye.

‘Sister MacFergus, this is Dr Doelsma. You were, of course, at his lecture. He would like to go round your ward—you have several gastrics. I believe?’

Sister MacFergus offered a hand, wordlessly, and raised her brown eyes to his grey ones in an unsmiling face, acknowledging his greeting with an inclination of her head. Of the fact that her heart was beating a tumultuous tattoo as his hand engulfed hers, she gave no sign. She turned to Matron.

‘The ward’s a wee bit untidy, Matron. Staff Nurse Williams is off sick with a raging toothache, the puir lass.’

‘Oh, I forgot that, Sister. Perhaps it would be as well if we postponed our visit.’ Matron glanced at Dr Doelsma, who flicked an infinitesimal speck off a beautifully tailored sleeve, remarking,

‘Yes, of course—I must apologise for taking you unawares, Sister. I don’t wish to add to your difficulties; doubtless you have more than you can cope with already.’

Sister MacFergus fancied that she detected derision in his voice. This had the immediate effect of causing her to say in a level voice,

‘Thank you, sir, but I believe we will manage very well.’ She turned her head and raised her voice slightly and called to the same little nurse whom they had first seen, and who now came trotting out of the office, listened to low-voiced instructions, cast her Ward Sister a look of devotion and made off.

They all heard the whispered warning, ‘Don’t run, Nurse!’ But Sister MacFergus, aware of the strong views authority held regarding running nurses, caught Matron’s eye and said before that lady could speak,

‘Yon’s a guid wee lass, and willing, Matron.’ She stepped back so that Matron and Sir Charles could precede her through the door into the ward. There was a brief glimpse of bedpans being whisked into the sluice at the far end, and a nurse was coming at a brisk pace down the ward towards them. She bobbed her head at Matron and Sir Charles, and made eyes at Dr Doelsma before asking, ‘Yes, Sister?’ in a breathless whisper.

Sister MacFergus spoke unhurriedly. ‘All the gastric X-rays, Nurse, and the notes, and make sure the patients are ready for examination. There’s no time to get Mrs Burt ready, but you should have time to see to the others—be as quiet as you can.’ She gave a smiling nod, and the nurse, with another look at Dr Doelsma, slipped away, leaving him standing with Sister MacFergus in the doorway.

‘Allow me to compliment you on your ward, Sister; I see that you are indeed able to cope with any situation.’ He paused, and when she looked at him, went on in a silky voice. ‘Even the unexpected visit of a fat, elderly balding and near-sighted Dutchman.’

He smiled at her charmingly, and murmured. ‘After you, Sister,’ and she walked ahead of him into the ward, brown eyes flashing, head very high, and cheeks scarlet.

The round went smoothly. Dr Doelsma found himself with Matron, and when he at length contrived to get near the other two, it was to observe that they seemed on friendly terms—indeed. Sir Charles was calling Sister MacFergus Maggy without any objection on her part. With a little ingenuity, the doctor contrived to change places with Sir Charles, and conversed pleasantly enough between the beds.

‘That was a very good question you put at the end of my lecture, Sister.’

Maggy MacFergus was taken completely off her guard. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I have a patient with that very condition which you mentioned—Mrs Salt.’ She stopped and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Who told you it was my question?’

‘No one. I have good eyesight, and I happened to be looking at the back row.’

They had reached Mrs Salt’s bed; an old lady with black boot-button eyes and ill-fitting dentures. She had been in hospital for a long time and was regarded by the entire staff as a kind of ward mascot, whose elderly tantrums were to be cheerfully endured. She greeted Matron and Sir Charles in a piping voice and wasted no more time on them. Instead, she turned her gaze on Sister MacFergus.

‘Ullo, dearie. Now that’s what I like to see—a well-matched pair. And about time too; a nice girl like you going begging, Sister.’

Sister MacFergus, with great strength of mind, ignored this awful remark, merely saying in a repressive voice,

‘Dr Doelsma would like to ask you a few questions. Mrs Salt.’

Mrs Salt turned her naughty old face up to his.

‘And I’ll answer ’em. Haven’t seen such a ‘andsome face for years. Just the right size for Sister too.’ She grinned, well pleased with herself, and Dr Doelsma chuckled and sat down on the side of her bed and took one of her old hands in his; it felt quite weightless.

‘I see that you are a great one for a joke, Mrs Salt.’

‘I like a good larf—How come you speak English like us?’ she queried.

‘I went to school,’ he answered gravely. ‘And now, Mrs Salt, oblige me by putting out your tongue.’

She complied promptly, and answered his questions cheerfully enough, and when he had finished he got up, shook hands, and hoped that he would see her again the next time he came.

‘Yer’d better ‘urry up, then, Doctor. I’ll be ninety in October.’ She clutched his hand. ‘And I bet it won’t be me yer’ll come to see.’ She nodded and winked and jerked her thumb in the direction of Sister MacFergus, who, beyond going rather pink, and breathing loudly, ignored her. Mrs Salt looked disappointed at this poor response to her sally, and said resignedly,

‘Now I suppose you’re going to talk to old sour-face.’ She jerked her head at the next bed, where a dark-haired woman with sallow skin and a sullen expression lay watching them. But Matron, who had looked at her watch, decreed otherwise. If the doctors were to go to their luncheon as arranged, they should leave the ward at once.

They all walked to the door, where farewells, gracious on Matron’s part, friendly on Sir Charles’ and casual on the part of Dr Doelsma, were said, and the visitors began their descent of the stairs. On the first half-landing, however, Dr Doelsma stopped, and said thoughtfully,

‘I remember now, there was something I wished to say to Sister—it quite slipped my mind on the ward. You will forgive me if I go back? I won’t be above a minute or two.’

He went upstairs again, three steps at a time, to find the landing empty and Sister’s door shut. He knocked without hesitation, and went in. Sister MacFergus was standing by her desk, doing nothing. The nurse who had eyed him in the ward was rattling cups and saucers on a tray. They both looked up, astonished, as he went in. The astonishment on Sister MacFergus’s face, however, quickly turned to a heavy frown which she made no attempt to hide. The doctor, it seemed, was impervious to cross looks, for he merely held the door open, remarking,

‘Perhaps Nurse could leave us for a moment? A small matter, purely between ourselves, Sister.’

The nurse smiled at him, and then looked at Sister MacFergus, who gave a brief nod of assent. As the girl slipped away through the door, she flashed beautiful green eyes at the doctor, and was rewarded by an appreciative stare as he shut the door behind her, and leaned against it with his hands in his pockets. Maggy MacFergus stood where she was, looking at him, her brows still drawn together in a thick line.

‘What do you want?’ she asked at length, quite forgetting to say ‘sir’. He took a step into the little room, which brought him within inches of her. There was no space for her to step backwards; she couldn’t very well push him aside. She stayed where she was.

‘I want you to remember me.’ He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her squarely on the mouth, and before she could think of anything to say he was at the door again, had opened it, and turned to say ‘Tot ziens, Maggy.’ He sounded as though he was laughing. She went on standing there; her sensible, orderly mind a chaotic whirl of half-formed thoughts, most which she found bewildering and disturbing, especially as she would never see him again. At length she took off her cuffs and slowly rolled up her sleeves, pulled on her frills, and went into the ward to do some work.

CHAPTER TWO

FOR THE NEXT few days Maggy wasn’t her usual cheerful, hard-working self. She was well aware of this, but took good care not to question herself as to the cause. She did a great deal of unnecessary work on the ward, as if the stacks of charts, laundry lists, off-duty rotas and all the other clutter accumulating on a Ward Sister’s desk would make a pile sufficiently high under which to bury all thoughts of Dr Doelsma. After a time she did indeed manage to cram him into a remote corner of her mind. It was a pity that she had only just succeeded in doing this, when she was accosted by Sir Charles and asked her opinion of his erstwhile pupil. They were halfway round the ward at the time, and she had no chance to evade the question.

‘He seemed a very nice wee man.’ She was, idiotically, blushing.

Sir Charles gave her a look without appearing to do so.

‘He’s six foot four inches, Maggy, though being six foot yourself you’d not notice that. Don’t you like him?’

She studied the path lab form in her hand as though she had never seen one before in her life. ‘Aye. But every nurse in the hospital likes him, Sir Charles. He’s a handsome man.’

Sir Charles scribbled his signature on an X-ray form before replying.

‘Yes, he is. But not conceited with it. I’ve known him since he was a small boy—his parents were great friends of mine; his mother still is. He’s clever, and he’s made a successful career for himself.’ He coughed. ‘He knows exactly what he wants, and gets it too.’ He looked so knowingly at Maggy that she went scarlet; surely Dr Doelsma hadn’t told Sir Charles about the regrettable incident in her office? She realised that she hadn’t forgotten it at all. Her brows drew together in so fierce a frown that Sir Charles allowed his vague manner to become even more vague, and pursued the topic in an even more ruthless fashion.

‘Can’t think why he’s not married. Heaven knows the number of young women who have angled for him; still, as I said just now, he knows what he wants, and he has the patience to wait for it. But there, Sister, I mustn’t waste your time boring on about someone you’ve no interest in.’ He blinked rapidly and smiled disarmingly, while his elderly perceptive eye bored into hers. She met his gaze steadily.

‘Aye, Sir Charles, I’ve no’ the time to think about a man I’ll not be seeing again.’

He nodded, and plunged into the highly technical details of the treatment he proposed for the patient whose bed they had reached. Mrs Salt greeted him as an old friend, gave him a colourful and most inaccurate account of her condition and asked what he’d done with the foreign doctor he’d had with him on his last visit.

‘Nice, ’e was,’ she reminisced. ‘Now there’s a man any girl could fall for.’ She turned to peer at Maggy. “Ere’s one ’ose just right for ’im, too, eh?’ She cackled with mischievous mirth. ‘Pity ’e ain’t coming again—leastways, not until me birthday—that’s if yer don’t let me slip through yer fingers first.’

The remark was greeted with the derision she expected, and with a brief appeal from Sister MacFergus to be good, they left her bed, and passed on to her neighbour. This was a Belgian woman, Madame Riveau, she had been admitted ten days or so before with a suspected gastric ulcer. She was a silent morose woman who only answered Maggy’s basic schoolgirl French when it was absolutely necessary. She was visited regularly by her husband and her son, two equally sour and dour men, who demanded at each visit that Madame Riveau should be sent home. So far Maggy had persuaded them to let her stay, but their demands were becoming so persistent that she realised that they would soon have their way—after all, no patient could be forced to remain against their wish, although she had noticed that the woman did not seem to share her menfolk’s desire for her discharge—Maggy thought she seemed frightened of them; indeed, they gave her herself an uneasy feeling of menace, which was heightened by their secretiveness when asked even the simplest of questions.

She stood looking at Madame Riveau now as Sir Charles bent over the bed to examine her. She looked ill, and surely her face was swollen? Maggy waited until Sir Charles had finished and was conferring with his houseman before she asked in her rather halting French,

‘Have you got the toothache, Madame Riveau?’

The result was electrifying. The sallow face on the pillow took on the greenish white of fear; the hate and terror in the dull black eyes sent Maggy back a pace.

‘No. no! There’s nothing wrong.’ The woman’s voice was a harsh whisper.

‘There must be something wrong.’ Maggy spoke gently; the woman was so obviously terrified—of the dentist perhaps? ‘Supposing we get you X-rayed just to make sure before you go home?’

She was rewarded by another look of venom. ‘I refuse. My teeth are sound.’

Maggy ignored the look. ‘I’ll talk to your husband when he comes this evening; perhaps he can persuade you.’

Sir Charles had moved on, but stopped and listened to what Maggy had to say. When she had finished he nodded, and said,

‘Dr Payne can sign an X-ray form, Sister. Probably she’ll be better without her teeth—she’s an unhealthy woman and I should suppose she’ll need surgical treatment for that ulcer…’

They became immersed in the diabetic coma in the next bed, and in the ensuing calculations of insulin units, blood sugar tests, urine tests and a great many instructions concerning the intravenous drip, Madame Riveau’s strange behaviour was forgotten, and when much later Maggy remembered it, she decided she must have imagined the woman’s fear and anger.

She was due off duty at six o’clock. She gave the report to Staff Nurse and then waited for the visitors to arrive. She had two days off, and she wanted to see Monsieur Riveau, and get the question of his wife’s teeth settled. She felt the usual thrill of distaste as she approached the bed. The two men were seated on either side of it; neither got up as she approached, but watched her with thinly veiled hostility. She wasted no time, but explained her errand and stood waiting for a reply. The men looked at her without speaking, their faces expressionless, and yet she had a prickle of fear so real that she put her hand up to the back of her neck to brush it away. At length the elder man said, ‘No X-ray, no dentist for my wife. She refuses.’

‘There’s no pain involved,’ Maggy replied doggedly. ‘Her jaws are swollen; her teeth may be infected and it may make the ulcer worse.’ He said ‘No’ in an ugly voice, and she damped down her temper and persevered in a reasonable way, struggling with her French.

‘The teeth are probably decayed; she will be better without them.’ She managed to smile at the unfriendly faces. ‘It’s very likely that in time they will make her condition worse.’

Their silence was worse than speech—chilling and unfriendly and completely uncooperative. She could feel their dislike of her pressing against her like a tangible thing. She gave herself a mental shake, asked them to reconsider their decision, and said goodnight. Her words fell into silence like stones, and as she walked away, she could feel their eyes on her back; it was a most unpleasant sensation.

Maggy spent her two days off with a former nurse who had trained with her and then left to get married. She came back to St Ethelburga’s refreshed in mind if not in body, and with a strong desire to get married and have a husband and children of her own. She thought this unlikely. She had never met a man she wished to marry; but as if to give the lie to these thoughts, a picture of Dr Doelsma, very clear and accurate down to the last detail, came into her mind’s eye. She shook her head, reducing his image to fragments and said something in the Gaelic tongue with such force that Sister Beecham, sitting opposite her in the sitting room, put down her knitting and looked at her.

‘I don’t know what it meant, Maggy MacFergus, but it sounded as though it was a good thing I didn’t, and if you are going to make the tea—I’ll not have milk; I’m dieting.’

Maggy got up obediently. Sister Beecham had been at St Ethelburga’s for so long that her word was law to any Sister under forty, and Maggy was only twenty-four.

As she crossed the landing the next morning, she sensed an air of suppressed excitement, although there was no one to be seen. Staff was waiting for her in her office, standing by the well-polished desk, adorned by a vase of flowers. Funeral flowers, delivered at regular intervals to the wards and hailed as a mixed blessing by the unfortunate junior nurse whose lot it was to disentangle them from their wire supports and turn the anchors and wreaths into vases of normal-looking flowers. Maggy noted with relief that Nurse had achieved a very normal-looking bunch. She detested them, but had never had the heart to say so; she guessed that some nurse had taken a lot of trouble to please her. She exchanged good mornings with Staff Nurse Williams, and thought for the hundredth time what a pretty creature she was—small and blonde and blue-eyed—everything Maggy was not and wished to be. She had discovered long ago that there were few advantages in being six feet tall. It was, for a start, impossible to be fragile or clinging; it was taken for granted that she would undertake tasks that smaller women could be helpless about, and there was always the problem of dancing partners.

Staff’s eyes were sparkling; she appeared to be labouring under some emotion. Maggy sat down, saying nothing. Whatever it was could come after the report. It took fifteen minutes or so, each patient discussed treatment checked, notes made. She came to the end of the page in the report book, and, she thought, the end of the report, but Staff said in a voice of suppressed excitement, ‘There’s another patient, Sister. Over the page—She’s a Private; in Sep.’

Maggy turned the page and the name leapt out at her. Mevrouw Van Beijen Doelsma: Coronary thrombosis. Her heart gave a lurch, but she turned no more than a faintly interested face to Williams.

‘Sister, it’s Dr Doelsma’s mother—she’s over here on holiday with Sir Charles.’ Maggy nodded, remembering her conversation with him a few days ago. ‘And he’s been over to see her. He flew over…’

Maggy interrupted her firmly. ‘When did the patient come in? Is she being specialled?’

‘During the first night of your days off, Sister, and she’s being specialled, though they’re very short of nurses. Dr Doelsma…’

‘How bad?’ asked Maggy, forestalling what she felt sure was going to be a rhapsody with Dr Doelsma as the main theme.

Williams returned obediently to her report.

‘Not too bad, Sister, and beginning to improve.’ She went on to give a detailed account of treatment, drugs and nursing care, for she was devoted to Sister MacFergus, who was strict, kind, fair to the nurses, and had never been known to shirk the day’s work; indeed, she could, if called upon, work for two—something she in fact frequently did. Williams finished her report; she had given it exactly as Sister liked it, and she hoped she was going to be asked about Dr Doelsma.

Maggy waved a capable well-kept hand at the chair. ‘Sit down, Staff. Spare me two minutes and tell me all about it.’

Williams drew a long breath. ‘Oh, Sister, he’s smashing! He came ever so early, about eight o’clock—he flew over and stayed all day, and Sir Charles was here, of course, and they were in there hours, I was with them. He’s got a gorgeous smile, and he’s so tall. He went back last night. What a pity you missed him, Sister.’

Maggy smiled. ‘It sounds to me, Staff, as if he had all the help and attention he needed, I suppose you’re the most envied girl in the hospital?’

Williams nodded with satisfaction. ‘Yes, everyone’s green with envy.’ She gazed out of the window. ‘He wore the loveliest waistcoat,’ she said.

Maggy got up, telling herself that she had not the least desire to discuss the doctor’s waistcoats. ‘Williams, what about your faithful Jim?’

The other girl sighed. ‘I know, Sister, but Dr Doelsma’s like someone out of a dream—the sort of man you always want to meet, and never do. If he comes again, Sister, you’ll see what I mean.’

Maggy saw exactly what she meant. ‘I’m going to do my round,’ she said firmly. She went to Sep last. Mevrouw Doelsma looked very small lying there in bed. Despite her grey pallor, Maggy could see that she was a most attractive woman, with white hair, excellently cut. Her eyes were closed, and Maggy stood with the charts, studying them, and listening to the nurse’s report. Everything looked satisfactory. She sent the nurse to go and get her coffee, and turned back to the bed. Her patient’s eyes were open and upon her. She smiled, but before she could say anything, Mevrouw Doelsma spoke.

‘Maggy? I’m so glad. Charles said you would get me well.’

‘Yes, of course, Mevrouw Doelsma, we’ll have you well again very soon.’

The little lady smiled. ‘Paul was cross because you weren’t here. He had to go back.’

A faint colour stole into Maggy’s cheeks at the mention of his name, but she told herself that he was probably annoyed because the Ward Sister wasn’t on duty night and day. There were quite a few doctors who regarded nurses as machines who could work twenty-four hours a day. The door opened and Sir Charles Warren came in. He nodded in the direction of the bed and said. ‘Hullo, Henrietta.’ Then he turned to Maggy. ‘There you are. Pity you weren’t here when Mevrouw Doelsma came in. Nice little staff nurse you’ve got; you’ve trained her well, but she’s not a patch on you. Still, you’re here now. I’ll have a look at the patient and we’ll do an ECG and then we can have a chat.’

Half an hour later he followed Maggy into her office, accepted a cup of coffee, drank it scalding hot and demanded another. Maggy poured it out and put in his usual four lumps of sugar.

‘You’ll get an ulcer, Sir Charles,’ she said severely.

He agreed comfortably. ‘Now, Mevrouw Doelsma. She should do. I think. Had a nasty coronary, but it seems to be settling. There’s always the chance of another one, though. Let me know at once, Maggy. You know what to do until I arrive.’ He got to his feet. ‘I must go.’ He gave a friendly smile, and made for the door which Maggy was holding open for him. ‘Glad it’s you looking after her, Sister. Couldn’t wish for anyone better. If anyone pulls her through it’ll be you.’ He nodded in a satisfied way and went.

The rest of the day was busy. Maggy found to her annoyance that Madame Riveau had still refused to have her X-rays. She would have liked to have seen her husband during the evening visiting hours, but there was no nurse available for specialling after six o’clock, so she left Staff in charge of the ward, and went into Sep herself. It was ten o’clock before she could be relieved by a night nurse.

Mevrouw Doelsma was an excellent patient, and had gone quietly to sleep. Maggy thought she had a good chance of recovery.

Williams wasn’t on duty until one o’clock, so that Maggy had a very busy morning. She was glad to go off duty after dinner, although she knew she would have to come back early. There was a nurse off sick, and extra beds up and down the centre of the ward. But she didn’t mind hard work. The ward was straight by seven o’clock, and she sent Williams and a junior nurse to supper. It was visiting time; the patients were occupied with their visitors. Maggy sat in Sep with the door open, so that she could see down the ward, and watch Mevrouw Doelsma at the same time; she was awake and lying quietly.

The restlessness came on suddenly. Maggy put down the report book and got to the bed as Mevrouw Doelsma gave a couple of painful gasps, went livid, and lapsed into unconsciousness. Maggy turned on the oxygen, and strapped the nasal catheter in position, then drew up and gave an injection of morphia. Only then did she press the button which would turn on the red light above the door of Sep. There was little hope of a nurse back from supper; there was a full five minutes to go, but someone might see it and come to investigate. She could feel no pulse under her steady fingers; she adjusted the BP armband on the flaccid arm, but could get no sound through the stethoscope; with it still swinging around her neck, she turned to draw the heparin and mephine.

She knew exactly what to do, and did it with calm speed, reflecting that it would have been easier with two. She had the syringe in hand when Dr Doelsma walked in. Without a word she handed it to him, and held the limp arm rigid so that he could inject the blood vessel in the elbow. ‘Heparin,’ she said. ‘I gave morphia’—she glanced at the clock—‘two minutes ago. The mephine is drawn up.’

He nodded, jabbed the needle in, took the mephine from her and gave that too.

She gave him the stethoscope and said quietly, ‘I’ll ring Sir Charles.’ She sent her urgent message, and went back to find the doctor sitting on the edge of the bed, his mother’s hand in his.

Mevrouw Doelsma still looked very ill, but they could see now that she wasn’t going to die. Maggy wrote up the charts; Sir Charles would expect them accurate and ready for him. Dr Doelsma was using the stethoscope again; he took it off and handed it to Maggy. This time it recorded something—a poor something, but obviously the drugs were having effect. They agreed their reading, and smiled at each other; she could see how anxious his eyes were. They both stood looking down at the face on the pillow between them. It held some semblance of life again, and as they watched, the eyelids fluttered and his mother’s eyes opened. She looked at her son and then at Maggy, and a tiny smile came and went, but as she was about to speak he gave her hand a warning squeeze.

‘Don’t talk, Mama, everything’s all right. You shall have your say presently.’

She smiled again before she closed her eyes again. They stood on either side of her, patiently waiting. There was nothing very much to do now, except regular and frequent pulse and BP checks. By the time Sir Charles arrived, it was normal. He looked at the charts while he listened to Maggy’s concise, brief report. He nodded at Dr Doelsma. ‘Not much for me to do, eh, Paul? Lucky you turned up when you did.’ He spent a little time examining his patient and said, ‘She’ll do, thanks to you, Paul.’

The other man shook his head. ‘It is Sister MacFergus whom we must both thank. She did everything necessary in the most competent manner.’

Sir Charles smiled at Maggy. ‘Yes, she always does. A most reliable girl.’

The two men stood looking at her; it was a relief to find Staff Nurse at her elbow.

‘Shall I clear up here, Sister? Nurse Sims has got the ward straight—the night staff are on.’

Maggy thought a minute. ‘Nurse Sims can go now; I’ll give the report, then you can go. I’ll stay here until they can send another nurse.’

Williams said eagerly, ‘I’ll stay…’ but was interrupted by Sir Charles.

‘Will you stay here for a while, Sister? Have you a good nurse for night duty here?’

Maggy shook her head. ‘There’s a shortage of nurses, Sir Charles, it’s this gastric bug. There’s no nurse at present, but Matron will arrange for one later on, I’m sure. I’ll bide till she comes.’ She looked at Williams and saw the disappointment on her face. ‘When I come back, Staff, will you make coffee for all of us. I’m sure the doctors would like a cup.’ She was rewarded by a grateful smile as she turned to Sir Charles.

‘I’ll give the report, sir, and be back. Staff Nurse will clear up and set the room ready.’ She gave Williams the keys and slipped away, watched by the two doctors.

Paul said low-voiced, ‘When Mother goes back home to Oudehof, I want Sister MacFergus to go with her.’

Sir Charles pursed his lips and looked doubtfully at his companion, who met his gaze with a cool determined look of his own.

‘She’s a ward sister, you know.’

‘I know. Could she not have special leave for a couple of weeks or so? I’ll pay whatever fee the hospital requires. I want someone I can trust to look after Mother.’

‘Naturally. And you trust Sister MacFergus?’

‘Yes, Uncle Charles, I do.’

The older man turned away and bent over his patient. There was a faint pink in her cheeks now; her pulse was regular and much stronger. He gave Williams some instructions, and went back to Paul. ‘Very well, Paul, I’ll do my best for you. Your mother will be here for a month—you know that. I daresay something can be arranged in the meantime. But I think we will say nothing of this for the time being. Do you agree?’

Paul nodded. ‘I’d like to stay the night. I don’t need to be back in Leiden until Monday morning.’

He broke off as Maggy came back into the room. She nodded to Williams, then took off her cuffs and rolled up her sleeves.

‘Staff’s making coffee. You’ll have a cup, Sir Charles? And you, sir? It’ll be ready in my office.’

‘And you, Sister?’ It was Dr Doelsma speaking.

‘I’ll be here, sir. I’ll have mine later.’ She didn’t even look at him, but busied herself with the drip.

Williams was waiting for them, hovering over Sister’s own coffee pot, very anxious to please. There were only two chairs, so Dr Doelsma sat on the desk and drank his coffee.

‘Are you not off duty, Staff Nurse?’

Williams, the faithful Jim’s image temporarily dimmed, fluttered her eyelashes and used a dimple devastatingly.

‘Yes, sir. But the night staff haven’t time to make coffee now.’

‘And Sister?’

‘She’s off too. Oh…’she remembered…‘she’s not been to supper, and she’ll be on duty until two o’clock—there’s no one to take over before then. I must make her some sandwiches.’ She forgot all about charming the Dutch doctor in her anxiety for Sister MacFergus.

‘Sister is fortunate to have a staff nurse who takes such care of her.’ He smiled down at the pretty little creature. Something in his face made her realise suddenly that behind his rather arrogant good looks there was strength of character, as well as kindness and a concern for others; it became of paramount importance to her to win his good opinion.

‘No, we’re the lucky ones. I mean the nurses on this ward. You see, sir, Sister’s one of the nicest people any of us have ever met. Of course, we all call her Maggy behind her back, but that’s because we like her—’ She broke off and looked uncertainly at Sir Charles who called Sister MacFergus Maggy to her face.

‘A good Scottish name,’ he murmured, and got up. With a smile and a nod of thanks he went back to Sep where the ECG machine was ready by the bed. He said, ‘Right, Sister,’ and Maggy started fastening the straps very carefully and gently, leaving Dr Doelsma to connect up the leads, and then stood back, waiting for the doctors to make a recording. They had just finished when Williams came in, whispered to her, said a low goodnight, and went off duty. Maggy had hardly begun to disconnect the leads before Dr Doelsma was by her side.

‘I’ll do that, Sister. Go and have your coffee and sandwiches.’ She glanced at Sir Charles. ‘Yes, Maggy, go and sit down for ten minutes. I’ll be over presently before I go. Dr Doelsma will be staying the night; he’ll be on hand if you want anyone in a hurry.’

The night passed slowly. There wasn’t a great deal to do. The doctor had refused the offer of a bed in the housemen’s quarters, but had remained in the room, sitting relaxed and calm in an easy chair near the bed. He had opened the dispatch case he had brought with him, and was busily engaged writing. Maggy supposed it was another lecture.

Just after midnight Mevrouw Doelsma woke up, asked for water in a thin voice and wanted to know the time. Maggy told her, and she frowned and whispered, ‘You poor child, you must be worn out; you’ve been here all day.’

Maggy hastened to assure her that she wasn’t in the least tired, but her patient only smiled and said, ‘Stuff!’ and then. ‘But I’m glad you were here. I felt quite safe with you.’ She turned her head to look at her son, standing beside her, his fingers on her pulse. ‘I won’t do it again. Don’t go just yet, will you?’

‘I can stay until tomorrow night, dear; you’ll be feeling much better by then.’ He gave the hand a squeeze and smiled, and she closed her eyes again, saying, ‘You’re both so enormous.’

Just before two o’clock, Maggy’s relief arrived. She was a senior student and a very good nurse, and a very attractive one too. Maggy introduced the doctor, gave a report, said goodnight, and made for the door. The doctor, with the advantage of longer legs, got there first, opened it, and then filled the doorway with his bulk so that it was impossible for her to go through.

‘I’m in your debt, Sister MacFergus,’ he looked steadily into her weary face. ‘You saved my mother’s life. You have my gratitude and my thanks.’

‘And I’ll thank ye also, Doctor, for if ye hadna’ come when ye did, I ken fine it might have gone ill with your mother.’ She smiled, all six feet of her drooping with tiredness. ‘Goodnight, sir.’ She slipped past him and was gone.

Maggy was quite her usual self when she went on duty the next morning. She took the report and then went into Sep, Dr Doelsma rose from his chair and wished her a good morning. He looked immaculate, freshly shaven, and not a crease to be seen; his face was that of a man who had enjoyed an untroubled night’s rest. The patient was sleeping, and according to the night nurse, entirely satisfactory. She picked up her report ready to give it, and was about to begin when Dr Doelsma coughed gently. ‘Er—shall I go, Sister, or may I stay?’ He sounded so meek that she shot him a suspicious glance before asking him politely to do as he wished. He settled back into his chair which creaked alarmingly under his weight, and opened out The Times, only lowering it briefly to wish the night nurse a warm farewell, coupled with a solicitous wish that she would sleep soundly, and all without a glance at Maggy, who had not failed to notice with an unusual flash of temper that he and the night nurse appeared to be on excellent terms. Despite herself, she gave an angry snort,

He lowered The Times for a second time. ‘You spoke, Sister?’

‘I did not,’ she snapped, and added ‘sir.’

He folded his paper carefully, glanced at his sleeping parent and asked.

‘Must I be called sir?’

She charted the pulse carefully.

‘Of course, Dr Doelsma. You are a consultant.’

‘So, by the same token, I may call you Maggy?’

She took a deep breath and said deliberately, ‘You are in a position to call me anything you wish, sir.’ She realised her mistake as soon as she had spoken.

‘My dear girl, how kind of you.’ His voice was smooth. ‘I wonder, what shall it be?’

She blushed under his mocking eye, and said with dignity, ‘That’s not what I meant, Doctor, and you know it.’ She put down the chart and went on briskly, ‘I doubt you’ll be wanting your breakfast—I’ll arrange that.’

‘Don’t bother—er—Sister. Now that you’re here, I’ll go over and see Sir Charles and breakfast with him. I’ll be back within the hour.’

‘Very well, sir, I’ll ring you if it should be necessary.’

She ignored him, and prepared to take Mevrouw Doelsma’s blood pressure. Her patient opened her eyes at that moment, and said, ‘Hullo, it’s you again. I’m glad. A sweet girl, the night nurse, but so earnest, I felt as though I had one foot in the grave all night.’

Maggy smiled and said gently. ‘Fiddlesticks, you were dreaming—and both feet are safe here in bed.’

She turned to find Dr Doelsma still there, looming over the end of the bed.

He said, ‘Hullo, Mama. I’m going over to Uncle Charles. Be good.’ He turned at the door, with his hand on the knob.

‘You’ll ring me, won’t you, Sister?’ He sounded casual, but she could see the worry in his eyes.

She smiled at him warmly. ‘Of course.’ She looked supremely confident and capable, standing there in her trim uniform.

There was still a shortage of nurses; if Williams was to get her half day. Maggy thought, she herself would have to go off duty that morning. She decided to do so as soon as Dr Doelsma returned. Williams could look after the ward, and Sibley, the third-year nurse, could come into Sep. Sir Charles came back with Dr Doelsma, they looked well fed and relaxed. Maggy, who had had a sketchy breakfast, thought longingly of coffee… She would never get off duty by ten o’clock. It was a quarter past the hour when Sir Charles finished examining his patient. He held a short discussion with Paul and called for another ECG.

Maggy was buckling the straps when Dr Doelsma came over to do his part.

‘Are you not off duty, Sister?’ She glanced up in surprise.

‘How did you know?’

‘That pretty little staff nurse of yours told me. Shall I get her in so that you can go?’

She tightened a buckle slowly. ‘Why not?’ she asked coolly. ‘Though I’m afraid Staff won’t be able to come for long. But Nurse Sibley shall relieve her; she’s the pretty blonde with green eyes—I’m sure you will have noticed her.’

She didn’t look up to see what effect her words had had, but finished what she was doing, sent for Williams to take her place, and went to the ward. By the time she had done a round it was almost eleven. She decided to have coffee in the Sisters’ Home, but when she got there it didn’t seem worth while. Dinner would be at twelve-thirty. She flounced into the sitting room, feeling pettish and more than a little sorry for herself, and buried herself in the papers for the next hour or so. There weren’t any other Sisters off; she wished she had not bothered to go off duty at all, though that, she decided, would not have pleased Dr Doelsma, for then he would have had to have put up with her for the whole morning.

She returned on duty after lunch, her frame of mind by no means improved. The ward was fairly quiet. She sent Nurse Sibley to her dinner, and Williams to her afternoon with the faithful Jim. That left little Nurse Sims whom she sent into the ward to tidy it for visitors; she herself went into Sep until Sibley should return. Both doctors had gone to lunch; her patient was sleeping. She studied the charts and then started to pick up the papers littered around the doctor’s chair. They were closely written in a foreign language—Dutch, she supposed; in any case, they would have been unintelligible in English. She made a tidy pile, then went to open the window wider. It was a lovely late August day; she would have liked to have been home, tramping the hills with the dogs. The door opened, but she didn’t turn round at once, but said,

‘You should have taken your full hour, Nurse; I’ll not need to go until two o’clock.’

She looked over her shoulder. Dr Doelsma was standing in the doorway.

‘You’re at lunch,’ she said stupidly.

He ignored this piece of foolishness, but strolled into the room.

‘Ah. I’m glad you’re back on duty,’ he said.

She frowned. Really, she thought, after his obvious anxiety to get rid of her that morning—’ Did something go wrong?’ she asked.

‘No, no. Nurse Sibley was most competent, but I must admit that I prefer you here, Sister.’ He stared at her. ‘You needed to go off duty this morning, you were tired.’

She went pink; it was an unpleasant experience having her thoughts read so accurately. She asked, curiosity getting the better of discretion, ‘Why do you prefer me here, Doctor?’

He considered his reply. ‘I am a big man, Sister. People tend to stare at me as though I were something peculiar. You don’t stare, presumably because you are such a big woman yourself. A purely selfish reason, you see.’

This truthful but unflattering description of herself did nothing to improve Maggy’s mood, and the more so because she could think of nothing to say in reply. Nurse Sibley’s return saved her from this difficulty, however. She handed over to her, and left the room with great dignity, feeling twelve feet tall, and very conscious of the largeness of her person.

The visitors, laden with flowers and fruit and unsuitable food, began to straggle in, and Maggy was kept busy answering questions and making out certificates. Madame Riveau’s husband and son hadn’t arrived; she would have to see them that evening. She sat down at her desk and began the off-duty rota for the following week. It was an absorbing and irritating task, trying to fit in lectures, study days, and special requests for days off. She became immersed in it, then looked up to find the doctor standing by her. She stopped, pen poised.

‘Did you want me, sir?’

He didn’t answer her question, but said shortly, ‘My mother’s asleep.’ He stretched out an arm and took the off duty book from her and studied it carefully. Maggy asked in an annoyed voice,

‘Is there something you wish to know, Dr Doelsma?’

‘Yes, there was,’ he answered cheerfully, ‘but I’ve seen all I want, thank you.’ He gave the book back into a hand rendered nerveless with vexation, but made no effort to go.

Maggy filled in another name and then asked, ‘Would you like tea, sir? It’s early, I know, but perhaps in Holland you drink tea at a different time from us.’

‘Probably. But I must point out to you that I am a Friesman, and not a Hollander, and proud of the fact—just as you, I imagine, are proud of being a Scotswoman. The Friesians and the Scots have mutual ancestors, you know.’

Maggy didn’t know, and said so, adding, ‘How interesting’ in a cold voice which he ignored.

‘How’s Mrs Salt?’ he enquired.

Maggy put down her pen in a deliberate manner. He seemed bent on engaging her in conversation, however unwilling on her part, so she said civilly, ‘The path lab results came back yesterday—and the X-rays show an infiltration into the oesophagus—a blueprint of your lecture.’

‘May I see her notes?’ He was serious and rather remote now. She got the notes and X-rays and answered his questions sensibly. At length he handed them back to her, saying, ‘A blueprint indeed, Sister, which bears out your question, does it not?’

She nodded. ‘It’s strange that a condition as rare as this one should coincide with your lecture.’

They discussed technicalities for a few minutes, and she surprised him with her sharp brain and knowledge used with so much intelligence.

‘Could you spare time to come and see Mrs Salt?’ he suggested. ‘Not to examine her, just a social visit.’

They walked down the ward to the old lady’s bed. She had no visitors—she had been a patient for so long that the novelty of coming to see her had worn off—and she hailed Dr Doelsma with delight.

‘Cor, if it ain’t Dr Dutch ‘isself!’ She extended a hand, which he observed had become more transparent, and if possible thinner than it had been a week ago. Her lively black eyes snapped at him, however.

‘Don’t feed me a lot of codswallop about getting better, doctor. I ain’t a fool, no more I’m a cry-baby, though I’ll be fair mad if I don’t ’ave me birthday.’ She turned her penetrating gaze on to Maggy. ‘Goin’ to ’ave a cake, ain’t I, love?’

Sister MacFergus, replying to this endearing form of address, smiled and said, ‘Yes, Mrs Salt, a cake with candles, so you’d better be good and do as you’re asked so that you’ll be able to blow them out. There’ll be presents too.’ she added.

The old lady brightened. “Oo from?’

Maggy smiled. ‘That’s a secret, but I can promise that you’re going to get quite a lot of parcels.’

‘Suppose I don’t last, love?’

Maggy didn’t hesitate. ‘Mrs Salt, I promise you that you shall have a birthday party.’

The old lady nodded, satisfied. ‘Right yer are. You’re coming, young man?’ She turned briskly to the doctor.

His eyes widened with laughter. ‘No one’s called me young man for years! How nice it sounds. For that I shall bring you a birthday present. Will you choose, or shall it be a surprise?’

‘I’ll ’ave a pink nightie with lots of lace,’ she replied promptly. ‘It’ll cost yer a pretty penny; d’yer earn enough to buy one?’

He didn’t smile, but answered gently, ‘Yes, Mrs Salt, I do, and you shall have it—on condition that you wear it at the party.’

‘O’course I shall! A bit of a waste on an old woman like me, ain’t it? but I always wanted one—more sense ter give it ter Sister ’ere. She’d look nice in it, I reckon.’

Maggy kept her eyes on the counterpane, and concentrated on not blushing, but was well aware that Dr Doelsma was studying her with interest and taking his time about it.

‘Yes, very nice, Mrs Salt,’ he murmured, ‘but she’ll have to wait for her birthday, won’t she?’

He said goodbye then, and they turned away. Madame Riveau, in the next bed, had visitors. Her husband and son sat one on each side of her; they looked, Maggy thought, as though they were guarding the woman in the bed. She wished them a good afternoon as she passed, and was surprised when they both got up and walked over to her. Subconsciously she recoiled and took an instinctive step towards the doctor, who looked faintly surprised but remained silent.

The older man spoke. ‘I wish to take my wife home. You will arrange it?’ It wasn’t a request but a demand, couched in an insolent tone and awkward French.

Maggy stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Riveau; you must arrange that with the doctor. Your wife is almost better; please let her stay for another week.’

The younger man had joined his father. ‘My mother is not to have her teeth X-rayed or drawn.’ There was an ill-concealed dislike in his voice.

Maggy glanced at him briefly, refusing to be intimidated. Dr Doelsma had remained silent, but his presence gave her a good deal of courage.

‘Your mother is in pain; surely she may decide herself?’

His small black eyes glared at her. She couldn’t understand what he said, but evidently the doctor could. He stopped him and began to speak in a voice Maggy hadn’t heard him use before; it was cold and hard and full of authority. He spoke in fluent French which she couldn’t hope to follow, and she watched the two men cringe under it. When the doctor had finished, they made no reply but looked at Maggy with hate in their eyes, and went back to the bed.

Maggy stood irresolute, but Dr Doelsma tapped her on the shoulder in a peremptory fashion, and she found herself, rather to her own surprise, walking meekly beside him down the ward. By the time they had reached her office, however, she had begun to feel a slight indignation. He had had no right to interfere when she was discussing her own patients; the fact that she had been very glad to have him there while he talked with those two awful men had nothing to do with it. Standing by her desk, she said stiffly,

‘Thank you for your help, although I am usually judged capable of dealing with matters concerning my patients.’

She was vexed to hear her voice shaking. She was enraged still further when he laughed.

‘How pretty you are when you are angry! I’m sorry you are annoyed with me. Was I very high-handed? You didn’t understand what that man was saying, did you? Shall I tell you, or will you take my word for it that he was crude and disgusting? If we had been anywhere else but a hospital ward, I should have knocked him down.’

She looked startled and contrite. ‘I didn’t understand him, you were kind to…to stop him. Thank you.’

‘Why are you afraid of them?’

‘Oh! How did you know—did they see…?’

‘No, they did not. I don’t blame you for disliking them. I found them most repulsive.’ He smiled. ‘Am I forgiven?’

‘Yes, of course, sir. I’m sorry I was rude.’ She looked at him anxiously. He was still smiling—she remembered that he had smiled on the day of the lecture and said quickly in a brisk fashion, ‘Now I’ll be helping Nurse with the teas. The visitors will be going…’ She got as far as the door.

‘My mother complains bitterly that she has hardly seen you all day. Could not the green-eyed blonde help with teas while you come into Sep? She has proved a poor substitute for you, Sister.’

She bristled. ‘Nurse Sibley is a very competent nurse.’

Their eyes met; his were dancing with laughter.

‘Indeed yes, Maggy. But that isn’t what I meant.’

She found she had been ushered out of the office and across the landing into Sep and heard herself telling Nurse Sibley to go the ward and help with teas. She seemed to be doing exactly what the doctor wished her to do. She remembered Sir Charles’ words, and made a resolve to be very much firmer in the future.

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