A Match For Sister Maggy

‘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.