Off with the Old Love

There were only two other sisters still in the dining room: Lucy Wilson from the accident room, who, since accidents never occurred to fit in with the day’s routine, was seldom at meals when everyone else was, and Sister Chalk, verging on retirement but still bearing the reputation of being a peppery tyrant. Rachel, who had trained under her on Men’s Medical, still treated her with caution.

Conversation, such as it was, was confined largely to Sister Chalk’s pithy opinion of the modern nurse, with Lucy and Rachel murmuring from time to time while they gobbled fish pie—always fish on Fridays—and something called a semolina shape. Presently they excused themselves and went their different ways. Dolly would have put a tray of tea in the office and Rachel, with five minutes to spare, was intent on reaching it as quickly as possible.

She took the short cut along the semi-basement passage, thus avoiding the visitors who would be pouring into the entrance hall and the wards, then took the stairs at the end two at a time to teeter on the top tread as Professor van Teule, appearing from the ground under her feet, put out a large arm to steady her.

‘Oh, hello, sir,’ said Rachel and beamed at him. He towered over her, but, since she was a big girl herself and tall, she had never let his size worry her. ‘Short cut, you know.’

‘I often use it myself,’ he told her placidly and let her go. He stood aside so that she could pass him and with another smile and a nod she started off along the passage which would bring her out in the theatre wing. He stood and watched her go, his face impassive, before he trod down the stairs.

Rachel hadn’t given him a second thought; she had five minutes more of her dinner time still. She hurried into her office, saw with satisfaction that the tea tray was on her desk, and stationed herself before the small square of mirror on the wall, the better to powder her nose and tidy her hair beneath her frilled cap. Her reflection was charming: big dark eyes, a straight nose—a little too long for beauty—and a generous mouth, the whole framed in glossy dark brown hair, wound into a thick plaited bun. She pulled a face at herself, rammed a hairpin firmly into place and sailed into the corridor on her way to theatre, where Norah was dealing competently with Mrs Pepys’s airs and graces and the junior nurses’ efforts to be helpful. There was a good ten minutes in hand. The two staff nurses joined her for tea and then went back to theatre so that the two student nurses might have theirs.

Rachel settled down to her desk work, interrupted almost at once by the arrival of Mr Sims and the anaesthetist who, of course, wanted tea as well. They were joined presently by Billy, who, since there was no more tea in the pot, contented himself with the biscuits left in the tin.

‘What is the first case, Rachel?’ asked Mr Sims, who knew quite well.

‘That PP—left inguinal hernia. Norah’s scrubbing.’

‘I want you scrubbed for the second case.’

‘Yes, I know, sir,’ said Rachel tranquilly. ‘It’s that nasty perf.’

‘And the last?’ Mr Sims was a shade pompous but he always was.

‘Ingrowing toenail. Mrs Pepys will scrub.’ She added, ‘Is Billy doing it?’

‘Good idea. That will allow me to leave George to keep an eye on him.’

The afternoon went well with none of the hold-ups which so often lengthened a list. Norah went off duty at four o’clock, and the heavy second case was dealt with by five o’clock, leaving Billy to tackle the ingrowing toenail. By six o’clock everyone but Rachel and one nurse had gone and, leaving her colleague to finish cleaning the theatre and readying it for the night, Rachel sat down once more to finish her books. She would be off duty at eight o’clock and had every intention of driving home that evening. She allowed her thoughts to stray to the two days ahead of her and sighed with anticipatory pleasure before finishing her neat entries.

She had a bed-sitting room in the nurses’ home because, although she would have preferred to live out, there was always the chance that she might be needed on duty unexpectedly. She sped there as soon as she had handed over the keys to the night staff nurse, and tore into the clothes she had put ready—a tweed skirt and a sweater, for the evenings were still chilly at the end of March—snatched up a jacket and her overnight bag, and, pausing only long enough to exchange a word here and there with such of her friends as were off duty, hurried down to the car park where her car, an elderly small Fiat, stood in company with the souped-up vehicles favoured by the younger housemen and divided by a thin railing from the consultants’ BMWs, Mercedes and Bentleys. As she got into the Fiat she glanced across to their stately ranks; Professor van Teule’s Rolls Royce wasn’t there. Fleetingly, she wondered where it was and then dismissed the thought as she concentrated on getting out of London and on to the M3 as quickly as possible.

Her home was in Hampshire, some fifty miles distant—a pleasant old house on the edge of the village of Wherwell, with a deep thatched roof and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers in which her mother delighted. She had never lived anywhere else; her father had been the doctor there for thirty years and, since her eldest brother intended to join him in the practice, she supposed that it would always be home.

The streets were fairly empty and Rachel made good time. Once on the M3, she pushed the little car to its limit until she came to the end of the motorway and took the Andover road, to turn off at the crossroads by Harewood Forest. She was almost home now. She drove through the quiet village and presently saw the lights of her home.

She turned in at the open gateway and stopped at the side of the house. Her father had the kitchen door open before she had got out of the car and she went joyfully into the warmth of the room beyond. Her mother was there and her eldest brother, Tom.

‘Darling! So nice to see you.’ Her mother gave her a great hug. ‘You’ll want your supper…’

Her father kissed her cheek. ‘Had a good trip from the hospital?’ he wanted to know. ‘You look very well.’

Tom gave her a brotherly slap. ‘Revoltingly healthy,’ he pronounced, ‘and putting on weight, too.’

‘No—am I? There’s too much of me already.’ She grinned cheerfully at his teasing. ‘How are Edward and Nick?’

‘Doing well.’ It was her father who answered. ‘Edward’s done excellently in his exams and Nick’s settling down nicely.’

They had sat down at the old-fashioned table with its Windsor chairs at each end and the smaller wheel-backs, three each side. They were joined by Mutt, the labrador, and Everett, the family cat, who sat quietly while they had the soup and cold ham, taking a long time over them for there was so much to talk about.

‘How’s Natalie?’ Rachel wanted to know, passing her cup for more tea.

‘Fine. She’s coming over tomorrow.’ Tom had got engaged to a girl in the next village—the vet’s daughter and someone they had all known for most of their lives. ‘How about your Melville?’

Melville was a producer in television and it was because of him that Rachel neither noticed nor encouraged the advances of quite a few of the medical staff at the hospital. She was quite prepared to be friendly but that was all; she was wholly loyal to Melville and, being a modest girl, had never quite got over her delight and surprise when he had made it clear, after they had met at a party, that he considered her to be his. True, he hadn’t mentioned getting married, but he took her out and about, sent her flowers and, when she had firmly refused to spend a weekend at Brighton with him, had taken her refusal with good grace and no hard feelings. Indeed, he had somehow made her feel rather silly about it and she was honest enough to agree with him. She was, after all, twenty-five and sensible. Too sensible, perhaps. She smiled. ‘Up to his eyes in work but he’s collecting me for a drink on Sunday evening. I’ve got to be back because Professor van Teule wants to operate at eight o’clock on Monday morning.’

Her father lifted an eyebrow. ‘Working you hard? Something tricky?’

‘No, the usual list—most of his cases are tricky, anyway. I expect he wants to get away early.’

‘You like working for him still, darling?’ asked her mother.

‘Oh, yes. He’s always good-natured and easy—we get on famously.’

Her mother gave an inward regretful sigh. She had met Melville only once, and she hadn’t taken to him. This Professor sounded nice—he would be married, of course, and probably middle-aged… She asked, ‘How old is he?’

Rachel bit into an apple. ‘Do you know, I’ve no idea? Anything between thirty-five and forty-five, I suppose. I’ve never looked to see.’

They cleared the supper dishes and then, since it was now late, went to bed.

The weekend went too quickly. Rachel, country born and bred, wondered for the hundredth time what on earth had possessed her to choose a job which forced her to live in London. But she had never wanted to do anything else and her family had let her go at eighteen to train at one of the big London teaching hospitals and made a great success of it, too. They were proud of her, although her mother’s pride was thinned by the wish that Rachel would marry, but she never mentioned this.

Rachel drove back after tea; Melville wouldn’t be free until half-past eight and she had plenty of time. It was a blustery evening and there was little traffic, even on the motorway. She parked the Fiat and made her way to her room where she changed into a dark brown suit and a crêpe blouse and exchanged her sensible low-heeled shoes for high heels. Melville liked well-dressed women; indeed, he didn’t care for her job since, as he explained to her in his well modulated voice, it necessitated her wearing the most outlandish clothes.

‘Well, I’d look a fool tripping round the theatre in high heels and a smart hat,’ Rachel had pointed out reasonably, not really believing him.

She had ten minutes to spare; she nipped along to the little pantry the sisters shared in their corridor and found Lucy making tea. Melville had said drinks, which probably meant nothing but bits and pieces to eat with them and she had had no supper. ‘Mother gave me a fruit cake,’ she said. ‘Bring that pot of tea with you and have a slice.’

Lucy followed her back to her room and kicked the door shut. ‘Going out? It’s a beastly night but I suppose Melville will see you don’t get cold and wet. I like the shoes—new, aren’t they?’

Rachel agreed guiltily. Since she had started going out with Melville she had spent more on clothes than she could afford, and they were the kind of clothes she wouldn’t normally have bought. Her taste ran to tweed suits and simply cut jersey dresses with an occasional splurge on something glamorous for the hospital ball or some special occasion.

She drank her tea and gobbled up her cake. ‘I must fly…’ She took a last look in the mirror and Lucy said laughingly, ‘Do him good to be kept waiting, and you needn’t bother to prink; you look good in an old sack.’

Rachel gave her jacket a tug. ‘I’m getting fat,’ she worried. ‘It doesn’t notice because I’m tall, but it will—Melville doesn’t like fat girls.’

‘You’re not fat.’ Lucy picked up the teapot, preparatory to departing to her own room. ‘Just generously curved. There is a difference. Have fun, love.’

Melville’s car wasn’t in the forecourt. Rachel peered round hoping to see him and then took a backward step back into the entrance hall. Her heel landed on something yielding and she turned sharply to find herself face to face with Professor van Teule’s solid front.

She said guiltily, ‘I’m so sorry—have I hurt you badly? I had no idea…’

He glanced down at his elegantly shod foot. ‘I scarcely noticed.’ He eyed her deliberately. ‘You’re very smart. Going out for the evening? If he’s not here you’d better come inside—you’ll catch a cold standing here.’

She obeyed his matter-of-fact advice, and, when he enquired if she had had a pleasant weekend, said that yes, she had. ‘But over too soon—it always is.’ She glanced at his placid face. ‘Is there a case in theatre? You’re here…’

‘There was. I’m on my way home.’

She hardly heard him. Melville’s Porsche had stopped outside and he was opening the entrance door and coming towards them. She half glanced at the Professor, a polite goodbye on her tongue, only he wasn’t going away; he stood, completely at ease, watching Melville who caught her hand and cried, ‘Darling, I’m late. Do forgive me—I got caught up at the studio. You know how it is.’