Visiting Consultant

They looked at each other over their masks—Sophy’s lovely hazel eyes, wide with surprise, encountered his cool blue ones. She said something—she had no idea what—in a murmur. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde said ‘How do you do?’ in a voice which really didn’t want to know, and turned to his patient.

Sophy had no time to wonder why her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning. Training and discipline clamped down on her muddled thoughts; she passed Bill Evans the sponges for the final prep, and handed Mr Radcliffe a large sterile sheet, which the surgeons arranged with all the meticulous care of housewives draping the best tablecloth. It shrouded the quiet figure between them in decent obscurity; leaving a surprisingly small area of skin exposed. She followed it with a variety of small towels and towel clips, and waited composedly until the anaesthetist said ‘Ready when you are.’ And when a quiet voice said, ‘Right, Sister,’ she was ready with the knife, and then in quick succession, the tissue and artery forceps and swabs. Mr Radcliffe put out a hand for gut, and she handed the retractors to Bill, then looked quickly round the theatre. She had a good team of nurses; they were all doing their allotted tasks. She nodded at each in turn and raised her eyebrows at Staff, who slid up behind her, whispered ‘Sucker?’ and switched it on. Sophy passed its sterile nozzle to Bill, who was looking worried because he hadn’t got anything to do. He took it gratefully, feeling he was in the picture again. She checked the clamps and the intestinal needles, rinsed the discarded forceps and put them ready to hand again, and watched Jonkheer van Oosterwelde. He was looking ahead of him, probing with gentle fingers; intent on his delicate task. At length he focused his gaze on Mr Radcliffe.

‘It’s worth trying, I think—what would you say?’

Sophy watched while Mr Radcliffe did exactly the same thing in his turn, then nodded. She caught a nurse’s eye and looked silently at the bowls. The nurse changed the saline in them and went away for a fresh supply; the operation would be a long one. The vacoliter would need changing fairly soon; she lifted a gloved finger and the junior nurse slid away to fetch a fresh supply. The men were talking quietly, working in unison. The Dutchman was dissecting with slow delicacy; Sophy put up a warning finger again, and a nurse edged up to the table with a receiver, to receive the result of his painstaking work. He stretched his long back, and bent to his work again, and Mr Radcliffe said,

‘You’re too tall, Max, by at least six inches—a pity you can’t give some of them to Sophy. She has to stand on a box—when you see her on the ground, you’ll see what I mean.’

‘I know perfectly what you mean; I have already seen her on the ground.’ He took an atraumatic needle from Sophy without looking at her.

‘You’ve met already? Where?’

‘In the street, yesterday evening, but we—ah—didn’t introduce ourselves.’

Sophy thought he was laughing behind his mask. She said tartly, ‘Which number gut will you use, sir?’

He had started the long-drawn out business of implanting, and didn’t look up from his work, but answered her in quite a different voice in which she could not detect the smallest thread of a laugh; and though the two men, and even Bill, talked among themselves during the remainder of the operation she was not included in their conversation. It wasn’t until the patient had been borne carefully away and Mr Radcliffe had rather tiredly suggested that they have coffee before the next case, that the other man spoke.

‘Thank you for your help, Sister—you are, if I may say so, very good at your job.’

Mr Radcliffe looked over his shoulder as he went through the door.

‘Yes, of course she is. Sophy, come and have your coffee with us—I want to talk to you.’

There was nothing for it but to do as she was asked. The theatre was already cleared and with whispered instructions to Staff to scrub and lay up as soon as she had had her coffee, Sophy followed the three men into her office. They stood politely while she took the chair behind her desk and then settled themselves: Mr Radcliffe on to the only other chair the room contained, Bill Evans on the edge of the desk, the Dutchman on the low window ledge. They were still wearing their caps and rubber boots and thick, enveloping aprons; the rubber smelled pungently in the small room. Tieless shirts and rolled-up sleeves did nothing to add to the general aspect of their appearance, but Sophy was used to it and indeed hardly noticed it as she poured coffee into the gaily painted mugs the nurses had given her for Christmas. She ladled in generous spoonfuls of sugar, and handed round the heartening beverage, and offered digestive biscuits with an unselfconscious, almost motherly air. The talk was pure shop, and she joined in easily; accepted as someone who knew what was being talked about and could be depended upon to listen with intelligence and give the right answers. Mr Radcliffe barely gave Bill time to drink his coffee before sending him off to the ward on an errand. As the door closed he passed his mug for a second cup and said,

‘I’m going on holiday, Sophy—for about six weeks.’

Sophy blinked her amazingly long eyelashes and said nothing.

‘I’ve been advised to rest for a bit, Max has kindly agreed to take over while I’m away, for the first few weeks at least. His own theatre in Utrecht is being rebuilt—it couldn’t be more fortuitous.’

Sophy filled the Dutch surgeon’s mug, and said quietly, ‘You’re ill, Uncle Giles, aren’t you?’

She handed Professor Jonkheer van Oosterwelde his coffee, ignoring his raised eyebrows. He had hardly spoken a dozen words to her, and for all she cared, she thought defiantly, he need not bother to address her again. She turned back to the older man.

Mr Radcliffe was no fool. He had seen the raised brows and the heightened colour in Sophy’s cheeks. He didn’t answer her question, but said smoothly, ‘Your fathers were my two greatest friends, although they never met. I stood godfather to each of you in turn, you know.’ He coughed, ‘Strange that you should meet like this.’

Max van Oosterwelde got up, apparently unaware of Sophy’s interested stare. ‘Very strange,’ he agreed dryly. ‘I imagine there was a decade or so between your good offices, however.’

‘But that doesn’t matter,’ cried Sophy, ‘It makes us into readymade…’ She paused. She had been about to say friends, but they weren’t friends, and the look she had just encountered held very little warmth in it, merely a faint, derisive amusement. She blushed, then frowned heavily, and was thankful when Uncle Giles got up too and remarked that it was time they got on with the job again.

They worked steadily for the next couple of hours. The nurses went in turn to their dinners, and when Sophy eventually went to her own, it was past two o’clock. She ate it, as she had so often done, in the complete silence of the empty dining room, thinking about the morning. She had exchanged barely a dozen words with the new surgeon after the coffee break. He was pleasant—and easy—to work for, she admitted to herself, but he obviously had no intention of being friendly. It was at this point that she realised that she knew nothing about him—perhaps he was married? or engaged? She felt unaccountably depressed at the thought; the not very appetising meal became uneatable, and she went back to the theatre.

The men came back from their own lunch in excellent spirits, and Jonkheer van Oosterwelde removed a gall bladder, repaired two tricky hernias, and whisked out a couple of appendices with a neatness and dispatch which could only earn Sophy’s admiration; maintaining an easy flow of conversation while he did so, while rather markedly excluding her from it. Not that he was anything but polite and correct towards her; indeed, when she inadvertently dropped the stitch scissors she was made very aware of his patient tolerance towards her clumsiness.

The last case was wheeled out of the theatre just before five o’clock, and the three men, shedding gowns and caps as they went, followed it. Sophy and her nurses plunged into the business of clearing the theatre, and made such good work of it that after ten minutes Sophy felt justified in leaving Staff Nurse to do the knives and needles, and go off duty. She went down the passage to her office and went in. The little room was wreathed in tobacco smoke; she swallowed a sigh, as Uncle Giles caught her eye and asked, ‘Tea, Sophy?’

She said quietly, ‘Of course, it won’t take a minute.’

She went back into the tiny kitchen where a kettle was kept perpetually on the boil and a tray stood ready, made the tea and carried it back and poured it out before turning to go. In this she was frustrated, however. The Dutchman was standing by the window, his broad shoulders blocking what light there was, his great height dwarfing everything else around him.

‘You will have a cup, too, Sister?’ There was no warmth in his voice. Sophy said baldly, ‘No,’ and then, because it had sounded rude, ‘Thank you. I’m going off duty.’

He didn’t answer, but bent forward and poured another cup of tea and handed it to her, so that she was forced to take it and sit in the chair he pulled out from behind her desk. He said gently, as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘It will only take a minute; it would be a pity to miss your tea.’

She looked at her cup, angry with herself for going red, and Mr Radcliffe, noticing her hot cheeks, put down his own cup and asked,

‘How did you two meet?’

Sophy remained stubbornly silent, and after a minute Jonkheer van Oosterwelde gave him a brief account of their encounter. She sat listening to his deep voice making light of the whole affair and cheerfully taking the blame upon himself. She felt faintly ashamed of herself, then remembered how he had addressed her as his dear madam. Her cheeks grew fiery again at the recollection, their redness fanned by the amused stare she encountered when she ventured to glance at him.

Her godfather thought it was all rather amusing, and said so before launching into an anecdote of his own. Under cover of this, Bill bent forward.

‘Sister Greenslade, you haven’t forgotten I’m coming to supper on Saturday evening?’ he asked eagerly. ‘I mean, if it’s still all right…’

Sophy smiled warmly at him. ‘Of course it’s all right. Come early, then we can play Monopoly or Canasta after supper.’

She got up to go, and Mr Radcliffe paused in his low-voiced talk.

‘Your aunt expects you all on Sunday, Sophy—she told me to remind you.’

She stood in the doorway, very neat in her blue dress. She had put her cap on when she had gone to make the tea; it perched, like an ultra-clean butterfly, on top of her tidy head. All three men were watching her, but she was looking at her godfather.

‘Thank you, Uncle Giles. We love coming; you know that. We shall miss it while you’re away.’ She smiled, murmured a pleasant ‘Goodnight’ and shut the door quietly behind her.

The theatre was clear; she sent the nurses off duty, had a word with Staff, and went to the changing room, from whence she emerged ten minutes later, still looking neat, in a nicely cut tweed suit; its rich greens and browns suited her—the man following her quietly away from the theatre block and down the staircase thought so too. Sophy hadn’t heard him until his voice asked just behind her,

‘Can I give you a lift?’

‘No, thank you.’ The words were spoken before she could regret them. It would be nice to ride in a Bentley. ‘I live quite close.’ And added crossly, ‘You know that,’ she paused, ‘sir.’

‘I’m afraid I made you late, suggesting that you should have tea just now. Allow me to make amends.’

He crossed the entrance hall with her, obviously sure of getting his own way. They said goodnight to Pratt, the head porter, and she went through the heavy door which he held open for her. She only had to say that she preferred to walk, but somehow the words wouldn’t come. She found herself sitting beside him. The temptation to sink back into the rich cosiness of the leather was great; instead, she sat upright, looking ahead of her, as though she had never seen the streets before. He turned to look at her as they slid along the familiar route.

‘You don’t have to be on your guard all the time, do you?’

Sophy felt the soft hammer of her heart. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, too quickly.

‘Yes, you do, some time we’ll discuss it, but to begin with you might try sitting back comfortably, even if it is only for a few minutes. I must say I’m surprised. I thought you were a sensible sort of young woman.’

Sophy felt rage wash over her—why did he contrive to make her feel foolish? ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ she answered coldly. ‘I’m exactly like thousands of other women.’

They had drawn up in front of the house; he leant across her to open the door, but didn’t open it. ‘No, you’re wrong; you’re not like any other woman.’ He opened the door at last, and said, ‘By the way, isn’t Bill Evans rather young for you?’

Sophy had been on the point of getting out, but she turned sharply in her seat, which was a mistake, for he was so near that her cheek brushed his. The touch made her catch her breath, but she managed to say in a tolerably calm voice, ‘I’ve known Bill, for several months; I met you yesterday, Jonkheer van Oosterwelde. I can’t think why it should be any business of yours nor why you should want to know anything about me… Goodnight.’