Enchanting Samantha

She all but ground her teeth at him. ‘I’ll go and put a coat on,’ she told him ungraciously, and fled upstairs, to fling on the old tweed coat, bundle her hair under its hood, snatch up some woolly mitts, and run downstairs again, her face a little pink with temper and some other feeling she refused to acknowledge.

It wasn’t much of a morning; they walked briskly down the lane which led seawards under a sky covered with high grey cloud, while a fitful wind blew in their faces. The doctor, hatless and wearing a Burberry which emphasized the width of his shoulders as well as being gloved expensively in pigskin, didn’t appear to notice the weather, however. He carried on a cheerful conversation about nothing in particular, to which Samantha contributed but little, answering with a determined politeness and a faint coolness of manner, for she had no intention of succumbing to his charm. She had no doubt, she told herself crossly, that if there had been another girl boasting the good looks she didn’t have, he wouldn’t have come near her that morning.

They had walked right down to the coastguards’ houses facing Chesil Beach itself, and she began to explain with meticulous thoroughness, as though she were a guide making something clear to a foreigner, that the Beach was seventeen miles long, that the stones at one end were much larger than those at the other, that if he chose to search, he might find Wolf’s rock from Cornwall, Devon granite, quartz rock and banded rhyolite, that if he were interested there was no reason why he should not take one of the larger pieces home with him—people used them for paperweights. ‘The Beach changes from day to day,’ she went on, a little prosily. ‘The tides…’

‘Why do you dislike me?’ He cut her off in full spate and left her openmouthed. ‘Or rather, why will you not let yourself like me?’

She remembered to close her mouth while she sought for words. ‘I—’ she began, and then burst out with: ‘What difference could it possibly make?’ Her hazel eyes were bright with sudden rage. ‘I don’t know anything about you; I shan’t ever see you again…’

He smiled faintly. ‘But you don’t enjoy my company? Come, let us be honest.’

She said wildly: ‘But I’ve not been in your company—I don’t…’

‘Know me? Don’t repeat yourself, Samantha. Perhaps given the opportunity, you might get to know me better.’ He sounded so very sure of himself that she said instantly, not meaning a word of it: ‘I have no wish to know you better—no wish at all. We’d better go back or you’ll be late for your lunch.’

He appeared not in the least put out by this display of rudeness; they climbed the rough road again and began the walk back to the village, the doctor whiling away their journey with a discourse on igneous rock, lapilli, tuff and schist, and as she had never heard of any of these, she was forced to remain silent. At her grandparents’ gate they came to a halt and she said awkwardly: ‘Well, goodbye, Doctor ter Ossel.’

His cheerful goodbye in reply was vexing in the extreme; still more vexing was his remark: ‘I’m going back to London tomorrow morning—such a pity I am unable to give you a lift—you don’t return for another day, do you, but in any case, there is no point in mentioning it, is there, for I am sure that you would not have come with me, would you?’ He went on blandly: ‘One should never waste one’s leisure in the company of someone one doesn’t like.’

He had gone, walking unhurriedly up the lane, leaving her a prey to a variety of feelings, all muddled and none of them nice.

She spent the rest of the day indoors with the excuse that her grandmother’s cushion-covers in the sitting room needed to be washed and ironed and it was just the day in which to do them. Her grandparents forbore from pointing out that a light drizzle was now falling and enquired discreetly as to her walk with the doctor. Samantha replied calmly that it had been nice, cold on the beach, though, and that Doctor ter Ossel was interested in a variety of stones, and before either of her listeners could ask, volunteered the information that he was returning to London the following morning.

She was upstairs making the beds when he called the next morning; she had peered out to see who it was at the door and had almost fallen over in her haste to get her head back inside again in case he should look up. Which he didn’t, Samantha stood behind the curtain to see. She took a long time over the beds, telling herself that she didn’t want to see him again, and was inordinately peeved when he left without anyone so much as calling up the stairs to tell her he was there, and when she went down after a suitable interval, Mrs Fielding mentioned placidly that she hadn’t bothered her because he had only come in for a moment to say goodbye and had told them that he had already bidden her farewell after their walk the day before. ‘Just fancy,’ breathed her grandmother to no one in particular, ‘he’s going back to Holland tonight, although he’s going to see his poor housekeeper in Clement’s first.’

And that, said Samantha silently, is that, adding for good measure: and a good thing too. It was probably the relief of knowing that she wouldn’t meet him again which gave her such a curious sensation of emptiness; rather as though she had lost something.

But she hadn’t lost anything; when she got back on duty two nights later, he was there on the ward, chatting up Sister Grieves, so that lady, usually so severe, was all smiles and pinkened cheeks. Samantha gave him an austere good evening and waited neatly by the desk, very clean and starched in her uniform, not a brown hair out of place, her eyes on Sister’s animated face. They flew to Doctor ter Ossel’s handsome countenance, though, when he said: ‘Well, Samantha, I hope you left your grandparents well?’

She bristled; calling her Samantha in front of Sister, indeed! ‘Perfectly well, thank you,’ she assured him indignantly, and he gave the smallest of smiles as he turned back to Sister Grieves.

‘Well, I won’t keep you from your work, Sister. Good night, and many thanks, you have been more than kind.’ He smiled at her. He turned to Samantha then and allowed the smile to become mocking. ‘And good night to you Staff Nurse.’

It was Sister Grieves who answered him as he went away. Samantha had no words to say at all.

‘I had no idea that you were on friendly terms with Doctor ter Ossel,’ Sister Grieves remarked almost accusingly. It was the sort of question it was hard to answer without being down-right rude; Samantha murmured something about his visits to Juffrouw Boot and didn’t explain about her grandparents at all, so that Sister Grieves positively sizzled with curiosity as she gave the report.

The ward was full; Samantha nipped round, greeting the patients she knew and getting to know the new inmates of beds which had stood so briefly empty. It had not, thank heaven, been operating day, and although there were several ill patients there was nothing really dire. Night Sister did her round and Samantha gave out pills, medicines and where necessary, injections. By eleven o’clock the ward was quiet, more or less. Brown went to the kitchen to make coffee and Samantha went noiselessly to the desk and sat down to con the Kardex once more; she was a good nurse and careful; besides, when Brown came back with their drinks they would go over it together once more, so that the junior nurse, who was expected to plunge straight into work when she came on duty, knew as much as possible about the patients.

She was half way through the Kardex, conning Juffrouw Boot’s notes, and paused to think about that lady; a nice old thing, she decided—she had become quite fond of her—with a good deal of courage and very grateful for anything which was done for her. She had learned a few words of English too; she could say yes and no and pain and bedpan, and it was remarkable what interesting conversations the nurses had with her when there was the time. She had taught Samantha a few Dutch words too while her hands were being treated during the night and had chuckled at her efforts. Samantha was glad to know that her hands were healing nicely. She flipped over the card and heard the door behind her open.

‘Thank heaven,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

‘Now that is quite the nicest thing you have said to me.’ Doctor ter Ossel’s whisper was in her ear; he had bent down over her chair and she turned sharply to find his grey eyes within an inch or so of her own. A little short of breath, she managed: ‘Grandmother told me that you had gone to Holland.’

‘Quite right. Now I’m back—to see someone.’

Samantha got up with as much dignity as space permitted, for he hadn’t moved an inch. ‘If you’ve come to see Juffrouw Boot, it’s rather late, she’ll be asleep.’

‘I saw Klara this evening.’

‘Then who?’

‘Ah—the someone. I’ve seen her. I popped in while passing merely.’

‘Oh.’ Considering how much she disliked him, the feelings engendered by this remark made no sense. Samantha stared up at him, wishing she knew who the someone was—there were pretty girls galore in the hospital, and several young and attractive doctors besides. She was wondering how she could find out when Brown came creeping in through the door with two mugs of coffee. She stopped when she saw the doctor, spilled some of the coffee down her apron and whispered: ‘Oh—do you want some coffee too?’

He took the mugs from her and set them down on the desk, his smile earning him an answering one from her round young face. ‘No, thanks, my dear, I’m just going. Keep an eye on this staff nurse of yours, will you? I don’t believe she’s ever heard that one about all work and no play…’ He nodded briskly to the pair of them and slid his bulk soundlessly through the door.

Brown let out a noisy breath. ‘Well, whatever did he mean, Staff?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Samantha tartly.

‘He’s foreign, remember; I daresay he’s got his metaphors mixed.’ She wasn’t sure if that was the right expression, she had a sneaking doubt that it hadn’t been a metaphor at all, but it sounded most convincing and Brown, who was a good girl but not very bright, didn’t appear to question it. They drank their coffee and conned the report and in the welter of questions and answers, forgot all about their visitor—or almost. As they got to their feet to do a ward round, Brown whispered: ‘He’s nice, isn’t he, Staff—so romantic—he turns me on.’

Samantha picked up her torch, suddenly and surprisingly aware that to speak truth, he turned her on too, although she had no intention of admitting it. ‘He’s quite nice,’ she agreed quenchingly, and was conscious of her companion’s pitying glance; probably the girl considered her an old maid at twenty-four; she was, in all fairness, right.

It was during the following week that the ancillary staff of the hospital decided to go on strike, not all of them willingly. But as Betsy, the elderly ward maid, pointed out to Samantha when she came on duty to find the supper dishes still unwashed: ‘It’s not that I likes the idea, Staff—it’s the money, they says it ain’t enough.’ She jerked a grubby thumb over her shoulder. ‘Them poor cows in the ward, I’ates ter leave them.’

Samantha knew what she meant, even though her description of the ladies lying in the ward beds was hardly one she would have used herself, but old Betsy’s heart was in the right place even if her mode of speech was a thought rough; she had been told not to work, but that didn’t prevent her from stating her opinion of the situation. ‘I’m not supposed to be ’ere, neither,’ she confided. ‘I just popped up to see ’ow yer was managing.’ She made for the door. ‘Well, ta-ta, ducks, be seeing yer.’

It wasn’t too bad for the first couple of days; the nursing staff shared the extra work; the day nurses staying on later and going on duty earlier and the night staff doing the same, apportioning the washing up, the sweeping and dusting between them. It was when Sir Joshua White, doing his round a little early on the third morning and finding Samantha in the kitchen long after she should have been off duty, washing the endless cups and saucers while Sister Grieves vacuumed the ward floor, spoke his mind.

‘You are two hours late off duty,’ he pointed out to Samantha, quite unnecessarily. ‘It is impossible for you to carry out your nursing duties and be a maid of all work at the same time—the patients are liable to suffer.’

‘No, they aren’t,’ said Samantha, careless of her manners because she was half asleep and wanted her breakfast.

He studied her tired face through his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘No—I shouldn’t have said that, I apologize, but you’re going to be worn out, young lady. I shall have to think of something.’

He stalked away and she could hear him in the ward, surrounded by scurrying nurses trying to get the ward straight, addressing Sister in outraged tones, raising his voice a little because she still had the Hoover on.

That evening, when Samantha went on early so as to give a hand with the supper dishes, she went straight to the kitchen as usual, for Sister Grieves would be writing the report, and although the ward wasn’t taking any fresh cases because there was no linen for the theatre, there was more than enough to do. She flung open the door to find Doctor ter Ossel at the sink while Sir Joshua, wielding a tea towel with the same assurance as he did his scalpel, dried up. Both gentlemen were in their shirtsleeves and both were smoking their pipes, so that the atmosphere, already damp and redolent of burnt toast, baked beans and the peculiar odour of washing up done on the grand scale, was enriched by volumes of smoke from one of the more expensive tobaccos.

‘I told you that I would think of something,’ Sir Joshua greeted her. ‘Did you get any breakfast?’

‘Well—I have a meal when I get to the flat. I sleep out, sir.’

He eyed her narrowly, made a rumbling noise in his throat and applied himself to the spoons and forks. It was Doctor ter Ossel who put his pipe down on the shelf above the sink and turned to ask: ‘What sort of meal?’

Samantha was stacking the trolley ready for the evening drinks. ‘Oh, tea and toast and marmalade, of course.’

He picked up his pipe again. ‘Not enough—you’ll lose weight.’ He grinned at her and she felt her cheeks go red; her slight plumpness was something she was sensitive about—perhaps he thought of her as fat.

‘And what about our little Nurse Brown?’ he wanted to know. ‘Does she live out too?’

Samantha shook her head. ‘She’s only eighteen.’ She sounded almost motherly. ‘She lives quite close by, so she goes home for breakfast and supper.’

She went to the shelves and picked up the Ovaltine, the Bengers, the Nescafé and the Horlicks and arranged them in an orderly row on the trolley. ‘Shall I take over now?’ she asked.