Victory for Victoria

She would have liked to have said hullo, but bearing in mind the Old Crow’s dislike of any sound at all during the round she merely raised a cautionary finger to her lips and then pointed to the doors—a gesture to which he appeared to take exception, for he said without any effort at all to lower his voice: ‘My dear girl, don’t you try and send me away. I’ve had the devil’s own job getting here in the first place.’

Victoria just stopped herself from wringing her hands. ‘It’s the round,’ she hissed. ‘Please wait outside, there’s a chair on the landing.’

‘Do I look as though I need to sit down?’ he enquired with interest.

She conquered a strong desire to giggle, shook her head and said coldly: ‘I must ask you to wait.’

He beamed at her. ‘But I will, dear girl, I’ll wait as long as you like.’ He went on; ‘You know, I liked you better with your hair down your back, even if you did look a bit of a fright.’ She was still struggling to think of a dignified but quelling reply to this piece of impertinence when Sir Keith’s voice, smooth and resonant, floated down the ward.

‘There you are, dear fellow. Come and join us—I was beginning to think that you had found it impossible to come after all.’

He bent to say something to Sister Crow and the ‘dear fellow’, with a friendly pat on Victoria’s outraged shoulder, advanced to the group of people by number six bed, and she, because it was expected of her, followed him, to take up her position just behind Sister, so that when that lady wanted notes or a tape measure or a tendon hammer to hand to Sir Keith, Victoria was there to supply them. Sir Keith put out a hand and said: ‘Alexander, this is delightful, it seems a long time—Sister Crow, let me introduce Doctor van Schuylen, on a visit to this country. He’s by way of being a specialist in chests.’ He looked round the circle of faces. ‘My RMO,’ he went on, ‘Doctor Blake, and my houseman, Doctor Dawes.’ His gaze passed over the physiotherapist, his secretary and Victoria and rested on his patient, the hapless Mr Bates, his basin removed pro tem and looking very uneasy without it.

Victoria, handing X-rays, Path Lab forms and a pin to tickle the soles of Mr Bates’ feet to see if he reacted in the proper manner, kept a wary eye on him; Sir Keith had most luckily finished with him and was about to move on to the next bed when Mr Bates went a little paler than he already was, so that she dropped her burden of forms and notes and made a beeline for the basin, but Doctor van Schuylen was ahead of her; he had it nicely in position under Mr Bates’ pallid chin even as she reached him; he did it with a calm and matter-of-fact air which took no account of Sister Crow’s horrified indrawn breath, waiting impassively until Nurse Black squeaked out of the sluice and took over, and only then did he relinquish the basin, giving that damsel—a small, plain girl known inevitably among her colleagues as Beauty—a smile of such charm that she smiled widely back at him.

He rejoined Sir Keith without a word, to be drawn instantly into a discussion on bronchiectiasis. Victoria listened to his deep, quiet voice, comparing it with Doctor Blake’s. That gentleman, intent no doubt on impressing his chief, was holding forth at some length, addressing most of his observations to the Dutchman, in a manner which Victoria considered unnecessarily patronising, although their recipient apparently did not, for he lolled against the end of the bed with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed steadfastly upon Doctor Blake’s face. It was only when that gentleman paused for breath that Sir Keith declared in a dry, gentle voice:

‘My dear Blake, all that you have said is most admirable, but I must point out to you that you are taking coals to Newcastle, for our good friend here happens to be the author of the various papers you have been quoting at him.’

Victoria was forced to admire the way Doctor Blake bottled up his rage; he even managed a laughing apology to Doctor van Schuylen, his pale eyes colourless with a dislike he almost, but not quite concealed. She shivered a little. He would be a bad enemy, she decided, studying his good looks, and then transferred her gaze to Doctor van Schuylen, still lolling, with a lazy, good-natured smile upon his face, just as though he was taking the other man’s apologies at face value. Surely he could see…? He turned to look at her and she realised that he certainly had seen; his eyes, in such a placid face, were very alert. She was so relieved that she smiled warmly at him and Sister Crow, catching her at it, gave an indignant snort and commanded: ‘Staff Nurse, be good enough to ask someone from the Path Lab to come here at once.’ She accompanied this command with a heavy frown. In her opinion, nurses—even staff nurses—did not smile at consultants, nor for that matter at any strange doctor who happened to turn up, especially the kind of smile Victoria had just given.

Victoria, aware of the Old Crow’s wrath, murmured: ‘Certainly, Sister,’ and went off down the ward and out of its door and into the office to telephone, something she did with dispatch and her usual competence, using only a small part of her brain to do so; the rest of it was deeply occupied by speculation upon Doctor van Schuylen’s sudden appearance, his probable departure and whether there was any likelihood of seeing more of him. She went back to the ward presently, the missing notes, which she had quite forgotten and which she had providentially discovered on Sister’s desk, under one arm. She added them tidily to their fellows and took up her station once more just behind Sister Crow without looking once at Doctor van Schuylen.

In fact, she studiously avoided his eye for the entire round—a fairly easy matter as it turned out, for Sister Crow saw to it that she was kept busy, and when the slow procession had at last wound its way out of the ward doors, Victoria, having made very certain that Dora had the right number of cups on the tray, was instructed to go back into the ward and make sure that the patients’ beds were tidied once more.

‘But have your coffee first, Staff Nurse,’ the Old Crow invited, and looked at the clock as she spoke so that Victoria would know that she had observed the time and would expect her back in ten minutes exactly.

Victoria, once in the main corridor, flew down it at a good speed; she seldom went to coffee break, for it was usual for the staff nurses to have coffee with Sisters on the ward, but on round days Sister Crow didn’t want her, and anyway, Victoria admitted fairly, the office didn’t accommodate more than four people in comfort and the Old Crow disliked people sitting on the floor or perching on the sides of her desk. The dining room was only half full, but there were several of her friends gathered round a table in a corner. She joined them with an eye on the clock as she did so. ‘Ten minutes,’ she exclaimed breathlessly, ‘Sister Crow made a note of it as I left.’

Kitty Blane from Women’s Medical groaned in sympathy. ‘I don’t know how you stand her!’ She filled a mug and pushed it across the table to Victoria. ‘How did the round go? What do you think of our Jeremy?’

Victoria blew on her coffee to cool it. ‘He’s all right, I suppose.’ She sounded doubtful. ‘I don’t know anything about him yet. He’s good-looking…’

‘Talking of good looks, did you get a sight of a tall dark and handsome stranger up your way? He came sauntering into ours about an hour ago and when I asked him what he wanted he said he was looking for Sir Keith Plummer, and when I told him where he was, he said: “Oh, yes—is that where the staff nurse has long bronze hair?” Someone you know, Vicky?’

‘Well, not really,’ said Victoria calmly, covering sudden feelings which weren’t calm at all. ‘Perhaps he mistook me for someone else.’ Even while she spoke she wondered how he had found out that she worked on Men’s Medical or if it had been coincidence. The latter, she decided, for was he not almost for certain a married man and had he at any time shown interest in her? Not to speak of. She grinned ruefully and Bunny Coles from Cas. asked:

‘Fed up, Vicky? I’m not surprised with the Old Crow always fussing around. When are you off?’

‘Five.’ Victoria put down her mug. ‘I must fly, you know what she is—all the beds to be tidy by the time she comes out of the office.’ She made a face. ‘So long, girls.’

There was no sign of anyone as she went back along the corridor and past Sister’s office, although there was a murmur of voices and a sudden burst of laughter. Sir Keith must have made a joke, for that was the only time Sister Crow laughed about anything. Victoria went into the ward, sent all but one nurse to their coffee and started to straighten the beds and to get out of bed all those patients who had been kept in them for the round. She had reached Mr Bates and had sent Nurse Black to fetch a cool drink for the still queasy old man when the ward door was swung open with a good deal of vigour and a firm footfall trod towards her. She knew who it was, of course, and turned to face him as he fetched up within a few inches of her. He said without preamble: ‘You’re off at five. I’ll be outside at five-thirty—no, five-forty-five, you’ll want to do that hair of yours. I should like to take you out.’

She stared at him speechlessly, delight and doubt warring with each other in her lovely face, and before she could reply Mr Bates answered for her in his dry old voice.

‘That’s right, you go, Staff. Have a bit of fun, yer must feel like it after the whole day here with the likes of us.’

‘No,’ said Victoria with a firmness denied by her eyes, ‘thank you.’

‘Why not?’

She glanced at Mr Bates, who said at once, ‘Cor, luv a duck, Staff, I’m stone deaf—can’t ’ear a word.’

She smiled at him. He’d been in number six bed for so long and he was really an old dear; all the same, she half turned away from him to say in a low voice: ‘You see, I don’t go out—with m-married men.’

‘Very laudable,’ commented Doctor van Schuylen approvingly. ‘Shall we make it five-thirty and never mind the hair?’

She raised enormous tawny eyes fringed with curling dark lashes and met his blue ones. There was a glint in them which made her blink and falter. ‘You are married?’

‘No,’ he answered coolly, ‘not yet.’ He said nothing further, only looked amused, and it was so obvious that he was awaiting an explanation that she began to explain. ‘Oh—well, you see you were dining with someone and she had a wedding ring, and the next day you had a little boy with you, and then I saw you with them…’

It was impossible to know what he was thinking, for his voice was as bland as his face and his eyes were almost covered by suddenly drooping lids.

‘Ah, yes—of course. A natural mistake, but a mistake. Shall we say half past five?’

The ward door was pushed open and allowed to close with a minimum of noise—Sister Crow. Victoria’s eyes met the Dutchman’s and Mr Bates said happily: ‘I ain’t ’eard a word, but ’ave a nice evening of it, the two of yer.’

‘Half past five,’ breathed Victoria, and began on Mr Bates all over again while she listened to the doctor, skilfully and with great charm, draw a variety of red herrings across the Old Crow’s path so that by the time she eventually reached Victoria she had quite forgotten why she had come into the ward.

Sister Crow had wanted an afternoon; Victoria, working through seemingly endless hours, prayed that she would come on duty as punctually as she usually did. She had been foolish, she decided as she prepared the medicine trolley for Sister’s use later on, to say half past five, for she would almost certainly be late, and supposing he didn’t wait? Supposing he were impatient? She contradicted herself; he wasn’t an impatient man, of that she was quite certain, although for the life of her she couldn’t guess how she knew that. She smiled with relief at the thought and Major Cooper, whom she was hauling back into bed after his afternoon exercises, stared at her.

‘What the devil have you got to smile about?’ he demanded irascibly. He was an ill-tempered old gentleman; that anybody would be otherwise was something he would not condone. Victoria had no intention of telling him, so instead she asked: ‘What do you think of the Government’s intention…’

It was a safe and sure red herring; he seized upon it and grumbled happily while she worked him out of his dressing gown and pulled on the woolly bedsocks he insisted upon wearing, and since she had heard it all before, it left her free to devote the greater part of her mind to the important question of what to wear that evening.

It was twenty minutes to six as she crossed the hospital entrance hall. The Old Crow had been punctual, but she had been chatty too, and it was all of a quarter past five by the time Victoria had got away. It was impossible to go to tea, and dinner, if that was the meal she hoped the doctor was inviting her to, was several hours off. She drank a glass of water from her toothmug and started tearing off her clothes. Luckily the bathrooms were empty and very few of her friends were about, and those who tried to engage her in conversation were told ‘No time’, and swept on one side. She was kneeling before the mirror in her room, because there were no stools before the dressing tables in the Home, putting her hair up very carefully, when the staff nurse on Children’s came in with a cup of tea. ‘Leave it if you haven’t time,’ she advised, ‘but I bet you didn’t get any—who’s the date?’

Victoria, her mouth pursed over hair-grips, made sounds indicative of not telling, but her friend disregarded them. ‘We think it’s the foreign doctor who went to Kitty’s ward.’

Victoria, having disposed of the grips, swallowed half a cup of tea.

‘Yes—well, we met while I was home—and don’t,’ she went on severely, ‘start any ideas. He’s only asked me out because he happened to meet me again—you know, being polite.’

She was wriggling into her dress—a very plain cinnamon-coloured wool—and her friend obligingly zipped her up the back before she spoke.

‘Why should he have to be polite?’ she asked forth-rightly. ‘I’ve never met a man yet who asked a girl out unless he wanted to.’

Victoria was head and shoulders inside the wardrobe and her voice was muffled. ‘Maybe he wants someone to listen to him while he talks,’ she suggested, and hoped not. She slid into the matching topcoat and dug her feet into brown patent shoes which had cost her a small fortune and flew to the door, snatching up her handbag as she went. ‘See you,’ she said briefly, and hurried downstairs.

He was leaning against the little window behind which Smith, the head porter, sat, enjoying a chat, but when he saw her he came to meet her across the linoleumed floor and without giving her a chance to say that she was sorry that she was late, swept her outside and across the forecourt to where a Mercedes-Benz 350SL coupé was standing. It had, Victoria’s sharp eyes noticed, a Dutch number-plate.

‘It is yours?’ she wanted to know as he opened the door for her to get in.

‘Yes.’ He shut her in with an almost silent snap of the handle and went round to his own seat.

‘You didn’t have it in Guernsey.’

‘No.’ He was sitting beside her now. ‘What a girl you are, always asking questions!’