Enchanting Samantha

‘Certainly not,’ said Sir Joshua. ‘As a married man, I have acquired the knack of wiping dishes of an evening, and as for Giles here, being still a bachelor, it’s a splendid opportunity for him to learn a few of the more practical arts of marriage.’

He flung his damp tea towel into a corner of the kitchen and took the clean one Samantha thoughtfully handed him. ‘We shall be here in the morning, Staff. I’ve arranged everything with Sister Grieves.’

She murmured her appreciation and went into the ward to give the hard-pressed day staff a hand, and presently, when Brown arrived, joined Sister at the desk.

It should have been a fairly easy night; no operation cases and six empty beds, but there were the tea towels to wash out and boil and the kitchen to clean up, because the day staff would have more than enough to do in the morning. She hadn’t quite believed Sir Joshua when he had said that they would be there in the morning, but when she went into the kitchen to help Brown with the early teas, the two men were already there; the trolleys were ready, the kettles boiling, the tea in the pot and Doctor ter Ossel buttering bread with a casual speed which earned Samantha’s instant admiration. She and Brown were able to go back to the ward and make beds for the first time in several days; they were even ready to go off duty on time and what was more, had done a sizeable amount of work for the day nurses. Samantha sent Brown on ahead and stopped to poke her head round the kitchen door. The men had gone, the day staff were already stacking the breakfast things which Sir Joshua’s registrar had promised to wash presently. She yawned and pattered downstairs to the cloakroom, found her coat, tied a scarf over her untidy head without bothering to look in a mirror and left the hospital. She was tired, and what was more, very hungry. She would buy some bacon on the way to the flat and have a really good meal before washing out her uniform dress and ironing one for that evening—there were aprons too. She yawned again and almost choked on it; Doctor ter Ossel was standing on the pavement waiting for her.

‘Breakfast,’ he said crisply, and popped her into the Rolls at the curb, got in beside her and was driving away before she had the breath to say: ‘You’re mad—I mean, I’m going back to the flat, but I must buy some bacon…’

‘You’re too tired to cook,’ he observed, ‘and I like my bacon just so. We’ll have breakfast somewhere and then you can go home to bed.’

‘I can’t—go out, I mean. Look at me, I’m still in my uniform under this coat and I haven’t done my face or my hair, and I’ve a pile of washing to do.’

‘Breakfast first,’ he reiterated in the reasonable voice of a grown-up making a point with a refractory child. ‘We’ll discuss the washing later.’ He turned to look at her. ‘You look all right to me.’

He had turned into Kingsway and presently Aldwych and stopped now outside the impressive front of the Waldorf. It took Samantha a few seconds to grasp the fact that this was actually where he intended they should eat their breakfast. ‘I can’t go in there,’ she expostulated strongly. ‘You must be quite mad!’

He shook his head. ‘Hungry, and so, I imagine, are you. They know we’re coming and of course you can go inside.’ He smiled suddenly and very kindly. ‘You may dislike me, Samantha, but even so you can trust me, I hope. I promise you you need not feel uncomfortable.’

He got out and walked round the car and opened the door for her, tucked a hand under her elbow and walked her into the hotel.

And he was quite right, she discovered. She was whisked away to the powder room where, with the help of the sympathetic attendant, she improved her appearance considerably and, heartened by the result, joined the doctor in the foyer. They breakfasted alone in a small coffee room, waited upon by a fatherly personage, who pressed a substantial meal upon them without appearing to do so, and contrary to her expectations, Samantha wasn’t aware of her appearance at all. Indeed, Doctor ter Ossel somehow managed to convey the impression—without saying a word—that she looked rather nice. She ate her way happily through porridge, bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade, while the doctor, keeping pace with her, contrived to entertain her with small talk which required the minimum of answers.