Two Weeks to Remember

She bore the remains of their meal away to the kitchen and took coffee into the sitting room, and presently he got up to go with the remark that Mr Graham must at some time visit him so that he might browse through his library. His leave-taking of Miss Graham was everything that lady could have wished for, and as for Charity, she was swept to the front door and was not quite sure how she had got there.

‘A very pleasant evening,’ said the professor and waited, his eyes on her face.

‘Why did you come?’ It sounded a bit bald, but she wasn’t a girl to mince her words.

‘Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?’ He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her; so often, being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone. ‘Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.’

She asked abruptly: ‘Have you any friends?’

‘Oh, lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully. I so seldom have any free time…’

‘This afternoon…’ She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.

‘Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?’ He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he observed in a non-committal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car. She stood there, watching him drive away, and found herself looking forward to Monday.

Which, as it turned out, was just like any other day! Miss Hudson still moaning on about her lost umbrella and the remnants of her cold; no central heating because the engineers were having a meeting to decide if they could take industrial action over something or other; and a load of reports waiting to be typed.

‘The Path. Lab must have been working overtime at the weekend,’ grumbled Miss Hudson. ‘Of course they get double time if they do. I have a good mind to go on strike myself.’ She sniffed in a ladylike fashion. ‘Charity, you’ll have to change your dinner hour with me. I’ve a dental appointment.’

‘More teeth?’ Charity asked, her mind on other things.

‘You have no need to be funny at my expense,’ said Miss Hudson huffily. ‘I’ll do Dr Clarkson’s ledgers, you can get on with those reports.’

Dr Clarkson’s correspondence was always commendably brief and, what was more, written clearly; some of the reports had presumably been scribbled by a spider. Charity sighed, and attacked the first; it was full of long words, like cephalhaematoma and cinchocaine hydrochloride, which hadn’t been written clearly in the first place and which she couldn’t spell anyway. By twelve o’clock she was glad to go to her dinner.

The meal was unappetising; presumably the engineers’ meeting had disorganised the kitchens as well, for slabs of corned beef, baked beans and instant mashed potato were offered on a take-it or leave-it basis. Charity, sharing a table with several theatre nurses who were discussing the morning’s list in colourful detail, wished she had gone to Reg’s café, but if she had done that she might have missed Professor Wyllie-Lyon. The thought sprung unbidden into her mind and she made haste to bury it under the grim details concerning a patient’s gangrenous appendix. All the same, it would brighten a dull day if he were to bring his letters to the office…

Which he had done while she was in the canteen.

‘No hurry for that lot,’ explained Miss Hudson, nodding at the little pile he had left on her desk while she titivated herself for her own dinner. ‘And I must say, that’s unusual. And X-Ray came up for that report about the man with multiple injuries—you hadn’t done it—I had to interrupt my own work…’

Charity sat down at her desk, disappointment welling slowly inside her; a good-natured girl, she was suddenly peevish.

‘I’ve had to do the same for you often enough,’ she snapped, and flung paper into her machine, taking no notice of Miss Hudson’s gasp of surprise.

‘Well!’ said that lady. ‘Well! I have never been spoken to like that in all my years here. I must say, Charity, if that is to be your attitude you might do better in another job.’

She flounced away and Charity pounded away at her reports. Another job might be an idea, give her a fresh outlook on life; but work was hard to come by these days and her salary was needed at home. It would need a miracle.

It seemed that they still occurred; the door opened and Professor Wyllie-Lyon came in without haste. ‘Ah, good morning, or is it afternoon?’ He bent an intent eye on her still-cross face. ‘I wondered if you would consider giving up your job here and coming to work for me?’

CHAPTER THREE

CHARITY, BOTH HANDS poised above the keys, allowed her gentle mouth to drop open, while she gazed at the professor. ‘What did you say?’ she managed finally.

He repeated himself patiently as he closed the door behind him.

‘Me?’ asked Charity. ‘Work for you?’

‘My dear girl, do stop looking as though you are concussed.’

‘Why?’

His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘I feel that you would be most suitable. You are normally a calm, hardworking young woman, able to write accurate shorthand and type rapidly. You can also spell. My secretary is leaving to get married and I need to replace her; you have mentioned that you might enjoy a change of occupation. These two facts might possibly combine to make a satisfactory whole.’

‘Well,’ said Charity, and again, ‘Well…I think I might like that—only I’m working here…’

‘I am aware of that. You are subject to one month’s notice on either side. My secretary leaves in less than five weeks’ time, which gives you time in which to give in your notice and work with her for a few days in order to get some idea of the work involved.’

His smile was so encouraging that she smiled widely. ‘Must I decide now, Professor?’

‘Certainly not. Think about it and let me know in a day or so. In the meantime I have several letters, if you would be good enough? By this evening, if you can manage that?’

‘Yes, of course. Are they to go to the consultants’ room or to the Medical Wing?’

‘Men’s Medical, please.’ He bade her a placid good afternoon and went away, leaving her to tidy up and sit doing nothing, mulling over their conversation. It might be the change she wanted: the same sort of work but different surroundings, and probably different hours. She wondered where he had his consulting rooms. She was still wondering when Miss Hudson came back, as cross as two sticks because there had been no milk pudding and her teeth were in no fit state to tackle the treacle tart. Her eyes, lighting on Charity sitting in laziness, gleamed with annoyance.

‘No wonder I find myself doing more than my share of the work,’ she began menacingly, ‘if you sit and stare at nothing the moment my back is turned.’

She sat herself down at her own desk. ‘I should never have thought…’ she went on, to be interrupted by Charity, a kind-hearted girl, not easily put out.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch up,’ she assured her companion, and then, ‘Do I annoy you very much, Miss Hudson?’

‘Indeed you do—I dare say you’re a very nice girl, Charity, but you’re so alive; just as though at any moment you might spring from your chair and go rushing off on an energetic ten-mile tramp. Very unsettling and most unsuitable.’

Which remark made up Charity’s mind for her. She was aware that she had already made it up anyway; she liked Professor Wyllie-Lyon and a different job might be the answer to her feelings of unsettlement.

True to form Miss Hudson left on the stroke of five o’clock, leaving Charity to tidy the office and her own person, collect up the professor’s papers and lock the door behind her. After an afternoon of contemplating a new job, it was disappointing to find no sign of him on Men’s Medical.

Sister was there, eyeing her with suspicion, and took the letters from her with an, ‘I’ll see that Professor Wyllie-Lyon gets these, Miss Graham.’ She added, as a cold dismissal, ‘Good night.’

Charity made her way out of the hospital feeling deflated. It had been silly of her to imagine that he would be waiting for her reply. After all, what was a secretary to a man such as he? A mere cog in the wheel of his learned life.

She wished Symes good night and flounced through the door, straight into the professor’s waistcoat.

‘Ah, yes—where could we go that we may discuss this job?’ he wanted to know.

‘You said a day or two…’

‘I find that I have to go away for a short time; I should prefer to have it all nicely settled before then.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is rather early to dine. If I might call for you at half-past seven? We could have a meal and discuss the small print.’