At the End of the Day. Бетти Нилс

on the report obediently; Sister Mitchell in her own small way, could be just as unbending, besides everyone knew that she and the professor didn’t like each other.

      ‘Miss Thorpe,’ began the night nurse, ‘Raynaud’s disease…’

      There were twenty-four patients, the report took quite a few minutes before the new admission could be mentioned; Mrs Collins, admitted in a coma of unknown origin at four o’clock. Examined by the medical officer on duty and by the medical registrar. Since she didn’t respond to treatment Professor van der Wagema was called, who diagnosed a suspected cerebral embolism. ‘Nothing’s back from the Path Lab yet.’ She added nursing details and Sister Mitchell asked: ‘Relatives? Anyone come in with her, Nurse?’

      ‘No, Sister. She lives in a room in Belsize Street and works in a factory in Limehouse; she didn’t go to work and someone went round to see why not. No one seemed to know anything about her, so they got a policeman to open the door and found her on the floor.’

      Sister Mitchell nodded slowly. ‘Poor soul, let’s hope someone turns up. The police have the details?’ Her generous mouth curved in a smile. ‘Thanks, Nurse, off with you both then. You’re both on together tonight? Who’s with Mrs Collins, Pat?’

      ‘Nurse Wells, Sister, the other three are clearing breakfast and starting on the BP round.’

      ‘Then let’s go and take a look.’

      Sister didn’t hurry down the ward; she never appeared to do so, but she always managed to be where she was wanted. She went calmly, wishing any of the patients that caught her eye a good morning, and slid behind the cubicle curtains. She wished Nurse Wells a pleasant good morning, asked a handful of pertinent questions and bent to look at Mrs Collins, a lady of middle years and extremely stout. She was still deeply unconscious and after a minute Sister turned away. ‘Let me know if you see anything, Nurse,’ she warned and went back to her office; the morning’s work would go on as usual; the student nurses would have to come to the office while she read the report to them and Pat kept an eye on the ward, she would have to get on to the Path Lab and get the results of the blood sugar and blood urea tests; it was far too soon to get the lumbar puncture results. There was the post too and her morning round…

      The student nurses filed in, and she spent ten minutes going over the report with them and then allotting ward duties. That done, she was free to go back into the ward, armed with the day’s letters and start the routine she never varied. The patients counted on her slow progress from bed to bed, it gave them a chance to air their grievances, complain about sleepless nights, ask questions about their condition and enlist her help over knotty problems they couldn’t solve from their beds. She came to the last bed; Mrs Winter, a diabetic who had never quite grasped what was wrong with her and therefore spent a good deal of time in hospital being stabilised. ‘I bin awake since four o’clock, Sister,’ she said, avid for news of the new patient. ‘Proper poorly, isn’t she? All them doctors and nurses and the professor here, without his breakfast, I dare say, poor man.’

      Julia Mitchell looked surprised. She had never thought of the professor in that light and certainly she had never pitied him, although now that she came to think about it, she was sorry for him although she wasn’t sure why.

      She said now in a soothing voice: ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Mrs Winter, I expect he’s got a wife to look after him.’ A poor down-trodden creature, probably, never saying boo to a goose let alone to the professor. ‘Did you eat all your breakfast, Mrs Winter?’

      ‘The ‘am, Sister dear, but I couldn’t stomach the bread…’

      ‘Did you eat none of it, Mrs Winter?’ Julia asked calmly; whichever nurse had seen to the diabetic breakfasts would have to be spoken to.

      ‘No, ducks.’

      ‘Then I’m going to bring you two cream crackers and you’re going to eat every crumb. Will you do that?’

      ‘Anything to please yer, love,’ said Mrs Winter obligingly.

      Julia went to the kitchen, found the crackers, put two on a plate and bore them to the ward. She hadn’t quite reached it when she heard the swing doors open and close behind her and turned her head to see who it was. Professor van der Wagema, unsmiling as usual—perhaps he hadn’t had his breakfast after all; she had no idea where he lived, but even if it had been next door to St Anne’s which she very much doubted, he wouldn’t have had time. She waved the plate of biscuits at him. ‘I’ll be right back, sir, Mrs Winter must have these now—she didn’t eat her bread.’

      She disappeared through the ward door and when she returned found him standing in the middle of the landing, still frowning.

      ‘Mrs Collins is still unconscious, I’ve just had a quick look. The Path Lab are sending up the results within the next half hour. Do you want Doctor Reed?’

      Doctor Reed was the registrar; a nice quiet little man who loved his work. He had a very large wife and any number of small children. The fact reminded her that she was feeling sorry for the professor.

      ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she offered, and she added persuasively, ‘and a biscuit?’

      ‘You are thinking “Feed the brute”,’ said the professor, surprisingly.

      ‘No—no, of course not. Only night nurse said you were here early this morning and you can’t have had much time for breakfast.’

      He looked down his domineering nose at her. ‘I can see no reason for you to concern yourself about my meals, Sister Mitchell. If it is convenient to you, I should like to see Mrs Collins.’

      She didn’t feel sorry for him any more. With her head high, she swept down the ward. Never again, she promised herself silently, would she offer him refreshment of any sort; of course the obligatory cup of coffee after his twice weekly rounds would have to be given to him, but that hardly counted. She slipped behind the curtains, nodded to Nurse Wells to go, and took up her position on the other side of the bed from the professor.

      He bent over his patient, examining her with great care and presently Doctor Reed joined him. ‘Difficult to determine hemiplegia,’ muttered the professor, ‘but I’m pretty certain it’s a cerebral thrombosis.’ He straightened up and glanced at Sister Mitchell. ‘Have you any news of Mrs Collins’ family or friends, Sister?’

      ‘None,’ said Julia, ‘I’ve ‘phoned the police and they’ve drawn a blank so far.’

      ‘We must hope that they will have success before very long, it would be of considerable help to us. Now, as to treatment…’ The professor never hummed and haa’d, he knew what he wanted done and made his wishes known concisely; what was more, he didn’t like having to repeat his instructions, something Julia had discovered more than three years ago when she had taken over the ward. She had a good memory and was familiar with his ways; she listened carefully, said ‘Very well, sir,’ in the colourless voice she used on his ward rounds, and followed the two men out of the cubicle, beckoning to Nurse Wells to return as she did so.

      She accompanied them, as custom dictated, to the ward doors and once through them wished the professor a brisk good morning, to be rewarded by a dark stare. ‘I should be glad of a cup of coffee, Sister.’

      Julia gave him a limpid look. ‘Why, of course, professor,’ she spoke in the tones of a much-tried hostess, ‘do go into the office and I’ll see about it.’ She looked at Dr Reed and said warmly, ‘You too, Dick?’

      He grinned at her and nodded and she sailed across the landing to the kitchen. Old Meg was there, brooding over the mid-morning drinks trolley. She had been at the hospital for almost all of her life and refused to move with the times; trade unions, strikes, who did what and when, had made no impression on her; she still considered herself an old-fashioned ward maid and took no notice of anyone who tried to get her to think otherwise. She looked up now and gave Julia a reluctant smile. ‘Sister there ain’t no cocoa—I’d like to know where it goes at night, that I would! Want yer coffee?’

      ‘Not