Sister Peters in Amsterdam. Бетти Нилс

nurses grouped around the desk, laughing and talking with the doctors.

      The professor looked up as she came in. ‘Good, now we can begin,’ he cried, and pushed a pile of gaily coloured parcels in front of the youngest nurse. ‘You first, Nurse Eisink.’

      They all watched as she undid each parcel and admired the contents in turn. Zuster Steensma followed, her homely face alight with pleasure, and then Zuster Wilsma, and lastly Adelaide. As she unwrapped the first package she asked:

      ‘But how can I thank the givers if I don’t know who they are?’

      Dr Beekman laughed. ‘That’s the whole idea, Sister. You mustn’t know. Remember St Nicolaas gave them to you, and thank him.’

      She did this, piling up the pretty trifles in front of her. The last two parcels were elegantly wrapped and tied with ribbons. She opened the flat box first, and gazed with delight at the fur-lined suede gloves inside.

      ‘They’re beautiful!’ she exclaimed, and tried them on. They fitted perfectly. She looked around at the faces of the others watching her; it was impossible to tell from their expressions which of them had given her the gloves. ‘Thank you, St Nicolaas,’ she said, and added, ‘I can’t think who they are from.’

      She opened the last parcel. It was quite small, and she almost dropped it when she saw what it was, wondering who could possibly afford to give her Madame Rochas perfume. Perhaps all the staff had put together. She took a blissful sniff, and thanked the Saint with a fervour which left her audience in no doubt as to her delight.

      The two men opened their parcels together amidst a good deal of laughing and joking from the nurses, and by the time they had finished it was almost seven o’clock. The doctors got ready to leave, Dr Beekman reminding Zuster Wilsma, who was on duty until the night staff came on, that he was on call. No sooner had they gone than Adelaide sent the two junior nurses off duty. They lived in Amsterdam, and were looking forward to an evening at home with their families, and more presents. Zuster Wilsma rammed the last of the paper and string into the wastepaper basket; she looked forlorn. Adelaide remembered that she lived in Amsterdam too.

      ‘You live in Amsterdam, don’t you, Staff Nurse? You go home too. I’ve nothing to do for the rest of the evening.’ Her Dutch was clumsy, but Zuster Wilsma understood her and grinned with delight. She shook hands with Adelaide and tore off as fast as she could go. It seemed very quiet when she had gone. Adelaide sat down and looked at her presents again, wondering who had given them.

      It was almost eight o’clock when she heard the ambulance bell. She went quickly to Casualty, switching on the powerful light over the couch and opening the door for the ambulance men. The blue flasher shone on the man hurrying towards her with a blanketed bundle in his arms. He laid his burden gently on the couch and took the blanket away. The little girl looked about two years old; she was unconscious, her little face the colour of skimmed milk. Even as Adelaide reached for the oxygen mask the blue tinge deepened, and the harsh breathing became more agonisingly difficult. Adelaide pushed an airway gently between the tiny teeth and slipped the catheter attached to the sucker down it. She switched on the motor, which made a reassuring purr. While she had been working, she had been aware of the mother standing close by. Now, with the essentials done, she turned to her. ‘Bronchitis?’ she asked. The woman nodded.

      Adelaide beckoned to the ambulance man, glad he was one she had met several times before.

      ‘You’ll stay?’ She pointed to the sucker and oxygen mask. He nodded and she went quickly to the phone on the desk and asked for Dr Beekman urgently. When she heard the voice on the other end of the line, she said in her quiet efficient voice:

      ‘Dr Beekman? There’s a small girl just in—bronchitis and laryngeal stridor. She’s unconscious and her respirations are very difficult. Will you come, please?’ The voice said ‘Yes’ as she put down the phone and went back to the child, who looked worse. She cleared the sucker, put it carefully down the little throat again and gave it to the man to hold again, then sat about laying up a trolley. The tracheotomy instruments were always kept ready; there wasn’t much for her to do. She drew up a local anaesthetic into a syringe and was putting a sandbag under the small shoulders when she heard a car draw up outside. The ambulance man glanced at her—he wanted to be on his way; she thanked him as he hurried away, and said over her shoulder:

      ‘The doctor is here. Everything’s all right,’ and smiled reassuringly at the mother, sitting quietly in a corner. She turned back to the child, who gave a strangled breath as the professor came in.

      He dropped his coat on the floor and stood for a moment looking at the small convulsed face, his fingers on the flaccid wrist.

      Adelaide went to the head of the couch and steadied the child’s head between her hands.

      ‘Everything’s ready,’ she said quietly. ‘The local is on the lower shelf.’

      The child hadn’t drawn another breath. The professor didn’t stop to scrub, but quickly injected the local anaesthetic, picked up a scalpel, and made a cut—quite a small one—in the little throat, securing it with a small hook. He spoke softly to the mother—Adelaide thought it sounded comforting, although she couldn’t understand what he had said—and the woman murmured a reply. He slit the trachea neatly, holding it open with the knife handle while he inserted the dilators. He mopped unhurriedly, and slipped in the tube with an unerring hand. He waited a moment, pushed the inner tube in and tied it securely. The operation had only taken a minute or two. They stood watching while a faint pink colour slowly started to blot out the blueness. The little girl’s breath rasped in and out of the tube, but it was regular again. The professor dabbed at a tiny spot of blood on his cuff.

      ‘Close call,’ he observed. Adelaide’s brown eyes smiled at him over her mask, and he smiled back. ‘Nice work, Sister.’

      He went to the phone and asked Zuster Zijlstra to come to Casualty as soon as she could. A moment later she came in quietly. She was a tall girl, with merry blue eyes; she and Adelaide got on well together. She winked at her now, and asked ‘Busy?’

      Adelaide, doing neat things with gauze and strapping, smiled.

      ‘No, but you will be!’

      The professor, who had been talking to the mother, turned round.

      ‘Ah, my good Zuster Zijlstra, I want a cot, and oxygen tent, and a nurse to special this child. Will you fix them up for me, please?’

      Zuster Zijlstra tossed her head. ‘You always want something,’ she complained. ‘I’ll do it at once, sir,’ and disappeared again.

      The professor walked over to the couch.

      ‘I expect you’ve got some writing to do. I’ll stay here.’

      He stood by the patient, listening to Adelaide asking the mother the routine questions which had to be asked before the child could be admitted. She managed rather well, using a minimum of words and being very wary of the grammar. Her pronunciation was peculiar at times, but on the whole he thought that she must have worked quite hard during the month she had been in Holland.

      Zuster Zijlstra came back. She scooped up the small figure on the couch very carefully and went to the door, which the professor held open for her.

      ‘I’ll come with you. I’d better write up some sedation and antibiotics for her.’

      Adelaide finished what she was doing and showed the mother how to get to the ward, then began to clear up; there wasn’t a great deal for her to do. She made up a fresh tracheotomy pack and put it in the autoclave, then stripped the linen off the couch and made it up anew. She was washing her hands at the sink when the professor returned.

      ‘The child’s fine. Zuster Zijlstra’s a wonderful nurse.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Staff Nurse?’

      Adelaide dried her hands carefully. ‘At home. She lives in Amsterdam.’

      ‘You took over her duty.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

      ‘Yes,