Saturday's Child. Бетти Нилс

      She hadn’t been in it for more than a minute when there was a knock on the door and the same nurses she had seen at supper took her off to their sitting room to watch TV which, although she was tired, Abigail found rather fun because Paul Temple was on and it was amusing to watch it for a second time and listen to the dubbed voices talking what to her was nonsense. For so the Dutch language seemed to her; she had been unable to make head or tail of it—a few words and phrases, it was true, she had been quick enough to pick up, but for the most part she had had to fall back on basic English and signs, all taken in very good part by the other nurses. It had been a great relief to find that the night nurse spoke English quite well; enough to understand the report and discuss Mrs Morgan’s condition with Abigail, and what was more important, Mrs Morgan seemed disposed to like her.

      After Paul Temple she was carried off once more, this time to one of the nurses’ rooms to drink coffee before finally going to her own room. She slept soundly and got up the next morning feeling happier than she had done for some time; it was on her way down to breakfast that she realised that the uplift to her spirits was largely due to the fact that she would most probably see the professor during the course of the day.

      Her hope was to be gratified; he passed her on the corridor as she made her way to her patient’s room after breakfast. She saw him coming towards her down its length and watched with faint amusement as the scurrying nurses got out of his way. When he drew level with her she wished him a cheerful good morning and in reply received a cold look of dislike and faint surprise, as though he were not in the habit of being wished a good day. Her disappointment was so sharp that she took refuge in ill temper too and muttered out loud as she sped along, ‘Oh, well, be like that!’

      She found her patient in good spirits; she had slept well, the night nurse had understood her and she had understood the night nurse, and the Ryle’s tube had been passed and the test meal almost finished. The night nurse, giving the report to Abigail in the privacy of the nurses’ station further down the corridor, confided in her correct, sparse English that she herself had enjoyed a quiet night and had got a great deal of knitting done. She produced the garment in question—a pullover of vast proportions and of an overpowering canary yellow. They had their heads together over the intricacies of its pattern when the professor said from behind them:

      ‘If I might have the attention of you two ladies—provided you can spare the time?’ he added nastily.

      The Dutch girl whipped round in much the same fashion as a thief caught in the act of robbing a safe, but Abigail, made of sterner stuff and unconscious of wrongdoing, merely folded the pullover tidily and said: ‘Certainly, sir,’ which simple remark seemed to annoy him very much, for he glared at her quite savagely.

      ‘You are both on duty, I take it?’ he asked.

      ‘No, me,’ said Abigail ungrammatically in her pleasant voice. ‘We’ve just discussed the report and Night Nurse is going off duty.’

      ‘When I need to be reminded of the nurses’ routine in hospital, I shall say so, Nurse Trent.’

      She gave him a kindly, thoughtful look, her previous temper quite forgotten. Probably he was one of those unfortunate people who were always ill-tempered in the early morning. She found that she was prepared, more anxious to make excuses for him.

      ‘I didn’t intend to annoy you, sir,’ she pointed out to him reasonably, and was rewarded with a sour look and a compression of his well-shaped mouth.

      ‘The test meal,’ he snapped, ‘when is it complete?’

      She looked at her watch. ‘The last specimen is due to be withdrawn in fifteen minutes’ time, sir.’

      ‘If the patient doesn’t tire of waiting for your return and pull the Ryle’s tube out for herself.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Abigail seriously, ‘she’d never do that—you see, I explained how important it was for her to do exactly as you wish. She has a great opinion of you.’

      Just for a moment she thought that he was going to laugh, but she must have been mistaken, for all he said was, ‘I want Mrs Morgan in theatre at noon precisely for gastroscopy. The anaesthetist will be along to write her up. See that she is ready, Nurse Trent.’

      He turned to the night nurse, who had been silent all this while, and spoke to her with cold courtesy in his own language. She smiled at him uncertainly, looked at Abigail and flew off down the corridor, leaving behind her the strong impression that she was delighted to be free of their company. Abigail picked up the report book and prepared to go too, but was stopped by the professor’s voice, very silky.

      ‘A moment, Nurse Trent. I am interested to know what it was you said in the corridor just now.’

      She wished she could have looked wide-eyed and innocent, or been so pretty that he really wouldn’t want an answer to his question. She would have to tell him, and probably, as he seemed to dislike her so much already, he would say that he wanted another nurse to work for him and she would have to go back to England. Did one get paid in such circumstances? she wondered, and was startled when he asked, ‘What are you thinking about? I assure you it is of no use you inventing some excuse.’

      ‘I’m not inventing anything. What I said was,’ she took a deep breath, ‘”Oh, well, be like that.’”

      ‘That is what I thought you said. May I ask if you are in the habit of addressing the consultants in your own hospital in such a fashion?’

      She considered carefully before she answered him. ‘No, I can’t remember ever doing so before, but then, you see, they always said good morning.’

      She studied his face as she spoke; perhaps she had gone a little too far, but she didn’t like being treated in such a high-handed fashion. He looked very angry indeed—she waited for the outburst she felt sure would come and was surprised when all he said, through a tight mouth, was:

      ‘Young woman, you disturb me excessively,’ and stalked away, leaving Abigail with her eyes opened very wide, and her mouth open too.

      She didn’t see him again until she entered the theatre and she thought it unlikely that he would notice her, disguised as she was in theatre gown of voluminous size and nothing visible of her face, only her nice eyes above the mask.

      The morning’s work had gone exactly to plan. It was precisely noon. Theatre Sister and two nurses were there and of course the anaesthetist—there was to be no general anaesthetic, but Mrs Morgan had had a pre-med and would need a local anaesthetic. He was a nice sort of man, Abigail thought; his English was fluent if a little difficult to understand and he had smiled kindly at her. Mrs Morgan, her hand held in Abigail’s comforting grasp, was dozing in her drug-induced sleep; she had joked a little about it before they went to theatre because she would miss seeing Professor van Wijkelen, and Abigail had consoled her with the prospect of further visits from him, for there were still one or two more tests to carry out, though once the professor had done the gastroscopy and had made up his mind whether he needed to operate or not, there wasn’t much more to be done.

      Abigail arranged the blanket over her patient, turning it down below her shoulders so that it wouldn’t get in the surgeon’s way once he started. Mrs Morgan made a little whimpering sound and opened her eyes, and Abigail said instantly in a soothing voice, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Morgan, the professor is just coming.’

      He was in fact there, standing behind her, talking quietly to Sister. He finished what he was saying and went closer to his patient, ignoring Abigail completely—something she had expected.

      He spoke quietly to his patient. ‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, Mrs Morgan? We are going to spray your throat now and it will feel numb, but you will feel nothing else—a little uncomfortable perhaps, but that is all. It will take only a short time. Your head will be lifted over a pillow now and I am going to ask you to open your mouth when I say so.’

      The small examination went well and Mrs Morgan, whom Abigail had expected to be rather difficult, didn’t seem to mind at all when the professor inserted the gastroscope and peered