Roses for Christmas. Бетти Нилс

took up her position now at the side of Miss Tremble’s bed and prepared to listen to its occupant’s long list of complaints; she had heard them many times before, and would most likely hear them many more times in the future. She put on her listening face and thought about Fulk, wondering where he was and why he had come to Edinburgh. She would have liked to have asked him, only she had hesitated; he had a nasty caustic tongue, she remembered it vividly when he had stayed with them all those years ago, and she had no doubt that he still possessed it. She could only guess—he could of course be visiting friends, or perhaps he had come over to consult with a colleague; he might even have a patient… She frowned and Miss Tremble said irritably: ‘I’m glad to see that you are annoyed, Sister—it is disgraceful that I had to have Bovril on two successive evenings when my appetite needs tempting.’

      Eleanor made a soothing reply, extolled the virtues of the despised beverage, assured Miss Tremble that something different would be offered her for her supper that evening, and moved on to the next bed, but even when she had completed her round and was back in her office, immersed in forms, charts and the answering of the constantly ringing telephone she was still wondering about Fulk.

      But presently she gave herself a mental shake; she would never know anyway. Thinking about him was a complete waste of time, especially with Sir Arthur due to do his round at ten o’clock. She pushed the papers to one side with a touch of impatience; they would have to wait until she had checked the ward and made sure that everything was exactly as it should be for one of the major events in the ward’s week.

      She ran the ward well; the patients were ready with five minutes to spare and the nurses were going, two by two, to their coffee break. Eleanor, longing for a cup herself, but having to wait for it until Sir Arthur should be finished, was in the ward, with the faithful Jill beside her and Mrs MacDonnell, the part-time staff nurse, hovering discreetly with a student nurse close by to fetch and carry. She knew Sir Arthur’s ways well by now; he would walk into the ward at ten o’clock precisely with his registrar, his house doctor and such students as had the honour of accompanying him that morning. Eleanor, with brothers of her own, felt a sisterly concern for the shy ones, whose wits invariably deserted them the moment they entered the ward, and she had formed the habit of stationing herself where she might prompt those rendered dumb by apprehension when their chief chose to fire a question at them. She had become something of an expert at mouthing clues helpful enough to start the hapless recipient of Sir Arthur’s attention on the path of a right answer. Perhaps one day she would be caught red-handed, but in the meantime she continued to pass on vital snippets to any number of grateful young gentlemen.

      The clock across the square had begun its sonorous rendering of the hour when the ward doors swung open just as usual and the senior Medical Consultant, his posse of attendants hard on his heels, came in—only it wasn’t quite as usual; Fulk van Hensum was walking beside him, not the Fulk of the last day or so, going fishing with Henry in an outsize sweater and rubber boots, or playing Canasta with the family after supper or goodnaturedly helping Margaret with her decimals. This was a side of him which she hadn’t seen before; he looked older for a start, and if anything, handsomer in a distinguished way, and his face wore the expression she had seen so often on a doctor’s face; calm and kind and totally unflappable—and a little remote. He was also impeccably turned out, his grey suit tailored to perfection, his tie an elegant under-statement. She advanced to meet them, very composed, acknowledging Sir Arthur’s stately greeting with just the right degree of warmth and turning a frosty eye on Fulk, who met it blandly with the faintest of smiles and an equally bland: ‘Good morning, Eleanor, how nice to be able to surprise you twice in only a few days.’

      She looked down her nose at him. ‘Good morning, Doctor van Hensum,’ she greeted him repressively, and didn’t smile. He might have told her; there had been no reason at all why he shouldn’t have done so. She almost choked when he went on coolly: ‘Yes, I could have told you, couldn’t I? But you never asked me.’

      Sir Arthur glanced at Eleanor. ‘Know each other, do you?’ he wanted to know genially.

      Before she could answer, Fulk observed pleasantly: ‘Oh, yes—for many years. Eleanor was almost five when we first met.’ He had the gall to smile at her in what she considered to be a patronising manner.

      ‘Five, eh?’ chuckled Sir Arthur. ‘Well, you’ve grown since then, Sister.’ The chuckle became a laugh at his little joke and she managed to smile too, but with an effort for Fulk said: ‘She had a quantity of long hair and she was very plump.’ He stared at her and she frowned fiercely. ‘Little girls are rather sweet,’ his voice was silky, ‘but they tend to change as they grow up.’

      She all but ground her teeth at him; it was a relief when Sir Arthur said cheerfully: ‘Well, well, I suppose we should get started, Sister. Doctor van Hensum is particularly interested in that case of agranulocytosis— Mrs Lee, isn’t it? She experienced the first symptoms while she was on holiday in Holland and came under his care. Most fortunately for her, he diagnosed it at once—a difficult thing to do.’ His eye swept round the little group of students, who looked suitably impressed.

      ‘Not so very difficult in this case, if I might say so,’ interpolated Fulk quietly. ‘There was the typical sore throat and oedema, and the patient answered my questions with great intelligence…’

      ‘But no doubt the questions were intelligent,’ remarked Sir Arthur dryly, and the students murmured their admiration, half of them not having the least idea what their superiors were talking about, anyway.

      They were moving towards the first bed now, and Eleanor, casting a quick look at Fulk, saw that he had become the consultant again; indeed, as the round progressed, his manner towards her was faultless; politely friendly, faintly impersonal—they could have just met for the first time. It vexed her to find that this annoyed her more than his half-teasing attitude towards her when he had entered the ward. He was a tiresome man, she decided, leading the way to Mrs Lee’s bed.

      That lady was making good progress now that she was responding to the massive doses of penicillin, and although her temperature was still high and she remained lethargic, she was certainly on the mend. Sir Arthur held forth at some length, occasionally pausing to verify some point with the Dutch doctor and then firing questions at random at whichever unfortunate student happened to catch his eye. Most of them did very well, but one or two of them were tongue-tied by the occasion. Eleanor, unobtrusively helping out one such, and standing slightly behind Sir Arthur, had just finished miming the bare bones of the required information when she realized that Fulk had moved and was standing where he could watch her. She threw him a frowning glance which he appeared not to see, for the smile he gave her was so charming that she only just prevented herself from smiling back at him.

      Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all, she conceded, only to have this opinion reversed when, the round over, she was bidding Sir Arthur and his party goodbye at the ward door, for when she bade Fulk goodbye too, he said at once: ‘You’ll lunch with me, Eleanor,’ and it wasn’t even a question, let alone a request, delivered in a silky voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

      ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ she began coldly, and Sir Arthur, quite mistaking her hesitation, interrupted her to say heartily: ‘Nonsense, of course you can go, Sister—I’ve seen you dozens of times at the Blue Bird Café’—an establishment much favoured by the hospital staff because it was only just down the road and they were allowed to go there in uniform— ‘Why, only a couple of weeks ago you were having a meal there with young Maddox, although how he managed that when he was on call for the Accident Room I cannot imagine.’

      He turned his attention to Fulk. ‘The Blue Bird isn’t exactly Cordon Bleu, but they do a nice plate of fish and chips, and there is the great advantage of being served quickly.’ He looked at Eleanor once more. ‘You intended going to your dinner, I suppose? When do you go?’

      She didn’t want to answer, but she had to say something. ‘One o’clock,’ she told him woodenly and heard his pleased: ‘Excellent—what could be better? Van Hensum, we shall have time to talk over that case we were discussing.’ He beamed in a fatherly fashion at Eleanor, fuming silently, and led the way down the corridor with all the