Enchanting Samantha. Бетти Нилс

furnished, it was true, but they had three bedrooms between them as well as a sitting room, a minute kitchen and a bathroom with what Mr Cockburn optimistically and erroneously called ‘constant ‘ot’.

      She went along to the small room she had to herself because she was on night duty and flung off her coat and gloves. The other three were on duty until five o’clock that afternoon, which meant she would be able to sleep undisturbed all day if she wished. She donned the communal apron hanging behind the kitchen door, switched on the radio and began to tidy the flat, whistling cheerfully in time with the music while she got out the carpet sweeper and found a duster. They were fair about sharing the chores of their little home; whoever was on night duty tidied up in the morning, washed the breakfast things and laid the table for supper, and whoever was off duty during the day prepared the evening meal and did the ironing. The shopping they shared.

      Today the other three could share the chores between them. Samantha, having done her quota, undressed and wandered along to the bathroom, where she found, most satisfyingly, enough hot water to fill the bath almost full. She lay in it, almost asleep, wondering about the stranger who had visited the old lady that morning. A sudden memory of his large, firm hands on her waist as he had shifted her out of his path disturbed her so much that she got out of the bath long before the water had cooled and set about getting to bed in the shortest space of time. She was really very tired, she told herself, refusing to admit that she found her thoughts of the man disquieting. ‘Probably because I dislike him so much,’ she mumbled as she pulled the blankets over her head and allowed sleep to take over.

      She was awakened by Sue Blane bearing a mug of tea and the news that supper would be ready in half an hour, and although her first involuntary thought was of the man who had come to the ward that morning, she swept it aside impatiently, gulped down her tea, dressed, pinned up her hair, added a modicum of make-up because it was a waste on night duty, anyway, and joined her fellow tenants round the supper table. Sue worked on Women’s Medical, the other two, Joan and Pam, slaved away their lives, as they informed everyone, in the Children’s Unit under a martinet of a Sister who had the manner and visage of an updated Miss Betsy Trotwood, only instead of disliking donkeys, she disliked young nurses. Samantha ate her stew and laughed at her friends’ latest backslidings, and forgot all about her early morning visitor.

      And there was no time to think of anything else but work when she reached the ward—there were the operation cases to settle after she had taken the report from Sister, they needed comforting and reassurance and lifting gently into the right position in which to sleep, and calm brief explanations—already given several times during the day—as to why they weren’t quite themselves. It was amazing, Samantha thought, as she explained a drip to a peevish elderly lady who had taken exception to it, how dreamlike life appeared to the various ladies who had visited the operating theatre that day; a merciful state of affairs which she took care to prolong with the almost unnoticed jab in each patient’s arm as they were settled for the night, so that they relaxed and slept.

      Juffrouw Klara Boot needed a good deal of attention too, although her hands were doing as well as could be expected. Samantha irrigated them, made her as comfortable as possible and while Brown gave the old lady a drink, went away to prepare an injection for her too, for her kind eyes had noticed the drawn look on her patient’s face, although it had lighted up with a cheerful smile when Samantha expressed admiration for the flowers on the bedtable and the pretty shawl round Juffrouw Boot’s shoulders.

      It was a pity that neither could understand what the other was saying, a fact which didn’t stop Samantha chatting away as she worked, for surely the dear soul would feel less lonely if someone talked to her, even in a foreign tongue. She popped in her needle and shot the contents of the syringe expertly into Juffrouw Boot’s arm, patted her shoulder in a motherly fashion, and slid away to help Brown with old Mrs Stone, who was deaf, ninety and not surprisingly, crotchety to boot, and all the while she was helping her companion to settle Mrs Stone, she was remembering the way Sister Grieves had bridled with pleasure as she recounted how Juffrouw Boot’s visitor had been to see her—that he hadn’t been rude to her was very apparent from her smiles—on the contrary, if Sister’s expression was to be believed. Samantha, who had almost burst with curiosity, had managed not to ask any questions about him, and Sister, while full of his charm, told her nothing which she didn’t already know—and that was very little.

      She had been to her own midnight meal and Brown had only been gone to hers for ten minutes or so when she sat down at Sister’s desk and pulled the Drugs Book towards her and began to make her neat entries, her ordinary little face absorbed. She was disturbed almost immediately, however, by the opening of the ward door to admit Sir Joshua White, accompanied by her early morning visitor of the day before. Both gentlemen were in the full glory of white tie and tails and Samantha, getting to her feet, eyed them uncertainly. They had been to some function or other, she had no doubt, but what wind of fortune had brought them to the ward at this time of night? and why was this man with the senior consultant surgeon of Clement’s? There was nothing amiss with Juffrouw Boot—the obvious common denominator with both men—for Jack Mitchell, the Registrar, had told her so when he had done his late evening round. And this wretched man was staring at her now with a look of amusement on his face which annoyed her out of all proportion to the circumstances.

      Sir Joshua had reached her by now, nodded a cheerful greeting and said, his usually booming voice suitable muffled out of deference to the snores around them: ‘Juffrouw Boot—is she asleep, Staff Nurse?’

      ‘I hope so, sir.’ Samantha’s voice was polite, but her look dared him to wake the poor old thing.

      He ignored the look. ‘We’ll be very quiet,’ he promised her, and when she looked enquiringly at his companion: ‘Ah, yes—this is Doctor ter Ossel. Our patient is his housekeeper.’

      So that solved that little mystery. She gave the Dutch doctor a cold glance, said ‘How do you do?’ just as though they hadn’t already met, and led the way up the ward to the patient’s bed. Its occupant was asleep. At a sign from Sir Joshua, Samantha shone her torch on the envelopes enshrouding the burnt hands and the two men bent to examine them, and because she hadn’t got the torch’s beam exactly where he wanted it, Doctor ter Ossel put out a large hand to correct it. There was really no need for him to keep his firm grip over her own hand and it disturbed her very much that she should find such pleasure at his touch.

      Presently they all went back down the ward once more, to Sister’s desk, where Sir Joshua silently put out a hand for Juffrouw Boot’s chart. Samantha waited patiently while the two men muttered and murmured together, until at last the older man wrote his fresh instructions and handed them back to her. They didn’t stay after that; Sir Joshua wished her a civil good night and Doctor ter Ossel offered her a mocking one. She watched their disappearing backs—the Dutchman’s so very broad—as they crossed the landing to the stairs, and decided that she disliked him very much.

      The night was busy; Samantha escaped to breakfast thankfully, gobbled it in company with such of her friends as shared her table and set off for the flat. One more night’s duty and she would be free for four days, the delightful thought quickened her steps and made her hazel eyes shine—even a note left by her flatmates asking her to do the shopping before she went to bed couldn’t sour her pleasure.

      She skipped round the flat, tidying up before rather perfunctorily doing something to her washed-out face. It was raining, a faint drizzle—she could wear her raincoat with its hood up and not bother with her hair. She brushed it out rather carelessly, tied it back and bundled it away anyhow, then caught up the shopping basket, raided the housekeeping kitty on the mantelpiece, snatched up the shopping list thoughtfully made out for her and dashed down the three flights of stairs and through the house door, waving automatically to Mr Cockburn, whose face she could see, peering sideways through his window.

      There wasn’t much shopping to do, as a matter of fact; bread, a cauliflower to make a cauliflower cheese for their suppers, four tubs of yoghourt to follow it, some tea and butter and more biscuits because they were quite cheap and filled one up, and a tin of milk in case an unexpected visitor should call for coffee. Having purchased these mundane articles she paused for a long moment outside a flower shop and looked longingly at