Uncertain Summer. Betty Neels

from the head wound visible through his blond hair. Serena took his pulse and pupil reaction and told the more senior of the two nurses to start cleaning the wound.

      ‘His leg,’ breathed Harris importantly, ‘it’s broken.’

      Serena drew back the blanket covering the young man and saw the splints the ambulance men had put on. As she did so she asked:

      ‘Did Sister Hipkins tell you to ring anyone?’

      ‘No, Sister.’

      ‘Then ring Mr Thompson’—he was the RSO—‘ask him to come down here, please, and tell him it’s an RTA. Head wound, probable fracture of left leg—badly shocked, unconscious.’ And when Harris didn’t move, she added with a patience she didn’t feel, ‘Will you hurry, Nurse, and then come back to me here.’

      She was cutting the outside seam of the torn trousers covering the injured leg by the time Harris got back. She was doing it very carefully because if it was properly done, the trousers could be repaired. Experience had taught her that not everyone had the money to buy new trousers, although this man looked prosperous enough; she had noted the gold wrist watch and cuff links, the silk shirt and the fine tweed of his suit, and his shoes were expensive.

      ‘Make out an X-ray form, Nurse,’ she told Harris, ‘and one for the Path Lab too—I daresay they’ll want to do a crossmatch. What about relatives?’

      Harris looked blank, and Serena, holding back impatience, asked:

      ‘His address—you’ve got that? Was he conscious when they got to him?’

      ‘Yes, Sister. But Sister Hipkins said we weren’t to disturb him when he was brought in, and the ambulance men didn’t know, because he was only conscious for a few minutes when they reached him.’

      Serena counted silently to ten, because when she was a little girl, her father had taught her to do that, so that her temper, which was, and still was, hot at times, could cool. It was a silly childish trick, but it worked. She said with no trace of ill-humour: ‘Go and make sure the trolleys are ready, Nurse, will you? Then bring in the stitch trolley.’

      Later, she promised herself, she would go and see the Number Seven, Miss Stokes, and see if something could be done to get Harris off the department. Her eyes flickered to the clock. Two part-time staff nurses would be on at nine o’clock, and thank heaven for them, she thought fervently. She had the splint off now with the most junior of the nurses helping her, and turned to wish Mr Thompson a friendly good morning as he came in.

      He was a thin young man with a permanently worried expression on his pleasant face, but he was good at his job. ‘I thought you might want to take a look at this head before the orthopaedic man gets here,’ explained Serena. ‘Sorry to get you down so early, Tom.’

      He smiled nicely at her and set to work to examine the patient. ‘Nice-looking bloke,’ he commented as he explored the scalp wound. ‘Do we know who he is?’

      ‘Not yet…’

      ‘Unconscious when they found him?’

      ‘No—not all the time, and he was conscious for a very short time when he got here.’

      He gave her an understanding look. ‘Hippy on last night?’

      Serena nodded. ‘I’ll go through his pockets as soon as you’ve been over him.’

      ‘Um,’ agreed Mr Thompson. ‘Where’s this leg?’

      She whisked back the blanket and pointed with a deceptively useless-looking little hand. There was a discoloured bump just above the ankle and a sizeable bruise. ‘Pott’s,’ she said succinctly. ‘Now you’re here I’ll get this shoe off.’

      Mr Thompson obligingly held the leg steady while she eased it off and after he had taken a closer look said: ‘You’re right— X-ray, and we’d better see to that head too. I’ll do it now, shall I? It only needs a couple of stitches, so if everything’s ready I’ll get down to it, then Orthopaedics can take over when he’s been X-rayed.’

      Serena waved a hand at the small trolley Harris had wheeled in. ‘Help yourself. Do you want a local? He might come to.’

      She looked down at the man on the examination table and encountered bright blue eyes staring at her. He smiled as he spoke, but she was unable to understand a word. She smiled back at him and said to no one in particular: ‘Foreign—I wonder what he said?’

      Her query was answered by the patient. ‘I will translate. I said: “What a beautiful little gipsy girl.’” His English was almost without accent. He smiled again and watched admiringly while Serena’s dark beauty became even more striking by reason of the colour which crept slowly over her cheeks. It was Mr Thompson’s chuckle, turned too late into a cough, which prompted her to say coolly, despite her discomfiture: ‘We should like your name and address, please, so that we can let your family know. Could you manage to tell us?’

      He closed his eyes and for a moment she thought he had drifted off into unconsciousness again, but he opened them again.

      ‘Van Amstel, Zierikzee, Holland,’ he said. ‘Anyone will know…’ He turned his eyes on Mr Thompson. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘I’m a doctor, so presumably I may be told.’

      Mr Thompson told him. ‘I’m going to stitch that scalp wound,’ he went on, ‘then you’ll have an X-ray. We’ll have to see about the leg too.’

      ‘I must stay here?’

      ‘I’m afraid so—for the moment at least.’

      The young man looked at Serena again. ‘I find nothing to be afraid of myself,’ he said. ‘On the contrary.’ He stared at Serena, who returned his look with a bright professional smile which successfully hid her interest; he really was remarkably good-looking, and although she was a kind-hearted girl, and felt genuine sympathy for the patients who passed through her capable hands on their way to hospital beds, just for once she found herself feeling pleased that Doctor van Amstel should be forced to stay in hospital. She reflected with satisfaction that she was on excellent terms with the Surgical Floor Sister; she would be able to find out more about him. Her hands, as busy as her thoughts, passed Mr Thompson the local anaesthetic, all ready drawn up as she told one of the nurses to get the porters. ‘X-ray, Nurse, and please go with the patient. He’ll be coming back here to see the Orthopaedic side afterwards.’

      She was spraying the wound with nebecutane when the patient spoke again. ‘Sister, will you telephone my cousin? Ask for Zierikzee—the exchange will know—it’s a small place, there’ll be no difficulty.’

      ‘Has your cousin the same name?’

      ‘Yes, he’s a doctor too.’

      Serena nodded. ‘Very well, I’ll do it while you’re in X-ray. Am I to say anything special?’

      He frowned a little. ‘No—just tell him.’ He closed his eyes again and as he was wheeled away Mr Thompson said: ‘Nasty crack on the head. Was it his fault?’

      Serena led the way to her office and found the note the ambulance men had thoughtfully left for her. She found a policeman too, who wanted to see the patient and take a statement. She left Mr Thompson to talk to him while she got the exchange. She was connected with Zierikzee very quickly, and it was only when someone said Hullo that she realized that she didn’t know if the cousin understood English. Obedient to her patient’s instructions, however, she asked for Doctor van Amstel’s house, adding that it was urgent. Apparently the operator understood her, for after a few moments a deep voice said in her ear: ‘Doctor van Amstel.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Serena foolishly, because she hadn’t expected it to be as easy as all that. ‘I’m telephoning from London.’ She added in a little rush, ‘You understand English?’

      ‘I get by,’ the voice assured her.

      ‘Well, we have a Doctor van Amstel in our hospital— Queen’s.