Wish with the Candles. Betty Neels

about…’ She was stopped by a concerted howl from her companions.

      ‘Cut it out, Emma,’ one of them begged. ‘Who cares about his theories? Is he married—engaged? What’s his voice like? Does he speak with an accent? Is he…?’

      Emma peered at the potatoes; being late, there wasn’t much choice. ‘Cold,’ she pronounced, ‘and hard,’ and seeing the astonishment on her friends’ faces, hastened to add, ‘The potatoes, and it’s no good asking me. I don’t know a thing about him, I really don’t. He’s got green eyes,’ she offered as an afterthought, ‘and a deep voice.’

      ‘Dark brown velvet or gravelly?’ someone wanted to know.

      ‘A bit of both,’ said Emma, having thought about it, ‘and he’s got almost no accent.’

      She applied herself to her dinner amid cries of discontent from her table companions. ‘Well, don’t carry on so,’ she advised kindly. ‘He’ll be going to the wards to see his cases, won’t he?’

      She looked at Madge, who brightened visibly and asked, ‘What’s he got this afternoon—something for ICU, I suppose.’ She looked round the table. ‘Margaret isn’t here—she’ll get it.’

      ‘There’s a lobectomy at half past two; he’ll be using his new technique, so there’ll be an audience in the gallery and the patient will go to Margaret—she’s got the others. Why don’t you go up and see her? You might be able to meet him, he’s sure to be in and out of there for the next few hours after theatre’s finished.’

      Several pairs of suspicious eyes were turned upon her. ‘You’re very casual, Emma. If I were you I’d keep him to myself,’ remarked Casualty Sister, a striking girl with corn-coloured hair and enormous eyes.

      Emma helped herself to treacle tart and gave the speaker a considering look. ‘If I were you, Sybil,’ she said reasonably, ‘I jolly well would.’

      The afternoon’s work went perfectly, probably because neither Sister Cox nor Jessop were there. The professor worked smoothly, his quiet voice detailing every stage of the operation he was performing to the audience in the screened-off gallery. When he had finished he thanked Emma nicely and left, closely followed by Little Willy and Peter Moore. Little Willy came back after ten minutes or so and asked Emma if she had made up her mind about going to the cinema. It was, he pointed out, a rather super film and if she could get away in time… And Emma, who, for some reason she didn’t care to name felt restless, agreed to make the effort. Two hours later, as they were leaving the hospital by its main entrance, they passed the professor coming in. His ‘good evening’ was casual, but his green eyes rested thoughtfully for several moments upon Emma.

      The next day he wasn’t operating at all; Mr Soames did a short list and then an emergency on a stoved-in chest. The professor, Emma was informed at dinner, had spent most of the morning in ICU getting to know the nurses…a most unfair state of things, someone remarked, for Margaret, who was in charge, was happily married. Madge had had a visit from him too, which had caused her to go all dreamy-eyed and thoughtful.

      ‘He turns me on,’ she sighed. ‘I know he’s quite old, but he’s got such a way of looking at you.’ She added complacently, ‘I think he likes me. Is he nice to you, Emma?’

      ‘He’s very pleasant to work for,’ said Emma sedately, ‘but he can be quite stern—Mad Minnie didn’t stand a chance with him; a good thing she’s going off to Sick Bay tomorrow. By the time she gets back he’ll be gone.’

      She suffered a pang as she spoke which was almost physical.

      Kitty was waiting for her when she came off duty that evening, sitting on the bed reading the latest book on theatre technique which Emma had just bought herself. She got up to embrace her sister, observing:

      ‘Darling, what a conscientious girl you are—this is only just out.’

      Emma cast her cap on to the bed and started to take the pins out of her neat topknot. ‘Yes, I know, but things change all the time. How are you, Kitty?’

      She smiled at her sister as she divested herself of her uniform. Kitty was four years younger than she was and by some quirk of nature, although they were alike, Kitty had been cast in a more vivid mould. Her eyes were brown and fringed with extravagantly curling lashes whereas Emma had to be content with hazel eyes and lashes of the same soft brown as her hair so that she had recourse to the aid of mascara when she had the time and patience to use it. Kitty’s hair was a rich glowing brown and her nose was small and straight, while Emma’s tilted at its end. They had the same mouths, though, rather large and turned up at the corners, and they both had the same sweet smile.

      ‘How did the exams go?’ inquired Emma. Kitty was a second year medical student at one of the London hospitals and doing well.

      ‘I passed. I telephoned Mother yesterday. She seems to have enjoyed herself in Holland. Who’s this man she babbled on about?’

      She went to the mirror and began to re-do her face. ‘She said you had an accident and you’ll have to pay for the repairs—poor you! Look, Emma, I can manage without the money you send me for a month or two, perhaps that would help to pay it off.’

      Emma was struggling into her dressing gown and her voice was muffled in its folds. ‘That’s decent of you, Kitty, but I think I’ll be able to manage. I haven’t any idea how much it is—I suppose I shall have to ask him.’

      ‘How can you do that?’ Kitty wanted to know.

      ‘Well, it’s quite a coincidence; he’s working here for a couple of months—he’s a cardiac-thoracic man and they invited him over to demonstrate some technique he’s thought up—he’s had a lot of success with it. He’s in our theatre.’

      Kitty put away her compact. ‘Well, well, darling, how nice for you—or isn’t it?’

      Emma was doing up buttons. ‘I don’t know yet,’ she sounded composed. ‘Wait while I have a bath, will you? I shan’t be two ticks.’

      They went out presently and had a meal in the town and then went back to the hospital car park where the Ford Popular stood rather self-consciously among its more modern fellows. ‘For heaven’s sake, go carefully,’ Emma besought her sister. ‘I’ll need it when I go home next week-end. Leave it here on the way back, as usual, will you? I’ll try and pop down for a minute.’

      Kitty got in and started the engine and said yes, she’d be very careful and took the little car out of the hospital forecourt with a spurt of speed which caused Emma to close her eyes. Kitty always had the car when she went home unless she herself was using it. One day, Emma promised herself, opening her eyes again to watch her sister go round the corner, she would have a new car—something low and sporting, a Sprite perhaps. She went back into the hospital, passing the consultants’ car park as she went and pausing by the professor’s Rolls to see if she could make out any signs of damage on its polished perfection. She could see nothing at all, but probably Rolls-Royces were inspected for damage with magnifying glasses. She patted its bonnet and then rubbed where she had patted in case she had spoilt the polish. As she turned round she found Professor Teylingen standing behind her watching, so that, taken by surprise, she said weakly, ‘Oh, hullo. I—I was looking to see if anything showed, you know—from the bump I gave you.’ She gave him a direct look and went on in a carefully matter-of-fact voice, ‘I should like to have the bill, so that I know how much…?’ Her voice tailed away under his cool stare.

      ‘I’ve no idea at the moment, Miss Hastings, I imagine it will reach you in due course.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Who was the pretty girl who drove away in your car?’

      And where was he hiding to see us? thought Emma crossly. ‘My sister,’ she told him shortly.

      ‘Oh? Also a nurse?’

      ‘No—she’s a medical student. She’s very clever as well as being pretty.’

      ‘And she borrows your car?’

      ‘Well,