Two Weeks to Remember. Betty Neels

Now, this patient is suffering from a comparatively rare complaint…’

      Charity, standing close by so that she wouldn’t miss anything, kept her mind on her work. And again, a good thing that she did; she was grateful when he paused to ask her if she had got Thrombocytopenic Purpura down correctly. A few more tongue twisters like that and she would throw her notebook at him and gallop out of the ward.

      She hoped that she had got everything down correctly, as she hurried back to the office; Miss Hudson would be in a fine state, for she was missing part of her dinner time. Charity, short of breath from running down the passage, was greeted by her irate superior, even more irate by reason of the delightful picture Charity made: cheeks pink from her haste, her magnificent bosom heaving.

      ‘Ten minutes,’ snapped Miss Hudson. ‘I said to be back on time…’

      ‘Well,’ said Charity reasonably, ‘I couldn’t just walk away before Professor Wyllie-Lyon had finished, could I? I’ve run all the way back.’

      Miss Hudson sniffed. ‘I shall take the ten minutes out of your dinner time. I don’t see why I should suffer. Really, you young women, you have no sense of responsibility.’ She flounced out, leaving Charity to make sense of this, and since she couldn’t she sat down at her desk, polished off the Path. Lab reports awaiting her attention and then turned to her shorthand notes. Professor Wyllie-Lyon hadn’t said that he wanted them at once but she had no doubt that he did.

      Miss Hudson was as good as her word. She came back ten minutes late, viewed the fresh pile of work which the porter had just brought to the office with a jaundiced eye and asked, ‘Have you finished those notes, then? There’s more than enough to keep us busy until five o’clock.’

      The phone rang and she answered it, then said crossly, ‘You’re to take Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s notes down to Women’s Medical as soon as they’re ready. I must say he’s got a nerve…’

      ‘He is the senior consultant,’ Charity pointed out in her reasonable way. ‘I expect he’s got the edge on everyone else. Anyway, I’ve almost finished; I’ll drop them in as I go to dinner.’

      ‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ said Miss Hudson, ‘and they’ve overcooked the cabbage again.’

      Charity, who was famished, would have eaten it raw.

      Women’s Medical was settling down for the afternoon. There was the discreet clash of bedpans, scurrying feet intent on getting done so that their owners could go off duty, and the faint cries of such ladies who required this, that or the other before they could settle for their hour’s rest period. Charity knocked on Sister’s office door and went in.

      Sister was at her desk. She was a splendid nurse and a dedicated spinster with cold blue eyes and no sense of humour. Her ward was run beautifully and her nurses disliked her whole-heartedly.

      Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting opposite her, perched precariously on a stool much too small to accommodate his vast person. He looked up as Charity went in, put down the notes he was reading and got to his feet. Sister gave him a surprised look.

      ‘What do you want, Miss Graham?’ she asked.

      ‘I was told to leave these notes, Sister.’

      The professor took them from her. ‘Ah, yes. Splendid. Good girl. You never let me down, do you? But shouldn’t you be at your dinner?’

      ‘Oh, that’s all right, Professor. I’m on my way now…’

      ‘It is desirable for the smooth running of the hospital catering department that staff should be punctual at mealtimes,’ interrupted Sister severely.

      ‘In that case, Miss Graham, run and get your coat and we’ll go and find a sandwich somewhere. I’m even more unpunctual than you are.’

      Sister’s disapproval was tangible. ‘That does not apply to you, Professor Wyllie-Lyon, although I’m sure that you are joking.’

      He was at the door, waiting for a bemused Charity to go through it.

      ‘No, no. How could I joke about such an important matter? I must set a good example, must I not? I’ll be back during the afternoon, Sister, and thank you.’

      On the landing Charity said, ‘That was very…’ And then she closed her mouth with a snap and blushed.

      ‘Go on,’ he encouraged.

      She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot who you were; I can’t say things like that to senior consultants, I’d get the sack.’

      He was propelling her gently away from the ward. ‘No, you won’t—I promise I won’t tell.’

      She shook her head again, suddenly shy. ‘I must go—I’m late…’

      He said patiently, ‘Well, we’ve already discussed that, haven’t we? Get your coat, there’s a good girl, I’m very hungry.’

      ‘Yes, but…’

      ‘I shall call you Charity, a pleasant name. Also I still haven’t been told what went wrong.’ He gave her a gentle shove and she went back to the office and fetched her coat, muttered about shopping to an inquisitive Miss Hudson, and found him waiting where she had left him.

      She was quite sure that she was doing something absolutely outrageous in the eyes of such as Miss Hudson or the sister on Women’s Medical. Prudence urged her to make an excuse and go to the canteen, but for once she turned a deaf ear; it struck her with some force that life, as she lived it, was becoming increasingly dull and she was shocked to discover at the same time that Sidney had done nothing to enliven it. Looking at the large man standing beside her, it seemed likely that he might brighten it, even if only for half an hour. She smiled with sudden brilliance at him and he blinked.

      ‘No time for a decent meal,’ he observed pleasantly as they went down to the entrance and, under old Symes’s eye, crossed the hall. ‘There’s a tolerable pub round the corner where we might get a decent sandwich. You don’t mind a pub?’

      Sidney had never taken her into one; ladies, he had said, never went into bars.

      ‘The Cat and Fiddle? Where all the students go? The nursing staff aren’t allowed…’ She beamed at him. ‘But I’m not a nurse…’

      ‘And I hope never will be.’ They were walking along the busy pavement and he took her arm to guide her down a side street.

      She said worriedly, ‘Oh, would I be so bad at it? I wondered if I might train—I’m a bit old…’

      She was annoyed when he answered placidly. ‘Far too old. But you’d like to change your job?’

      ‘Well, yes. The work is interesting but I never see anyone but Miss Hudson.’

      ‘And me.’ He opened the pub door and ushered her inside the saloon bar, empty but for a handful of sober types drinking Guinness and eating something in a basket.

      The professor swept her to a table in the corner, sat her down and asked, ‘Drinks—what will you have?’

      She found his company exhilarating. Gin and tonic, which she never drank, would have been appropriate. ‘Oh, coffee, if I can have it—I’ve a mass of work this afternoon.’

      He smiled gently. ‘So have I. Sandwiches, or something in a basket?’

      ‘Sandwiches, please. I cook a meal when I get home in the evening.’

      ‘After a day’s work?’ He sounded vaguely interested, no more.

      ‘Oh, I like cooking.’ She looked away so that he wouldn’t ask any more questions and he went over to the bar to give their order.

      They didn’t talk much as they are; they hadn’t enough time for that, but over their coffee he asked, ‘So what went wrong?’

      He didn’t give up easily, thought Charity, and she was wondering how to get out of telling