The Secret Pool. Betty Neels

Yes, let’s have tea, then I’ll go over to the Women’s Medical. It’s quiet there and Staff can cope, but I’ll just take another look at Miss Prosser. Mr Owen’s not responding to his antibiotic, is he? I’ll see if Dr Beecham will change it. He might be better off at the Infirmary.’ She took the mug of tea Jenny had fetched from the ward kitchen and sipped it.

      ‘You must miss the Infirmary,’ observed Jenny. ‘It’s pretty quiet here—bad chests and diabetics and the odd heart case…’

      She studied Sister Manning’s quiet face on the other side of the desk; she liked her and admired her and although she wasn’t pretty she had a pretty name—Francesca.

      ‘Well, yes, I do, but I do need to be nearby my aunts…’ She finished her tea, got to her feet and said, ‘I’ll be back in five minutes. Get the nurses to start making up that empty bed, will you? There is a diabetic coming in at two o’clock.’

      The ward was quiet, the men waiting for the bi-weekly round from the consultant. Most of them were on the mend. Mr Owen worried her a little, and the new patient who had come in during the night, a suspected coronary, might spring something on them. She went slowly down the old-fashioned but cheerful ward, stopping for a word here and there and casting an eye on these two, and then went through the door into the women’s side.

      Here she was met by her second staff nurse, a small dark girl who like herself lived out.

      ‘All ready for Dr Beecham?’ asked Francesca. ‘How’s Miss Prosser? She was a bit cyanosed when I did the round this morning.’

      ‘Still a bit blue. She’s had some oxygen and she’s quite bright and cheerful.’

      They stood together and looked along the facing row of beds. It was a small ward with pretty curtains at the windows and round each bed, and plenty of flowers. Half the patients were up, sitting by their beds, knitting or reading or gossiping. Francesca walked slowly to Miss Prosser’s bed and made small talk while she studied that lady. They had had her in before and she was by no means an easy patient; she would have to talk to Dr Beecham about her. She smiled and nodded at the other patients and went back to her office, tidied the top of her desk, and with a glance at the clock went back to the men’s ward. Dr Beecham would be there at any moment now.

      He came through the door within moments, a short stout man with a fringe of hair on a bald head and twinkling blue eyes. She had known him ever since she had begun her training; he had been one of the first lecturers she had had and as she became more senior he had occasionally explained some unusual case to her. She liked him and the smile which lighted up her face made it almost pretty.

      He had someone with him. Not just Dr Stokes, who was the RMO; a tall man with massive shoulders, fair hair with a heavy sprinkling of grey and the good looks to turn any woman’s head. Francesca sighed at the sight of him. She knew him, too: Dr van Rijgen, a specialist in tropical diseases who had come to the Infirmary at regular intervals to lecture the students. He lived in Holland and worked there as far as she knew, although he seemed equally at home in England. Years ago when she had begun her training she had had the misfortune to drop off during one of his lectures; even after all these years, she remembered his cold voice, laced with sarcasm, very quietly reducing her to a state bordering on hysteria. They had encountered each other since then, of course, and she had taken care never to allow her feelings to show, and he for his part had never betrayed any recollection of that first unfortunate meeting. He eyed her now with a kind of thoughtful amusement which made her fume inwardly. But she replied suitably to Dr Stokes and Dr Beecham and then bade him a frosty good morning.

      He had a deep slow voice. ‘Good morning, Sister Manning. I see that I must congratulate you since we last met at the Infirmary.’ He glanced round the ward, half the size of those in a Bristol hospital. ‘Hiding your light under a bushel?’

      She said in a voice which made his fine mouth twitch, ‘If I remember aright, sir, my light was a very small one—a mere glimmer.’

      He gave a crack of laughter. ‘Oh, dear, you have a long memory, Sister.’

      ‘A useful thing in a nurse,’ interpolated Dr Beecham cheerfully. ‘What have you got for us today, Fran?’

      Dr Beecham prided himself on the good terms he enjoyed with the ward sisters and none of them minded that he addressed them by their Christian names when they were away from the patients.

      ‘Nothing much, sir. There’s Miss Prosser…’ She didn’t need to say more, they both knew that lady well enough. ‘And Mr Owen who isn’t so well. All the rest are making good progress.’

      ‘Right, shall we see the ladies first? I want Dr van Rijgen to look at Mr Owen.’

      The round wound its usual way, first through the women’s ward and then the men’s, to spend some time with Mr Owen; this time Dr van Rijgen did the examining. At length he straightened up. ‘I agree with you, John,’ he told Dr Beecham, ‘he should be transferred to the Infirmary as soon as possible.’

      He sat down on the side of the bed and addressed himself to Mr Owen. He explained very nicely, even Fran had to admit that, with a mixture of frankness and confidence which cheered the patient. ‘And if Sister can arrange it, perhaps your wife would like to travel with you in the ambulance?’

      He glanced at Dr Beecham who nodded and then turned his cold blue eyes upon Fran. ‘Sister?’

      ‘Mrs Owen lives close by, I am sure something can be arranged.’

      They had coffee next, squashed in her office, discussing the round, pausing from time to time to alter drugs and give her instructions.

      They had finished their coffee when Dr Beecham reached for the phone. ‘I’ll warn the medical side, Litrik. What about his wife?’

      Dr van Rijgen turned to Fran and found her eyes fixed on his face.

      ‘Mrs Owen? Can you get her here so that we can have a word with her, Sister?’

      He frowned impatiently when she didn’t answer at once. She had never thought of him as having any name other than van Rijgen; the strange name Dr Beecham had said made him seem different, although she didn’t know why. A strange name indeed, but quite nice sounding. She realised that he had spoken to her and flushed a little and the flush deepened when he repeated his question with impatience.

      ‘Certainly, sir. I can telephone her, she lives less than five minutes’ walk away.’ She spoke crisply and thought how ill-tempered he was.

      Dr Beecham had finished with the phone, and as she dialled a number he said, ‘Right, Fran. We’ll go along to X-Ray and look at those films. Litrik, will you talk to Mrs Owen?’

      He patted her on the shoulder, said, ‘See you later, Litrik,’ and went away, taking Dr Stokes with him.

      Mrs Owen was a sensible woman; she asked no unnecessary questions but said that she would be at the hospital in ten minutes. ‘I’ll not ask you any questions, Sister,’ she finished, ‘for I’m sure the Doctor will tell me all I want to know.’

      Fran put down the receiver and glanced at Dr van Rijgen, sitting on the window ledge, contemplating the view. She had no intention of staying there under his unfriendly eye; she picked up the charts on the desk and got up.

      ‘Don’t go,’ said Dr van Rijgen without turning round. ‘However sensible Mrs Owen may be, she’ll probably need a shoulder to cry on.’

      He spoke coldly and she, normally a mild-tempered girl, allowed her tongue to voice her thoughts. She snapped, ‘Yes, and that’s something you wouldn’t be prepared to offer.’

      The look he gave her was like cold steel; she added, ‘sir’ and waited for his cold calm voice to utter something biting.

      ‘It is a good thing that my self-esteem does not depend upon your good opinion of me,’ said Dr van Rijgen softly. ‘Would it be a good idea if we were to have a tray of tea? I have found that tea, to the English, soothes even the most unhappy