A Match For Sister Maggy. Betty Neels

lowered The Times for a second time. ‘You spoke, Sister?’

      ‘I did not,’ she snapped, and added ‘sir.’

      He folded his paper carefully, glanced at his sleeping parent and asked.

      ‘Must I be called sir?’

      She charted the pulse carefully.

      ‘Of course, Dr Doelsma. You are a consultant.’

      ‘So, by the same token, I may call you Maggy?’

      She took a deep breath and said deliberately, ‘You are in a position to call me anything you wish, sir.’ She realised her mistake as soon as she had spoken.

      ‘My dear girl, how kind of you.’ His voice was smooth. ‘I wonder, what shall it be?’

      She blushed under his mocking eye, and said with dignity, ‘That’s not what I meant, Doctor, and you know it.’ She put down the chart and went on briskly, ‘I doubt you’ll be wanting your breakfast—I’ll arrange that.’

      ‘Don’t bother—er—Sister. Now that you’re here, I’ll go over and see Sir Charles and breakfast with him. I’ll be back within the hour.’

      ‘Very well, sir, I’ll ring you if it should be necessary.’

      She ignored him, and prepared to take Mevrouw Doelsma’s blood pressure. Her patient opened her eyes at that moment, and said, ‘Hullo, it’s you again. I’m glad. A sweet girl, the night nurse, but so earnest, I felt as though I had one foot in the grave all night.’

      Maggy smiled and said gently. ‘Fiddlesticks, you were dreaming—and both feet are safe here in bed.’

      She turned to find Dr Doelsma still there, looming over the end of the bed.

      He said, ‘Hullo, Mama. I’m going over to Uncle Charles. Be good.’ He turned at the door, with his hand on the knob.

      ‘You’ll ring me, won’t you, Sister?’ He sounded casual, but she could see the worry in his eyes.

      She smiled at him warmly. ‘Of course.’ She looked supremely confident and capable, standing there in her trim uniform.

      There was still a shortage of nurses; if Williams was to get her half day. Maggy thought, she herself would have to go off duty that morning. She decided to do so as soon as Dr Doelsma returned. Williams could look after the ward, and Sibley, the third-year nurse, could come into Sep. Sir Charles came back with Dr Doelsma, they looked well fed and relaxed. Maggy, who had had a sketchy breakfast, thought longingly of coffee… She would never get off duty by ten o’clock. It was a quarter past the hour when Sir Charles finished examining his patient. He held a short discussion with Paul and called for another ECG.

      Maggy was buckling the straps when Dr Doelsma came over to do his part.

      ‘Are you not off duty, Sister?’ She glanced up in surprise.

      ‘How did you know?’

      ‘That pretty little staff nurse of yours told me. Shall I get her in so that you can go?’

      She tightened a buckle slowly. ‘Why not?’ she asked coolly. ‘Though I’m afraid Staff won’t be able to come for long. But Nurse Sibley shall relieve her; she’s the pretty blonde with green eyes—I’m sure you will have noticed her.’

      She didn’t look up to see what effect her words had had, but finished what she was doing, sent for Williams to take her place, and went to the ward. By the time she had done a round it was almost eleven. She decided to have coffee in the Sisters’ Home, but when she got there it didn’t seem worth while. Dinner would be at twelve-thirty. She flounced into the sitting room, feeling pettish and more than a little sorry for herself, and buried herself in the papers for the next hour or so. There weren’t any other Sisters off; she wished she had not bothered to go off duty at all, though that, she decided, would not have pleased Dr Doelsma, for then he would have had to have put up with her for the whole morning.

      She returned on duty after lunch, her frame of mind by no means improved. The ward was fairly quiet. She sent Nurse Sibley to her dinner, and Williams to her afternoon with the faithful Jim. That left little Nurse Sims whom she sent into the ward to tidy it for visitors; she herself went into Sep until Sibley should return. Both doctors had gone to lunch; her patient was sleeping. She studied the charts and then started to pick up the papers littered around the doctor’s chair. They were closely written in a foreign language—Dutch, she supposed; in any case, they would have been unintelligible in English. She made a tidy pile, then went to open the window wider. It was a lovely late August day; she would have liked to have been home, tramping the hills with the dogs. The door opened, but she didn’t turn round at once, but said,

      ‘You should have taken your full hour, Nurse; I’ll not need to go until two o’clock.’

      She looked over her shoulder. Dr Doelsma was standing in the doorway.

      ‘You’re at lunch,’ she said stupidly.

      He ignored this piece of foolishness, but strolled into the room.

      ‘Ah. I’m glad you’re back on duty,’ he said.

      She frowned. Really, she thought, after his obvious anxiety to get rid of her that morning—’ Did something go wrong?’ she asked.

      ‘No, no. Nurse Sibley was most competent, but I must admit that I prefer you here, Sister.’ He stared at her. ‘You needed to go off duty this morning, you were tired.’

      She went pink; it was an unpleasant experience having her thoughts read so accurately. She asked, curiosity getting the better of discretion, ‘Why do you prefer me here, Doctor?’

      He considered his reply. ‘I am a big man, Sister. People tend to stare at me as though I were something peculiar. You don’t stare, presumably because you are such a big woman yourself. A purely selfish reason, you see.’

      This truthful but unflattering description of herself did nothing to improve Maggy’s mood, and the more so because she could think of nothing to say in reply. Nurse Sibley’s return saved her from this difficulty, however. She handed over to her, and left the room with great dignity, feeling twelve feet tall, and very conscious of the largeness of her person.

      The visitors, laden with flowers and fruit and unsuitable food, began to straggle in, and Maggy was kept busy answering questions and making out certificates. Madame Riveau’s husband and son hadn’t arrived; she would have to see them that evening. She sat down at her desk and began the off-duty rota for the following week. It was an absorbing and irritating task, trying to fit in lectures, study days, and special requests for days off. She became immersed in it, then looked up to find the doctor standing by her. She stopped, pen poised.

      ‘Did you want me, sir?’

      He didn’t answer her question, but said shortly, ‘My mother’s asleep.’ He stretched out an arm and took the off duty book from her and studied it carefully. Maggy asked in an annoyed voice,

      ‘Is there something you wish to know, Dr Doelsma?’

      ‘Yes, there was,’ he answered cheerfully, ‘but I’ve seen all I want, thank you.’ He gave the book back into a hand rendered nerveless with vexation, but made no effort to go.

      Maggy filled in another name and then asked, ‘Would you like tea, sir? It’s early, I know, but perhaps in Holland you drink tea at a different time from us.’

      ‘Probably. But I must point out to you that I am a Friesman, and not a Hollander, and proud of the fact—just as you, I imagine, are proud of being a Scotswoman. The Friesians and the Scots have mutual ancestors, you know.’

      Maggy didn’t know, and said so, adding, ‘How interesting’ in a cold voice which he ignored.

      ‘How’s Mrs Salt?’ he enquired.

      Maggy put down her pen in a deliberate manner. He seemed bent on engaging her in conversation,