Visiting Consultant

by Neels, Betty

  ‘Yes, he’s very good—he took the list on Wednesday.’

  Tom passed his mug for more coffee. ‘Quiet type, very amusing when he does talk, though—he’s a baron or something of that sort.’

  ‘A Jonkheer,’ said Sophy before she could stop herself. She had been to the Reference Library on her day off and looked it up. ‘It’s an hereditary title.’

  Tom gave her a sharp glance. ‘Don’t imagine he’s the sort to broadcast it, though. Plenty of money, I hear. Drives a damn great Bentley too.’

  Sophy looked suitably interested and was glad when the telephone rang and a voice demanded Mr Carrathers. He listened to the urgent voice on the other end, and said,

  ‘Oh, lord, Bill, just as I was going to dip into the Sunday papers. I’ll be down.’ He put down the receiver and turned to Sophy. ‘A perf. Twenty minutes suit you? I’ll go and check, but young Bill’s pretty reliable.’

  The morning’s tempo changed. The smooth-running machinery of the theatre, never quite still, accelerated under Sophy’s calm direction. The case came up, was dealt with, and was back in the ward by twelve-thirty.

  It was almost an hour later when Sophy rang the door-bell of the nice old house where Mr Radcliffe had lived ever since she had known him. Matty, the elderly maid who opened the door, still wore the same kind of cap and apron she had worn when she had entered the surgeon’s service almost three decades earlier. She looked prim, but smiled warmly at Sophy, and said, as she always said each Sunday,

  ‘Just in time, Miss Sophy; Cook’s dishing up.’

  Sophy smiled too and enquired with interested sympathy about Matty’s bad leg while she took off her coat and gave it into her keeping. Left alone, she went over to the old-fashioned mirror hanging on one wall and peered into it. She looked at her face with some dissatisfaction, anchored her hair more securely, and ran a licked finger over the smooth arches of her brows.

  ‘Gilding the lily?’ enquired a voice; the Dutchman’s voice.

  Sophy jumped, and at the same time was deeply thankful that she was wearing a jersey shirtwaister that suited her admirably. She turned to face him as casually as she was able.

  ‘You shouldn’t take people by surprise like that,’ she said severely. ‘It’s bad for their nerves.’ Her voice was commendably steady, even though her pulse was not.

  He made no effort to move, so that she was forced to remain where she was, looking up at him. He looked her over slowly and said, ‘Very nice,’ and then, ‘Did you not expect me here?’ His blue eyes searched hers. ‘No, I see that you didn’t. Your Uncle Giles is my Uncle Giles too, you know.’

  Sophy tried to think of something to say; something clever or witty or charming; she was unable to think of anything at all, and, what was worse, she was only too aware that he knew it. She looked up to meet his quizzical gaze.

  ‘Your aunt sent me to fetch you,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you ready?’

  They crossed the hall in silence while Sophy turned over in her mind his remark about gilding the lily. He had been mocking her, of course; she had no illusions about her face.

  As he opened the door he said on a laugh, just loud enough for her to hear, ‘I do believe that no one has ever called you a lily before.’

  He flung the door wide, and she went in to greet the politely impatient people waiting for their luncheon.

  The table around which the company settled themselves was a large mahogany masterpiece, fashioned to accommodate a dozen persons at least. Sophy found herself beside Uncle Giles; Max van Ooster-welde was at the other end of the table next to Aunt Vera, with Penny on his other side. It was apparent that they were already the best of friends. She turned her head away and concentrated on her godfather, who was carving beef with a skill which was to have been expected of him.

  Sophy passed the plates, and asked, soft-voiced in the general hum of conversation, where he and her aunt were going for their holiday.

  ‘Dorset, my dear. Max has a nice little place tucked away down there—uses it when he comes to England. We’ve got the run of it for as long as we like. We shall leave here tomorrow. Later on, we hope to go over and stay with him in Holland, but that depends on how long I take to recoup and how long he can stay over here.’

  He saw her anxious look and said quickly, ‘Don’t worry, my dear. It’s nothing desperate—my heart’s overdoing it a bit, that’s all. Nothing a good rest won’t cure.’

  Sophy raised her eyes to his. ‘Is that the truth, Uncle Giles, or are you busy pulling wool over my eyes?’

  He laughed. ‘The truth, girl. I’ve never lied to you, and don’t intend to start now.’ He finished his carving and sat down and helped himself to the dishes Matty was holding.

  ‘Can I do anything to help you or Aunt Vera?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, my dear. At least, you might keep a motherly eye on Max.’

  Sophy choked on a morsel of beef. ‘A motherly eye on him?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘Yes. Though if you prefer it, I’ll ask him to keep a fatherly eye on you.’ He laughed so richly that everyone looked at him. He beamed at them all. ‘Sophy and I are enjoying a joke together.’ He winked broadly at her and turned to her grandmother, then left her to get on with her lunch.

  After lunch Aunt Vera and Grandmother Green-slade wandered off to the drawing room, for what they called their weekly chat, and Uncle Giles bore Max van Oosterwelde away to his study, saying over his shoulder that there were plenty of apples for the picking at the end of the garden. Penny and Benjamin needed no second bidding, and tore away, followed more sedately but Sophy. Ten minutes later, however, sedateness forgotten, she was sitting astride a convenient fork in a tree, with a basket half filled on her arm, and a half eaten apple in her hand. It was pleasant there; the autumn sun still had warmth; the apples smelled good. She sighed, thinking how nice it would be to be free preferably driving about the country in a shining Bentley. It was only a small step from thinking of the Bentley to its owner; that was why his voice, coming from beneath her, sent the ready colour pouring over her face.

  ‘Are these your shoes?’ he asked.

  Sophy curled her toes inside her stockings. ‘Yes. I was afraid I’d spoil them.’

  ‘Come down and put them on, and I’ll get the rest of the apples for you, shall I?’

  Penny and Benjamin had joined him, laden with their own spoils. She whisked down the old tree, intent on getting to the ground unaided. She should have known better. She was plucked from it while she was still some feet from the ground, and set lightly on her feet. Then he was gone, and a moment later, she saw him balanced on a sturdy branch, reaching above his head and throwing the apples down to them. He looked enormous, but somehow not in the least out of place. The apples safely stowed, they went back to the drawing room, where Uncle Giles had switched on the television. He was following the incredible activities of a cowboy, apparently holding off a mob of howling Indians single-handed. He took his eyes from the screen long enough to recommend them to sit down and watch too, and soon there was silence, broken only by the sounds of celluloid battle. The telephone brought a discordant note amongst the war cries. Uncle Giles frowned, and turned the sound down, and Sophy, who was nearest, picked up the receiver. It was Staff Nurse.

  ‘Sister, I thought you’d want to know that the internal injuries is coming up at five-thirty, but Cas rang through to say they’ve got an abdominal that might have to be done first. They’ve had a road accident in, and Mr Carruthers is there now.’

  Sophy looked at her watch; it was almost half past four. ‘Lay up for an abdominal, Cooper, and put in the general set and all we need for nephrectomy and splenectomy, and remember they’ll probably want to do an intravenous pyelogram.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And a few bladder tools, too. Have you got Vincent there?’

  Staffs voice came briskly back. ‘Yes, Sister. She’s been to tea.’

  ‘Good, tell her to get your tea now, before you dish up. I’ll be with you very shortly. Goodbye.�
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  Before she could hang up, Pratt’s voice cut in. ‘Sister Greenslade, Mr Carruthers wants a word with you.’

  Tom’s quiet voice sounded urgent. ‘Sophy, is Max van Oosterwelde there?’

  She looked across the room; the big Dutchman was sprawled in a chair, watching her. She beckoned him, and said, ‘Yes.’ He took the telephone from her and she went to slip away, but he caught her by the hand.

  ‘No, stay. It probably concerns you too.’

  He listened quietly, and said at length, ‘We’d better do her first. We’ll be back in five minutes. No, not at all; I’m glad I can help. You’ve enough to get on with, I imagine.’

  He was still holding her hand, she tried not to notice it while he talked. ‘There’s a girl in. Twelve years old—she’s been stabbed. Carruthers says there are six entries in the abdomen for a start. He’s got his hands full with the RTA. We’ll do the girl first; she’ll be a long job, I expect, but they can keep the other case going until we’re ready.’ He had been speaking quietly, so that only she could hear. Now he got up and went over to Mr Radcliffe. By the time Sophy had got her coat, he was saying goodbye in the unhurried manner of a man who had business to do, and knew how he was going to do it. As she made her own hurried goodbyes, she could hear him telling Penny and Ben that he would call for them on the following Wednesday. She longed to know more about it, but there was no time. They went round to the garage at the side of the house, and got into the Bentley and drove rapidly through the quiet streets. He left the car outside the hospital and they went in together, he to Cas, she to hurry upstairs to theatre. A few minutes later, capped and masked, she was scrubbing up while Cooper dished up the last of the instruments. They had five minutes. Vincent, the junior nurse, was nervous but willing; Staff, Sophy knew, would be a tower of strength; she always was. She went over to her trolleys and checked them carefully, and set about threading her needles and getting the blades on to their handles. It suddenly struck her that she didn’t know who would be assisting. Carruthers was tied up in Cas.; the other two consultants had weekends; their houseman would probably be away too, leaving their patients to the care of whoever was on duty. The porters wheeled in the trolley, with Dr Walker, the senior anaesthetist, pushing the Boyles. He said ‘Hullo, Sister’ in a vague voice, and went back to his cylinders and tubes. She liked him very much; he was unflappable and very sure of himself.

  The surgeons came in; the second one was Bill, looking excited and a little scared. She smiled at him behind her mask, and nothing of it showed except the little laughter lines round her beautiful eyes. He took the sponge holders she was holding out to him, and used them, and then waited while Max van Oosterwelde examined the small body between them. The wounds were hard to see, and for every one there would be two or three internally. When he’d finished he said,

  ‘Have they got the fiend who did this?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Her stepbrother. He says she had thrown away his drugs and he was suffering from mental stress...’

  The professor’s eyes blazed and he said something in Dutch. Sophy thought it sounded like a good earthy Dutch oath—which it was. He put out a hand without looking at Sophy, and said, ‘Ready, Sister.’ She handed him the knife and he stood, relaxed, almost casual, with it in his hand.

  ‘We’ll do a lower right paramedian, shall we, and see how far we get?’

  He was looking at Bill; accepting him as a partner. The boy looked back at him, flushing slightly. He’d been scared stiff until that moment; now, suddenly, he knew that he’d be all right.

  It took two and a half hours; it wasn’t a job to hurry over. Van Oosterwelde kept up a steady flow of quiet talk, and Sophy watched Bill relaxing under the older man’s skilful guidance, until he was playing his full part.

  They were checking swabs, and the two men stood quietly while Sophy counted and agreed the total with Nurse Vincent.

  ‘How is your end, Walker?’ asked van Oosterwelde; he was already busy with the mattress stitches.

  ‘Very nice—she must be a tough little thing— she’ll need some more blood, though. How much longer do you want?’

  ‘Five minutes.’ Bill cut the gut for him, and he threw the needle back on to Sophy’s trolley. He caught her eye as he did so, and said, ‘We didn’t get our tea, did we?’

  She handed him the Michel clip holder, but he waved it away towards Bill, and pulled off his gloves. Sophy smiled behind her mask; he had been very kind to Bill. She called Vincent over and asked her to take a tray of tea to her office. Dr Walker and van Oos-terwelde were standing together, looking down at the child’s face.

  ‘I’d like to wring that fellow’s neck,’ Dr Walker sounded vehement.

  ‘I’ve got one of my own,’ he added, ‘so I feel strongly about it.’

  The Dutchman said softly, ‘I also would kill him, but,’ he added, ‘he will be sent to an institution for observation, and in five or ten years’ time, he will do the same thing again.’ He turned around, and cast a casual eye on Bill’s work. ‘Very nice,’ he commented.

  The second case took as long as the first, for it involved a splenectomy as well as a nephrectomy. Despite a hastily-snatched cup of tea, Sophy was tired. She had sent Vincent off duty, and Cooper was doing her own work and Vincent’s too. The night staff were far too thinly stretched to borrow any of their number. The Orthopaedic theatre was still going, so was Cas. They would manage; they always did. It was close on eleven as the patient was wheeled back to Intensive Care. The men followed him down; they wanted to look at the girl as well. Sophy and Cooper plunged into the chaos of used instruments and needles and knives, while a night porter swabbed up. It was almost an hour later when the two girls parted company at the end of the theatre corridor. Sophy slipped quiet as a mouse through the dim corridors, and down the stairs, calling a soft goodnight to the porter as she passed his box, and so through the big swing doors. Jonkheer van Oosterwelde was on the top step, leaning against its iron balustrade. He took her arm lightly above her elbow, and they went down the steps together and into the big car. She sat back against its leathered comfort and let out a tired breath.

  ‘Are they all right?’ she asked, as he moved away from the kerb. ‘Have you been there all this time?’ And blushed at her question.

  ‘I’m not sure about the girl—the man’s all right for the moment. Do you always have to clear up after a case at night? Don’t the night staff help?’

  She explained about the nurses having more than enough to do and added, ‘You weren’t—that is, you didn’t wait for me, did you?’

  He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Yes.’

  She waited for him to say something else, but he remained silent, as he brought the car to a quiet halt outside her home.

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. It was very kind of you.’ Honestly compelled her to add, ‘But I always walk home by myself after a late case. I’m not lonely or nervous.’

  She put a hand on the door, but his came down to hold it and prevent her.

  ‘Is there someone at home to give you a hot drink?’

  She gave a gurgle of tired laughter; saw his raised eyebrow and said, ‘I’m sorry; I wasn’t being rude— it’s just that I’ve never met a senior consultant surgeon who bothered with things like hot drinks for nurses. Everyone will be in bed, but Sinclair will have left a thermos of cocoa for me...’

  ‘Sinclair?’

  She was really very tired, but she thought she had better answer his question; he was the sort of man, she thought sleepily, who expected to be answered. ‘He was my father’s batman during the war. He came back with him afterwards and has been with us ever since. I’ve known him nearly all my life; he’s a tower of strength and a friend and he’s marvellous at housework too. He gave us the Blot, and he found Titus in a gutter; when my parents died, he made us keep on— it was a bit...difficult at first.’

  He got out and came round and opened the door and walked up the little path with her, and took the door key from he
r hand and opened the door. There was a light in the hall. She went past him, and then turned on the step to look at him.

  ‘Goodnight, sir.’

  ‘Goodnight, Miss Greenslade. I made a mistake today. You do not need any gilding.’

  She awoke early, after a short night of heavy sleep and ridiculous dreams about lilies. She went on duty determined to be sensible. She wasn’t a silly young girl; she was a woman with responsibilities and not much time for romantic ideas. She was breathtakingly efficient in theatre during the morning, and at coffee time went on a mythical errand which lasted until it was time to scrub again. It was really quite easy to avoid being alone with him. She went to her dinner late, and went straight back to work. The list was an uncomplicated one that afternoon; they could be done by five, if they didn’t stop for tea. There was one case left, when Jonkheer van Oosterwelde called a halt. Even then, she sent the nurse in with the tea tray, and elected to stay in theatre, although there was really nothing for her to do there. He appeared in the doorway five minutes later, smiled charmingly at the nurses and said in a silky voice it would have been hard to disobey:

  ‘Your tea is getting cold, Sister.’

  She had opened her mouth to tell him that she didn’t want any tea, but the three nurses had all paused in their work and were watching with a lively interest that needed quelling. As she went ahead of him down the corridor she thought bitterly, that he was the pin-up boy for practically the whole staff already, then hated herself for the thought. He had, after all, been very kind to her, and he had treated Bill decently. All the same, he was too sure of himself, too certain of getting his own way.

  She went into the little office, and Dr Walker and Bill got up while she squeezed past them to sit in her chair. She was drawn at once into their conversation and was surprised to find how much she was enjoying it. Perhaps, after all, she need not avoid him—not when there were other people around. She became aware that Bill was speaking to her, and said,