A Match For Sister Maggy. Бетти НилсЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE SWING DOORS were almost noiseless, but old George had been head porter at St Ethelburga’s for so many years now that his ears were familiar with the faintest whisper of sound and identified it at once. He now put down his paper and peered through his cubbyhole window at the man who had just come in. A big man—a very big man; well over six and a half foot tall and broad with it; who strolled in leisurely fashion towards him. He was a handsome man too, with grey eyes, a straight nose and a wide firm mouth and dark hair, liberally sprinkled with grey. George was sure that he knew who he was; he beamed at him and said,

      ‘Good morning, sir. Dr Van Beijen Doelsma, isn’t it?’ The big man, so addressed, winced slightly at the mutilation of his name by George’s Cockney tongue, but smiled and nodded and said, ‘Good morning,’ in a pleasant voice. ‘I believe I am early?’

      George turned to his switchboard. ‘If you’ll wait a moment, sir, I’ll ring Sir Charles, he told me to let him know when you arrived.’

      Dr Doelsma nodded again, put vast hands into the pockets of his elegant suit, and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He appeared very relaxed—slumbrous, in fact, with eyes half closed. They flew open however as his attention was caught by a figure tearing across the hospital forecourt. It was a woman, and she ran well, and he wondered why a Ward Sister in all the dignity of navy blue and white uniform needed to race around in such an unheard-of fashion. In his experience, hospital Sisters moved calmly and with a self-confident authority, designed to gain respect both from the nurses under them and the doctors they themselves worked for. The swing doors burst open with a crash, and George, waiting for his connection, looked over his shoulder, tut-tutted loudly and put his old head through his little window.

      ‘One day you’ll get caught, Sister MacFergus, running like that; you ought to know better!’

      The girl came to a halt in front of the cubbyhole, and Dr Doelsma, as yet unnoticed, looked her up and down in a leisurely fashion. She was a tall young woman, well built and nicely rounded; she reminded him of the women of his own native Friesland, save for her hair, which was a bright chestnut and inclined to curl, but tidily confined in a French pleat at the back. She put up a large shapely hand and gave her starched cap an impatient tweak, and he observed that despite her haste she was not in the least breathless. She bent her noble proportions to George’s level.

      ‘Am I late? Has he come, George? Nine o’clock for a lecture! The man ought to be shot!’ She had a soft voice, with a lilt of the Highlands in it. ‘There’s Staff Nurse off sick, and four test meals, and do send a porter over, there’s someone for X-ray.’ She frowned heavily above magnificent dark eyes, and her splendid bosom heaved with exasperation.

      ‘Why are you looking at me so strangely, George? I know I’m late; I’ll just have to creep in unobserved.’ She paused and looked down at herself. ‘Well, not unobserved, perhaps—but he’ll not notice. He’ll be elderly and shortsighted and fat and bald, and I’ll not understand a word the poor wee man says.’ She caught the faint sound wrung from Dr Doelsma’s lips, and glanced over her shoulder. She smiled at him kindly and said, ‘Good morning. I didn’t see you. Am I keeping you waiting?’ She turned back to look at George’s disconcerted face and added severely, ‘Don’t gobble, George,’ and with a starched rustle swept away round the corner of the long corridor, and out of sight.

      George pushed his old-fashioned steel spectacles down his nose and peered at Dr Doelsma, and was relieved to see that the doctor was laughing softly. The sight emboldened him to say:

      ‘Sister MacFergus was a bit worried, sir; she’d be that upset if she knew who you were—you couldn’t get a nicer young lady…’He broke off as an elderly man came rather vaguely towards them. Dr Doelsma straightened and went to meet him, and the older man shook hands, smiling delightedly.

      ‘Paul, my dear boy, I’m delighted to see you again. How is your mother?’ He didn’t wait for a reply, but took the younger man’s arm. ‘Matron’s got the hall full of nurses waiting for you; shall we go before they become restless?’

      The elderly doctor and his former pupil, who had carved such a brilliant career for himself, set off down one of the interminable gloomy corridors so beloved of all old hospitals. Half way down it they encountered Matron—a handsome woman with a high-bridged nose, a formidable bust, and an unshakable air of authority acquired from years of seeing that nurses did the things she wanted them to do, without being too aware of the fact. Dr Doelsma remembered her when he had been Casualty Officer at St Ethelburga’s—she didn’t appear to have altered in the least. They greeted each other like old friends, and the three of them continued on their way to the lecture hall. It was familiar to them all, but even if they had been strangers to the hospital they would have found it just as easily—the subdued roar of a great many women talking could clearly be heard as they approached its doors. The sight of Matron entering, however, turned the tumult into a silence that could be felt, followed by the sound of several hundred well starched aprons crackling as their wearers rose to their feet. Matron reached the chair on the small platform and sat; the doctors followed suit, the wearers of the aprons, obedient to a nod from Matron, also sat, with a combined rustle which was deafening. The sisters were at the back of the hall; Dr Doelsma was immediately aware of the beautiful Amazon he had encountered in the entrance, sitting head and shoulders above her neighbours. Even at that distance he could see the consternation on her face—her mouth was slightly open—he