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for Professor MacDonald.
He came immediately, straight from the changing room bringing Professor van Zeust with him, still in their theatre trousers and vests, their caps on their heads. They might have looked faintly absurd if it hadn’t been for their air of quiet authority.
It was a good deal later by the time the man was fit to move down to the Intensive Care Unit, and there was a great mass of clearing up to do after that. It was much later still when Beth crossed the courtyard on the way to fetch her bicycle and saw Professor van Zeust again. He looked quite different now; immaculate in a conventional, beautifully tailored suit. Out of the tail of her eye she saw him get into a massive Citroën CS, and decided that its size suited his vast proportions very nicely. He had gone by the time she had got her bike out and got back to the courtyard.
She didn’t see him for several days after that; indeed, beyond an annoying persistence her mind had developed in thinking of him, he should have been, as it were, a closed book. It was William who made it difficult for her to make an end of him; he talked about the Dutchman incessantly, not only when he got home in the evenings when he was free to do so, but during their breakfasts together; a meal usually eaten at speed and with no more conversation than was absolutely necessary. The professor was, according to her brother, not at all a bad fellow—knew his stuff but didn’t have a big head about it, and what was more, he had been a first-class rugger player.
‘Doesn’t he play any more?’ asked Beth, swallowing bread and butter as fast as she could.
William gave her a withering look. ‘Good lord, he’s getting on for forty—at least, he’s thirty-six, and that’s pretty old.’
She supposed it was; in twelve years’ time she would be that age herself, although forty in a man didn’t sound old at all, whereas in a woman… She wondered with vague worry where she would be when she was forty. In all probability not married, for her looks were hardly likely to improve with age.
It was the following day after this not very satisfying conversation that the theatre was alerted for an emergency. They had had a busy morning and a break for dinner would be nice, so that there was an involuntary sigh when the Theatre Super, Miss Toms, put her head round the door with the news. ‘Theatre One,’ she said crisply. ‘Miss Partridge, take one of the porters and go down to Private Wing—the patient is to come up at once. Acute appendix.’
Beth, half way out of her theatre dress, put it back on again. Miss Toms, fortyish, elegant and always polite, was obeyed by everyone, and that included the housemen, even at times the consultants, although they were probably unaware of it. She had a habit of addressing everyone by their correct names, too, which somehow made the theatre into a more human place to work in. She smiled at Beth now. ‘You shall be relieved, as soon as possible,’ she promised, ‘but this is rather a special patient—Mevrouw Thorbecke, Professor van Zeust’s sister. I imagine he will be coming into theatre. Professor MacDonald will be operating.’
Beth nodded and Miss Toms sailed away to scrub up; she always scrubbed for staff or staff’s family, and although the professor wasn’t quite staff, his sister would be accorded the same treatment.
The patient was a pretty woman even though she was a sickly pale green and her fair hair was damp with sweat. She was game too, for she managed a smile as they got her on to the trolley, she even managed a murmured hullo and muttered in English: ‘I didn’t believe it but they are violet.’ The remark mystified Beth, but there was so much to do just then that she forgot it immediately.
Miss Toms was right; Professor Van Zeust was in the anaesthetic room when they reached it, gowned and masked and talking to Professor MacDonald and Doctor Moore, the senior anaesthetist, but he didn’t stay long, only to say something in a cheerful voice and in his own language to his sister. He didn’t look at Beth at all.
It was a nasty appendix, on the point of perforation. The two men grunted with satisfaction when the offending thing had been removed and Professor MacDonald began to close the small wound. ‘Who is looking after the brats?’ he asked his companion.
The Dutchman snipped a suture thread. ‘No time to make any arrangements—not yet. I’ll have to get hold of someone, I suppose; Martina won’t feel like coping with them for a few weeks. They’re a match for anyone in the best of health, let alone for anyone a little under the weather.’
‘When’s Dirk due back?’
‘Another six weeks.’ He tossed the stitch scissors on to the Mayo’s table and stood back a little. He smiled over his mask at Miss Toms and then said, ‘Thanks, George, I’ll hang around if I may.’
The two men went out together and Beth came from the corner where she had been waiting to take over the care of the patient. It was quiet in the Recovery Room; there were no other patients there, most of the staff were still at their dinner and Miss Toms, having performed her duties with the ease and perfection expected of her, had disappeared too. A theatre staff nurse and a student were getting the theatre ready once more for the afternoon list, in ten minutes or so the rest of them would be streaming back and the skeleton staff which had remained behind would be free to go to their dinners. But for the moment Beth was occupied with her patient; there was little enough to do, as she would be round in a few minutes—indeed, as Beth inspected the quiet face on the trolley, she could see a faint tremor of the eyelids, so that she began the usual routine of hand patting and ‘Wake up, Mevrouw Thorbecke, it’s all over, everything’s fine.’
She had to do this several times before her patient responded with a languid lifting of her eyelids and a mumbled word or two which made no sense at all.
Beth made her observations and charted them and looked at her carefully; she was quite fit to go back to the ward, but no patient might be sent back from the Recovery Room until they opened their eyes properly, told the nurse their name and could state if they were in pain or not.
‘Are you in pain?’ asked Beth in her nice quiet voice.
Mevrouw Thorbecke nodded, her eyes shut.
‘I’ll give you something for it. Will you tell me your name?’
‘You know who I am—I wish to sleep.’ Her voice was a mumble and a frown came and went. ‘I have a pain.’
‘OK,’ said Beth, talking to herself, ‘you shall have something now, though you’re not really supposed to have it until you’re quite round. Hang on a sec…’
Mevrouw Thorbecke mumbled crossly in her own language as Beth checked her pulse. The smallest of sounds behind her made her look over her shoulder. Professor van Zeust was standing quite close, leaning against one of the trolleys and her eyes brightened at the sight of him. ‘Oh, what luck that you should turn up just when I could do with you,’ she exclaimed sunnily, and he, who had been there all the time, smiled a little.
‘You need help?’ he inquired mildly.
‘Well, Mevrouw Thorbecke is almost round and we’re not supposed to give a post-op. until the patient is quite conscious, but now you’re here, perhaps you’d give me the all clear to give her some Pethedine before she goes downstairs. She’s quite OK, but not quite with us yet.’
The professor’s mouth twitched just a little. ‘I’ll take the responsibility, Staff Nurse—ram home whatever you’ve got there and get her down to the ward, will you? Doctor Moore asked me to look in; he was called away to some emergency.’
He walked unhurriedly over to the trolley and took his sister’s pulse and when she opened an unwilling eye said something to her in a soft voice. ‘She’s fine,’ he declared, and went away so quietly that Beth didn’t realize that he had gone.
She delivered her patient, drowsy now, to the Ward Sister on the Private Wing and sped back to the Recovery Room. Sister Collins and Harriet would be back in a matter of minutes; she started to clear up with Mrs Wise, the orderly, to help her and they were just finished when the other two returned.
The afternoon went quickly after that, but then it nearly always did, there was always so much to do. The list