The Final Touch. Бетти НилсЧитать онлайн книгу.
to work hard,’ she observed cheerfully. ‘The professor will have only the best; he does not look at the clock and he would not expect any of us to do so either. If we are off duty and he is still working, then we stay on duty. You understand? He is a hard taskmaster but he is also a very good man and most kind.’
Charity nodded her tidy head under its little white cap. She wondered who the professor might be. Perhaps Mr van der Brons was his registrar. She would have to find out…
She found out within seconds of the thought. Mr van der Brons came into the office and Zuster Kingsma rustled to her feet and said, ‘Goeden morgen, Professor.’ Charity, on her feet as well, murmured, ‘Good morning,’ with suitable politeness.
Quite wasted on him, for he clapped Hoofdzuster Kingsma on the shoulder with a friendly, ‘Dag, Els,’ and asked Charity if she was pleased to be working on the burns unit. ‘Hard, very hard work, Charity,’ he added ‘but I dare say you will enjoy it.’
‘I am just about to take Zuster Pearson round the department,’ said Hoofdzuster Kingsma, ‘but perhaps you wish to see a patient?’
The pair of them switched to speaking in Dutch then, which gave Charity time to look at him properly, something she had never quite achieved. She had, she remembered been too upset about Cor…
He was older than she had first thought, nearer forty than thirty, and undeniably good-looking… He turned his head suddenly and gave her a kind smile; his eyes were very blue, even more so than Hoofdzuster’s, half hidden under heavy lids. He said in English, ‘Sister will report on you in a week’s time. If you are not happy with us, don’t be afraid to say so, but I see no reason why you shouldn’t settle in nicely.’
He nodded in an absent-minded way and went off, leaving Hoofdzuster Kingsma to guide her round the department. It took quite a time, what with being introduced to the other nurses—and there was no lack of staff—and meeting the patients. There was a small ward for children, all four cots occupied; three of them had been scalded. ‘Hot coffee,’ explained Sister, ‘boiling water from the cooking-stove, and this one climbed into a bath—her mother had filled it with scalding water and gone to answer the telephone—and this one…’ she paused by a little boy of seven or eight years ‘…is to have a skin graft. He was here for four months last year; now the professor is going to repair the damage. His back is a mass of scar tissue—he will need several grafts over the next few years.’
She led the way to a large airy room where four women sat in comfortable chairs, knitting and sewing. ‘All for grafts,’ said Sister. ‘Do you know anything about grafting?’
‘Not very much, Sister. There’s the Thiersch method, isn’t there? Small pieces of skin bound on to the raw area? And Reverdin’s method—I’ve not seen that one—strips of skin taken from an arm or a thigh…’
‘That is right, we see both those here, and also the professor works a great deal with pedicles—he has had some splendid results.’
There was a men’s ward with six beds and another ward with women patients and two six-wards, both occupied. There was a splendidly equipped intensive care unit too. Charity followed the Hoofdzuster back to her office, reflecting that while she was on duty she was unlikely to have a moment in which to allow her thoughts to wander, and when she did get off duty she would probably be too tired to do more than climb into her bed. She found that she welcomed the thought; she would have no chance to mope over Cor and since the burns unit was in a separate wing of the hospital she wasn’t likely to meet him either.
She sat down in front of Hoofdzuster Kingsma’s desk and paid strict attention to what she was saying. ‘Now, as for the patients who come to us with burns, there is much to be done for them, and on admission the professor or his registrar will be present. There is shock and much pain and loss of fluid, of that you will already know—yes? And its treatment? Good. Morphia is given intravenously—the professor himself orders exactly what he wishes done.’
Charity spent the next few days getting to know her way around. She saw little or nothing of Mr van der Brons for the simple reason that she worked only on the wards where patients were either waiting for skin grafts or were being treated for comparatively minor burns. True, he came on to these wards, but most of his day was spent in Theatre or doing the dressings of his most badly injured patients, for these he liked to attend to himself.
It was at the end of her first week, with the prospect of a free day ahead of her, that she came face to face with him on her way off duty. He stood in front of her with the air of a man who had all day at his disposal. ‘Ah, going off duty? Do you like your work here?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes, very much—it’s different…’
‘Indeed it is. Have you done any Theatre work?’
‘Not very much. Only three months’ staffing. I enjoyed it.’
‘Then very soon you shall come into Theatre. Are you off duty now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. We will spend the evening together and you shall tell me what you think of the unit.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Twenty minutes? I’ll be in the forecourt.’
Charity grabbed at common sense as the prospect of an evening spent in his company threatened to swamp it. ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but I’m not sure…’
‘Why not? I don’t bite. There is no time to discuss things while we are both working. We can do so at our leisure.’
Put like that it sounded completely sensible; moreover, she could think of no reasonable excuse.
She said in her quiet way, ‘Well, thank you. I’ll—I’ll go and change.’
She went past him and then stopped. ‘Nowhere too grand,’ she begged him. ‘I haven’t the right clothes.’
He assured her in a placid manner that the restaurant he had in mind required no dressing up.
She showered and changed into a soft grey jersey dress which, while well cut and in the best of taste, did nothing for her, topped it with her winter coat, dug her feet into her best shoes—quite unsuitable for the Dutch winter weather—found gloves and handbag, and went down to the entrance, telling herself as she went that she must have lost her good sense. Mr van der Brons could have found out all he wanted to know about her reactions to working at the hospital without the bother of taking her out for the evening. She made her way to the entrance, worrying as to whether she was wearing the right clothes. Cor had never happened to take her anywhere where clothes mattered, but she had the strong feeling that the professor was an entirely different kettle of fish.
She had worried unnecessarily; she was stuffed neatly into the Rolls and driven through the city to the Bodega Keijzer, opposite the Concertgebow, for the professor had a very shrewd idea of what she was thinking about behind her quiet face. The food there was excellent and the atmosphere was pleasantly warm and friendly, just the thing to put her at her ease, and the grey dress was exactly right… Charity relaxed, which was what he had intended, drank the sherry he ordered for her and conned the menu.
‘I’m famished,’ observed Mr van der Brons. ‘The groentensoup is delicious; shall we have that to start with? And the fish here is good—I can recommend the zeetong—sole…’
Charity, disarmed by the friendly informal atmosphere, agreed happily and applied herself to her soup and the easygoing conversation of her companion. They had eaten their soup and sole and she was halfway through a towering ice-cream swathed in whipped cream before Mr van der Brons asked her if she was happy.
She paused in conveying a spoonful of ice to her mouth. ‘Me? Yes, thank you. I do like the burns unit; it’s—it’s worthwhile, if you see what I mean.’
The professor, whose life work it was, saw what she meant. ‘Not working you too hard?’ he wanted to know pleasantly.
‘No. It’s nice to be so busy that there’s no time to think about anything