Professor Smythe had refused an official leave-taking but his friends and colleagues poured into his office on Saturday morning. Julie, who didn’t work on a Saturday, was there, keeping in the background as well as her splendid shape allowed, making coffee, finding chairs and answering the phone, which rang incessantly. Presently the last of the visitors went away and Professor Smythe was left with just his successor and Julie.
‘I’m off,’ he told them. ‘Thank you, Julie, for coming in to give a hand.’ He trotted over to her and kissed her cheek. ‘My right hand; I shall miss you. You must come and see us.’
She shook his hand and saw how tired he looked. ‘Oh, I will, please.’ She proffered a small book. ‘I hope you’ll like this—a kind of memento...’
It was a small book on birds and probably he had it already, for he was a keen bird-watcher, but he received it with delight, kissed her again and said, ‘Be off with you, Julie.’
He would want to talk to Professor van der Driesma she thought, and went silently, closing the door behind her. She was crossing the forecourt when a dark grey Bentley crept up beside her and stopped. Professor van der Driesma got out.
He said without preamble, ‘I’ll drive you home.’
‘My bus goes from across the street. Thank you for the offer, though.’ She was coolly polite, remembering the closed door. Rude man...
‘Get in.’ Nicely said, but he wasn’t prepared to argue. After all, she was working for him from now on. She got in.
He got in beside her. ‘Somewhere on the other side of Victoria Park, isn’t it? Professor Smythe told me that your father was a GP.’
‘Yes.’ She added baldly, ‘He died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and strangely enough she knew that he meant it.
‘I think that I should warn you that I may work at a slightly faster pace than Professor Smythe.’
‘That’s to be expected,’ said Julie crisply. ‘He’s very elderly and ill too, and you’re...’ she paused. ‘You’re not quite middle-aged, are you?’
‘Not quite. If I work you too hard you must tell me, Miss Beckworth.’
Put neatly in her place, she said, ‘You can turn left here and then right. It’s a short cut.’
If he was surprised to see the roomy house with its rather untidy garden, surrounded by narrow streets of small dwellings, he said nothing. He drew up in the road and got out to open her door—an action which impressed her, even if against her will. He might have a nasty tongue but his manners were perfect and effortless.
‘Thank you, Professor,’ she said politely, not to be outdone. ‘I’ll be at the office at eight forty-five on Monday morning.’
He closed the gate behind her, aware of faces peering from several windows in the house, waited until she had reached the door and opened it and then got into his car and drove away. He smiled as he drove.
Julie was met in the hall by her mother, Esme and Luscombe.
‘Whoever was that?’ her mother wanted to know.
‘That’s a smashing car,’ observed Luscombe.
‘He’s a giant,’ said Esme.
‘That’s my new boss. He gave me a lift home. His name is Simon van der Driesma; I don’t think he likes me...’
‘Why ever not?’ Her mother was simply astonished; everyone liked Julie. ‘Why did he give you a lift, then?’
‘I think he may have wanted to see where I lived.’
Mrs Beckworth, who had hoped that there might be other reasons—after all, Julie was a beautiful girl and excellent company—said in a disappointed voice, ‘Oh, well, perhaps. We waited lunch for you, love. One of Luscombe’s splendid casseroles.’
Luscombe, besides having been with them for as long as Julie could remember, first as a general factotum in her father’s surgery and then somehow taking over the housekeeping, was a splendid cook. ‘I’m ravenous,’ said Julie.
They went to the sports shop after lunch and bought Esme’s hockey stick, and Esme went round to the Thompsons’ later to show it off to Freddie while Julie took Blotto for his evening walk.
Sunday, as all Sundays, went too quickly—church, home to an economical pot-roast, and then a few lazy hours reading the Sunday papers until it was time to get the tea.
Luscombe went to see his married sister on Sunday afternoons, so Julie got their supper, loaded the washing machine ready to switch it on in the morning, did some ironing, made sure that Esme had everything ready for school, had a cosy chat with her mother and took herself off to bed. She went to sleep quickly, but only after a few anxious thoughts about the next morning. Even if Professor van der Driesma didn’t like her overmuch, as long as she did as he wished and remembered to hold her tongue it might not be so bad.
It was a bad start on Monday morning. She was punctual as always, but he was already there, sitting at his desk, his reading glasses perched on his patrician nose, perusing some papers lying before him then laying them tidily aside.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Julie, and waited.
He glanced up. His ‘good morning’ was grave; she hoped that he would soon get out of the habit of calling her Miss Beckworth; it made her feel old.
‘I believe I am to do a ward round at ten o’clock. Perhaps you will get the patients’ notes and bring them to me here’ When she hesitated, he said, ‘Yes, I am aware that the ward sister should have them, but I simply wish to glance through them before I do my round.’
Julie went up to the women’s medical ward and found Sister in her office. Sister was small and dainty, never lacking dates with the more senior housemen. She was drinking strong tea from a battered mug and waved Julie to the only chair. ‘Have some tea—I’ll get one of the nurses—’
‘I’d love a cup, but I don’t dare,’ said Julie. ‘Professor van der Driesma wants the notes of his patients on the ward so’s he can study them before his round.’
‘A bit different to Professor Smythe?’ asked Sister, hunting up folders on her desk. ‘I must say he’s remarkably good-looking; my nurses are drooling over him but I don’t think he’s even noticed them. A bit reserved?’
‘I don’t know, but I think you may be right.’ She took the bundle of notes. ‘I’ll get these back to you as soon as I can, Sister.’
‘I’ll have your head if you don’t,’ said Sister. ‘It’s his first round and it has to be perfect.’
Julie skimmed back through the hospital, laid the folders on the professor’s desk and waited.
He said thank you without looking up and she slid away to her own desk to type up notes and reports and answer the telephone. Just before ten o’clock, however, she went back to his desk.
‘Shall I take the patients’ notes back now, sir?’ she asked the bowed head; his glasses were on the end of his nose and he was making pencil notes in the margin of the report that he was reading.
He glanced up and spoke mildly. ‘Is there any need? I can take them with me.’ When she hesitated he said, ‘Well?’
‘Sister Griffiths wanted them back before you went on the ward.’
He gave her a brief look and said, ‘Indeed? Then we mustn’t disappoint her, must we? Oh, and you may as well stay on the ward and take notes.’
She gathered up the folders. ‘Very well, sir. Do you want me to come back here for you? It is almost ten o’clock.’
‘No, no, save your feet!’
It