‘Eustacia Crump.’ She flew back through the swing-doors, not wanting to hear him laugh—everyone laughed when she told them her name. Eustacia and Crump didn’t go well together. He didn’t laugh, only stood for a moment more watching her splendid person, swathed in its ill-fitting overall, disappear.
Mr Brimshaw went home at one o’clock and Jim Walker, one of the more senior pathologists working under him, took over. He was a friendly young man and, since Eustacia had done all that was required of her and there was nothing much for him to do for half an hour, she made him tea and had a cup herself with her sandwiches. She became immersed in a reference book of pathological goings-on—she understood very little of it, but it made interesting reading.
It fell to her to go to theatre again a couple of hours later, this time with a vacoliter of blood.
‘Mind and bring back that form, properly signed,’ warned Mr Walker. ‘And don’t loiter, will you? They’re in a hurry.’
Eustacia went. Who, she asked herself, would wish to loiter in such circumstances? Did Mr Walker think that she would tuck the thing under one arm and stop for a chat with anyone she might meet on her way? She was terrified of dropping it anyway.
She sighed with relief when she reached the theatre block and went cautiously through the swing-doors, only to pause because she wasn’t quite sure where to go. A moot point settled for her by a disapproving voice behind her.
‘There you are,’ said a cross-faced nurse, and took the vacoliter from her.
Eustacia waved the form at her. ‘This has to be signed, please.’
‘Well, of course it does.’ It was taken from her and the nurse plunged through one of the doors on either side, just as the theatre door at the far end swished open and the tall man she had met in the path lab came through.
‘Brought the blood?’ he asked pleasantly, and when she nodded, ‘Miss Crump, isn’t it? We met recently.’ He stood in front of her, apparently in no haste.
‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘why are you not sitting on a bench doing blood counts and looking at cells instead of washing bottles?’
It was a serious question and it deserved a serious answer.
‘Well, that’s what I am—a bottle-washer, although it’s called a path lab assistant, and I’m not sure that I should like to sit at a bench all day—some of the things that are examined are very nasty…’
His eyes crinkled nicely at the corners when he smiled. ‘They are. You don’t look like a bottle-washer.’
‘Oh? Do they look different from anyone else?’
He didn’t answer that but went on. ‘You are far too beautiful,’ he told her, and watched her go a delicate pink.
A door opened and the cross nurse came back with the form in her hand. When she saw them she smoothed the ill humour from her face and smiled.
‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you, sir. If you would sign this form…?’ She cast Eustacia a look of great superiority as she spoke. ‘They’re waiting in theatre for you, sir,’ she added in what Eustacia considered to be an oily voice.
The man took the pen she offered and scrawled on the paper and handed it to Eustacia. ‘Many thanks, Miss Crump,’ he said with grave politeness. He didn’t look at the nurse once but went back through the theatre door without a backward glance.
The nurse tossed her head at Eustacia. ‘Well, hadn’t you better get back to the path lab?’ she wanted to know. ‘You’ve wasted enough of our time already.’
Eustacia was almost a head taller, and it gave her a nice feeling of superiority. ‘Rubbish,’ she said crisply, ‘and shouldn’t you be doing whatever you ought instead of standing there?’
She didn’t stay to hear what the other girl had to say; she hoped that she wouldn’t be reported for rudeness. It had been silly of her to annoy the nurse; she couldn’t afford to jeopardise her job.
‘OK?’ asked Mr Walker when she gave him back the signed form. He glanced at it. ‘Ah, signed by the great man himself…’
‘Oh, a big man in his theatre kit? I don’t know anyone here.’
Mr Walker said rather unkindly, ‘Well, you don’t need to, do you? He’s Sir Colin Crichton. An honorary consultant here—goes all over the place—he’s specialising in cancer treatment—gets good results too.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Make me some tea, will you? There’s a good girl.’
She put on the kettle and waited while it boiled and thought about Sir Colin Crichton. He had called her Miss Crump and he hadn’t laughed. She liked him, and she wished she could see him again.
However, she didn’t, the week passed and Saturday came again and she was free once more. Because it was a beautiful day—a bonus at the beginning of the winter—she helped her grandfather to wrap up warmly, went out and found a taxi, and took him to Kew Gardens. Supported by her arm and a stick, the old gentleman walked its paths, inspected a part of the botanical gardens, listened to the birds doing their best in the pale sunshine and then expressed a wish to go to the Orangery.
It was there that they encountered Sir Colin, accompanied by two small boys. Eustacia saw him first and suggested hastily to her grandfather that they might turn around and stroll in the opposite direction.
‘Why ever should we do that?’ he asked testily, and before she could think up a good reason Sir Colin had reached them.
‘Ah—Miss Crump. We share a similar taste in Chambers’ work—a delightful spot on a winter morning.’
He stood looking at her, his eyebrows faintly lifted, and after a moment she said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ and, since her grandfather was looking at her as well, ‘Grandfather, this is Sir Colin Crichton, he’s a consultant at St Biddolph’s. My Grandfather, Mr Henry Crump.’
The two men shook hands and the boys were introduced—Teddy and Oliver, who shook hands too, and, since the two gentlemen had fallen into conversation and had fallen into step, to stroll the length of the Orangery and then back into the gardens again, Eustacia found herself with the two boys. They weren’t very old—nine years, said Teddy, and Oliver was a year younger. They were disposed to like her and within a few minutes were confiding a number of interesting facts. Half-term, they told her, and they would go back to school on Monday, and had she any brothers who went away to school?
She had to admit that she hadn’t. ‘But I really am very interested; do tell me what you do there—I don’t mean lessons…’
They understood her very well. She was treated to a rigmarole of Christmas plays, football, computer games and what a really horrible man the maths master was. ‘Well, I dare say your father can help you with your homework,’ she suggested.
‘Oh, he’s much too busy,’ said Oliver, and she supposed that he was, operating and doing ward rounds and out-patients and travelling around besides. He couldn’t have much home life. She glanced back to where the two men were strolling at her grandfather’s pace along the path towards them, deep in talk. She wondered if Sir Colin wanted to take his leave but was too courteous to say so; his wife might be waiting at home for him and the boys. She spent a few moments deciding what to do and rather reluctantly turned back towards them.
‘We should be getting back,’ she suggested to her grandfather, and was echoed at once by Sir Colin.
‘So must we. Allow me to give you a lift—the car’s by the Kew Road entrance.’
Before her grandfather could speak, Eustacia said quickly, ‘That’s very kind of you, but I daresay we live in a quite opposite direction to you: Kennington.’
‘It couldn’t be more convenient,’ she was told smoothly. ‘We can keep south of the river, drop you off and cross at Southwark.’ He gave