Katrina had her coat whisked from her and was sat in a chair and a drink put into her hand. ‘Ben said on the phone that you’ve had a busy evening,’ went on Aunt Lucy, happily unaware of what the business entailed. ‘I was a bit put out when the men were called away just as we were about to sit down to table, but this makes up for it. How is your dear mother?’
The men had taken their drinks to the wide french window at the end of the room after responding suitably to Aunt Lucy’s greeting, and now she cast them an indulgent glance. ‘I suppose they’ll mull over whatever it was for the rest of the evening, which means that we can have a nice gossip.’
Aunt Lucy’s voice was soothing and the sherry gave Katrina an uplift she badly needed, and by some domestic magic conjured up by the cook, the meal which they sat down to presently was delicious. Katrina, thoroughly famished, fell to with a good appetite, avoiding the Professor’s eye and only addressing him directly when he spoke to her.
Which wasn’t often, and then with a casual politeness which she found annoying, despite the fact that she had decided that she really didn’t like him at all. She was taken completely off guard presently, when, dinner over and coffee drunk in the sitting room, she murmured to her aunt that she would have to go. The two men were standing together, discussing some case or other, but the Professor interrupted what he was saying to observe;
‘I’ll run you back, Katrina.’
‘There’s no need, thank you—I’ll get a taxi.’
‘I have to go back anyway to pick up some instruments.’ He spoke blandly, ignoring her reply, and Aunt Lucy at once backed him up.
‘Well, of course, if you’re really going that way—so much nicer than a taxi at this time of night, Kate—someone to talk to, as well,’ she added happily.
Katrina thought of that remark ten minutes later, sitting beside the Professor in the Bentley, trying hard to think of some topic of conversation. She scowled horribly when he observed placidly: ‘Considering that it will be April in a few days’ time, the evenings are surprisingly chilly.’
‘Why are you in England?’ asked Katrina, not bothering with the weather.
‘Interested? I’m flattered. Your uncle and I are old friends—he knew my father well. When I come to England I like to see him.’
Which hadn’t answered her question. ‘You’re a surgeon, too?’
‘Yes.’ He turned the car into the hospital yard and parked it. ‘No, stay there,’ he told her, and got out and opened the door for her. ‘Such a pleasant evening,’ he murmured. ‘Goodnight, Kate.’
She suspected that he was amused about something again. Her goodnight was civil but nothing more. Going slowly up the stairs of the nurses’ home to her room, she reflected that she wouldn’t see him again and was surprised at her glum feelings about that. She had hoped, with conventional politeness, that he would enjoy the rest of his stay in England, and all he had said was that he was quite sure that he would.
‘Oh, well,’ she said crossly as she opened her door, ‘who cares? I shan’t be seeing him again, anyway.’
She saw him the very next afternoon. It had been a simply beastly morning, with Mr Knowles doing a round of his six beds and spinning it out to a quite unnecessary length of time, so that dinners were late, nurses didn’t get off duty on time, and Katrina herself had had to be content with cheese sandwiches and a pot of tea in the office. And if that wasn’t enough, she had been waylaid by Jack Bentall, one of the house surgeons, and badgered into a reluctant promise to go out to dinner with him in a couple of days’ time. Despite the fact that she had never encouraged him, he waylaid her on every possible occasion, making no secret of his feelings, even allowing it to be bruited around that she was quite bowled over by him. Katrina had never lacked for invitations; she was a delightful companion and sufficiently lovely for men to like to be seen out with her, but she had never taken any of them seriously. For one thing, as she had pointed out so many times to her mother and sisters, she was so large…
But Jack Bentall didn’t seem to mind that; he was a rather short, thickset young mam, and conceited, and nothing Katrina could say would convince him that she didn’t care two straws for him. Usually she fobbed him off, but today she had been tired and put out and had lost some of her fire, and even though she regretted it bitterly already, she was far too honest to invent an excuse at the last minute. But it would be the last time, she promised herself, as she gobbled up the sandwiches and went back to the ward.
The nurses were tidying beds before the visitors were admitted and had prudently left Mr Crewe until the last. They had just reached him as Katrina opened the doors and her ears were assailed at once by his voice raised in anger. ‘A pint ain’t enough,’ he bellowed. ‘I wants me usual—’alf an alf an’ a couple more ter settle the first pint.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ observed Katrina,’ and I thought you wanted to go home? Here you are lying in bed—if you’re not well enough to sit out in your chair, Mr Crewe, then you’re not well enough to have a pint of beer. You promised me…’
‘Pah,’ said Mr Crewe grumpily, ‘I want ter go ‘ome.’
‘Yes, I know that, Mr Crewe, and I promised you that you should go a day or two earlier if you kept your side of the bargain—which you’re not.’
Mr Crewe opened his mouth to say, ‘Pah,’ again and changed it to, ‘Oo’s that—I see’d ‘im yesterday…’
He was staring down the ward, for the moment forgetful of his beer. ‘Big chap,’ he added, and Katrina’s head, before she could stop it, shot round to take a look. Professor Baron van Tellerinck, no less, coming round to take a look down the ward with unhurried calm. He wished her good afternoon gravely, and just as gravely greeted Mr Crewe, who said rudely: “ullo—’oo are you?’
‘A colleague of Sir Benjamin,’ the Professor told him equably, ‘and as I have business with Sister I’m sure you will do as you are asked and sit in your chair and—er—keep quiet.’
And much to Katrina’s astonishment, Mr Crewe meekly threw back the bedclothes and got into the dressing gown one of the nurses was holding.
‘You wished to see a patient?’ asked Katrina, at her most professional.
‘Please. Sir Benjamin can’t get away from theatre at present, he asked me if I would check up on Mr Miles.’
She liked him for that; so many surgeons came on to the ward and asked: ‘Sister, I’d like to see that gastric ulcer you admitted,’ or: ‘How is that lacerated hand doing?’ for all the world as if the ward beds were occupied by various portions of anatomy and not people.
‘He’s coming along nicely,’ she observed, quite forgetting to be stiff. ‘His BPs down and he’s eating well. We’ve had him out of bed for a little while this morning.’
The Professor spent five minutes or so with the patient, expressed himself satisfied with his progress, wished him a polite good day, and started up the ward towards the office. ‘If I might just write up the notes?’ he enquired, and when she opened the door and then turned to go: ‘Please stay, Sister.’
So she stayed, waiting silently while he scrawled on the chart, added his initials and then got to his feet. ‘Doing anything this evening?’ he asked her.
‘Me?’ she was so surprised that she had no words for a moment. ‘I’m off at five o’clock,’ she added stupidly.
‘Yes, I know that,’ and when her eyes looked a question, ‘I looked in the off duty book on my way in,’ he explained blandly, and waited for her to answer.
‘Well…’ she