LITMIR.BIZ

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for she was aware that they all called her Tabby behind her back. As George Steele had once remarked, Tabby was such a cosy name. Tabby had shuddered at his words, glimpsing a perpetual picture of herself getting cosier and cosier over the years until someone, some day, would prefix the Tabby with the word old.

      This morning, however, there was no fear of that—indeed, she looked a great deal younger than her twenty-five years, for although her hair was still screwed ruthlessly into its severe bun, there was a pinkness in her cheeks which gave her eyes an added sparkle, although her greeting was sedate enough. She had already done her morning round, and primed with her mental list of plasters due for changing, extensions that needed adjusting, pains for investigation and several urgent requests from patients to go home, she advanced on Jimmy’s bed, where she stationed herself opposite Mr van Beek, handed him the patient’s board wordlessly, and waited while he read it.

      ‘The plaster’s due off, I see, Sister.’ He glanced at Tommy Bates. ‘If Mr Bates would be good enough to do this, I will come back presently and have a look.’ He smiled at the jubilant look on Jimmy’s face. ‘That doesn’t mean that you’re going to get up and walk home—but we will have it X-rayed just once more, and if the result is what I expect it to be, then we’ll get you on your legs again. I’ll discuss it with Sister presently.’

      He turned away, leaving Jimmy grinning at Tommy Bates, who played rugger himself and was already wielding the plaster cutters with a masterly hand. Mr van Beek had reached the next bed when he asked over his shoulder:

      ‘Where do you play, Jimmy?’

      ‘Half-back, sir.’

      ‘Ah yes—done during a tackle…’

      ‘Rugger player yourself, sir?’ ventured Jimmy.

      Mr van Beek gave a half smile. ‘Er—yes, but some years ago, I’m afraid.’ He turned away and became instantly engrossed in a sub-capital fracture of femur which Mr Raynard had dealt with a few weeks previously, by means of a metal prosthesis. Old Mr Dale was a difficult patient, now he saw a new face to which he might grumble. Which he did at some length, while Mr van Beek listened with an impassive face and Tabitha and George Steele stood impassively by, listening to Mr Dale blackening their characters with no sign of discomfort, for they shared the view that an irascible old gentleman of well over seventy who had grumbled all his life was now too old to change his ways, and as neither of them had done any of the things of which they were accused, they didn’t allow him to worry them. Nor, it seemed, did Mr van Beek, for when the old gentleman had at last finished complaining, he said soothingly:

      ‘Yes—we all appreciate how tiresome it is for you to stay in bed, Mr Dale, and how irksome it is for you not to be able to sit in a chair. I feel sure that it has been explained to you why this is. However, as it distresses you so much, I fancy we may be able to help.’ He looked at Tabitha, his grey eyes twinkling. ‘Gentle traction here, I think, Sister, don’t you?’ He removed his gaze to Mr Steele. ‘I’ll leave you to deal with that, if I may, Steele. A couple of weeks should suffice—that will bring us to a month after the operation, will it not? Time enough for the prosthesis to have become firm.’

      He turned back to the patient and explained, in a reasonable voice which brooked no contradiction, why the treatment was to be changed, and added: ‘And I should prefer it, Mr Dale, if you refrain from complaining about my colleagues without reason. Mr Raynard operated most successfully upon your hip, and, if you will allow it, your treatment is equally successful.’ He smiled, the gentle smile Tabitha liked to see. ‘You should join the team, not fight against it, you know.’

      They were at the next bed when they heard Mr Dale chuckle, and Tabitha, who had been envisaging the horrors of getting traction on the recalcitrant old man, smiled and caught Mr van Beek’s eye. Mr van Beek winked.

      Mr Prosser welcomed them with all the pleasure of a host inviting old friends in for a drink, and a great deal of time was lost while he and Mr van Beek discussed the nutritional value of fish and chips and the psychological effect of eating them from newspaper. ‘Adds a bit of interest,’ declared Mr Prosser. ‘Tell you what, you bring Sister ’ere down to my place when I get ’ome—I’ll give yer the finest bit o’ cod you’ve ever ’ad.’

      Mr van Beek said mildly: ‘Well, that won’t be for a little while yet, you know, but I’ll accept your invitation, as I’m sure Sister will.’

      They both looked at Tabitha, who said hurriedly: ‘Oh, yes—that would be delightful,’ because that seemed to be the answer they expected of her, although privately she was unable to visualize Mr van Beek doing any such thing, and certainly not in her company, but by the time Mr Prosser got back home the man standing opposite her would be lecturing in some other land, or at best, back in his own country. She wondered whereabouts he lived in Holland, a country about which she knew almost nothing. She was struggling to remember a little of its geography when Mr van Beek’s voice, patiently requesting her to hand him an X-ray form, penetrated her thoughts. She said: ‘Oh, sorry, sir,’ and went rather a pretty pink, causing Mr Prosser to remark: ‘You look bobbish, Sister—come up on the pools, ducks?’

      She laughed then, as did the two men with her as they moved down the ward.

      Mr Bow, when they got to him, was looking considerably better. His plastered leg seemed to take up most of the bed and his face was pale, but his eyes were clear and as blue as ever. Tabitha had already seen him, of course, but she had left Mr van Beek to explain what had been done, which he did now, with a masterly absence of the more gruesome details and a good deal of humour. ‘I’ll be back to have a chat, Knotty,’ he concluded, ‘Saturday at some time.’ He glanced at Tabitha as he spoke and she murmured: ‘Of course, sir,’ while regretting bitterly that she would be at Chidlake and would miss him.

      Mr Raynard was better too; his knee dealt with and encased in plaster, he had allowed himself to relax sufficiently to sample the pile of thrillers his wife had thoughtfully provided. He put his book down as Tabitha pulled aside the cubicle curtain and said: ‘Tabby, where have you been? I’ve not seen you the whole morning.’

      ‘I don’t expect you have, sir,’ she replied with composure. ‘You were fast asleep when I came to see you at eight o’clock, and when I came back from Matron’s office you had had your breakfast and had gone to sleep again.’ She added kindly: ‘Plenty of sleep is good for you.’

      He growled something at her and then said: ‘Well, come here— I’ve something for you,’ and when she obeyed, he produced an envelope from under the bedclothes and offered it to her. ‘Your birthday present,’ he said gruffly, ‘a day late, but I got Muriel to do something about it. Open it.’

      She did so and gave a chortle of mingled pleasure and laughter. It was a year’s subscription to Vogue—it would be delightful to leaf through its extravagant pages, although her stepmother and Lilith would laugh at the notion of her taking any of its advice. But they didn’t have to know and there was no reason why she shouldn’t wear pretty clothes even if she were plain. She said warmly: ‘You’re a dear, sir—it’s a gorgeous present. Thank you very much.’

      ‘Glad you like it—did you have lots of presents?’

      Tabitha said: ‘Oh, yes, heaps,’ and looked up to see Mr van Beek’s discerning eyes upon her, just as though he knew that the only present she had had was a scarf from Meg. She flushed guiltily and made for the door saying: ‘I’ve just remembered—something I had to tell Staff…’ and made her escape to the office, where she allowed her cheeks to cool before going back again, her usual calm self.

      Mr van Beek had begun a highly technical discussion with his friend into which he drew her at once, almost as though he hadn’t noticed that she had been gone; she joined in, almost convinced that she had been oversensitive and that he hadn’t given her that peculiarly penetrating look after all. By the time they were ready to go back to see Jimmy’s now unplastered leg, she was persuaded that she had been rather silly.

      The male members of the party, having viewed the leg, fell to a lively discussion on the game of Rugby football and she stood patiently listening

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