LITMIR.BIZ

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over for a week or two while I’m away. Well, what do you think, Marc?’ Mr van Borsele had barely glanced at her; only by the slight nod of his handsome head had he acknowledged that she was there. He studied the limb at some length, smiled nicely at the young man lying in the bed and said, ‘Might Miss Brown put this lad through his paces? There’s considerable muscle wastage.’

      He and Mr Shutter studied the X-rays and they watched Claribel as she exercised the boy’s fractured leg; it had been taken out of the plaster, the pin taken from the knee and the extension removed only days before, but thanks to her daily visits there was quite a lot of movement. Of course there was muscle wastage, she reflected silently. If Mr van Borsele should ever break one of his legs and she had the task of exercising it… She looked up to catch his dark eyes upon her and a knowing light smile curled his lip. So he read people’s thoughts, too, did he?

      By a great effort of will she managed not to blush.

      The round wound to a close and presently she was able to leave the ward, armed with a great many instructions, and make her way back to the physio department. The waiting-room was full but it always was: people waiting patiently for their turn, holding crutches or walking aids, nursing arms in slings. She uttered a general good morning and went through to the office where Miss Flute was on the phone—admonishing someone severely by the sound of it. She put the receiver down and remarked, ‘I have very little patience with some people. Well, I suppose you’ve collected another bunch of patients. Your Mrs Snow is waiting.’ She studied Claribel’s face. ‘Have a cup of coffee first. Heaven knows when you’ll get another chance.’

      Claribel sipped thankfully. ‘Five more—two discharges to come here three times a week and three on the ward—all extensions. There’s a new man taking over from Mr Shutter—did you know?’

      ‘Met him yesterday. Dutch—well thought of, I believe. A bit terse, I thought.’

      Claribel put down her empty mug. ‘I’ll say. Mr Shutter introduced us; he looked right through me.’

      Miss Flute said drily, ‘How could that be possible?’

      Claribel frowned. She was a sensible girl, aware that she had more than her share of good looks, and she was accustomed to people remarking on that, but she had no vanity and was quite uncaring of the admiring glances she drew. All the same, for some reason Mr van Borsele’s lack of interest in her had irked her. ‘Perhaps he hates blondes…or he’s a misogynist.’

      Miss Flute gave a hoot of laughter. ‘My dear girl, the grapevine has it that he is out and about at all the best restaurants with various lovelies.’

      ‘Good luck to him,’ said Claribel and went off in search of Mrs Snow. Mrs Snow was elderly, stout and chatty; Claribel rather liked her. She had tripped in her own kitchen and broken an arm and, having passed through Casualty, X-ray and Mr Shutter’s Out-patients, was now in the hands of the physio department. She was a chatty soul and at each session related an instalment of her home life while Claribel massaged her and egged her on to do the exercises she was so loath to do.

      ‘I seen a nice young man as I come in,’ she observed as Claribel began on the arm. ‘Getting out of ’is car, ’e was—one of them Rolls, ever so posh. ’E went into Outpatients.’

      She fixed Claribel with a beady eye; having set a sprat to catch a mackerel, she was hopeful of a good catch.

      ‘He’s taking over from Mr Shutter for a week or two. You’re due to see him next week, aren’t you? Mr Shutter is having a holiday.’

      ‘’E deserves it. ’E must be sick ter death of other people’s bones.’ Mrs Snow cringed away from Claribel’s gentle fingers. ‘Ow, that ’urts. Is ’e nice, the new man?’

      ‘I’m sure he will be very good at his job,’ said Claribel sedately. ‘Now, Mrs Snow, let me see you lift that arm.’

      The day wore on with its unending stream of patients. By five o’clock Claribel was bone-weary. Not that she minded; she liked her work and it was satisfying to see arms and legs returned to normal. Of course there was a hard core of elderlies with arthritis who were more or less permanently on the books, but they still benefited, even if they made little progress.

      There was a general rush to go home once the last patient had gone, and a good deal of cheerful chatter since it was Friday and the department closed down until Monday morning. They left in a cheerful bunch, pausing to say goodbye to Miss Flute as she got into her Mini and then streaming across the hospital forecourt, intent on getting their various buses. Claribel, intent on getting home for the weekend, raced away to the nearest bus-stop, her mind already dwelling happily on the peace and quiet of her parents’ home in Wiltshire, so that she failed to see Mr van Borsele’s Rolls at the entrance, waiting to join the rush of traffic in the street. She had in fact forgotten all about him.

      She went home once a month, an undertaking which called for a strict routine the moment she got into her flat. Shower and change, feed the cats, stow them in their travelling basket, snatch up her already packed weekend bag and get a taxi, not always easy, especially in her unfashionable corner of London. Waterloo station wasn’t all that distance away, but too far to walk with the cats and her bag, and this evening she was later than usual.

      She reached the end of Meadow Road and not a taxi in sight, although there was more chance of one in Stamford Street. She paused on the corner by the few rather tatty shops and looked hopefully in either direction. Traffic streamed past but every taxi was occupied; she would have to try for a bus if one came along, although the nearest stop to the station was several minutes away from the station itself.

      She didn’t see the Rolls, going the other way, slow, do a U-turn and slide to a halt beside her.

      ‘Get in quickly,’ begged Mr van Borsele, ‘I’m breaking any number of regulations.’ He had nipped out smartly, taken the basket from her and put it on the back seat, and hurried her round the car into the seat beside his. ‘Where to?’

      Claribel caught her breath. ‘Waterloo Station. My goodness, you do pop up in unexpected places, don’t you?’ She added quickly, like a small girl who had forgotten her manners, ‘Thank you very much. I haven’t much time to catch my train.’

      Mr van Borsele grunted and joined the steady stream of traffic, weaving in and out of slower vehicles in a rather unnerving fashion.

      ‘You’re going very fast,’ Claribel pointed out severely.

      He said irritably, ‘I was under the impression that you wished to catch a train, or was that just an excuse to get a lift?’

      Claribel drew such a deep breath she almost exploded.

      ‘Well, of all the nerve…’ She remembered suddenly to whom she was speaking; one showed a proper respect towards consultant surgeons. ‘You stopped the car and told me to get in.’

      ‘Indeed I did. I don’t remember inviting you to criticise my driving.’

      She gave his unfriendly profile an almost motherly look. He was touchy; had a tiff with his girlfriend, perhaps. With a brother only a few years younger than herself she was familiar with the sudden snappish reply.

      She said reasonably, ‘I’m not criticising you at all, Mr van Borsele—I’m very grateful to you.’

      He grunted again. Hardly a sparkling conversationalist, she reflected, and prepared to get out as he pulled in at the station’s main entrance. She still had almost ten minutes but there would be a queue for tickets. She had a hand on the door handle when he said, ‘Wait,’ and got out and opened the door, retrieving the cats and her bag from the back of the car and strode into the station. Outside the vast ticket office he asked, ‘Where to?’

      ‘Oh, Tisbury.’ She put out a hand for the basket and her bag and found she was holding them both and watching his vast back disappearing into the queue. Her protesting, ‘Mr van Borsele,’ fell on deaf ears.

      He was back within five minutes, which left three minutes to get on to the train. He took

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