LITMIR.BIZ

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE CORRIDOR was long and austere, its walls coloured a dreary margarine, its paintwork brown varnished, the floor a shiny lino, cracked here and there, the whole very clean and uninviting despite the early April sunlight streaming through its long, narrow windows along one side. But to Nurse Philomena Parsons it was fairyland; the whole world was fairyland, for in her pocket was the letter informing her that she had been placed on the State Register; she had passed her finals, she could wear a silver buckle on her belt now and the world was her oyster. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Commander Frost, RN retired, whom she was wheeling to X-Ray in a chair, was in one of his nasty tempers, she might have broken into a gay whistle or danced a few steps as she pushed, but the old gentleman was in a crusty mood that morning and although she was so happy herself she had a soft heart which sympathised with his jaundiced outlook on life; probably, she conceded, at his age and in his circumstances, she would be crusty too, so she agreed with his mutterings about the inconvenience of being taken to X-Ray at eight o’clock in the morning in a low gentle voice which did much to soothe his feelings, smiling to herself as she spoke, thinking of the letter in her pocket. The smile was a charming one, lighting her mediocre features to prettiness and bringing a sparkle to her lovely green eyes, fringed with preposterously long lashes; her one beauty, unless one counted the honey-gold hair, long and thick and fine and pulled back into such a severe bun that its beauty, for the most part, was lost.

      It would be necessary to take a lift down to X-Ray; there were two halfway down the corridor and she could see that there was someone waiting by them. The lifts were old and shaky and no one other than patients and their attendant nurses or porters was allowed to use them. The man waiting didn’t appear to come into any of these categories; he was leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, his eyes closed. He was very good-looking, Philomena considered, and very large; even when she unconsciously drew up her five feet three of nicely rounded person, she still had to look a long way up to him. She brought the chair to a smart halt in front of the lift and fell to studying him; good shoes, beautifully polished, a tweed suit which wasn’t new but of a masterly cut, a sober tie…blue eyes were staring at her, so she said good morning politely.

      ‘Good morning—and should there not be a porter to push that thing?’ he asked.

      She smiled at him. ‘Oh, usually there is, but the porters are on an hour’s strike about something or other.’ She hesitated and added: ‘Perhaps you don’t know, but they’re awfully fussy about anyone but patients and nurses using the lifts; they don’t work very well, you see, and if they get overloaded they break down.’

      For a moment he looked as though he was going to laugh, but his deep rather slow voice was quite serious. ‘Kind of you to tell me, but don’t you think that I should come with you in the lift to give a hand with that chair?’

      The lift had arrived, making a dim, drumming sound as it settled in a wobbly way, and a very tall nurse carrying a small girl got out. Her ‘Hi, Philly, congrats,’ was called over her shoulder as she swept past them, and as the man manoeuvred the wheelchair into the lift he asked in an interested voice: ‘Getting married or engaged or something of that sort?’

      He set the chair just so, smiled at its occupant and then looked at Philomena, closing the doors. ‘Me? Gracious, no.’ The smile she couldn’t suppress burst out again. ‘I’ve passed my finals—I’ve just heard.’

      His congratulations were sincere as he pressed the button and their unsteady conveyance began lurching downwards. ‘Cause for celebration,’ he added kindly.

      The smile faded just a little. ‘Well, I don’t expect I shall—I—don’t go home very often, it’s rather a long way away, and the other girls who passed have all got someone—family or boy-friends…’

      His eyes were very kind. ‘Hard luck, but very exciting, all the same.’

      The lift wobbled and stopped and Commander Frost, deep in his own thoughts, said suddenly: ‘She puts me in mind of my dear Lucy—listens when I say something and then gives me an intelligent answer—not pretty, of course.’ He gave Philomena a surprisingly intelligent look. ‘You’ll make a good wife, my dear.’

      Philomena blushed, a regrettable shortcoming which she had never been able to overcome. ‘Thank you, Commander.’ She was pulling back the doors as she spoke and didn’t look at either of her companions. The big man wheeled the patient out of the lift and into the passage for her and got back into the lift. ‘You really oughtn’t to,’ pointed out Philomena. ‘Supposing you get caught?’ She added: ‘Thank you for your help.’

      He smiled and began to close the lift doors. ‘A pleasure.’ The doors closed and he was away again. Philomena sighed gently; she would have liked to see more of him, he looked nice and he had been friendly and helpful. Probably he was going to the Private Wing to see one of the patients; she decided to forget him.

      ‘He would make you a splendid husband,’ observed the Commander, à propos nothing at all.

      The morning was busy, but it had its moments; Philomena was bidden to the Principal Nursing Officer’s office, congratulated, informed that she was the Gold Medallist for her year and it was intimated by Miss Blake that when a vacancy for a Ward Sister occurred, she would be invited to apply for it. She went back to her ward telling herself that she was the luckiest girl alive and went on telling herself so while she worked her way through the dressings to be done before dinners. Only she wasn’t quite the luckiest, she admitted, allowing the thoughts she kept tucked away at the back of her head to air themselves for once; the luckiest girl would have a family to tell her how clever she was and how proud they were of her—moreover, she would

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