LITMIR.BIZ

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the remark that she wasn’t even pretty… She had known that, of course, but she had always thought that when one fell in love, looks didn’t matter so very much, but she had been too hurt to say anything, and how did one begin to explain that being the middle girl in a family of five daughters, strictly but kindly brought up by a mother with decidedly old-fashioned ideas and a father who was rector of a small parish in the depths of rural Devon was hardly conducive to being the life and soul of the swinging set.

      She had said nothing at all, not because she was a meek girl, but because she was too choked with hurt pride and rage to make sense. She had thought of several telling speeches to make since that unhappy occasion, but since he worked on the Medical Wing and she spent her days in Theatre Unit, there was small chance of their meeting—and a good thing too, although her friends, meaning it kindly, kept her informed of his movements. He was currently wrapped up with Jean Mitchell, the blonde staff nurse on Orthopaedics, whom no one liked anyway; Letitia, in her more peevish moments, wished them well of each other.

      The Commando case was transferred to the ICU.; she handed him over to the Sister-in-charge, repeated the instructions she had been given, put his charts into her superior’s hands, and raced back to the recovery room. The cholecystectomy would be out at any moment now and she had to fetch the fresh recovery tray and see that Mrs Mead had cleared the other one away and tidied up. They were nicely ready when the doors swung silently open once more. It had been a straightforward case; she received her instructions, obeyed them implicitly, and when the anaesthetist loomed silently beside her, handed him the chart without speaking; there was no need to tell him the things he could see for himself: the patient was ready to go to the ward and she stood quietly waiting for him to tell her so, which he did with an unhurried: ‘OK, Staff, wheel her away. There’s an end-to-end coming out in a few minutes, old and frail; do what you can and let me know if you need me.’

      And so the day wore on. Letitia was relieved for a late dinner and found the canteen almost empty, though the Main Theatre staff nurse was still there and a handful of nurses who had been delayed by various emergencies.

      Letitia wandered along the counter with her tray, looking for something cheap and nourishing; she had bought a dress on her last days off and her pocket was now so light that buying her meals had become a major exercise in basic arithmetic. She chose soup, although it was a warm June day, a roll to go with it and a slab of treacle tart, because starch was filling and even though it was fattening too she was lucky enough not to have that problem, being possessed of a neat little figure which retained its slender curves whatever she ate. She paid for these dainties at the end of the counter and went to join her fellow staff nurse, Angela Collins, who cast a sympathetic eye at the contents of her tray, said fervently: ‘Thank God it’s only a week to pay-day,’ and addressed herself to her own, similar meal.

      Letitia nodded. ‘Holidays in four weeks,’ she observed cheerfully, and thought with sudden longing of the quiet Rectory. The raspberries would be ripe, she would go into the garden and walk up and down the canes, eating as many as she wanted. She sighed and asked: ‘How’s theatre? There’s only that resection left, isn’t there?’

      Her friend snorted. ‘There was—they popped two more on the list while Sister wasn’t looking. She’s fighting mad, but Mr Snell’s doing his famous wheedling act and that new man has the charm turned full on—he’s got her all girlish. I must say he’s rather a dream; a pity he’s only here while our Julius takes a holiday.’

      ‘I thought you liked him.’

      ‘Our Julius? Of course I do—we all dote on him, but he’s married, isn’t he? To your sister’s best friend, too.’

      Letitia nibbled at her roll, making it last. ‘Yes, she’s a sweetie, too.’

      She wolfed down the treacle tart. ‘I’ve still got some tea, shall we make a pot?’

      They hurried over to the Nurses’ Home and climbed to the top floor where the staff nurses had their rooms, and because there were several girls off duty, the tea was stretched to half a dozen mugs, sipped in comfort on Letitia’s bed to the accompaniment of a buzz of conversation until she looked at her watch, discovered that she was almost late, and flew back through the hospital once more, walking sedately in those parts where she was likely to meet Authority, who frowned on running nurses, and tearing like mad along the long empty back corridors.

      The afternoon went fast; it was half past four before the last case was wheeled away to the ward and Letitia, aided by the faithful Mrs Mead, began clearing up. Between them they had the place stripped, cleaned and put together again by the time Big Ben chimed five o’clock. Mrs Mead had gone and Letitia had taken off her theatre dress and mob cap and was standing in the middle of the room doing absolutely nothing when the giant walked in once more.

      ‘Not got home yet?’ he asked carelessly as he crossed to the outside door. ‘Good afternoon to you.’ He smiled vaguely in her direction and she heard him walking rapidly along the corridor which led to the wards. When she couldn’t hear his footsteps any more she took one final look round the recovery room and went in her turn out of the door. As she passed the Surgical Wing she caught a glimpse of him, standing outside Sister’s office, deep in conversation with Staff Nurse Bolt, another friend of hers. They were both laughing and it made her feel a little lonely: he could have stopped and talked to her, too.

      She had to hear of him later that evening, when half a dozen of them were sitting round consuming the chips they had been down the road to buy—cheaper than the canteen and filling—besides, someone had come back from days off with a large fruit cake and, between them they had gathered tea and sugar and milk and made a giant pot of tea. They had cast off their frilly caps and their shoes and some of them were already in dressing gowns and the noise was considerable. It was Angela who brought up the subject of the newcomer. ‘He’s fab,’ she uttered to anyone who cared to listen, ‘huge and smashing to look at, and one of those lovely slow, deep voices.’ She turned her head to look for Letitia, pouring tea. ‘Hey, Tishy, you must have had time to take a good look—didn’t you think he was absolutely super? Just about the most super man you’ve ever set eyes on?’

      There was silence for a few seconds; every girl in the room knew about Tishy and the Medical Registrar, and because they all liked her they had done their best to help her by saying nothing about it and ignoring her pinched face and red eyes. It was a pity that Angela hadn’t stopped to think. Several of them spoke at once to save Tishy from answering, but she spoke with her usual composure. ‘I didn’t really look at him—we were too busy. He knows his job, though.’

      There was a chorus of relieved agreement before someone wanted to know if the rest of them had seen the trouser suits in Peter Robinson’s, and the talk turned, as it so often did, to clothes.

      Letitia was on duty at eight o’clock the next morning. The list was heavy enough to begin with, petering out after dinner time, so that by four o’clock she was clearing the recovery room in the pleasant anticipation of getting off duty punctually at half past four. As indeed she was. She wandered through the hospital on the way to her room; several of her friends were off duty too, they might have a few sets of tennis, it was a lovely day still. She stopped to look out of a window and saw Doctor Mourik van Nie getting into a car—a splendid BMW convertible. She studied its sleek lines and admired the discreet grey of its coachwork before she turned away, wondering where he was going.

      Jason Mourik van Nie was going to Dalmers Place. An hour or so later he joined Julius van den Berg Effert and Georgina on the terrace behind the house. Polly, their very small daughter, was almost asleep on her father’s knee and Georgina exclaimed in relief as he walked out of the french windows. ‘There you are— Polly refuses to go to bed until you’ve kissed her good night.’ She smiled at her husband’s friend. ‘If you’ll do that right away. I’ll whisk her off to bed and Julius shall get us all a drink.’

      Jason smiled at her, kissed his small goddaughter, exchanged a brief ‘Dag’ and sat down.

      ‘Stay where you are, darling,’ said Julius, ‘I’ll pop this young woman into her bed and bring the drinks as I come back.’

      His wife gave

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