Enchanting Samantha. Бетти Нилс

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СКАЧАТЬ Samantha was glad to know that her hands were healing nicely. She flipped over the card and heard the door behind her open.

      ‘Thank heaven,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were never coming.’

      ‘Now that is quite the nicest thing you have said to me.’ Doctor ter Ossel’s whisper was in her ear; he had bent down over her chair and she turned sharply to find his grey eyes within an inch or so of her own. A little short of breath, she managed: ‘Grandmother told me that you had gone to Holland.’

      ‘Quite right. Now I’m back—to see someone.’

      Samantha got up with as much dignity as space permitted, for he hadn’t moved an inch. ‘If you’ve come to see Juffrouw Boot, it’s rather late, she’ll be asleep.’

      ‘I saw Klara this evening.’

      ‘Then who?’

      ‘Ah—the someone. I’ve seen her. I popped in while passing merely.’

      ‘Oh.’ Considering how much she disliked him, the feelings engendered by this remark made no sense. Samantha stared up at him, wishing she knew who the someone was—there were pretty girls galore in the hospital, and several young and attractive doctors besides. She was wondering how she could find out when Brown came creeping in through the door with two mugs of coffee. She stopped when she saw the doctor, spilled some of the coffee down her apron and whispered: ‘Oh—do you want some coffee too?’

      He took the mugs from her and set them down on the desk, his smile earning him an answering one from her round young face. ‘No, thanks, my dear, I’m just going. Keep an eye on this staff nurse of yours, will you? I don’t believe she’s ever heard that one about all work and no play…’ He nodded briskly to the pair of them and slid his bulk soundlessly through the door.

      Brown let out a noisy breath. ‘Well, whatever did he mean, Staff?’

      ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said Samantha tartly.

      ‘He’s foreign, remember; I daresay he’s got his metaphors mixed.’ She wasn’t sure if that was the right expression, she had a sneaking doubt that it hadn’t been a metaphor at all, but it sounded most convincing and Brown, who was a good girl but not very bright, didn’t appear to question it. They drank their coffee and conned the report and in the welter of questions and answers, forgot all about their visitor—or almost. As they got to their feet to do a ward round, Brown whispered: ‘He’s nice, isn’t he, Staff—so romantic—he turns me on.’

      Samantha picked up her torch, suddenly and surprisingly aware that to speak truth, he turned her on too, although she had no intention of admitting it. ‘He’s quite nice,’ she agreed quenchingly, and was conscious of her companion’s pitying glance; probably the girl considered her an old maid at twenty-four; she was, in all fairness, right.

      It was during the following week that the ancillary staff of the hospital decided to go on strike, not all of them willingly. But as Betsy, the elderly ward maid, pointed out to Samantha when she came on duty to find the supper dishes still unwashed: ‘It’s not that I likes the idea, Staff—it’s the money, they says it ain’t enough.’ She jerked a grubby thumb over her shoulder. ‘Them poor cows in the ward, I’ates ter leave them.’

      Samantha knew what she meant, even though her description of the ladies lying in the ward beds was hardly one she would have used herself, but old Betsy’s heart was in the right place even if her mode of speech was a thought rough; she had been told not to work, but that didn’t prevent her from stating her opinion of the situation. ‘I’m not supposed to be ’ere, neither,’ she confided. ‘I just popped up to see ’ow yer was managing.’ She made for the door. ‘Well, ta-ta, ducks, be seeing yer.’

      It wasn’t too bad for the first couple of days; the nursing staff shared the extra work; the day nurses staying on later and going on duty earlier and the night staff doing the same, apportioning the washing up, the sweeping and dusting between them. It was when Sir Joshua White, doing his round a little early on the third morning and finding Samantha in the kitchen long after she should have been off duty, washing the endless cups and saucers while Sister Grieves vacuumed the ward floor, spoke his mind.

      ‘You are two hours late off duty,’ he pointed out to Samantha, quite unnecessarily. ‘It is impossible for you to carry out your nursing duties and be a maid of all work at the same time—the patients are liable to suffer.’

      ‘No, they aren’t,’ said Samantha, careless of her manners because she was half asleep and wanted her breakfast.

      He studied her tired face through his gold-rimmed spectacles. ‘No—I shouldn’t have said that, I apologize, but you’re going to be worn out, young lady. I shall have to think of something.’

      He stalked away and she could hear him in the ward, surrounded by scurrying nurses trying to get the ward straight, addressing Sister in outraged tones, raising his voice a little because she still had the Hoover on.

      That evening, when Samantha went on early so as to give a hand with the supper dishes, she went straight to the kitchen as usual, for Sister Grieves would be writing the report, and although the ward wasn’t taking any fresh cases because there was no linen for the theatre, there was more than enough to do. She flung open the door to find Doctor ter Ossel at the sink while Sir Joshua, wielding a tea towel with the same assurance as he did his scalpel, dried up. Both gentlemen were in their shirtsleeves and both were smoking their pipes, so that the atmosphere, already damp and redolent of burnt toast, baked beans and the peculiar odour of washing up done on the grand scale, was enriched by volumes of smoke from one of the more expensive tobaccos.

      ‘I told you that I would think of something,’ Sir Joshua greeted her. ‘Did you get any breakfast?’

      ‘Well—I have a meal when I get to the flat. I sleep out, sir.’

      He eyed her narrowly, made a rumbling noise in his throat and applied himself to the spoons and forks. It was Doctor ter Ossel who put his pipe down on the shelf above the sink and turned to ask: ‘What sort of meal?’

      Samantha was stacking the trolley ready for the evening drinks. ‘Oh, tea and toast and marmalade, of course.’

      He picked up his pipe again. ‘Not enough—you’ll lose weight.’ He grinned at her and she felt her cheeks go red; her slight plumpness was something she was sensitive about—perhaps he thought of her as fat.

      ‘And what about our little Nurse Brown?’ he wanted to know. ‘Does she live out too?’

      Samantha shook her head. ‘She’s only eighteen.’ She sounded almost motherly. ‘She lives quite close by, so she goes home for breakfast and supper.’

      She went to the shelves and picked up the Ovaltine, the Bengers, the Nescafé and the Horlicks and arranged them in an orderly row on the trolley. ‘Shall I take over now?’ she asked.

      ‘Certainly not,’ said Sir Joshua. ‘As a married man, I have acquired the knack of wiping dishes of an evening, and as for Giles here, being still a bachelor, it’s a splendid opportunity for him to learn a few of the more practical arts of marriage.’

      He flung his damp tea towel into a corner of the kitchen and took the clean one Samantha thoughtfully handed him. ‘We shall be here in the morning, Staff. I’ve arranged everything with Sister Grieves.’

      She murmured СКАЧАТЬ