A Match For Sister Maggy. Бетти Нилс

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      ‘You’re at lunch,’ she said stupidly.

      He ignored this piece of foolishness, but strolled into the room.

      ‘Ah. I’m glad you’re back on duty,’ he said.

      She frowned. Really, she thought, after his obvious anxiety to get rid of her that morning—’ Did something go wrong?’ she asked.

      ‘No, no. Nurse Sibley was most competent, but I must admit that I prefer you here, Sister.’ He stared at her. ‘You needed to go off duty this morning, you were tired.’

      She went pink; it was an unpleasant experience having her thoughts read so accurately. She asked, curiosity getting the better of discretion, ‘Why do you prefer me here, Doctor?’

      He considered his reply. ‘I am a big man, Sister. People tend to stare at me as though I were something peculiar. You don’t stare, presumably because you are such a big woman yourself. A purely selfish reason, you see.’

      This truthful but unflattering description of herself did nothing to improve Maggy’s mood, and the more so because she could think of nothing to say in reply. Nurse Sibley’s return saved her from this difficulty, however. She handed over to her, and left the room with great dignity, feeling twelve feet tall, and very conscious of the largeness of her person.

      The visitors, laden with flowers and fruit and unsuitable food, began to straggle in, and Maggy was kept busy answering questions and making out certificates. Madame Riveau’s husband and son hadn’t arrived; she would have to see them that evening. She sat down at her desk and began the off-duty rota for the following week. It was an absorbing and irritating task, trying to fit in lectures, study days, and special requests for days off. She became immersed in it, then looked up to find the doctor standing by her. She stopped, pen poised.

      ‘Did you want me, sir?’

      He didn’t answer her question, but said shortly, ‘My mother’s asleep.’ He stretched out an arm and took the off duty book from her and studied it carefully. Maggy asked in an annoyed voice,

      ‘Is there something you wish to know, Dr Doelsma?’

      ‘Yes, there was,’ he answered cheerfully, ‘but I’ve seen all I want, thank you.’ He gave the book back into a hand rendered nerveless with vexation, but made no effort to go.

      Maggy filled in another name and then asked, ‘Would you like tea, sir? It’s early, I know, but perhaps in Holland you drink tea at a different time from us.’

      ‘Probably. But I must point out to you that I am a Friesman, and not a Hollander, and proud of the fact—just as you, I imagine, are proud of being a Scotswoman. The Friesians and the Scots have mutual ancestors, you know.’

      Maggy didn’t know, and said so, adding, ‘How interesting’ in a cold voice which he ignored.

      ‘How’s Mrs Salt?’ he enquired.

      Maggy put down her pen in a deliberate manner. He seemed bent on engaging her in conversation, however unwilling on her part, so she said civilly, ‘The path lab results came back yesterday—and the X-rays show an infiltration into the oesophagus—a blueprint of your lecture.’

      ‘May I see her notes?’ He was serious and rather remote now. She got the notes and X-rays and answered his questions sensibly. At length he handed them back to her, saying, ‘A blueprint indeed, Sister, which bears out your question, does it not?’

      She nodded. ‘It’s strange that a condition as rare as this one should coincide with your lecture.’

      They discussed technicalities for a few minutes, and she surprised him with her sharp brain and knowledge used with so much intelligence.

      ‘Could you spare time to come and see Mrs Salt?’ he suggested. ‘Not to examine her, just a social visit.’

      They walked down the ward to the old lady’s bed. She had no visitors—she had been a patient for so long that the novelty of coming to see her had worn off—and she hailed Dr Doelsma with delight.

      ‘Cor, if it ain’t Dr Dutch ‘isself!’ She extended a hand, which he observed had become more transparent, and if possible thinner than it had been a week ago. Her lively black eyes snapped at him, however.

      ‘Don’t feed me a lot of codswallop about getting better, doctor. I ain’t a fool, no more I’m a cry-baby, though I’ll be fair mad if I don’t ’ave me birthday.’ She turned her penetrating gaze on to Maggy. ‘Goin’ to ’ave a cake, ain’t I, love?’

      Sister MacFergus, replying to this endearing form of address, smiled and said, ‘Yes, Mrs Salt, a cake with candles, so you’d better be good and do as you’re asked so that you’ll be able to blow them out. There’ll be presents too.’ she added.

      The old lady brightened. “Oo from?’

      Maggy smiled. ‘That’s a secret, but I can promise that you’re going to get quite a lot of parcels.’

      ‘Suppose I don’t last, love?’

      Maggy didn’t hesitate. ‘Mrs Salt, I promise you that you shall have a birthday party.’

      The old lady nodded, satisfied. ‘Right yer are. You’re coming, young man?’ She turned briskly to the doctor.

      His eyes widened with laughter. ‘No one’s called me young man for years! How nice it sounds. For that I shall bring you a birthday present. Will you choose, or shall it be a surprise?’

      ‘I’ll ’ave a pink nightie with lots of lace,’ she replied promptly. ‘It’ll cost yer a pretty penny; d’yer earn enough to buy one?’

      He didn’t smile, but answered gently, ‘Yes, Mrs Salt, I do, and you shall have it—on condition that you wear it at the party.’

      ‘O’course I shall! A bit of a waste on an old woman like me, ain’t it? but I always wanted one—more sense ter give it ter Sister ’ere. She’d look nice in it, I reckon.’

      Maggy kept her eyes on the counterpane, and concentrated on not blushing, but was well aware that Dr Doelsma was studying her with interest and taking his time about it.

      ‘Yes, very nice, Mrs Salt,’ he murmured, ‘but she’ll have to wait for her birthday, won’t she?’

      He said goodbye then, and they turned away. Madame Riveau, in the next bed, had visitors. Her husband and son sat one on each side of her; they looked, Maggy thought, as though they were guarding the woman in the bed. She wished them a good afternoon as she passed, and was surprised when they both got up and walked over to her. Subconsciously she recoiled and took an instinctive step towards the doctor, who looked faintly surprised but remained silent.

      The older man spoke. ‘I wish to take my wife home. You will arrange it?’ It wasn’t a request but a demand, couched in an insolent tone and awkward French.

      Maggy stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Riveau; you must arrange that with the doctor. Your wife is almost better; please let her stay for another week.’

      The younger man had joined his father. ‘My mother is not to have her teeth СКАЧАТЬ