Enchanting Samantha. Betty Neels

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      Samantha smiled once again and nodded encouragingly as she popped a thermometer under her patient’s tongue and took her pulse, both up, she noted; probably the poor old thing was wondering what would happen to her. She patted an arm and sped down the ward to the kitchen, fetched a feeder of tea and gave it to her with the gentle expertise of long practice.

      She had finished the report with seconds to spare before Night Sister made her brief appearance on the ward and was taking down a drip when Brown appeared at her elbow to whisper: ‘There’s a man outside, Staff.’

      ‘Good luck to him,’ said Samantha absently, taking out the cannula with careful fingers and covering the tiny puncture with a strip of plaster.

      Brown giggled. ‘He wants to see the old lady—the one with the burns.’

      Samantha laid the drip paraphernalia on the trolley and prepared to wheel it away. ‘Tell him to wait, will you? He can’t come in until you’ve finished the BP round and I simply must repack Mrs Wheeler’s dressing.’ Her eye fell on the clock. ‘Oh, lord—just as we were getting on so nicely…’

      She was packing Mrs Wheeler’s leaking dressing when Brown appeared again. ‘He says he’ll be glad if you could be as quick as possible,’ she added. ‘He’s ever so romantic-looking, Staff.’

      Samantha muttered rudely under her breath and picked up her dressing tray. ‘No one,’ she stated repressively, ‘is romantic-looking at this hour of the morning. He’ll have to wait while I wash my hands. Have you finished the round?’

      Brown nodded.

      ‘Then pull any curtains that are necessary, will you?’ she sighed. ‘I suppose he’ll have to come in, but it couldn’t be a more awkward time.’

      She disposed of the tray, washed her hands and marched briskly down the ward, a small, pleasantly plump figure, her cap perched very precisely on the top of her neatly piled brown hair, a frown marring a face, which, while by no means pretty, was pleasant enough, with hazel eyes fringed with short thick lashes, a nose turned up at its end and a mouth which though a little too large, could smile delightfully.

      There was no sign of a smile now, though, as she charged silently through the swing doors and came to an abrupt halt by the man sitting on the radiator under the landing window—a large man, she saw, as he rose to his feet, towering over her. He was wearing a bulky car coat and she could see leather gloves stuffed anyhow into its pockets, she could also see that he was dark-haired, craggy-faced and handsome with it, and had grey eyes of a peculiar intensity. All these things she saw within a few seconds, having been trained to observe quickly, accurately and without comment. Before he could speak Samantha said: ‘Good morning—I’m glad you’ve come; you know the patient, I take it? We don’t know anything about her and we haven’t been able to talk to her at all—she must feel terrible about it, poor soul. You’ve come at a very awkward time, but at least you’re here now. If you would come into the office now and let me have her particulars, you could go and see her for a few minutes afterwards—the ward’s closed, but just for once…Are you her son?’

      His straight black brows rose an inch. ‘My dear good girl, how you do chat—were you learning all that off by heart while I waited?’ He had followed her to the office door and held it open for her to go inside. ‘No, I’m not her son, just a very old friend.’ His voice was deep and faintly amused and Samantha, still smarting from his first remark, sat down at the desk and waved him to a chair, explained with commendable brevity the nature of the patient’s injuries and asked:

      ‘Could you tell me if she lives at the address where she was found? 26, Minterne Square, SW8.’

      The chair, not built for comfortable sitting in by heavy-weights, creaked alarmingly as he crossed his very long legs. ‘Yes, temporarily.’

      Samantha wrote. ‘Has she an occupation?’

      ‘Er—housekeeper.’

      She eyed him without favour. ‘Could you help a little more, do you think? I’m very busy. Her name and has she relations or any friends to whom we can apply? And does she live alone and how old is she?’

      He smiled lazily. ‘She is sixty-nine, I think. How old are you?’

      ‘That’s my business,’ she snapped tartly, ‘and will you please…’

      ‘Ah, yes. Her name is Klara Boot,’ he stopped to spell it. ‘She is a Dutchwoman, here for a short period to act as housekeeper at the house where she was found. She arrived only yesterday evening, and through an unfortunate chance I was delayed from meeting her. She speaks no English.’

      Samantha looked up from her form, pen poised. ‘Oh, I see, she lets rooms or something of that sort?’

      He smiled faintly. ‘Something of that sort,’ he agreed. ‘She has no relations to the best of my knowledge, so if there is anything needed for her, perhaps I could be told.’ He stood up. ‘And now if I might see her for a few minutes.’

      Samantha felt inclined to take umbrage at his tone, but perhaps he had been up all night like she had and wasn’t feeling very amiable. She got up and led the way to the ward, saying at the door: ‘You’ll come again? Day Sister will want to see you—have you a telephone number?’

      He grinned. ‘Now we are making strides—we might even arrange a date.’

      She lost her breath and caught it again with an angry snort. ‘Well, really—’ she began, and then, at a loss for words, walked ahead of him down the ward, past the highly interested patients, to where the old lady lay. As she pulled the cubicle curtains back he put two hands on her waist, lifted her effortlessly on one side and strode past her to bend over the bed and greet the patient in the gentlest of voices in some language she couldn’t make head or tail of. Samantha watched the elderly face light up, break into a smile and then dissolve into tears, but when she stepped forward, the man stopped her by saying:

      ‘Thank you, dear girl, don’t let me stop you from finishing your work.’

      She contented herself with a cold: ‘Ten minutes, if you please, and not a minute more,’ before she stalked away. A rude and arrogant man, she fumed, even though his voice had held unmistakable authority. Too late she remembered that she had no idea who he was. He had mentioned being an old friend—possibly a lodger of some years’ standing with the old lady. Perhaps she had moved house and he with her—in that case surely there would have been other lodgers? She started on the medicine round, still cross because he had called her ‘dear girl’ with an off-hand patronage which she found quite insulting. On an impulse she went to the desk and telephoned the Surgical Night Sister; let him try and patronize that formidable lady if he could—it was unfortunate that she wasn’t to be found, and as it turned out it would have been pointless, for when Samantha, after exactly ten minutes, went to remind the visitor that he should go, he was nowhere to be found; he must have gone, very silently indeed, while her back was turned.

      She explained it all to Sister Grieves when that lady came on duty at eight o’clock, and then sped away to the dining room for her breakfast, a meal which didn’t take very long to eat, for it was the end of the month and she hadn’t much money left. Tea and toast and butter—but as her companions at table were eating the same rather dull fare it didn’t seem so bad. Besides, she lived out, in a flat shared with three other nurses, all at the moment on day duty, and they had become astonishingly clever at stretching the housekeeping money; there would be a nourishing stew that evening when Samantha got up, and before she went СКАЧАТЬ