A Match For Sister Maggy. Бетти Нилс
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Matron, followed by Sir Charles Warren, made the speeches usual to such an occasion, Dr Doelsma settled his vast bulk into his chair, and surveyed his audience. From where he was sitting most of them looked very pretty; those who were not were at least attractive, although his keen eye detected one or two really plain girls; he sighed—for the plain ones always asked questions. He had been lecturing for several years now; he knew what to expect. He supposed it was something to do with their egos. He rose to his feet, replied gracefully and briefly to the speeches and began his lecture. He was an excellent lecturer, and within a few minutes he had his audience’s attention, and kept it. He made his subject, the malignant conditions of the stomach and their latest treatment, sound enthralling. He was a specialist in this field of medicine, and such was his interest and enthusiasm for his work that he had no difficulty in holding the attention of every girl there. Even the rebels, who hadn’t wanted to go anyway, felt sorry for their colleagues who had been left on the wards.
Sir Charles, watching him from his side of the platform, thought what a first-rate man Paul had become. A pity he wasn’t married, he mused, for he must be all of thirty-five. Too busy with his work, perhaps. It was nice for Henrietta to have such a son, though. He himself had known Paul’s mother for years; his father too. Since the latter’s death he had not lost contact with either of them. She would be coming over on a visit from Friesland in a few days. Behind the attentive façade of his nice elderly face, he began to make plans for her entertainment.
Matron, listening to the doctor’s deep attractive voice discussing enzymes and their complex working, felt thankful that she no longer needed to know much about these new-fangled theories. In her day, a gastric ulcer was a gastric ulcer; you either recovered from it, or you died; nobody bothered with enzymes. So simple. Her massive bosom inflated on a sigh and she turned her full attention on to the nurses before her—rows of rapt attentive faces all looking at the lecturer. ‘You’d think he would feel uncomfortable,’ she mused, and transferred her gaze to the object of their attention, and studied him carefully. He was enough to catch the eye of any woman under eighty. He had a hawk-like distinction to crown his good looks, and as if that were not enough, his very massiveness made it impossible for him to go unnoticed. Her eyes swept the ranks of nurses before her, and she suppressed the chuckle which rose to her primly set mouth. No wonder they were all so attentive! No doubt they would all be dreaming of him tonight, and tomorrow there would be a queue of them outside her office, wanting to know if English-trained nurses were accepted in Dutch hospitals.
The applause at the end of the lecture was such that Dr Doelsma was surprised; it was, of course, more for him than for the lecture, but he was a man of little conceit, and that idea had never occurred to him. He was used to his size attracting stares, and although he had the self-confidence and assurance of a man of breeding and wealth, he was essentially modest. Now he waited patiently for the clapping to stop and then asked mildly.
‘Has anyone any questions to ask?’
As he had foreseen, the plain nurses rose one by one and put their questions. They weren’t particularly intelligent queries, either, but he was a kind man, and answered them in turn with a grave courtesy, leaving each of them in a rosy glow of satisfaction. He enjoyed answering the points raised by the more senior nurses and sisters; they showed a lively comprehension of his lecture and a shrewd knowledge of the subject. He had not looked at the back row since he had got to his feet; now he allowed his gaze to rest there for a moment. The Amazon of the entrance hall was in earnest conversation with her neighbour, who nodded and then got to her feet. The question she asked, ‘What alternative is there to the use of vitamin B12 when both stomach and liver are diseased, making the storage of the vitamin an impossibility, and thus failing to check the anaemia?’ had been well thought out. He had a shrewd suspicion as to the originator; he leaned back against the table in the middle of the platform, setting the water jug and glasses jangling, and looked over the rows of upturned pink faces, staring blandly at the big girl in the back row. Even at that distance he could see her blushing. He smiled gently and addressed himself to her.
‘My answer would depend largely upon the patient. An elderly, ill patient would be best treated with palliative methods, as and when symptoms arose. But in the case of the younger person, and bearing in mind that the liver has six other functions than that of storing the anti-anaemic factor, it might be well worth attempting a liver transplant provided that the stomach condition could be controlled until such time as the resistance of the patient was sufficiently restored to warrant conservative surgery on the stomach. The hazards would be great, but in my opinion, worth while in suitable cases.’ He paused, then added, ‘I should like to add that this question showed a high rate of intelligence.’ He didn’t look at her any more after that, but after the closing speeches, followed Matron and Sir Charles out of the hall without a backward glance.
‘Most successful,’ breathed Matron. ‘Coffee, I think, in my office.’ She turned to Dr Doelsma. ‘You’re lunching with the consultants, I believe, but I hope I shall see you before you go.’
She led the way into her office, and they drank Nescafé, disguised in her best china. Dr Doelsma made himself very pleasant and asked a great many questions, so that after a few minutes he was able to discover that Sister MacFergus was in charge of Women’s Medical. Over his second, unwanted cup, he blandly suggested that a quick tour round that particular ward would be highly interesting; there were doubtless several gastric cases there—he had remembered the four test meals. Sir Charles agreed readily enough, and politely invited Matron to accompany them. Rather to the doctors’ surprise, she accepted with alacrity, and at once swept them out and away and up a series of staircases which eventually brought them on to the landing outside Women’s Medical.
Their arrival was seen only by a small junior nurse, who looked at them in patent horror and scuttled, head down, to a door marked ‘Sister’s Office’, where she knocked and entered. Dr Doelsma’s lips twitched, but he avoided Sir Charles’ amused look, and remarked politely upon the tasteful display of flowers on the window ledge. He turned from their contemplation in time to see Sister MacFergus emerge from her office. She looked cool and dignified, concealing the faint unease she was feeling. She addressed herself politely to Matron, and waited to hear what was wanted of her. She had smiled warmly at Sir Charles, who smiled back, but she carefully avoided the visiting doctor’s eye.
‘Sister MacFergus, this is Dr Doelsma. You were, of course, at his lecture. He would like to go round your ward—you have several gastrics. I believe?’
Sister MacFergus offered a hand, wordlessly, and raised her brown eyes to his grey ones in an unsmiling face, acknowledging his greeting with an inclination of her head. Of the fact that her heart was beating a tumultuous tattoo as his hand engulfed hers, she gave no sign. She turned to Matron.
‘The ward’s a wee bit untidy, Matron. Staff Nurse Williams is off sick with a raging toothache, the puir lass.’
‘Oh, I forgot that, Sister. Perhaps it would be as well if we postponed our visit.’ Matron glanced at Dr Doelsma, who flicked an infinitesimal speck off a beautifully tailored sleeve, remarking,
‘Yes, of course—I must apologise for taking you unawares, Sister. I don’t wish to add to your difficulties; doubtless you have more than you can cope with already.’
Sister MacFergus fancied that she detected derision in his voice. This had the immediate effect of causing her to say in a level voice,
‘Thank you, sir, but I believe we will manage very well.’ She turned her head and raised her voice slightly and called to the same little nurse whom they had first seen, and who now came trotting out of the office, listened to low-voiced instructions, cast her Ward Sister a look of devotion and made off.
They all heard the whispered warning, ‘Don’t run, Nurse!’ But Sister MacFergus, aware of the strong views authority held regarding running nurses, caught Matron’s eye and said before that lady could speak,
‘Yon’s a guid wee lass, and willing, Matron.’ She stepped back so that Matron and Sir Charles could precede her through the door into the ward. There was a brief glimpse of bedpans being whisked into the sluice at the far end, and a nurse was coming at a brisk pace down