A Match For Sister Maggy. Бетти Нилс
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MacFergus spoke unhurriedly. ‘All the gastric X-rays, Nurse, and the notes, and make sure the patients are ready for examination. There’s no time to get Mrs Burt ready, but you should have time to see to the others—be as quiet as you can.’ She gave a smiling nod, and the nurse, with another look at Dr Doelsma, slipped away, leaving him standing with Sister MacFergus in the doorway.
‘Allow me to compliment you on your ward, Sister; I see that you are indeed able to cope with any situation.’ He paused, and when she looked at him, went on in a silky voice. ‘Even the unexpected visit of a fat, elderly balding and near-sighted Dutchman.’
He smiled at her charmingly, and murmured. ‘After you, Sister,’ and she walked ahead of him into the ward, brown eyes flashing, head very high, and cheeks scarlet.
The round went smoothly. Dr Doelsma found himself with Matron, and when he at length contrived to get near the other two, it was to observe that they seemed on friendly terms—indeed. Sir Charles was calling Sister MacFergus Maggy without any objection on her part. With a little ingenuity, the doctor contrived to change places with Sir Charles, and conversed pleasantly enough between the beds.
‘That was a very good question you put at the end of my lecture, Sister.’
Maggy MacFergus was taken completely off her guard. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I have a patient with that very condition which you mentioned—Mrs Salt.’ She stopped and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Who told you it was my question?’
‘No one. I have good eyesight, and I happened to be looking at the back row.’
They had reached Mrs Salt’s bed; an old lady with black boot-button eyes and ill-fitting dentures. She had been in hospital for a long time and was regarded by the entire staff as a kind of ward mascot, whose elderly tantrums were to be cheerfully endured. She greeted Matron and Sir Charles in a piping voice and wasted no more time on them. Instead, she turned her gaze on Sister MacFergus.
‘Ullo, dearie. Now that’s what I like to see—a well-matched pair. And about time too; a nice girl like you going begging, Sister.’
Sister MacFergus, with great strength of mind, ignored this awful remark, merely saying in a repressive voice,
‘Dr Doelsma would like to ask you a few questions. Mrs Salt.’
Mrs Salt turned her naughty old face up to his.
‘And I’ll answer ’em. Haven’t seen such a ‘andsome face for years. Just the right size for Sister too.’ She grinned, well pleased with herself, and Dr Doelsma chuckled and sat down on the side of her bed and took one of her old hands in his; it felt quite weightless.
‘I see that you are a great one for a joke, Mrs Salt.’
‘I like a good larf—How come you speak English like us?’ she queried.
‘I went to school,’ he answered gravely. ‘And now, Mrs Salt, oblige me by putting out your tongue.’
She complied promptly, and answered his questions cheerfully enough, and when he had finished he got up, shook hands, and hoped that he would see her again the next time he came.
‘Yer’d better ‘urry up, then, Doctor. I’ll be ninety in October.’ She clutched his hand. ‘And I bet it won’t be me yer’ll come to see.’ She nodded and winked and jerked her thumb in the direction of Sister MacFergus, who, beyond going rather pink, and breathing loudly, ignored her. Mrs Salt looked disappointed at this poor response to her sally, and said resignedly,
‘Now I suppose you’re going to talk to old sour-face.’ She jerked her head at the next bed, where a dark-haired woman with sallow skin and a sullen expression lay watching them. But Matron, who had looked at her watch, decreed otherwise. If the doctors were to go to their luncheon as arranged, they should leave the ward at once.
They all walked to the door, where farewells, gracious on Matron’s part, friendly on Sir Charles’ and casual on the part of Dr Doelsma, were said, and the visitors began their descent of the stairs. On the first half-landing, however, Dr Doelsma stopped, and said thoughtfully,
‘I remember now, there was something I wished to say to Sister—it quite slipped my mind on the ward. You will forgive me if I go back? I won’t be above a minute or two.’
He went upstairs again, three steps at a time, to find the landing empty and Sister’s door shut. He knocked without hesitation, and went in. Sister MacFergus was standing by her desk, doing nothing. The nurse who had eyed him in the ward was rattling cups and saucers on a tray. They both looked up, astonished, as he went in. The astonishment on Sister MacFergus’s face, however, quickly turned to a heavy frown which she made no attempt to hide. The doctor, it seemed, was impervious to cross looks, for he merely held the door open, remarking,
‘Perhaps Nurse could leave us for a moment? A small matter, purely between ourselves, Sister.’
The nurse smiled at him, and then looked at Sister MacFergus, who gave a brief nod of assent. As the girl slipped away through the door, she flashed beautiful green eyes at the doctor, and was rewarded by an appreciative stare as he shut the door behind her, and leaned against it with his hands in his pockets. Maggy MacFergus stood where she was, looking at him, her brows still drawn together in a thick line.
‘What do you want?’ she asked at length, quite forgetting to say ‘sir’. He took a step into the little room, which brought him within inches of her. There was no space for her to step backwards; she couldn’t very well push him aside. She stayed where she was.
‘I want you to remember me.’ He caught her by the shoulders and kissed her squarely on the mouth, and before she could think of anything to say he was at the door again, had opened it, and turned to say ‘Tot ziens, Maggy.’ He sounded as though he was laughing. She went on standing there; her sensible, orderly mind a chaotic whirl of half-formed thoughts, most which she found bewildering and disturbing, especially as she would never see him again. At length she took off her cuffs and slowly rolled up her sleeves, pulled on her frills, and went into the ward to do some work.
CHAPTER TWO
FOR THE NEXT few days Maggy wasn’t her usual cheerful, hard-working self. She was well aware of this, but took good care not to question herself as to the cause. She did a great deal of unnecessary work on the ward, as if the stacks of charts, laundry lists, off-duty rotas and all the other clutter accumulating on a Ward Sister’s desk would make a pile sufficiently high under which to bury all thoughts of Dr Doelsma. After a time she did indeed manage to cram him into a remote corner of her mind. It was a pity that she had only just succeeded in doing this, when she was accosted by Sir Charles and asked her opinion of his erstwhile pupil. They were halfway round the ward at the time, and she had no chance to evade the question.
‘He seemed a very nice wee man.’ She was, idiotically, blushing.
Sir Charles gave her a look without appearing to do so.
‘He’s six foot four inches, Maggy, though being six foot yourself you’d not notice that. Don’t you like him?’
She studied the path lab form in her hand as though she had never seen one before in her life. ‘Aye. But every nurse in the hospital likes him, Sir Charles. He’s a handsome man.’
Sir Charles scribbled his signature on an X-ray form before replying.
‘Yes, he is. But not conceited with it. I’ve known him since he was a small boy—his parents were great friends of mine; his mother still is. He’s clever, and he’s made a successful career for himself.’ He coughed. ‘He knows exactly what he wants, and gets it too.’ He looked so knowingly at Maggy that she went scarlet; surely Dr Doelsma hadn’t told Sir Charles about the regrettable incident in her office? She realised that she hadn’t forgotten it at all. Her brows drew together in so fierce a frown that Sir Charles allowed his vague manner to become even more vague, and pursued the topic in an even more ruthless fashion.
‘Can’t think why he’s not married. Heaven knows the number