The Gemel Ring. Бетти Нилс
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and now, by some quirk of fate, here he was, and obviously not sharing her feelings, indeed, very much the reverse. She promised herself then and there that she would make him change his opinion of her; and this satisfying thought was interrupted by his:
“You look very pleased with yourself about something. Now, supposing we have a talk with the patient.”
She could see within minutes that here was a man who knew his job. He had a measured way of speaking, although he was never at a loss for a word and he was completely confident in himself and the results of the operation he intended to perform, without being boastful. It was also equally apparent to her that whatever his private feelings were towards herself, he had no intention of allowing them to influence their relationship as surgeon and nurse, for when he had talked to Mr Boekerchek he drew her on one side and his manner when he spoke was pleasantly friendly with no hint of mockery or dislike. “I shall want you in theatre,” he told her. “I shall operate at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon and you will be good enough to adjust your duty hours so that you will be available until midnight of that day. You are conversant with intensive care?”
“Yes, Professor.”
He nodded. “You will be directly responsible to me for all the nursing care of Mr—er—Boekerchek. I know that you will be unable to be here all the time, and a nurse has been seconded to share your duties. But please understand that I shall hold you responsible. I will explain…”
Which he did, and at some length, and she listened carefully, storing away facts and techniques and his way of doing things, because he would expect her to know them all.
“You have nursed these cases before?”
“Two—not recently, though. I read your article in The Lancet.”
There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed? I had no idea that The Lancet was read by anyone other than my own profession.”
He was needling her again, but she kept her cool, saying quietly:
“The consultant surgeon for whom I work at St Simon’s lent it to me. I had no idea that it was you…”
“Why should you?” he asked coolly, and turned to go. “You will be in theatre at five to one tomorrow, Sister Dawson.”
She was kept busy for the rest of the day; Mr Boekerchek was to undergo a series of tests, which meant a constant flow of path lab people in and out, And he had to be X-rayed too, an expedition upon which she accompanied him, as well as being seen by various other people connected with his future well-being; the anaesthetist, a youngish man, darkly good-looking and with a charm of manner which Charity was sure must endear him to his patients. He was charming to her too, speaking English, of course, like almost everyone else in the hospital. The professor’s nasty remark had been quite unnecessary and it still rankled; she registered a resolve not to learn or speak a word of Dutch, happily forgetful that she would be the one to suffer from her resolution, not he, and turned to smile at another caller, the professor’s registrar, a short, rather stout young man with a round, cheerful face and a habit of quoting his chief on every possible occasion.
“You will find the operation most interesting,” he assured Charity, standing in the corridor outside her patient’s room. “Professor van Tijlen is outstanding in surgery, you know, and this particular operation is of his own technique—he has done already one dozen and they live yet.”
Charity said tartly: “Marvellous—what else does he specialise in?”
“All illnesses of the stomach and the—the gut.”
“Big deal,” she observed flippantly, and at the look of uncertainty upon her companion’s face hastened to explain: “That’s just an expression in English. It means how—how marvellous.”
Mr van Dungen looked mollified. “He is a wonderful man,” he told her sternly, and then smiled. “You will perhaps call me Dof?”
“Of course. My name’s Charity.” They smiled at each other like old friends and she added: “I say, you’ll help me out if I get in a jam, won’t you?” and had to repeat it all again differently, explaining that getting into a jam didn’t mean quite what it sounded like.
Mrs Boekerchek came over that evening, rather grandly in an Embassy car with a chauffeur who followed her to the door of the patient’s room with a great quantity of flowers and several baskets of fruit which Mr Boekerchek would be unable to eat. Charity soothed his anxious wife and went to fetch Dof van Dungen, whose cheerful manner and sometimes uncertain English might put her patient’s better half at her ease far more than technical details of the operation. It gave her a brief breathing space too, to find Zuster Doelsma; she hadn’t been to the Nurses’ Home yet, a large, gloomy-looking building at the far end of the hospital courtyard. It was a good chance to slip over now, the Dutch girl agreed; she would lend a nurse for a few minutes to show her the way to her room.
“Tomorrow we treat you better, Sister Dawson,” she said kindly. “Today is bad, no time to yourself, for I must ask you to stay on duty until the night nurse comes on, but tomorrow do not come on duty until ten o’clock, so that you will have an hour or two to yourself. I think that Professor van Tijlen told you that he wishes that you stay on duty until midnight; it is better for the patient, you understand? It will be a long day for you, but there is a good nurse to relieve you, and after the first day it will be easier. Now if you wish to go to your room? and when you return we will go to supper together.”
Fair enough, thought Charity, accompanying the little nurse detailed to take her to the Home where she was delighted to find its dull exterior concealed a very modern and bright interior. Her room was on the fourth floor in the Sisters’ wing, an airy, fair-sized room, nicely furnished and with the luxury of a shower concealed in one of its cupboards. The little nurse, whose English was fragmental, having pointed out this amenity with some pride, grinned, said “Dag, Zuster,” and scuttled off, leaving Charity to tidy herself. She would have liked time to unpack, but it seemed she was to have none for the moment; she wasted no time therefore in getting back to the ward, where she found Zuster Doelsma bowed over the Kardex.
“I’ll just go and see Mr Boekerchek,” Charity suggested. “When do you want me back?”
“Supper in ten minutes,” the Dutch girl smiled at her. “That is a funny name which your patient has.”
Charity chuckled. “Yes, I expect his ancestors came from Russia, but the Arthur C. makes it very American, though, doesn’t it?”
Mrs Boekerchek was on the point of leaving. “But I’ll be here tomorrow—about six o’clock, that nice young doctor said.” She looked anxiously at Charity. “You’ll be here, won’t you, honey?”
Charity assured her that she would. “I’m coming on a little later in the morning and I shall stay with Mr Boekerchek until quite late in the evening, and there’s a very good nurse to relieve me at night, so don’t worry, everything will be fine.”
Her companion’s pleasant elderly face crumpled and then straightened itself at the warning: “Now, baby,” from the bed, and Charity turned her back and busied herself with the flowers, thinking that she wouldn’t much like to be addressed as baby, not by anyone—anyone at all; the professor was hardly a man to address anyone endearingly… She checked her galloping thoughts, telling herself that she must be tired indeed to allow such nonsense to creep into her head, and bestirred herself to accompany Mrs Boekerchek to the lift at the end of the corridor, where the little lady clasped both her hands and asked: “It is going to be OK, isn’t it, honey?”
“Of course,” Charity sounded very certain of it. “Professor van Tijlen is just about the best surgeon for this particular operation, you know.”
Her companion nodded. “I’m sure he is—such a dear kind man, too. He came today and explained to me just why he had to operate on Arthur, and when I cried like the old silly I am, he was so comforting. I trust him completely.”
Charity, diverted by her speculations concerning the professor comforting