Not Once But Twice. Betty Neels
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At the door she asked: ‘Supper, too, if you care to stay? Nothing exciting—macaroni cheese—the shops were shut.’
The coffee was accepted but supper declined on the grounds of a prior engagement. And if I’d been offered macaroni cheese, I’d have had a prior engagement too, thought Christina, getting coffee in the kitchen behind the stairs, and she fell to wondering about their visitor. He looked a lot younger than George Henry; probably younger than herself. She paused in measuring out the coffee to take a quick look in the small mirror over the wall cupboard. She looked every day of her twenty-seven years, in no time at all she’d have wrinkles and grey hairs. There wasn’t time to have a good look now, but she would when she went to bed—there was that wildly expensive cream one of the older Sisters had been talking about, guaranteed to hold back the advancing years… But at least she was slim, although she could have wished to have been a little taller.
She made the coffee and carried it back to the study where she sat down and poured it out with a serenity she was far from feeling.
Adam ter Brandt went shortly afterwards, and because George Henry plainly had work to do at his desk, Christina collected up the coffee cups and went into the kitchen to get their supper. The receptionist had gone by now and the house was quiet as she started her cooking. With it safely in the oven she went upstairs to her room, tidied herself and then sat down before the dressing table again, to take down her hair once more and pin it in a different style so that the little curls had a chance to show themselves and she looked—she hoped—younger. She told her reflection that she was being silly as she did it, but all the same she left it like that and went on sitting, suddenly faintly discontented. The room, she decided, glancing round her, was nice enough, but it wasn’t pretty. When she had first come to live with George Henry, he had already furnished the house and in the three years she had been with him she hadn’t liked to change anything; it was his, and although she was his sister, she had no right to alter his home.
She had been glad at the time to join forces with him. Their mother had died so very soon after their father, leaving Christina lonely in the small Somerset cottage. She had been nursing in the nearby town then, going home very often, not bothering overmuch about the future, but left on her own there had been no point in staying there—besides, she had discovered that the house and most of the small amount of money which had been left had gone to George Henry. It had shocked her when he had told her that he was going to sell it, although she could quite see the sense in that; a young GP, just setting up on his own, needed money behind him. She had never let him see how much she had minded leaving the country, but had fallen in with his idea of getting a job in London and sharing his house. She had found a good job, too; going to and fro hadn’t been all that difficult, there was a splendid little woman who came in to clean three times a week and she supposed that in time, if she really tried, she would get to like London; the London they lived in—in a road like thousands of other roads, where no one knew anyone else and all the houses looked alike. The birds couldn’t be heard above the traffic and there wasn’t much sky to be seen.
She had gone back to Somerset several times to stay with friends, not trusting herself to look at her old home, hating to come back, but she had said nothing to George Henry. He was content with his work, determined to get on and buy another practice in a better part of London, but only when he was ready for it. He was a good doctor and worked hard and he was a kind brother. At least she had someone.
She went downstairs and took a look at the macaroni cheese, then went into the dining room to lay the table. It was a small rather gloomy room and furnished in the modern style which Christina didn’t really care for; she liked old pieces, not necessarily matching each other, and bits and pieces of china and silver lying around. Of course, she reminded herself loyally, that would never do for George Henry, for Mrs Tate wouldn’t have the time to dust them. The sitting room led out of the dining room and always reminded her forcibly of a show window in a furniture shop; modern again and quite uncluttered. She wandered in and out of it again, not quite knowing why, her head regrettably full of Adam ter Brandt. It seemed a great pity that having actually met a man to stir her well-balanced heart, she should be forced to lose sight of him immediately.
She laid the table in a careless fashion and, reminded of supper by a strong whiff of cheese, went to the kitchen again.
George Henry wasn’t working when she went to call him to his meal, just sitting staring in front of him, but when she asked if there was something the matter, he assured her that there wasn’t, ate a hearty supper while he regaled her with his day’s work, and then excused himself with the plea that he still had some notes to write up. ‘So I’ll say goodnight, Christina,’ he finished as he hurried from the room—almost, she thought, as though he were avoiding her.
They met at breakfast, but only briefly—it was far too early in the morning to talk. She had to leave the house at a quarter to eight, and he had his surgery at half past eight. Christina cleared the table with speed, left the dishes piled up for Mrs Tate and left the house. It was a splendid autumn morning. She looked at the drab road and thought of the glowing trees and the wisps of smoke from bonfires and the hedges full of sloes and the cottage she still missed so abominably. In a few years, perhaps, when George Henry was well and truly established, they would buy a little house and spend their weekends there. He showed no signs of wanting to marry; she had asked him that so often and he had laughed and told her that he wasn’t the marrying kind and weren’t they perfectly content to stay as they were? And until now she had been. She quickened her pace towards the bus stop, telling herself sharply that it was ridiculous to allow a brief meeting with someone to unsettle her well ordered life.
Once at the hospital there was little chance of daydreaming. The changing room, a small dark room hidden away under the stairs which led up to the Medical Wards, was already occupied by Beryl Frith, the Women’s Medical Ward Sister, and two part-time staff nurses who worked for her. They all exchanged brief good mornings and got on with the difficult business of putting on caps and getting into uniforms in as small a space as possible. Christina, sliding out of a jersey dress and into a navy blue cotton one, listened with half an ear to the other girls’ gossip, while she mentally reviewed the day ahead of her. Nurse Trent had a day off, and one of the student nurses had a lecture at ten o’clock and it was Dr Robinson’s round; they’d have to scuttle round to be ready by eleven o’clock… Her thoughts were interrupted by Beryl, who had been talking to her and hadn’t got an answer.
‘What I said was,’ she repeated patiently, ‘Freddy took me to that new restaurant in Greek Street last night—heavenly food, though I’m not sure what I was eating not that it mattered,’ she went on dreamily, ‘with Freddy there. You ought to try it some time, Chrissy.’
‘It sounds great,’ Christina agreed cheerfully. ‘I must find someone to take me.’ She bent to see into the tiny mirror and arrange her cap, and Beryl gave her a quick look. Chrissy was such a dear, always so calm and self-possessed and good-tempered a touch too matter-of-fact, though. And so capable and practical. Men liked a girl to be a bit helpless about things like unblocking sinks and changing electrical plugs and not knowing which bus to catch, but Chrissy could do all those things without fuss, taking them for granted in the nicest, most unassuming way, which probably was why the few men of her acquaintance, while liking her, tended to ask her advice and then go out with some feather-witted blonde.
Christina made her way upstairs to the top floor of the medical wing, exactly on time as she always was. During her training she had suffered long waits to go off duty in the morning because the Ward Sister had been late, and she had vowed then that if ever she became a Ward Sister she would make a point of arriving on the dot.
The two night nurses were waiting for her now, pale and heavy-eyed from eleven hours of duty. Christina bade them good morning, sat down composedly at her desk and listened to the night report without interruption. At the end of it she made one or two necessary comments, made a note or two and sent them off duty before her day staff nurse, Carole Pring, put her head round the door and was bidden to come in. Carole did so, bearing two mugs of tea and shutting the door neatly behind her with a foot.
‘That new man, Sister,’ she began at once, ‘his BP’s too low. Would you take a look presently? And young Tate is complaining