Roses Have Thorns. Betty Neels

      CHAPTER ONE

      SARAH SAT BEHIND her desk and watched the first of the patients for Professor Nauta’s clinic come in through the swing-doors. Led, as usual, by old Colonel Watkins, recovering for the third time from a stroke and eighty if he was a day. The Professor’s clinic started at half-past eight and it had become Sarah’s responsibility, although she wasn’t sure how it had happened, to come on duty early in order to check his patients; the other two receptionists, married ladies with homes, husbands and children to cope with, were adamant about leaving exactly on time and not a minute later, just as they arrived exactly when they should and not a moment sooner. So that Professor Nauta’s clinic, held weekly at eight-thirty, invariably fell to the lot of Sarah, who, being single, living alone and therefore from their point of view without cares, was the obvious one of the trio to come early or stay late.

      The Colonel was followed by Mrs Peach, who had been coming for years, and hard on her heels came a pair of teenagers, giving their names with a good deal of giggling, and after them a steady stream of people, most of whom Sarah knew by sight if not by name. She bade each one of them good morning, made sure that the new patients knew what was wanted of them, and ticked off her neat list. There were five minutes to go before the half-hour when the last patient arrived, and exactly on the half-hour the Professor came through the swing-doors, letting in a great deal of chilly March air. Sarah took a quick look at him and decided that he seemed no more impatient and ill-tempered than usual. He was a very big man, tall and broad-shouldered and good-looking, with fair hair already grey at the temples, a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth. His eyes were pale blue which turned to steel when he was annoyed—which was quite often, although it was conceded by those who worked for him at St Cyprian’s that he was invariably kindness itself to his patients, however tiresome they were.

      He went past Sarah’s desk with a snappy, ‘Good morning, Miss Fletcher,’ and a glance so brief that he couldn’t have noticed if she had been wearing a blonde wig and spectacles. She would have been very surprised to know that he had taken in her appearance down to the last button as he’d gone past her. Small, a little too thin, pleasant-faced without being pretty, beautiful pansy eyes, a thin, delicate nose, a wide mouth and a crown of hair which took her some considerable time to put up each morning. He had noted her sparkling white blouse, too, and the fact that she wore nothing which jangled, only a sensible wristwatch. A sensible young woman, he reflected briefly, as neat as a new pin and not given to chat. Not all that young—late twenties, perhaps, although she had the freshness of a young girl. He reached his consulting-room, greeting the nurse waiting for him, and sat down at his desk, dismissing Miss Fletcher from his mind without effort, listening to Colonel Watkins’ tetchy old voice complaining about the treatment he was having at the physiotherapy with a patience and sympathy at variance with the cool manner he demonstrated towards the hospital staff.

      Sarah, left to herself for a time, got on with the morning’s chores until Mrs Drew and Mrs Pearce arrived, and, hard on their heels, the first patients for the Surgical Outpatients; after that there was no time for anything but the work at hand until, one by one, they went along to the canteen for their coffee-break. As Sarah made her way back to her desk she could see the vast back of Professor Nauta, trailed by his registrar and a houseman, disappearing down the long corridor leading to the main hospital. He was walking fast and she felt a fleeting pity for his companions, who while trying to keep up with him were probably being treated to some of his impatient