Off with the Old Love. Betty Neels
paperwork while her nurses got the theatre ready.
He got up to go presently, taking his registrar and the house surgeon with him. At the door he turned to ask casually, ‘Your weekend off, Rachel?’
‘Yes. The theatre’s closed for cleaning, sir.’
He nodded. ‘Well, enjoy yourself.’
He wandered off to cast a sharp eye over his patient in the recovery room and Rachel began to enter details of the day’s work into her day book, dismissing him completely from her mind.
That done, she went along to theatre, to find Norah on the point of going to her dinner and the two junior nurses back on duty. She spent the next half-hour instructing them; they were very new to theatre work and a little scared and clumsy, but they were keen and they admired her hugely. A highly successful lesson was brought to its end by the appearance of Mrs Pepys, looking, as always, far too good for her surroundings. She bade Rachel good day and ignored the nurses.
‘Hello,’ said Rachel. ‘We’ve laid up for the first case—staff’s back in a few minutes, she’ll scrub. You lay for the second case, please, and take the third…’ She paused on her way to the door. ‘Ingrowing toenails.’
Mrs Pepys’ exquisitely made-up face screwed itself into distaste. ‘Sister, must I?’
Rachel’s thick dark brows lifted. ‘Staff’s off duty early, I’ve a pile of book work, but if you don’t feel you can cope…’
‘Of course I can cope, Sister.’ Mrs Pepys was furious at having her capabilities questioned but she didn’t say so. Rachel was a calm, good-tempered girl, slow to anger and kind-hearted, but she was also a strict theatre sister and her tongue, once she was roused, had a nasty cutting edge to it.
With the two nurses safely in the anaesthetic room, making it ready, and Mrs Pepys huffily collecting instrument packs ready to lay up the second case, Rachel went off to her dinner.
There were only two other sisters still in the dining room: Lucy Wilson from the accident room, who, since accidents never occurred to fit in with the day’s routine, was seldom at meals when everyone else was, and Sister Chalk, verging on retirement but still bearing the reputation of being a peppery tyrant. Rachel, who had trained under her on Men’s Medical, still treated her with caution.
Conversation, such as it was, was confined largely to Sister Chalk’s pithy opinion of the modern nurse, with Lucy and Rachel murmuring from time to time while they gobbled fish pie—always fish on Fridays—and something called a semolina shape. Presently they excused themselves and went their different ways. Dolly would have put a tray of tea in the office and Rachel, with five minutes to spare, was intent on reaching it as quickly as possible.
She took the short cut along the semi-basement passage, thus avoiding the visitors who would be pouring into the entrance hall and the wards, then took the stairs at the end two at a time to teeter on the top tread as Professor van Teule, appearing from the ground under her feet, put out a large arm to steady her.
‘Oh, hello, sir,’ said Rachel and beamed at him. He towered over her, but, since she was a big girl herself and tall, she had never let his size worry her. ‘Short cut, you know.’
‘I often use it myself,’ he told her placidly and let her go. He stood aside so that she could pass him and with another smile and a nod she started off along the passage which would bring her out in the theatre wing. He stood and watched her go, his face impassive, before he trod down the stairs.
Rachel hadn’t given him a second thought; she had five minutes more of her dinner time still. She hurried into her office, saw with satisfaction that the tea tray was on her desk, and stationed herself before the small square of mirror on the wall, the better to powder her nose and tidy her hair beneath her frilled cap. Her reflection was charming: big dark eyes, a straight nose—a little too long for beauty—and a generous mouth, the whole framed in glossy dark brown hair, wound into a thick plaited bun. She pulled a face at herself, rammed a hairpin firmly into place and sailed into the corridor on her way to theatre, where Norah was dealing competently with Mrs Pepys’s airs and graces and the junior nurses’ efforts to be helpful. There was a good ten minutes in hand. The two staff nurses joined her for tea and then went back to theatre so that the two student nurses might have theirs.
Rachel settled down to her desk work, interrupted almost at once by the arrival of Mr Sims and the anaesthetist who, of course, wanted tea as well. They were joined presently by Billy, who, since there was no more tea in the pot, contented himself with the biscuits left in the tin.
‘What is the first case, Rachel?’ asked Mr Sims, who knew quite well.
‘That PP—left inguinal hernia. Norah’s scrubbing.’
‘I want you scrubbed for the second case.’
‘Yes, I know, sir,’ said Rachel tranquilly. ‘It’s that nasty perf.’
‘And the last?’ Mr Sims was a shade pompous but he always was.
‘Ingrowing toenail. Mrs Pepys will scrub.’ She added, ‘Is Billy doing it?’
‘Good idea. That will allow me to leave George to keep an eye on him.’
The afternoon went well with none of the hold-ups which so often lengthened a list. Norah went off duty at four o’clock, and the heavy second case was dealt with by five o’clock, leaving Billy to tackle the ingrowing toenail. By six o’clock everyone but Rachel and one nurse had gone and, leaving her colleague to finish cleaning the theatre and readying it for the night, Rachel sat down once more to finish her books. She would be off duty at eight o’clock and had every intention of driving home that evening. She allowed her thoughts to stray to the two days ahead of her and sighed with anticipatory pleasure before finishing her neat entries.
She had a bed-sitting room in the nurses’ home because, although she would have preferred to live out, there was always the chance that she might be needed on duty unexpectedly. She sped there as soon as she had handed over the keys to the night staff nurse, and tore into the clothes she had put ready—a tweed skirt and a sweater, for the evenings were still chilly at the end of March—snatched up a jacket and her overnight bag, and, pausing only long enough to exchange a word here and there with such of her friends as were off duty, hurried down to the car park where her car, an elderly small Fiat, stood in company with the souped-up vehicles favoured by the younger housemen and divided by a thin railing from the consultants’ BMWs, Mercedes and Bentleys. As she got into the Fiat she glanced across to their stately ranks; Professor van Teule’s Rolls Royce wasn’t there. Fleetingly, she wondered where it was and then dismissed the thought as she concentrated on getting out of London and on to the M3 as quickly as possible.
Her home was in Hampshire, some fifty miles distant—a pleasant old house on the edge of the village of Wherwell, with a deep thatched roof and a garden full of old-fashioned flowers in which her mother delighted. She had never lived anywhere else; her father had been the doctor there for thirty years and, since her eldest brother intended to join him in the practice, she supposed that it would always be home.
The streets were fairly empty and Rachel made good time. Once on the M3, she pushed the little car to its limit until she came to the end of the motorway and took the Andover road, to turn off at the crossroads by Harewood Forest. She was almost home now. She drove through the quiet village and presently saw the lights of her home.
She turned in at the open gateway and stopped at the side of the house. Her father had the kitchen door open before she had got out of the car and she went joyfully into the warmth of the room beyond. Her mother was there and her eldest brother, Tom.
‘Darling! So nice to see you.’ Her mother gave her a great hug. ‘You’ll want your supper…’
Her father kissed her cheek. ‘Had a good trip from the hospital?’ he wanted to know. ‘You look very well.’
Tom gave her a brotherly slap. ‘Revoltingly healthy,’ he pronounced, ‘and putting on weight, too.’
‘No—am