A Kiss for Julie

He closed the gate behind her, aware of faces peering from several windows in the house, waited until she had reached the door and opened it and then got into his car and drove away. He smiled as he drove.

Julie was met in the hall by her mother, Esme and Luscombe.

‘Whoever was that?’ her mother wanted to know.

‘That’s a smashing car,’ observed Luscombe.

‘He’s a giant,’ said Esme.

‘That’s my new boss. He gave me a lift home. His name is Simon van der Driesma; I don’t think he likes me...’

‘Why ever not?’ Her mother was simply astonished; everyone liked Julie. ‘Why did he give you a lift, then?’

‘I think he may have wanted to see where I lived.’

Mrs Beckworth, who had hoped that there might be other reasons—after all, Julie was a beautiful girl and excellent company—said in a disappointed voice, ‘Oh, well, perhaps. We waited lunch for you, love. One of Luscombe’s splendid casseroles.’

Luscombe, besides having been with them for as long as Julie could remember, first as a general factotum in her father’s surgery and then somehow taking over the housekeeping, was a splendid cook. ‘I’m ravenous,’ said Julie.

They went to the sports shop after lunch and bought Esme’s hockey stick, and Esme went round to the Thompsons’ later to show it off to Freddie while Julie took Blotto for his evening walk.

Sunday, as all Sundays, went too quickly—church, home to an economical pot-roast, and then a few lazy hours reading the Sunday papers until it was time to get the tea.

Luscombe went to see his married sister on Sunday afternoons, so Julie got their supper, loaded the washing machine ready to switch it on in the morning, did some ironing, made sure that Esme had everything ready for school, had a cosy chat with her mother and took herself off to bed. She went to sleep quickly, but only after a few anxious thoughts about the next morning. Even if Professor van der Driesma didn’t like her overmuch, as long as she did as he wished and remembered to hold her tongue it might not be so bad.

It was a bad start on Monday morning. She was punctual as always, but he was already there, sitting at his desk, his reading glasses perched on his patrician nose, perusing some papers lying before him then laying them tidily aside.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Julie, and waited.

He glanced up. His ‘good morning’ was grave; she hoped that he would soon get out of the habit of calling her Miss Beckworth; it made her feel old.

‘I believe I am to do a ward round at ten o’clock. Perhaps you will get the patients’ notes and bring them to me here’ When she hesitated, he said, ‘Yes, I am aware that the ward sister should have them, but I simply wish to glance through them before I do my round.’

Julie went up to the women’s medical ward and found Sister in her office. Sister was small and dainty, never lacking dates with the more senior housemen. She was drinking strong tea from a battered mug and waved Julie to the only chair. ‘Have some tea—I’ll get one of the nurses—’

‘I’d love a cup, but I don’t dare,’ said Julie. ‘Professor van der Driesma wants the notes of his patients on the ward so’s he can study them before his round.’

‘A bit different to Professor Smythe?’ asked Sister, hunting up folders on her desk. ‘I must say he’s remarkably good-looking; my nurses are drooling over him but I don’t think he’s even noticed them. A bit reserved?’

‘I don’t know, but I think you may be right.’ She took the bundle of notes. ‘I’ll get these back to you as soon as I can, Sister.’

‘I’ll have your head if you don’t,’ said Sister. ‘It’s his first round and it has to be perfect.’

Julie skimmed back through the hospital, laid the folders on the professor’s desk and waited.

He said thank you without looking up and she slid away to her own desk to type up notes and reports and answer the telephone. Just before ten o’clock, however, she went back to his desk.

‘Shall I take the patients’ notes back now, sir?’ she asked the bowed head; his glasses were on the end of his nose and he was making pencil notes in the margin of the report that he was reading.

He glanced up and spoke mildly. ‘Is there any need? I can take them with me.’ When she hesitated he said, ‘Well?’

‘Sister Griffiths wanted them back before you went on the ward.’

He gave her a brief look and said, ‘Indeed? Then we mustn’t disappoint her, must we? Oh, and you may as well stay on the ward and take notes.’

She gathered up the folders. ‘Very well, sir. Do you want me to come back here for you? It is almost ten o’clock.’

‘No, no, save your feet!’

It was a remark which made her feel as if she had bunions or painful corns. It rankled, for she had excellent feet, narrow and high-arched, and while she spent little money on her clothes she bought good shoes. Plain court shoes with not too high heels, kept beautifully polished.

From his desk the professor watched her go, aware that he had annoyed her and irritated by it. He hoped that her prickly manner would soften, totally unaware that it was he who was making it prickly. He didn’t waste time thinking about her; he put the notes he had been making in his pocket and took himself off to Women’s Medical.

He had a number of patients there; a rare case of aplastic anaemia—the only treatment of which was frequent blood transfusions, two young women with leukaemia, an older woman with Hodgkin’s disease and two cases of polycythaemia. To each he gave his full attention, taking twice as long as Sister had expected, dictating to Julie as he went in a quiet, unhurried voice.

She, wrestling with long words like agranulocytosis and lymphosarcoma, could see that the patients liked him. So did Sister, her annoyance at the length of the round giving way to her obvious pleasure in his company. It was a pity that he didn’t appear to show any pleasure in hers; his attention was focused on his patients; he had few words to say to her and those he had were of a purely professional kind.

As for Julie, he dictated to her at length, over one shoulder, never once looking to see if she knew what he was talking about. Luckily, she did; Professor Smythe had been a good deal slower but the words he had used had been just as long. She had taken care over the years to have a medical directory handy when she was typing up notes, although from time to time she had asked him to explain a word or a medical term to her and he had done so readily.

She thought that it would be unlikely for Professor van der Driesma to do that. Nor would he invite her to share his coffee-break while he told her about his grandchildren... He was too young for grandchildren, of course, but probably he had children. Pretty little girls, handsome little boys, a beautiful wife.

She became aware that he had stopped speaking and looked up. He was staring at her so coldly that she had a moment’s fright that she had missed something he had said. If she had, she would get it from Sister later. She shut her notebook with a snap and he said, ‘I’d like those notes as soon as you can get them typed, Miss Beckworth.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Julie, and promised herself silently that she would have her coffee first.

Which she did, prudently not spending too much time doing so; somehow the professor struck her as a man not given to wasting time in Sister’s office chatting over coffee and a tin of biscuits. She was right; she was halfway through the first batch of notes when he returned.

‘I shall be in the path lab if I’m wanted,’ he told her, and went away again.

Julie applied herself to her work. It was all going to be quite different, she thought regretfully; life would never be the same again.

The professor stayed away for a long time; she finished her notes, placed them on his desk and took herself off to the canteen for her midday meal. She shared her table with two other secretaries and one of the receptionists, all of them agog to know about the new professor.

‘What’s he like?’ asked the receptionist, young and pretty and aware of it.

‘Well, I don’t really know, do I?’ said Julie reasonably. ‘I mean, I’ve only seen him for a few minutes this morning and on the ward round.’ She added cautiously, ‘He seems very nice.’

‘You’ll miss Professor Smythe,’ said one of the secretaries, middle-aged and placid. ‘He was an old dear...’

The receptionist laughed, ‘Well, this one certainly isn’t that. He’s got more than his fair share of good looks too. Hope he comes to my desk one day!’

Julie thought that unlikely, but she didn’t say so. She ate her cold meat, potatoes, lettuce leaf and half a tomato, followed this wholesome but dull fare with prunes and custard and went back to her little office. She would make herself tea; Professor Smythe had installed an electric kettle and she kept a teapot and mugs in the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets—sugar too, and tiny plastic pots of milk.

Professor van der Driesma was sitting at his desk. He looked up as she went in. ‘You have been to your lunch?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Perhaps you would let me know when you will be absent from the office.’

Julie glowered; never mind if he was a highly important member of the medical profession, there was such a thing as pleasant manners between colleagues. ‘If you had been here to tell, I would have told you,’ she pointed out in a chilly voice. ‘And it’s not lunch, it’s midday dinner.’

He sat back in his chair, watching her. Presently he said, coldly polite, ‘Miss Beckworth, shall we begin as we intend to go on? I am aware that I am a poor substitute for Professor Smythe; nevertheless, we have inherited each other whether we wish it or not. Shall we endeavour to make the best of things?