The Convenient Wife

The alternative, of course, was to find a millionaire and marry him. She laughed at the very idea, and Sedgwick, the head porter, looked up from his scrutiny of the evening paper.

‘Feeling ’appy, Nurse? On men’s surgical, aren’t you? ‘Ad three nasty cases in today—motorbikes—and there’s another just in, not ’alf an hour ago.’

Venetia poked her head through his little window. ‘What a welcome!’ she observed cheerfully. ‘For two pins I’d turn round and go home again.’

She went unhurriedly across the entrance hall and down the passage to the nurses’ home, where she spent a pleasant hour before bed drinking tea and catching up on the hospital gossip with various of her friends.

There was precious little time to gossip on the following day; the ward was full and, just as Sedgwick had said, the three cases which had been admitted were nasty ones, for not only were they badly injured, they were uncouth youths who raved and shouted and used language which Venetia, for one, didn’t always understand—which was perhaps a good thing. And the fourth case was developing symptoms of a hidden head injury as well as internal injuries. Sister Giles sent for Arthur Miles, who spent a long time examining the man and then disappeared into her office to telephone, and fifteen minutes later Professor ter Laan-Luitinga arrived.

Venetia, trotting briskly out of a dressing-room with a tray of dressings, managed to halt within a few inches of him, and even then she trod on the toe of his large, beautifully polished shoe.

‘Oops, so sorry, sir!’ She smiled widely at him, quite forgetting that when they had last met he had snubbed her quite nastily. He snubbed her now, not by saying anything—his nod was glacial, his dark eyes cold, dismissing her with a glance.

She went on her way, reflecting reasonably that there was no earthly reason why he should so much as smile at her. All the same, he had no need to look as though she weren’t there. She handed over the dressings to Staff Nurse Thomas, who was tall and thin, wore a perpetually cross expression and, although very competent, intimidated the patients. The elderly man having his dressing changed grinned at Venetia as she stood by the trolley ready to pass anything needed; a nice little thing, he reflected, never too busy to turn a pillow or fetch more water. He was on the point of exchanging a joke with her when Sister Giles poked her head round the curtains. ‘Nurse Forbes, Professor ter Laan-Luitinga wants that patient transferred to his unit now. He intends to operate this afternoon. Pack up everything, will you, and go with the patient and hand him over.’

There wasn’t much to pack up, and since the patient was becoming more and more drowsy there was no use in checking his few possessions with him. Venetia made a tidy packet, helped the porters get him on to the trolley, accompanied them to the lift and was whisked to the fifth floor which was the professor’s domain when he was at the hospital. He came out of IC as they proceeded down the wide corridor to the end cubicle and stood watching them. Venetia took care not to look at him and, once the patient was in his bed, busied herself arranging this and that in his locker. Then she stood waiting until a nurse came to relieve her.

The professor came instead. ‘You will be good enough to stay with this patient, Nurse. You will be relieved shortly. Ring the panic bell if you find it necessary. Sister will be here presently.’

‘Sister Giles is expecting me back, sir.’

‘She shall be informed.’

He went away and she glanced uneasily at the patient. It was a relief when the junior sister came in, made sure that he was lying correctly, checked that Venetia knew what to do if he showed signs of distress, and assured her that someone would come the moment she pressed the bell. ‘We’re rushed off our feet,’ she explained. ‘Just as soon as there’s a nurse free, she’ll take over.’

But the professor came first, and one of the anaesthetists was with him. He paused when he saw Venetia, his dark face frowning. ‘You’re still here, Nurse?’

‘Well, there is no one else, sir,’ she pointed out matter-of-factly, and listened to his irritable rumblings. He must be worn to the bone, she reflected. A professor of surgery he might be, but he was also at everyone’s beck and call. She hoped that he had a nice home life to make up for it…

He pressed the panic bell; there was a flurry of feet along the corridor, and Sister and a nurse came in smartly.

‘There is no panic, Sister, but be good enough to find an experienced nurse to remain with this patient.’ His voice was chillingly polite, and Sister shot a look at Venetia as though she were to blame. ‘I thought,’ went on the professor smoothly, ‘that I had made it clear that he needs a trained eye.’ His own eye lighted on Venetia. ‘Go back to your ward, if you please, Nurse.’

She was only too glad to do so. Worn to the bone he might be, she muttered savagely, racing down several flights of stairs, but civil he was not. Downright rude, in fact. It was with regret that she conceded that she wasn’t in a position to tell him so.

CHAPTER TWO

OCTOBER ebbed slowly into November, bringing with it chilly rain and wind and darkening mornings. Watts Ward was busy and Venetia trotted to and fro, and when her days off came round went thankfully to the cottage in Percy Lane. It was pleasant to get up in her own room in the morning and make tea for her grandmother and do the shopping, and all without having to keep an anxious eye on the clock. In the evenings they sat by the fire and talked, which was pleasant, and her grandmother knitted and Venetia wound wool or did nothing at all.

She had seen nothing of the professor. He came very seldom to Watts Ward, but he was to be glimpsed from time to time going in or out of the hospital. It was Caroline who told her that he had gone back to Holland. ‘What a lovely life,’ she added. ‘Think of all the people he meets. He must be rolling in cash—I bet he’s got a marvellous house somewhere.’

‘It’s to be hoped that he has,’ said Venetia sedately. ‘If he’s married his wife and children will need a roof over their heads.’

Caroline giggled. ‘Venetia darling, there’s not a scrap of romance in you. I’ve got a date with one of the housemen in his team—I’m going to find out something more about our professor.’

Venetia raised her eyebrows and then smiled. ‘I dare say if I were as pretty as you, Caro, I’d do that, too.’

But Caroline discovered nothing of the professor’s private life. Tim Dobson either didn’t know or wasn’t going to tell, and Venetia, caught up in a week even busier than usual, forgot to ask.

She felt that days off made a more than welcome break, even when it meant queueing in the cold rain for a bus after a long day. Venetia, struggling off the bus, made for Percy Lane as fast as her tired feet would allow, thinking of her supper and her grandmother’s welcome. It surprised her to see that the cottage was in darkness, and when no one answered the door she had a moment’s apprehension, which she explained away with her usual common sense. Her grandmother had a number of friends living in Hampstead, and it was barely seven o’clock—she could have lingered after having tea with one of them. She got out her key, opened the door and let herself into the narrow hall.

As she switched on the light she called, ‘Granny,’ but the little house was silent. She put down her bag and went into the sitting-room, turning on the light as she did so. The fire had burned low and her grandmother was sitting in her chair, her knitting in her lap, and Venetia knew before she reached her and felt for her pulse that she wouldn’t be able to find it. She said, ‘Granny?’ again in a frightened voice, and put her young arms around the elderly shoulders. She stayed like that for a few minutes, thrusting back grief. That could come later…

There was no telephone in the cottage. She crossed the road to one of the neighbours and phoned her grandmother’s doctor, and then went back and waited quietly for him to come, sitting very still, her granny’s hand in hers.

It was the end of the month before the professor returned to St Jude’s, and, after discussing the operation he intended doing on the following day, he got into his car and drove himself to his house. He was going through Hampstead when he saw Percy Lane’s narrow opening, and on an impulse he turned the car into it. He wasn’t sure why he was going—Venetia probably wouldn’t be there. He was being foolish, and he was annoyed at that.

There was a light shining between the drawn curtains and the front door was open. He got out of the car and pushed the door wider, and noticed then that there was a house agent’s board fastened on to the wall beside it. He said, ‘Venetia, I’m coming in,’ and pushed the sitting-room door open. She was sitting at the little round table by the window, her hands in her lap, and the face she turned to him was so white and weary that he said quickly, ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill?’ His dark eyes swept round the little room; it was scrupulously tidy, and also very cold. ‘Your grandmother?’ he asked.

Venetia supposed that she should have felt surprise at seeing him, but she didn’t. She said in her quiet way, ‘She died rather suddenly, two weeks ago.’

‘My poor girl.’ He undid his coat, tossed his gloves on to the table and sat down opposite her. ‘The house is up for sale. Why are you sitting here in the cold alone?’

She said steadily, ‘Well, you see, this house doesn’t belong to Granny now—there was some arrangement she made a long time ago—she sold it to some kind of company, and they let her have the money for it then so that she had an income.’ She added seriously, ‘The rates are rather high, you know, and there wasn’t any other money, only her pension. That’s why I’m here—someone’s coming with some papers for me to sign…’

‘Have you no solicitor?’

‘Oh, yes, but you see it wasn’t convenient for him to come here in the evening, and he said it was all right for me to sign them.’ She went on in her sensible way, ‘The furniture is mine.’

‘You have family?’

‘No. At least, only a cousin of my father, whom I’ve never met. He and my father didn’t like each other, and I don’t suppose he would want to hear from me.’

He got up and shut the door. ‘When is this man coming?’

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Now, if he’s punctual. Can I get you a cup of tea? I’m so sorry I didn’t ask you…’

Someone knocked on the door and he got up. ‘I’ll answer that. Are you having days off?’ And when she nodded he added, ‘And sleeping here?’

‘They said I could stay until the end of the month. There are things to pack up.’

He nodded and went to the front door, and presently he ushered in a businesslike-looking man with a briefcase. ‘Go ahead,’ he invited him. ‘I’m merely here in an advisory capacity.’

A remark which made Venetia blink with surprise. She still wasn’t thinking straight, but she was conscious of relief that the professor should have appeared on her doorstep just when she knew she needed someone. She wished the man good evening, and set herself to read the papers he offered her. Then she passed them over to the professor, who read them, too. They were quite in order, and it was no good pointing out that if the house had been Venetia’s on her grandmother’s death she would have been able to sell it for three times the amount her grandmother had received for it.

Venetia sighed, offered tea and was refused, and watched the professor see the man to the door. When he came back into the room she got up.

‘Thank you very much, Professor,’ she said politely. ‘It was very kind of you to stay. Now I have only to pack up and get somewhere to store the furniture.’ She added, unconsciously wistful, ‘Would you like a cup of tea before you go?’

‘No. Get whatever you need for the night. You’re coming back with me.’

Her white face flushed faintly. ‘Indeed, I am not, Professor. It is very kind of you to suggest it—’

‘I’m not being kind, I’m being sensible. You can’t stay alone. My housekeeper will look after you, and you can return in the morning and do whatever you have to do.’

He sounded reassuringly disinterested.

‘But won’t it interfere with your evening?’