Betty Neels - Two Weeks to Remember

She bore the remains of their meal away to the kitchen and took coffee into the sitting room, and presently he got up to go with the remark that Mr Graham must at some time visit him so that he might browse through his library. His leave-taking of Miss Graham was everything that lady could have wished for, and as for Charity, she was swept to the front door and was not quite sure how she had got there.

‘A very pleasant evening,’ said the professor and waited, his eyes on her face.

‘Why did you come?’ It sounded a bit bald, but she wasn’t a girl to mince her words.

‘Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?’ He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her; so often, being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone. ‘Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.’

She asked abruptly: ‘Have you any friends?’

‘Oh, lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully. I so seldom have any free time…’

‘This afternoon…’ She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.

‘Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?’ He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he observed in a non-committal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car. She stood there, watching him drive away, and found herself looking forward to Monday.

Which, as it turned out, was just like any other day! Miss Hudson still moaning on about her lost umbrella and the remnants of her cold; no central heating because the engineers were having a meeting to decide if they could take industrial action over something or other; and a load of reports waiting to be typed.

‘The Path. Lab must have been working overtime at the weekend,’ grumbled Miss Hudson. ‘Of course they get double time if they do. I have a good mind to go on strike myself.’ She sniffed in a ladylike fashion. ‘Charity, you’ll have to change your dinner hour with me. I’ve a dental appointment.’

‘More teeth?’ Charity asked, her mind on other things.

‘You have no need to be funny at my expense,’ said Miss Hudson huffily. ‘I’ll do Dr Clarkson’s ledgers, you can get on with those reports.’

Dr Clarkson’s correspondence was always commendably brief and, what was more, written clearly; some of the reports had presumably been scribbled by a spider. Charity sighed, and attacked the first; it was full of long words, like cephalhaematoma and cinchocaine hydrochloride, which hadn’t been written clearly in the first place and which she couldn’t spell anyway. By twelve o’clock she was glad to go to her dinner.

The meal was unappetising; presumably the engineers’ meeting had disorganised the kitchens as well, for slabs of corned beef, baked beans and instant mashed potato were offered on a take-it or leave-it basis. Charity, sharing a table with several theatre nurses who were discussing the morning’s list in colourful detail, wished she had gone to Reg’s café, but if she had done that she might have missed Professor Wyllie-Lyon. The thought sprung unbidden into her mind and she made haste to bury it under the grim details concerning a patient’s gangrenous appendix. All the same, it would brighten a dull day if he were to bring his letters to the office…

Which he had done while she was in the canteen.

‘No hurry for that lot,’ explained Miss Hudson, nodding at the little pile he had left on her desk while she titivated herself for her own dinner. ‘And I must say, that’s unusual. And X-Ray came up for that report about the man with multiple injuries—you hadn’t done it—I had to interrupt my own work…’

Charity sat down at her desk, disappointment welling slowly inside her; a good-natured girl, she was suddenly peevish.

‘I’ve had to do the same for you often enough,’ she snapped, and flung paper into her machine, taking no notice of Miss Hudson’s gasp of surprise.

‘Well!’ said that lady. ‘Well! I have never been spoken to like that in all my years here. I must say, Charity, if that is to be your attitude you might do better in another job.’

She flounced away and Charity pounded away at her reports. Another job might be an idea, give her a fresh outlook on life; but work was hard to come by these days and her salary was needed at home. It would need a miracle.

It seemed that they still occurred; the door opened and Professor Wyllie-Lyon came in without haste. ‘Ah, good morning, or is it afternoon?’ He bent an intent eye on her still-cross face. ‘I wondered if you would consider giving up your job here and coming to work for me?’

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