Betty Neels - Sister Peters in Amsterdam

‘The doctor is here. Everything’s all right,’ and smiled reassuringly at the mother, sitting quietly in a corner. She turned back to the child, who gave a strangled breath as the professor came in.

He dropped his coat on the floor and stood for a moment looking at the small convulsed face, his fingers on the flaccid wrist.

Adelaide went to the head of the couch and steadied the child’s head between her hands.

‘Everything’s ready,’ she said quietly. ‘The local is on the lower shelf.’

The child hadn’t drawn another breath. The professor didn’t stop to scrub, but quickly injected the local anaesthetic, picked up a scalpel, and made a cut—quite a small one—in the little throat, securing it with a small hook. He spoke softly to the mother—Adelaide thought it sounded comforting, although she couldn’t understand what he had said—and the woman murmured a reply. He slit the trachea neatly, holding it open with the knife handle while he inserted the dilators. He mopped unhurriedly, and slipped in the tube with an unerring hand. He waited a moment, pushed the inner tube in and tied it securely. The operation had only taken a minute or two. They stood watching while a faint pink colour slowly started to blot out the blueness. The little girl’s breath rasped in and out of the tube, but it was regular again. The professor dabbed at a tiny spot of blood on his cuff.

‘Close call,’ he observed. Adelaide’s brown eyes smiled at him over her mask, and he smiled back. ‘Nice work, Sister.’

He went to the phone and asked Zuster Zijlstra to come to Casualty as soon as she could. A moment later she came in quietly. She was a tall girl, with merry blue eyes; she and Adelaide got on well together. She winked at her now, and asked ‘Busy?’

Adelaide, doing neat things with gauze and strapping, smiled.

‘No, but you will be!’

The professor, who had been talking to the mother, turned round.

‘Ah, my good Zuster Zijlstra, I want a cot, and oxygen tent, and a nurse to special this child. Will you fix them up for me, please?’

Zuster Zijlstra tossed her head. ‘You always want something,’ she complained. ‘I’ll do it at once, sir,’ and disappeared again.

The professor walked over to the couch.

‘I expect you’ve got some writing to do. I’ll stay here.’

He stood by the patient, listening to Adelaide asking the mother the routine questions which had to be asked before the child could be admitted. She managed rather well, using a minimum of words and being very wary of the grammar. Her pronunciation was peculiar at times, but on the whole he thought that she must have worked quite hard during the month she had been in Holland.

Zuster Zijlstra came back. She scooped up the small figure on the couch very carefully and went to the door, which the professor held open for her.

‘I’ll come with you. I’d better write up some sedation and antibiotics for her.’

Adelaide finished what she was doing and showed the mother how to get to the ward, then began to clear up; there wasn’t a great deal for her to do. She made up a fresh tracheotomy pack and put it in the autoclave, then stripped the linen off the couch and made it up anew. She was washing her hands at the sink when the professor returned.

‘The child’s fine. Zuster Zijlstra’s a wonderful nurse.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Staff Nurse?’

Adelaide dried her hands carefully. ‘At home. She lives in Amsterdam.’

‘You took over her duty.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

‘Yes, sir. I don’t mind in the least. I wasn’t going anywhere.’ She sounded quite cheerful about it.

‘You should have taken your off-duty,’ he said evenly.

She threw the paper towel in the bin, and went to turn off the autoclave.

‘I rang Dr Beekman.’ Her voice held a question, politely put.

The professor was getting into his coat.

‘Touché, Sister Peters. I have taken Beekman’s duty over until midnight; his people have come down from Drente for St Nicolaas.’ He grinned at her, called good-night, and was gone.

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