IT WAS mid-September and the day had been grey so that dusk had come early. Almost every window in the Royal Hospital was lighted, making a cheerful splash of colour amid the dingy streets of small houses and corner shops over which it towered. Only on the top floor of the hospital, where the windows were much smaller, were they in darknessâall save one, a corner room, furnished in a businesslike way with filing cabinets, shelves of reference books, a large desk on which was an electric typewriter, a computer and a word-processor, a small hard chair against one wall and another more comfortable one behind the desk.
There was a girl sitting in it, a smallish person with a tidy head of mousy hair pinned severely into a bun, and an ordinary face whose small beaky nose and wide mouth were enlivened by large hazel eyes, fringed with a long set of curling lashes. She was typing with the ease of long practice, frowning over the sheet of handwriting beside her, but presently she stopped. The writing was by no means easy to read and she was used to that, but she had come to a halt. After a minuteâs frustrated study she spoke her mind to the empty room.
âWell, now what? Is it endometrioma or endometriosis? Why must he use such long words, and why wasnât he taught to write properly?â She sounded vexed, and for a good reason; it was long after five oâclock, the top floor, used by typists and clerks and administration staff, had become empty and quiet and she was lonely, hungry and getting rapidly more annoyed. âItâs all very well for him,â she went on, talking out loud to keep her spirits up, âheâll be home, with his feet up, while his wife gets his supper â¦â
âActually,â said a deep slow voice from behind her, âheâs here, although the picture you paint of domestic bliss is tempting.â
The girl shot round in her chair, but before she could speak the man standing in the doorway went on, âI feel that I should apologise for my writingâit is, Iâm afraid, too late to do much about that, and as for the long words, they are inevitable in our profession.â He advanced into the room and stood looking down at her. âWhy have I not seen you before now, and where is Miss Payne?â
She looked up at him with a touch of impatience, untroubled by the awe he engendered in the regular hospital staff. âMiss Payne is off sickâinfluenza.â She cast an eye over the small pile of work still to be done. âAnd probably overwork, from the look of these.â
âYour name?â he asked with cold courtesy.
âSerena Proudfoot.â Her arched silky eyebrows asked the question she didnât utter.
âDr ter Feulen.â
âOh, Iâve heard about you, youâre a Dutch baron as well â¦â She smiled at him with the air of one ready to forgive him for that.
He was a handsome man, with grizzled hair and pale blue eyes as cold as a winter sea; moreover, he was a splendid height and broad-shouldered. Serena had only half believed the other girls who worked in administration and dealt with the medical correspondence when they had enthused about Dr ter Feulen, but she could see that they had been right. All the same, he appeared to be both arrogant and sarcastic. He ignored the remark and she stopped smiling.
âYou are from an agency?â he queried.
âYes, just as a temporary until Miss Payne is well again. And now, if you donât mind, Iâll get on â¦â
He didnât move. âWhy are you working late?â
A silly question, but she answered it patiently. âBecause there was a backlog of your letters to be done and I was warned that you would expect them ready for your signature before you left the hospital.â
âAnd are they ready?â
âNo, but if I can be left in peace to type them you can have them in half an hour.â
He laughed suddenly. âHave you been working long as a typist?â
âSeveral years.â
âBut never in a hospital, that is obvious.â He strolled back to the door. âBe good enough to bring them to the consultantsâ room when you are ready, please. Perhaps no one told you that we donât watch the clock in hospital. It is to be hoped that Miss Payne is soon back at her desk.â
He had gone before Serena could utter her heartfelt agreement.
She put a fresh sheet of paper into her machine. âAnd why did he have to come here in the first place?â she demanded of the empty room.
âWhy, to see what had happened to my letters,â observed Dr ter Feulen. He had returned and was standing in the doorway again. âI have come back to warn you that I have an outpatientsâ clinic in the morning and you will have a good deal of work to do in consequence. So let us have no more grumbling about late hours; Miss Payne never uttered a word.â
âMore fool her,â said Serena with spirit. She answered his goodnight with cold asperity.
It was almost an hour later when she covered her machine and turned out the lights. The consultantsâ room was on the ground floor. She tapped on the door and, since no one answered, opened it and went in. There was only one small table light on and the large, gloomy room was dim. She laid the papers she had been typing on the ponderous centre table and turned to go again. A faint sound stopped her; Dr ter Feulen, his vast person stretched at ease in a leather armchair, his large feet, shod in the finest shoe leather, resting on a nearby coffee-table, was asleep and, without any loss of dignity, snoring gently. She stood and looked at him. He really was extremely good-looking, although now that she was able to study his face at her leisure, she could see that he was very tired.