that she had little chance of leaving the job. She would be twenty-five on her next birthday …
She had friends, girls like herself, and from time to time she had been out with one or other of the young doctors, but she encountered them so seldom that friendships died for lack of meetings. She had family, too—two great-aunts, her father’s aunts—who lived in a comfortable red-brick cottage at Finchingfield. She spent her Christmases with them, and an occasional weekend, but although they were kind to her she sensed that she interfered with their lives and was only asked to stay from a sense of duty.
She would be going there for Christmas, she had received their invitation that morning, written in the fine spiky writing of their youth.
Gustavus came in then and she shut the window and drew the curtains against the dark outside and set about getting their suppers. That done and eaten, the pair of them curled up in the largest of the two shabby chairs by the gas fire and while Gustavus dozed Theodosia read her library book. The music on the radio was soothing and the room with its pink lampshades looked cosy. She glanced round her.
‘At least we have a very nice home,’ she told Gustavus, who twitched a sleepy whisker in reply.
Perhaps Miss Prescott would be in a more cheerful mood, thought Theodosia, trotting along the wet pavements to work in the morning. At least she didn’t have to catch a bus; her bed-sitter might not be fashionable but it was handy …
The hospital loomed large before her, red-brick with a great many Victorian embellishments. It had a grand entrance, rows and rowsof windows and a modern section built onto one side where the Emergency and Casualty departments were housed.
Miss Prescott had her office on the top floor, a large room lined with shelves piled high with reference books, diet sheets and files. She sat at an important-looking desk, with a computer, two telephones and a large open notebook filled with the lore of her profession, and she looked as important as her desk. She was a big woman with commanding features and a formidable bosom—a combination of attributes which aided her to triumph over any person daring to have a difference of opinion with her.
Theodosia had a much smaller desk in a kind of cubby-hole with its door open so that Miss Prescott could demand her services at a moment’s notice. Which one must admit were very frequent. Theodosia might not do anything important—like making out diet sheets for several hundreds of people, many of them different—but she did her share, typingendless lists, menus, diet sheets, and rude letters to ward sisters if they complained. In a word, Miss Prescott held the hospital’s stomach in the hollow of her hand.
She was at her desk as Theodosia reached her office.
‘You’re late.’
‘Two minutes, Miss Prescott,’ said Theodosia cheerfully. ‘The lift’s not working and I had five flights of stairs to climb.’
‘At your age that should be an easy matter. Get the post opened, if you please.’ Miss Prescott drew a deep indignant breath which made her corsets creak. ‘I am having trouble with the Women’s Medical ward sister. She has the impertinence to disagree with the diet I have formulated for that patient with diabetes and kidney failure. I have spoken to her on the telephone and when I have rewritten the diet sheet you will take it down to her. She is to keep to my instructions on it. You may tell her that.’
Theodosia began to open the post, viewing without relish the prospect of being the bearer of unwelcome news. Miss Prescott, she had quickly learned, seldom confronted any of those who had the temerity to disagree with her. Accordingly, some half an hour later she took the diet sheet and began her journey to Women’s Medical on the other side of the hospital and two floors down.
Sister was in her office, a tall, slender, good-looking woman in her early thirties. She looked up and smiled as Theodosia
She had friends, girls like herself, and from time to time she had been out with one or other of the young doctors, but she encountered them so seldom that friendships died for lack of meetings. She had family, too—two great-aunts, her father’s aunts—who lived in a comfortable red-brick cottage at Finchingfield. She spent her Christmases with them, and an occasional weekend, but although they were kind to her she sensed that she interfered with their lives and was only asked to stay from a sense of duty.
She would be going there for Christmas, she had received their invitation that morning, written in the fine spiky writing of their youth.
Gustavus came in then and she shut the window and drew the curtains against the dark outside and set about getting their suppers. That done and eaten, the pair of them curled up in the largest of the two shabby chairs by the gas fire and while Gustavus dozed Theodosia read her library book. The music on the radio was soothing and the room with its pink lampshades looked cosy. She glanced round her.
‘At least we have a very nice home,’ she told Gustavus, who twitched a sleepy whisker in reply.
Perhaps Miss Prescott would be in a more cheerful mood, thought Theodosia, trotting along the wet pavements to work in the morning. At least she didn’t have to catch a bus; her bed-sitter might not be fashionable but it was handy …
The hospital loomed large before her, red-brick with a great many Victorian embellishments. It had a grand entrance, rows and rowsof windows and a modern section built onto one side where the Emergency and Casualty departments were housed.
Miss Prescott had her office on the top floor, a large room lined with shelves piled high with reference books, diet sheets and files. She sat at an important-looking desk, with a computer, two telephones and a large open notebook filled with the lore of her profession, and she looked as important as her desk. She was a big woman with commanding features and a formidable bosom—a combination of attributes which aided her to triumph over any person daring to have a difference of opinion with her.
Theodosia had a much smaller desk in a kind of cubby-hole with its door open so that Miss Prescott could demand her services at a moment’s notice. Which one must admit were very frequent. Theodosia might not do anything important—like making out diet sheets for several hundreds of people, many of them different—but she did her share, typingendless lists, menus, diet sheets, and rude letters to ward sisters if they complained. In a word, Miss Prescott held the hospital’s stomach in the hollow of her hand.
She was at her desk as Theodosia reached her office.
‘You’re late.’
‘Two minutes, Miss Prescott,’ said Theodosia cheerfully. ‘The lift’s not working and I had five flights of stairs to climb.’
‘At your age that should be an easy matter. Get the post opened, if you please.’ Miss Prescott drew a deep indignant breath which made her corsets creak. ‘I am having trouble with the Women’s Medical ward sister. She has the impertinence to disagree with the diet I have formulated for that patient with diabetes and kidney failure. I have spoken to her on the telephone and when I have rewritten the diet sheet you will take it down to her. She is to keep to my instructions on it. You may tell her that.’
Theodosia began to open the post, viewing without relish the prospect of being the bearer of unwelcome news. Miss Prescott, she had quickly learned, seldom confronted any of those who had the temerity to disagree with her. Accordingly, some half an hour later she took the diet sheet and began her journey to Women’s Medical on the other side of the hospital and two floors down.
Sister was in her office, a tall, slender, good-looking woman in her early thirties. She looked up and smiled as Theodosia
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