In Falling Snow by Mary-Rose MacColl Page A

soon after turned out to be English, married to a Frenchwoman. “Don’t tell Frances he speaks English,” Mrs. Berry said to me when he went out to get his tools. “She’ll be down in a shot.”
    â€œI think she’d want to be here,” I said.
    Mrs. Berry looked sternly at me. She had those large brown eyes and long thick hair parted exactly and pulled back loosely so that it was like two sides of a heart coming off the part. “Just trust me, Iris. Frances is wonderful. We love her to death, but if you are to help her, you must know her strengths.”
    â€œAnd what are they?” I said, surprised at her frankness.
    â€œShe’s good at what matters,” Mrs. Berry said. “She’s an inspired doctor. I’ve never worked with anyone who has her gift with patients. And she’s a good leader for us, the medical team, but she doesn’t know about the drains. Do you understand?” I could hardly run and fetch Miss Ivens now without angering Mrs. Berry. On the other hand, if Miss Ivens found out the plumber, who had climbed down into the drains to see what was happening, was English, she’d be furious that she hadn’t been told. She nearly came with me anyway, on the basis that I could interpret. But then Dr. Savill was complaining that Cicely had ordered the wrong equipment and Miss Ivens had gone to calm her down. Even so, Miss Ivens told me I needed to provide a report.
    â€œI’m afraid you will have to trust me on this one, Iris,” Mrs. Berry said.
    In the event, Miss Ivens was as wrongheaded as a human being could be about the plumbing. There was no blockage in the drain, as she claimed, and all my attempts to put her view to the plumber were met with a gentle smile, rather like one might bestow on a small child who is not managing a drink of milk. He might be retired, he said, and not much good for anything, but the one thing he knew was grease traps. He and Mrs. Berry got along famously, sharing an interest in matters sanitary—Mrs. Berry had specialised in public health—going down together into the drains. “It’s the trap,” Mrs. Berry said when she emerged. “Just as we thought. They’ll have to dig.”
    I duly reported to Miss Ivens that the plumber said the grease trap was not working and it would take at least a week to repair. She had no choice but to accept his opinion but she still asked me what I thought. “I thought him an excellent plumber,” I said. Mrs. Berry, standing behind Miss Ivens, smiled warmly at me. Miss Ivens said very well and didn’t mention the problem again.
    Miss Ivens had a meeting with the architect. Before he arrived, she took me on a quick walk through the building to show me what she was planning. The theatre and X-ray would be on the first floor, she explained, and a large room on that floor, originally the monks’ library, would be a ward. It had deep windows to the north overlooking the cloister and the south overlooking the abbey vegetable gardens. The other ward would be set up in two rooms directly above us on the second floor. When she asked me what I thought, I said the first-floor room was beautiful but those on the second floor would be a long way from everything else except the pathology laboratory. “Well, yes they are, Iris, but where else can we go?” she said. We had been through several other rooms on the first floor but she’d ruled these out because they were filled with the detritus of years, not just furniture but heavy masonry and other building materials. I could see why Miss Ivens came to the decision she did and I had made my point. I didn’t think it was my place to make it more strongly.
    When the architect saw the rooms Miss Ivens had picked on the second floor for a ward, he laughed out loud. Too far from the rest, he said, and they’re not as well ventilated. When she told him she didn’t have a choice, he