SITTING in the waiting-room of the Municipal Buildings, Barbara Maitland studied her rivals for the post of Assistant Medical Officer to Clinics. Another woman, much younger than herself, more brightly lipsticked, with scarlet nails, in fact a good-looker; and two nondescript men. A horrible business, being interviewed for a job [ ... ]
She was called in first, whether alphabetically or by design she could not tell, to the usual formal room, the usual oblong table with a dozen or so men and women round it, an empty chair for her in the middle of one of the long sides opposite the chairman. As she sat down, her neighbours swivelled round on their elbows to see her better. Her hopes went down, for she knew that appearance was not her strong suit.
The chairman brought out her testimonials and mumbled over them – the Queen’s Hospital – Casualty Officer and House Surgeon at Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital for Children – House Surgeon to the Mothers’ Hospital – how long ago they all seemed.
He bobbed up suddenly and blinked over his glasses. “You know Sir John Austin, I think?”
She nodded. “Yes. He taught me as a student, and he was the first Chief I worked under at the Queen’s after I qualified. He’d just been elected to the Honorary Staff, then.”
“And now he’s a very big noise among obstetricians,” the chairman commented.
Barbara smiled. “I’ve always kept in touch with him. He’s recommended me for a great many locums – and I expect he’s found out how I managed them; he’s that sort of person.”
The committee was registering interest, and she felt better. Her smile always helped when it came spontaneously, as it had then, and her voice was good.
“We know him well,” the chairman was saying. “He’s in charge of our Maternity Unit. You’re still interested in maternity work?”
She said, “Very. And having children of one’s own is a help, I think, in every type of clinic.”
A fierce-looking lady in a feathered hat took her up at once. The hand which fingered her agenda was heavily ringed. “Children. Now, what ages would they be?”
“Seventeen, sixteen, nine and five.”
“Seventeen – and five! What a scattered family! Of course, there was a war — ” She was evidently trying to do a calculation in her head. “Now, what happens,” she went on, “if one of them is ill? We can’t have our clinics neglected every time a child of yours has an infectious fever, can we?”
“They’ve had most things,” Barbara said inconsequently. “And – well, I’ve been working on and off all my married life and they’ve never been allowed to interfere with it. I’ve an aunt living with me — ”
The rest of the committee was nodding approval, but the feathered lady was not satisfied. “Now why,” she barked, “should you have had to work? You have a husband — ”
