‘I doubt she has any notes,’ retorted Ron. ‘But you know very well that she used to live with us at Beach View when she worked in the laundry at the Cliffehaven General. You were the matron there at the time.’

‘I can’t be expected to remember everyone,’ she snapped. ‘And I’m not at liberty to discuss patients with the likes of you.’ She glared at him and attempted to close the door, but Ron’s heavy boot was still in the way.

‘I’m not leaving until I know if she survived the operation,’ he said.

‘If you don’t, I shall call security and have you thrown out.’

Ron smiled, for he knew that security consisted of two elderly, overweight men who spent most of their time drinking tea in the storeroom and reading the Racing Post. He decided to play her at her own game, and removed his foot from the door. ‘I’ll be back at visiting time, then. What ward’s she on?’

‘She’s in the recovery room at present, but will be transferred to Women’s Surgical when the surgeon is satisfied with her progress.’ Matron closed the door with rather more force than was necessary.

Ron grinned, for now he knew Danuta had come through the op. All he had to do next was find the recovery room. He hurried down the corridor, his memory of past visits taking him straight to the doctors’ changing rooms. Making sure the coast was clear, he slipped in and quickly swapped his jacket and cap for a white coat and a stethoscope which he found conveniently tucked in one of the pockets.

Bundling his cap into his jacket pocket, he strode out into the grounds and quickly deposited the jacket next to a rather bewildered Harvey who was sheltering from the rain beneath a rhododendron bush. ‘Stay there and look after that,’ muttered Ron. ‘I won’t be long.’

Returning inside, he finger-combed his hair into some sort of order and strode with purpose towards the operating theatres which were situated in the new west wing. He’d studied how the doctors swept importantly about when he’d briefly been in hospital, so knew that with the right swagger and wearing a white coat, he would pass muster.

He smiled vaguely at patients hobbling past on crutches, and nodded solemnly at the few nurses, who obviously didn’t recognise him, but who clearly thought he belonged there. He continued on until he reached the two theatres and then followed the signs to the recovery room. Pausing to look through the round windows cut into the swing doors, he saw four occupied beds, and the back of a nurse who was sitting at a table in the middle of the room.

He took a breath, pushed through the doors and strode to the table. ‘I’ve come to check on Miss—’ He met a pair of very familiar, laughing brown eyes.