Читать книгу Saturday's Child - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 4

THE ROOM WAS chilly and severe, as was the woman sitting behind the desk in one of its corners. The desk lamp, which only partly held at bay the fog of the darkened January sky outside, also served to illuminate her features, and the girl who had taken the chair on the opposite side of the desk in answer to the woman’s brisk nod occupied herself in giving her interviewer a softer hair-style, appropriate make-up and a more becoming dress. These alterations, mused Miss Abigail Trent, as she admitted to that name, would take away at least ten years from the age of her unconscious interviewer, who looked up and repeated, ‘Your age, Miss Trent?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Your education?’

Abigail murmured the name of a well-known girls’ boarding school. when her father had been alive there had been money enough …

‘You are state Registered?’

Abigail nodded and when asked to give the name of her training school mentioned a famous teaching hospital in London.

‘Have you family ties?’

She thought of the two cousins in Canada; they sent her Christmas cards each year, but they could hardly be described as ties, nor, for that matter, could Uncle Sedgeley, her mother’s brother, married to a peer’s sister and landed gentry, and totally disapproving of her father, her mother’s marriage to him and to Abigail herself. She said quietly in her pleasant voice: ‘No,’ and when she was asked what branch of nursing she had most recently been in, said: ‘Surgery—the operating theatre, too.’

‘You’re willing to travel?’

It sounded like the beginnings of an advertisement in the Personal Column of The Times. She said, ‘Certainly,’ and smiled at the woman, who didn’t smile back but looked at her watch as though time was rationed for her interviews and she had used it all up on Abigail. She got up briskly and went across to the filing cabinet against one wall and started pulling out its drawers. Presently she came back with a small folder and sat down again. ‘I think we could offer you a post immediately if you are prepared to take a medical case. A patient in Amsterdam—an American woman staying with friends there, in their flat. She has been in hospital with severe gastric symptoms and is now back with them—still in bed, of course, pending the doctor’s decision. She didn’t care for the hospital, for she speaks no Dutch and found the regulations a little trying. She is, I gather, rather …’ She wisely left the sentence unfinished and went on: ‘You will be paid twenty pounds a week and receive your board and lodging, and she is prepared to pay your fare at the end of a fortnight. The flat is, I believe, in one of the best parts of the city. You will have two and a half hours free every afternoon, and such other times as you can arrange for yourself. Should you take the post, you will pay this agency twelve and a half per cent of your salary until such time as you leave.’

She finished speaking and sat, tapping her ballpoint on the blotting pad in front of her. After perhaps half a minute she enquired, ‘Well, Miss Trent, do you care to take the case?’

It wasn’t quite what Abigail wanted, although she hardly knew what she did want—only to get away from London—from England, for a while, so that she could adjust herself to a future which no longer held her mother. And she needed the money. She got to her feet. ‘Yes, I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘When do you want me to go?’

‘Please sit down again.’ The woman looked more severe than ever. ‘I’ll give you the patient’s name and address and advise you on the easiest way of getting to the case. I suggest that you fly over early tomorrow, so that you will arrive in Amsterdam by lunch time—that should give you time to unpack, see your patient and begin your duties without delay.’

Abigail blinked the fine silky lashes of eyes which were her sole claim to beauty in an otherwise ordinary face. They were brown and large and the brows above them were silky too. But her nose was too short, her mouth too wide and her hair too mousy to give her even a modicum of good looks. She wasn’t sure at this moment if the change would be for the better; probably not, but she could always go back to hospital again. She held out a hand in its slightly shabby glove and took the papers which the woman was holding out to her.

Two minutes later she was outside in the street, standing rather uncertainly on the pavement while the passers-by pushed and jostled her first one way, then the other; not meaning to treat her roughly, but intent on getting to wherever they were going as quickly as possible. Presently she crossed the road, drawn by the cheerful lights of a Golden Egg restaurant, and went inside. It was almost twelve o’clock on this damp and foggy day in the first week of January; lunch in a pleasant warmth seemed a good idea. She chose egg and chips and coffee and while she was waiting for them got out her little notebook and started doing sums. Twenty pounds a week would be a godsend; she hadn’t earned any money at all for three months now. When her mother had fallen ill, she had given up her job at the hospital and stayed at home to nurse her, because the doctor had told her that her mother had only a few months to live anyway, and Abigail couldn’t bear the thought of her living out those last few weeks in some strange hospital bed. She had gone home for almost three months, and her mother had had every small comfort and luxury she wished for or needed, and Abigail had spent what money she had saved, which wasn’t much, to pay for them. Her mother’s pension had paid the rent of their small flat and the household expenses, but when she had died there had been nothing left at all. The furniture went with the flat, her mother’s jewellery, never very valuable, had been sold over the last five years, and Bollinger, who had served her father faithfully until his death and had refused to leave them after it, was owed almost a year of his low wages. The funeral had taken almost all the money she had, and now today, barely a week later, she had gone out to get a job, and it had had to be private nursing—that way she would get her board and lodging free and would get paid sooner.

The egg and chips arrived and she ate them, still doing sums in her head. She would just about be able to get to Amsterdam and have a pound or two in her purse until she was paid. Two weeks wasn’t long to wait, and anyway it didn’t look as though she was going to get much free time in which to spend her money. Even when the twelve and a half per cent had been deducted, she would still be able to send Bollinger some money. He would retire now, she supposed, but he would only have his old age pension, and that wouldn’t go far in London. She began to worry about where he would live; after that night they would have to leave the flat and she wasn’t going to leave him to struggle on his own after the years of service he had given them, and he had been so kind and helpful to her and her mother. The food on her plate became dimmed by the tears in her eyes, but she fought them back and doggedly went on eating the chips on her plate and drinking the coffee she didn’t want any more.

She took a bus back to the flat, the small top flat just off the Cromwell Road where they had lived since her father died and Abigail had started her hospital training. As she put her key in the front door at the top of the long flights of stairs, she could hear Bollinger in the kitchen; he came to its door as she went inside and said comfortably:

‘There you are, Miss Abby, the kettle’s on and I treated us to some crumpets. Nothing like a nice hot crumpet.’ He went back to the gas stove. ‘How did it go?’

‘I’ve got a job, Bolly—twenty pounds a week, in Amsterdam, nursing an American woman. I’m to go tomorrow, and isn’t it lucky I’ve still got my passport from that trip we had to Ostend? So everything’s going to be OK.’ She cast her coat and hat over the back of one of the wooden chairs at the table and went to get the teapot from the dresser. ‘Now, about you—did you manage to find anything?’

‘I did—the woman at the paper shop, remember her? She’s got a daughter with a house just round the corner from here. I can have a room and me meals with her and her husband. Four pounds and fifty pence a week—leaves me plenty, so don’t you worry your pretty head about me.’

She looked at him with deep affection, loving him for the cheerful lie. He was almost seventy, she knew, and he had worked very hard around the flat since they had moved into it, shopping and cooking and repairing fuses and waiting on her mother hand and foot. It was impossible to repay him, but at least she would see that he got the money which they owed him and then a small weekly pension after that so that he could find a proper home and not some small back room where he would be lonely. Years ago he had been her father’s gardener and odd job man, and when her father had died he had somehow stayed on with them, smoothing her mother’s path, offering practical advice when it was discovered that there was no money at all, and Abigail had never quite discovered how it was that he had persuaded her mother to keep him on at such a ridiculous wage.

She made the tea and they sat down together with the plate of crumpets between them. ‘I’m glad you’ve got somewhere to go for the present,’ began Abigail. She opened her handbag. ‘They gave me five pounds in advance on my salary,’ she went on mendaciously. ‘I’ve got more than enough and this’ll help you to get started, then each week, once I get my pay, I shall send you some money,’ and when he began to protest, ‘No, Bolly dear, you’re my friend and you were Mother’s and Father’s friend too—I can well afford to pay you back the wages we owe you and then pay you a little each week. It won’t take me long, you see, for I get my room and my food for free, don’t I? And in a little while I’ll get a hospital job again and perhaps we can find a small place and you can come and run it for me while I work.’

She smiled at him, trying not to see that he was getting quite elderly now and wouldn’t be fit to do much for many more years—something she would worry about when the time came, she told herself vigorously. She poured more tea and said cheerfully: ‘How funny Uncle Sedgeley was yesterday. I wonder what he and Aunt Miriam would have done if I’d accepted their invitation to go to Gore Park and stay with them? They hated Father, didn’t they, because he was a Methodist parson and hadn’t any worldly ideas and they hadn’t been near …’ She paused, unable to bear talking of her mother. ‘Aunt Miriam told me how fortunate I was that I had a vocation, for all the world as though I’d taken a vow not to marry.’

‘Of course you’ll marry, Miss Abby,’ said Bollinger, quite shocked.

‘That’s nice of you to say so, Bolly, but I’m afraid she may be right, you know. I’m twenty-four and I’ve never had a proposal—nothing even approaching one. I’m a sort of universal sister, you know, because I’m plain.’

‘You’re talking nonsense, Miss Abby. You just haven’t met the right man, that’s all. He’ll come, don’t you fret.’

‘Yes? Well, when he does I shan’t marry him unless he lets you come along too,’ she said firmly. ‘Now let’s go and see this room of yours and then I’ll treat us to the pictures.’

A remark which would have shocked Uncle Sedgeley if he could have heard it; to go to the cinema barely a week after her mother’s funeral—unthinkable! She could just hear him saying it, but it didn’t matter what he thought; her mother would have been the first one to suggest it. Life went on and you didn’t forget someone just because you sat in the stalls and watched some film or other without seeing any of it, and at least it would be warm there and infinitely better than sitting in the little flat talking, inevitably, of old times with Bolly, something she couldn’t bear to do.

She said goodbye to him the next morning and started her journey. She had booked her flight when she had left the agency, obedient to the severe woman’s instructions, and had packed her case with the sort of clothes she considered she might need, adding the blue uniform dresses and caps and aprons she had been forced to buy, and now on the plane at last, she got out her little notebook again and did some anxious arithmetic. With luck she wouldn’t have to spend more than the equivalent of a few shillings; stamps for her letters to Bollinger, small odds and ends for herself. She hoped that her patient might need her for more than two weeks—three, or even four weeks at twenty pounds a week would mount up nicely, and they were going to pay her fare too. She closed the little book, opened the newspaper the air hostess had handed her and read it with grave attention, fearful of allowing her thoughts to wander, and was surprised when far below she saw the flat coast of Holland, glimpsed through the layers of cloud.

Schiphol, she discovered, was large, efficient and pleasantly welcoming. With hundreds like her, she was passed along the human conveyor belt which eventually spilled her into the open air once more, only to be whisked up once more into the waiting bus which would take her to Amsterdam. It covered the ten miles to the capital with a speed which hardly gave her time to look around her and she got out at the bus terminus, still not quite believing that she was in Holland. It seemed such a very short time ago since she had said goodbye to Bollinger, as indeed it was.

Mindful of her instructions, she took a taxi to the address in the Apollolaan. It was, she quickly discovered, away from the centre of the city, for they quickly left the bustling, older part behind, to drive through modern streets lined with blocks of flats and shops. When they stopped half way down the Apollolaan, she got out, paid the driver from her small stock of money and crossed the pavement to enter the important-looking doorway of the building he had pointed out to her. It was of a substantial size, and from the cars parked before it, inhabited by the well-to-do, and inside the thickly carpeted foyer and neatly uniformed porter bore out her first impression. He greeted her civilly, and when she mentioned her name, ushered her into the lift, took her case from her and escorted her to the fourth floor. Here he abandoned her, her case parked beside her, outside the door of number twenty-one—occupied, according to the neat little plate at the side of the door, by Mr and Mrs E. Goldberg. Abigail drew a heartening breath and rang the beautifully polished bell.

The door was opened by a maid who, in answer to Abigail’s announcement of her name, invited her to enter, waved her to a chair, and disappeared. Abigail looked at the chair, a slender trifle which she felt sure would never bear the weight of her nicely rounded person, and stood looking around her. The hall was carpeted even more lushly than the foyer; the walls were hung with what she considered to be a truly hideous wallpaper, embossed and gilded, and as well as the little chair she had prudently ignored, there was a small settee, buttoned fatly into red velvet, and another chair with a straight back and a cane seat which looked decidedly uncomfortable. A wall table of gold and marble occupied the space between two doors, burdened with a French clock and matching vases. Abigail, who had a nice taste, shuddered delicately and wished that her mother could have been with her and share her feelings. For a moment her opulent surroundings faded to give place to the little flat in the Cromwell Road, but she resolutely closed her mind to her memories; self-pity helped no one, she told herself firmly, and turned to see who was coming through the door on the other side of the hall.

It had to be Mrs Goldberg, for she looked exactly like her name. She was middle-aged, with determinedly blonde hair, blue eyes which were still pretty and a baby doll face, nicely made up, which, while still attractive, had lost its youthful contours. She smiled now, holding out her hand, and when she spoke her voice was warm even though its accent was decidedly American.

‘Well, so you’re the nurse, my dear. I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you.’ She added dramatically, ‘I am exhausted, absolutely exhausted! Night and day have I been caring for our dear Clara—she is so sensitive, you know, we couldn’t leave her in hospital, although I’m sure they were kindness itself to her, but she’s used to the little comforts of life.’ The blue eyes looked at her a shade anxiously. ‘We hope that the worst is over; Doctor Vincent will be in after lunch and this evening he’ll bring a specialist—the very best to be got, I assure you—to see dear Clara, and he’ll decide whether to operate or not.’ She paused to take breath and Abigail asked quickly: ‘You’d like me to take over immediately, I expect? If I could go to my room and change …’

Mrs Goldberg smiled widely, showing a hint of gold tooth. ‘My dear, will you? I simply must rest. We lunch at half past twelve—so early, but when in Rome, I always say—If you could get into your uniform and make poor Clara a little more comfortable?’

‘Of course.’ Abigail smiled understandingly, hoping at the same time that Mrs Goldberg might suggest a cup of coffee or tea. Half past twelve was an hour away and she was, while not exactly tired, in need of a few minutes to collect herself, but Mrs Goldberg made no such offer, but followed her from the hall and into a short passage and so to her room. It was nice, with a view over the Apollolaan and comfortable anonymous furniture so often found in guest rooms, and it had the added attraction of a bathroom next door. As soon as she was alone Abigail unpacked her uniform, washed her face and hands, put her mousy hair up into its tidy bun, perched her frilly cap on top of it, buckled her belt around her trim waist and with a nicely made-up face, went back into the hall.

Mrs Goldberg must have been waiting for her; she appeared suddenly, like a cheerful outsize fairy, from one of the doors and said approvingly:

‘My, how quick you’ve been, and what a quaint outfit—that cap, it’s not a bit like our nurses wear back home.’

Abigail explained quickly that her hospital took pride in allowing its trained nurses to wear that particular headgear—it had been worn for a very long time and no one, least of all the nurses, wanted it changed.

‘Mighty becoming,’ commented Mrs Goldberg, ‘it sure will tickle poor Clara pink.’

Abigail, following her companion through another door, wondered if her patient felt well enough to be tickled by anything. At first sight it seemed not. Mrs Clara Morgan lay uncomfortably hunched against far too many pillows. Some of these she had tossed to the floor, the remainder were crowding into her back, which probably accounted for her petulant expression. She acknowledged Mrs Goldberg’s introduction languidly and said tiredly, ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Nurse, I’m very poorly and I need a great deal of skilled care and attention.’

Abigail murmured suitably and enquired if the doctor had left any message for her.

‘No,’ said Mrs Goldberg, ‘because he’ll be here in a couple of hours. Clara will tell you all about herself, won’t you, Girlie?’

Abigail judged it a good idea to get her oar in before her patient did, for she looked ill and tired and that was probably why she looked peevish. Her voice was persuasive. ‘Would you like me to give you a bed-bath and a fresh nightie and make you more comfortable? You’ll feel better for it.’

Her patient agreed, and while she submitted to Abigail’s kindly hands, discoursed at length upon her condition, its seriousness, the possibility of an operation, the need for her to return to the States as soon as she could, and the kindness of her friends the Goldbergs. That there was a thick thread of self-pity winding through her narrative was natural enough; it hadn’t taken Abigail long to gather that her patient was rich, spoilt and self-indulgent. She had, it transpired, been widowed twice, and, a still attractive woman in her early forties, was prepared to marry again should she find someone she liked sufficiently. Abigail listened without envy, because it wasn’t in her nature to be envious, and a certain amount of pity, because it seemed to her that Mrs Morgan was lonely too, despite her silver-backed hairbrushes and silk nighties and enormous bottles of perfume. But talking cheered her up, and by the time Abigail had smoothed the last wrinkle from the sheets, she declared that she felt a new woman.

‘I do believe we’re going to get on just fine,’ she declared. ‘I must admit that the idea of an English nurse didn’t appeal to me, but I’ll admit to being mistaken, though your uniform is pretty antiquated, isn’t it?’

Abigail admitted that perhaps it was. ‘They’re trying to change the uniforms in England, but you see, some of the hospitals are very old and they like to keep their own, however old-fashioned. Especially the caps—it’s like a regimental badge, everyone knows which hospital you were trained at just by looking at your cap.’

‘Well, I must say whoever thought of yours had a nice eye for something sexy.’

Abigail was folding towels neatly. No one had ever called her cap sexy before! She remained silent, nonplussed, and then said:

‘I think a nice milky drink, don’t you? I’ll go along and see about it.’

Milk and water, in equal proportions with afters of Mist. Mag. Tri., were her patient’s portion for lunch. Abigail measured carefully, arranged the two glasses on a little tray with a pretty cloth and bore them away to the sickroom, where she put the tray on the bed table, together with a selection of novels, the daily paper and a handful of glossy magazines, and then, quite famished, found her way to the dining room.

Mr Goldberg had come home to lunch. A small fat man with large glasses and a fringe of greying hair, possessed of a charming smile. Abigail liked him at once and wasn’t surprised to hear that he was something important to do with a permanent trade mission—anyone with a smile like that deserved to have a top job! They sat her between them at a large rectangular table and plied her with food. It was cold and grey outside, but here in the warm, over-furnished room, there was no need to think about the weather. She drank her soup, accepted a glass of wine and embarked on beef olives while she listened to her host and hostess and made polite replies to their questions whenever they asked them, which was frequently. She would have liked to have lingered over coffee with them, but she was on a job, after all. She excused herself and went back to her patient to find her asleep.

It seemed a good opportunity to unpack her few clothes and scribble a quick note to Bolly; most likely she would have the chance to post it before bedtime; if not, surely the hall porter would do it for her. She wrote the address with a little lump in her throat, because Bolly would probably be sitting by himself in that dreadful little back room with no other view than the house behind.

Dr Vincent came shortly afterwards. He was a tall man in his thirties, with regular features and an excellent command of the English language. He was obviously relieved to see Abigail and after he had examined Mrs Morgan and talked to her for a little while, he retired to the sitting room with Abigail so that he might discuss their patient. They sat opposite each other, on the edge of over-stuffed and very large easy chairs, because to sit back in them would have meant a complete loss of dignity on both their parts and the doctor was nothing if not dignified. He took her carefully through the ins and outs of Mrs Morgan’s illness. ‘This evening a specialist will come, Nurse—I shall of course accompany him. He is a consultant surgeon at several of our big hospitals and very well known. I feel that his opinion will be invaluable. It would be a pity for our patient to undergo an operation unless it is absolutely necessary. If we can get her well enough, she would much prefer that she should return to the United States with all speed. You are prepared to stay here until she returns, I hope?’

Abigail said that yes, she was. ‘What have they in mind?’ she wanted to know. ‘A gastrostomy? Surely if it’s a bad ulcer they’ll have to do an end-to-end anastimosis.’

Dr Vincent eyed her warily. ‘I think, Nurse, that we must leave such things for Professor van Wijkelen to decide.’

With a name like that, Abigail thought flippantly, a man ought to be able to decide anything. He would have a beard and begin all his remarks with -er. She would probably dislike him. Dr Vincent was speaking again, so she listened carefully to his instructions and forgot about the professor.

He came that evening, an hour or so after her patient had had another glass of milk and water with its attendant powder, and Abigail herself had had a short break for her own tea. Mr and Mrs Goldberg were out, and it had been brought to her on a tray in the sitting room. It had been pleasant to sit down for a little while on her own, while she had it, and then have the time to tidy herself, powder her ordinary nose and put on more lipstick. The results weren’t very encouraging, she considered, looking in the bedroom mirror. She had gone back to her patient’s room and taken her temperature and pulse, and sat her up more comfortably against her pillows, and was on a chair in her stockinged feet, reaching for a vase of flowers which someone had placed out of reach, and which, for some reason, Mrs Morgan had taken exception to, when there was a knock on the door and Doctor Vincent came in. The man who came in with him eclipsed him completely. He was a giant of a man, with a large frame which radiated energy despite the extreme leisureliness of his movements. He was handsome too, with pale hair, thickly silvered at the temples, a high-bridged nose and a well-shaped, determined mouth. His expression was one of cold ill-humour, and when he glanced up at her, still poised ridiculously on the chair, Abigail saw that his eyes were blue. It struck her with something of a shock that they were regarding her with dislike.

She got down off the chair, the flowers clutched in one hand, hastily put them down on one of the little tables which cluttered the room, crammed her feet into her shoes and reached the bedside at the same time as the two men. Doctor Vincent introduced the professor, adding a corollary of his talents, and Mrs Morgan, suddenly interested, shook hands. ‘And our nurse,’ went on Doctor Vincent, ‘arrived from England today and is already, I see, attending to the patient’s comfort. Miss Trent, this is Professor van Wijkelen, of whom I spoke.’

She held out her hand and he shook it perfunctorily and said nothing, only looked at her again with the same cold dislike, before sitting on the side of Mrs Morgan’s bed and saying, ‘Now, Mrs Morgan, will you tell me all your troubles, and perhaps Doctor Vincent and I can help you to get well again.’

His voice was charming, deep and quiet and compelling, and Mrs Morgan was nothing loath. Her recital, with various deflections concerning her own personal courage in the face of grave illness, her fears for the loss of her good looks and the fact that she had been twice widowed, took a long time. The professor sat quietly, not interrupting her at all, his eyes upon her face while she talked. He seemed completely absorbed and so, to his credit, did Doctor Vincent, who, Abigail guessed, must have heard the tale at least once already. She herself stood quietly by the bed, a well-trained mouse of a girl, her eyes, too, on her patient, although she would very much have preferred to fix them upon the professor.

Mrs Morgan finished at length and the professor said, ‘Quite, Mrs Morgan,’ and went on to ask her several questions. Finally, when he was satisfied with the answers, he turned to Abigail and asked her to prepare Mrs Morgan for his examination. He asked courteously in a voice of ice; Abigail wondered what had happened to sour him and take all the warmth from his voice as she bent to the task of getting Mrs Morgan modestly uncovered while the two men retired to the window and muttered together in their own language.

‘He’s ducky,’ whispered Mrs Morgan, and then sharply, ‘Don’t disarrange my hair, honey!’

She lay back, looking, to speak the truth, gorgeous. Abigail, obedient to her patient’s wish, had been careful of the hair; she had also arranged her patient’s wispy trifle of a bedjacket to its greatest advantage. Now she stood back and said briskly, ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ and watched while the professor conducted his examination. He prodded and poked gently with his large, square hands while he gazed in an abstracted fashion at the wall before him. At length, when he had finished and Abigail had rearranged Mrs Morgan, he said: ‘I think that there will be no need for an operation, but to be quite sure there are several tests which it will be necessary to do, and I am afraid that they must be done in hospital.’ He paused to allow Mrs Morgan to pull a pretty little face and exclaim:

‘Oh, no, Professor—I was so utterly miserable when I was there just a week ago, that’s why I engaged Nurse Trent here.’

‘In that case, may I suggest that you take her with you to hospital? She can attend you during the day and I am sure that we shall be able to find an English-speaking nurse for night duty. I should suppose that three or four days should be sufficient, then you can return here to await the result of the tests. If they are satisfactory, a week or so should suffice to see you on your feet again and well enough to return home.’

‘If you say so, Professor,’ Mrs Morgan’s voice was just sufficiently plaintive, ‘though I’m sure I don’t know how I shall get on in that hospital of yours. Still, as you say, if I take Nurse with me, I daresay I’ll be able to bear a few days.’

She smiled at him after this somewhat frank speech, but he didn’t smile in return, merely inclined his head gravely and offered his hand.

‘You’ll come and see me again, Professor?’ Mrs Morgan was still smiling. ‘I sure feel better already, you’ve a most reassuring way with you.’

If the professor was flattered by this remark he gave no sign. ‘Thank you, Mrs Morgan. I think that there is no necessity to see you again until you enter hospital. I will arrange that as soon as possible and you will of course see me there.’

‘I look forward to that—and be sure that I have a private room. I’m so sensitive, I can’t bear the sights and sounds of hospital, Professor.’

He walked to the door and then turned to face her with Doctor Vincent beside him. ‘I feel sure that Doctor Vincent will arrange everything to your liking, Mrs Morgan, and you will have your nurse to shield you from the—er—sights and sounds you so much dread.’ His smile was fleeting and reluctant, a concession to good manners, and it didn’t last long enough to include Abigail. He nodded curtly to her as he went away.

Surprisingly, he came the following day, late in the afternoon when Abigail had returned from her few hours off and was sitting with her patient, reading the New York Herald Tribune to her. She read very nicely in her quiet voice, sitting upright in a truly hideous reproduction Morris chair. She had enjoyed her afternoon off, and wished that her patient lived in one of the old houses beside the canals, because she would have dearly loved to see inside one of them. The flat in the Apollolaan was comfortable to the point of luxury, but all the same, she wouldn’t have liked to live in it for ever, but the brick houses with their gabled roofs reflected in the still waters of the grachten—they were a different matter; it would be wonderful to live in their serene fastness.

The morning had been successful too; Mrs Morgan seemed to like her, for she had chatted animatedly while Abigail performed the daily nursing chores, talking at great length about Professor van Wijkelen. ‘A darling man, Nurse,’ she mused. ‘I must find out more about him—such good looks and such elegance.’ She smiled playfully at Abigail. ‘Now mind, dear, and tell me anything you should hear about him. You’re bound to find out something in the hospital, aren’t you?’

Abigail had said that probably she would, provided she could find someone who could speak English. She had gone to lunch with Mr and Mrs Goldberg after that, and they had asked her a great many questions about her patient and seemed, she thought, a little relieved that dear Clara was to leave them for a day or two. Without someone in constant attendance, she must have put quite a strain on their good-natured hospitality.

Mrs Goldberg had asked her kindly if she had everything she needed and to be sure and say if she hadn’t and then told her to hurry out while she had the chance. And Abigail had, wrapped in her well-cut but not new tweed coat against the damp cold winds of Amsterdam. She hadn’t been able to do much in two hours, but at least she knew where she would go when next she was free; the complexity of grachten, tree-lined, their steely waters overlooked by the tall, quaintly shaped houses on either side of them, needed time to explore. There was no point in looking at the shops, not until she had some money to spend, but there was enough to see without spending more than the price of a tram fare.

The knock on the bedroom door had taken them both by surprise. Mr and Mrs Goldberg were both out, neither Abigail nor her patient had heard the maid go to the front door. She came in now and said in her basic English, ‘A person for the Zuster.’

Abigail put down the paper, which she was a little tired of anyway, saying: ‘Oh, that will be instructions from the hospital as to when we’re to go, I expect. I’ll go and see about it, shall I?’ and followed the maid out of the room. The visitor was in the sitting room. Abigail opened the door and went in and came to a standstill when she saw the professor standing before the window, staring out.

‘Oh, it’s you!’ she declared, quite forgetful of her manners because of her surprise, and was affronted when he answered irritably:

‘And pray why should it not be I, Nurse? Doctor Vincent has been called out unexpectedly and finds himself unable to call, and I had to come this way.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to explain,’ Abigail said kindly, and went on in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘You’ll want to see Mrs Morgan.’

‘No, Nurse, I do not. I wish merely to inform you that there will be a bed in the private wing tomorrow afternoon. Be good enough to bring your patient to the hospital at three o’clock. An ambulance will fetch you—you will need to bring with you sufficient for three days, four perhaps. Be good enough to see that Mrs Morgan fasts from midday tomorrow so that no time is wasted.’

He spoke shortly and she wondered if and why he was annoyed, perhaps because he had had to undertake Doctor Vincent’s errand, although surely he had a sufficiency of helpers to see to such mundane things as beds … He looked very arrogant and ill-humoured standing there, staring at her. She said briskly, ‘Very well, sir—and now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my patient.’

He looked faintly surprised, although he didn’t bother to reply. Only as she started for the door did he ask, ‘What is your name?’

She barely paused. ‘Trent, sir.’

He said impatiently, ‘I am aware of that—we met yesterday, if you care to remember. What else besides Trent?’

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to mind his own business, but she wasn’t given to unkindness and perhaps he had some very good reason for looking so irritable all the time. ‘Abigail,’ she offered, and watched for his smile; most people smiled when they discovered her name; it was old-fashioned and quaint. But he didn’t smile.

‘Why?’

‘I was born on a Saturday,’ she began, a little worried because he wasn’t English and might not understand. ‘And Abigail …’ She paused. ‘It’s rather a silly reason and I don’t suppose you would know …’

He looked more annoyed than ever, his thick almost colourless brows drawn together in a straight line above a nose which to her appeared disdainful.

‘You should suppose nothing. I am sufficiently acquainted with your English verses—Saturday’s child has to work for her living, eh? and Abigail was a term used some hundreds of years ago to denote a serving woman, was it not?’

‘How clever of you,’ said Abigail warmly, and was rewarded with another frown.

‘And were your parents so sure that you would be forced to work for your living that they gave you this name?’

She said tight-lipped, because the conversation was becoming painful:

‘It was a joke between them. You will excuse me now, sir?’

She left him standing there and went back to her patient, who, on being told who the visitor was, showed her displeasure at not receiving a visit, although she brightened again when Abigail pointed out that she would see a good deal of him in hospital once she was settled in there. They spent the rest of the day quite happily, with Abigail opening and shutting cupboards and drawers in order to display various garments to her patient, who, however ill she felt, intended to look as glamorous as possible during her stay in hospital. It was much later, when Abigail had packed a few things for herself that, cosily dressing-gowned, she sat down before her dressing-table to brush her hair for the night. She brushed it steadily for some time, deep in thought, and she wasn’t thinking about herself, or her patient or Bollinger, but of Professor van Wijkelen. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen, also the most bad-tempered, but there had to be a reason for the look of dislike which he had given her when they had met—as though he had come prepared to dislike her, thought Abigail. She finished plaiting the rich thickness of her mousy hair and stared at her face in the mirror. Plain she might be, but in an inoffensive manner—her teeth didn’t stick out, she didn’t squint, her nose was completely unassuming; there was, in fact, nothing to cause offence. Yet he had stared at her as though she had mortally offended him. She put the brush away and padded over to the bed, thinking that she would very much like to get to know him better, not because he was so good-looking; he looked interesting as well, and for some reason she was unable to explain she found herself making excuses for his abrupt manner, even his dislike of her. She got into bed wondering sleepily what he was doing at that moment—the idea that he was a happily married man dispelled sleep for a few minutes until she decided that he didn’t look married. She slept on that surprisingly happy thought.