Читать книгу Saturday's Child - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 5

THE HOSPITAL WAS hidden away behind the thickly clustered old houses and narrow lanes of the city. It was itself old, although once inside, Abigail saw that like so many of the older hospitals in England, it had a modernised interior despite the long bleak corridors and small dark passages and bare enclosed yards which so many of its windows looked out upon. Mrs Morgan’s room was on the third floor, in the private wing, and although small, it was well furnished and the view from its window of the city around was a splendid one. Abigail got her patient safely into bed, tucked in the small lace-covered pillows Mrs Morgan had decided she couldn’t manage without, changed her quilted dressing-gown for a highly becoming bedjacket, rearranged her hair, found her the novel she was reading, unpacked her case and after leaving the bell within reach of her, went to find the Ward Sister.

Zuster van Rijn was elderly, round, cosy and grey-haired, with a lovely smile and a command of the English language which Abigail found quite remarkable. They sat together in the little office, drinking the coffee which one of the nurses had brought them, while Zuster van Rijn read her patient’s notes and charts and finally observed:

‘She does not seem too bad. Professor van Wijkelen never operates unless it is necessary—he is far too good for that, but she must have the tests which have been ordered—she can have the X-ray this afternoon and the blood test—tomorrow the test meal—just something milky this evening for her diet. You’re to stay with her, the professor tells me.’

‘Yes, Mrs Morgan is a little nervous.’

Zuster van Rijn smiled faintly. ‘Yes,’ her voice was dry. ‘There’s a room ready for you in the Nurses’ Home—would you like to go there now? There is nothing to do for Mrs Morgan for half an hour and one of the nurses can answer the bell. I will tell Zuster de Wit to go over with you.’

Abigail went back to her patient, to explain and collect her bag, and then followed the nurse down one flight of stairs, over a covered bridge, spanning what looked like a narrow lane of warehouses, and so into the Nurses’ Home. Zuster de Wit hurried her along a long passage and then a short one to stop half way down it.

‘Here,’ she said, and smiled as she flung open a door in a row of doors. The room was comfortable although a little dark, for its window overlooked another part of the hospital, but the curtains were gay and it was warm and cheerful. Abigail smiled in return and said, ‘How nice. Thank you,’ and Zuster de Wit smiled again, said ‘Dag’ and hurried away. Obviously she had been told to waste no time. Abigail, listening to her rapidly disappearing feet, hoped that she would be able to find her own way back to the ward again as she began to unpack her things. She had bought only a modicum of clothes—mostly uniform and her thick winter coat and a skirt and sweater, boots and the knitted beret and scarf she had made for herself during the weeks she had nursed her mother. It took only a few minutes to put these away and another minute or so to powder her nose and tuck her hair more tidily under her cap. It was almost four o’clock, as she shut the door she wondered about tea—perhaps they didn’t have it; there were several things she would have to find out before the day was over. She went back over the bridge and found her way to her patient’s room, to find her asleep.

Working in an Amsterdam hospital was almost exactly the same as working in her own London hospital; she had discovered this fact by the end of the day. Once she had become used to addressing even the most junior nurses as ‘Zuster’ and discovered that she was expected to say ‘Als t’U blift’ to anyone she gave something to, and ‘Dank U wel’ each time she was given something, be it instructions—mostly in sign language—or a thermometer or a holder for the potted plant someone had sent her patient, she felt a little less worried about the problem of language. She had had to go without her tea, of course—they had had it at three o’clock, but she went down to supper with the other nurses at half past six; a substantial meal of pea soup, pork with a variety of vegetables, followed by what Abigail took to be custard and as much coffee as she could drink.

She went back to the office to give her report and then returned to sit with Mrs Morgan who was feeling a little apprehensive about the test meal. At half past eight, just before the night nurse was due on duty, a house doctor came to see the new patient and a few minutes later Doctor Vincent. He listened patiently to her small complainings, soothed her nicely, recommended her to do as Abigail told her, and went away again, and presently when the night nurse came and Abigail had given her a report too, she went herself, over the bridge to the Nurses’ Home and to her room.

She hadn’t been in it for more than a minute when there was a knock on the door and the same nurses she had seen at supper took her off to their sitting room to watch TV which, although she was tired, Abigail found rather fun because Paul Temple was on and it was amusing to watch it for a second time and listen to the dubbed voices talking what to her was nonsense. For so the Dutch language seemed to her; she had been unable to make head or tail of it—a few words and phrases, it was true, she had been quick enough to pick up, but for the most part she had had to fall back on basic English and signs, all taken in very good part by the other nurses. It had been a great relief to find that the night nurse spoke English quite well; enough to understand the report and discuss Mrs Morgan’s condition with Abigail, and what was more important, Mrs Morgan seemed disposed to like her.

After Paul Temple she was carried off once more, this time to one of the nurses’ rooms to drink coffee before finally going to her own room. She slept soundly and got up the next morning feeling happier than she had done for some time; it was on her way down to breakfast that she realised that the uplift to her spirits was largely due to the fact that she would most probably see the professor during the course of the day.

Her hope was to be gratified; he passed her on the corridor as she made her way to her patient’s room after breakfast. She saw him coming towards her down its length and watched with faint amusement as the scurrying nurses got out of his way. When he drew level with her she wished him a cheerful good morning and in reply received a cold look of dislike and faint surprise, as though he were not in the habit of being wished a good day. Her disappointment was so sharp that she took refuge in ill temper too and muttered out loud as she sped along, ‘Oh, well, be like that!’

She found her patient in good spirits; she had slept well, the night nurse had understood her and she had understood the night nurse, and the Ryle’s tube had been passed and the test meal almost finished. The night nurse, giving the report to Abigail in the privacy of the nurses’ station further down the corridor, confided in her correct, sparse English that she herself had enjoyed a quiet night and had got a great deal of knitting done. She produced the garment in question—a pullover of vast proportions and of an overpowering canary yellow. They had their heads together over the intricacies of its pattern when the professor said from behind them:

‘If I might have the attention of you two ladies—provided you can spare the time?’ he added nastily.

The Dutch girl whipped round in much the same fashion as a thief caught in the act of robbing a safe, but Abigail, made of sterner stuff and unconscious of wrongdoing, merely folded the pullover tidily and said: ‘Certainly, sir,’ which simple remark seemed to annoy him very much, for he glared at her quite savagely.

‘You are both on duty, I take it?’ he asked.

‘No, me,’ said Abigail ungrammatically in her pleasant voice. ‘We’ve just discussed the report and Night Nurse is going off duty.’

‘When I need to be reminded of the nurses’ routine in hospital, I shall say so, Nurse Trent.’

She gave him a kindly, thoughtful look, her previous temper quite forgotten. Probably he was one of those unfortunate people who were always ill-tempered in the early morning. She found that she was prepared, more anxious to make excuses for him.

‘I didn’t intend to annoy you, sir,’ she pointed out to him reasonably, and was rewarded with a sour look and a compression of his well-shaped mouth.

‘The test meal,’ he snapped, ‘when is it complete?’

She looked at her watch. ‘The last specimen is due to be withdrawn in fifteen minutes’ time, sir.’

‘If the patient doesn’t tire of waiting for your return and pull the Ryle’s tube out for herself.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Abigail seriously, ‘she’d never do that—you see, I explained how important it was for her to do exactly as you wish. She has a great opinion of you.’

Just for a moment she thought that he was going to laugh, but she must have been mistaken, for all he said was, ‘I want Mrs Morgan in theatre at noon precisely for gastroscopy. The anaesthetist will be along to write her up. See that she is ready, Nurse Trent.’

He turned to the night nurse, who had been silent all this while, and spoke to her with cold courtesy in his own language. She smiled at him uncertainly, looked at Abigail and flew off down the corridor, leaving behind her the strong impression that she was delighted to be free of their company. Abigail picked up the report book and prepared to go too, but was stopped by the professor’s voice, very silky.

‘A moment, Nurse Trent. I am interested to know what it was you said in the corridor just now.’

She wished she could have looked wide-eyed and innocent, or been so pretty that he really wouldn’t want an answer to his question. She would have to tell him, and probably, as he seemed to dislike her so much already, he would say that he wanted another nurse to work for him and she would have to go back to England. Did one get paid in such circumstances? she wondered, and was startled when he asked, ‘What are you thinking about? I assure you it is of no use you inventing some excuse.’

‘I’m not inventing anything. What I said was,’ she took a deep breath, ‘”Oh, well, be like that.’”

‘That is what I thought you said. May I ask if you are in the habit of addressing the consultants in your own hospital in such a fashion?’

She considered carefully before she answered him. ‘No, I can’t remember ever doing so before, but then, you see, they always said good morning.’

She studied his face as she spoke; perhaps she had gone a little too far, but she didn’t like being treated in such a high-handed fashion. He looked very angry indeed—she waited for the outburst she felt sure would come and was surprised when all he said, through a tight mouth, was:

‘Young woman, you disturb me excessively,’ and stalked away, leaving Abigail with her eyes opened very wide, and her mouth open too.

She didn’t see him again until she entered the theatre and she thought it unlikely that he would notice her, disguised as she was in theatre gown of voluminous size and nothing visible of her face, only her nice eyes above the mask.

The morning’s work had gone exactly to plan. It was precisely noon. Theatre Sister and two nurses were there and of course the anaesthetist—there was to be no general anaesthetic, but Mrs Morgan had had a pre-med and would need a local anaesthetic. He was a nice sort of man, Abigail thought; his English was fluent if a little difficult to understand and he had smiled kindly at her. Mrs Morgan, her hand held in Abigail’s comforting grasp, was dozing in her drug-induced sleep; she had joked a little about it before they went to theatre because she would miss seeing Professor van Wijkelen, and Abigail had consoled her with the prospect of further visits from him, for there were still one or two more tests to carry out, though once the professor had done the gastroscopy and had made up his mind whether he needed to operate or not, there wasn’t much more to be done.

Abigail arranged the blanket over her patient, turning it down below her shoulders so that it wouldn’t get in the surgeon’s way once he started. Mrs Morgan made a little whimpering sound and opened her eyes, and Abigail said instantly in a soothing voice, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Morgan, the professor is just coming.’

He was in fact there, standing behind her, talking quietly to Sister. He finished what he was saying and went closer to his patient, ignoring Abigail completely—something she had expected.

He spoke quietly to his patient. ‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, Mrs Morgan? We are going to spray your throat now and it will feel numb, but you will feel nothing else—a little uncomfortable perhaps, but that is all. It will take only a short time. Your head will be lifted over a pillow now and I am going to ask you to open your mouth when I say so.’

The small examination went well and Mrs Morgan, whom Abigail had expected to be rather difficult, didn’t seem to mind at all when the professor inserted the gastroscope and peered down it, his great height doubled, his brows drawn together in concentration. At length he said, ‘That will do. Kindly take her back to the ward, Nurse.’

Which Abigail did, to spend a rather trying few hours because Mrs Morgan was under the impression that the local anaesthetic would wear off in ten minutes or so, and when it didn’t she was first annoyed and then frightened. Abigail, explaining over and over again that the numbness would disappear quickly and that no, Mrs Morgan couldn’t have a drink just yet, longed for an hour or so off duty. It was already three o’clock; she had been relieved at dinner time, but no one had said a word about her off-duty. Probably the Ward Sister thought that she wouldn’t mind as long as someone relieved her for a cup of tea.

The door opened and she looked up hopefully, unaware that her face plainly showed her disappointment at the sight of the professor standing there, for he certainly hadn’t come to release her from her duties. She got to her feet, wondering why he stared so, and fetched the chart for him to study. He hadn’t spoken at all and since he seemed to like it that way, she hadn’t either. She had half expected to hear more about their morning’s meeting, but now she rather thought that he wasn’t going to do anything more about it. She took the chart back again and stood quietly while he spoke briefly to Mrs Morgan. Presently he turned away from the bed. ‘Nurse, I shall want another blood count done and the barium meal will be done tomorrow at two o’clock. Attend to the usual preparations, please. I can find nothing very wrong, but I shall need confirmation of that before I make my final decision.’

She said, ‘Yes, Professor,’ and admired him discreetly. Forty or more, she concluded, and unhappy—though I don’t suppose he knows it.

His voice, cutting a swathe through her half-formed thoughts, asked:

‘You are comfortable here, Nurse? Everyone is kind to you? You have your free time?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered so quickly that he said at once, ‘Today?’

‘Well, not yet, but I’m perfectly all right. Mrs Morgan is my patient, isn’t she, and the ward is very busy. I’m quite happy.’

He said surprisingly, ‘Are you? I should have supposed otherwise, although I daresay you do your best to disguise the fact.’

She was appalled, and when had he looked at her long enough to even notice? ‘I—I …’ she began, and was instantly stopped by his bland, ‘No need to excuse yourself, Nurse Trent—we all have our worries and sorrows, do we not—and never as important as we think they are.’

Abigail went brightly pink. She blushed seldom, but when she did, she coloured richly from her neck to the roots of her hair. He watched her now with a detached interest, nodded briefly, and went away.

She was relieved shortly after that and after a cup of tea in the dining room she tore into her clothes and went out into the city. The night nurse had explained how she could get to the shops in a few minutes; now she followed the little lanes between the old houses, pausing frequently to make sure that she could find her way back again, and came all at once into a brightly lighted street, crowded with people and lined with shops. She spent half an hour peering into their windows, working out the prices and deciding what she would buy when she had some money. That wouldn’t be just yet; as soon as she had her first pay she would have to send it to poor old Bollinger. She wasn’t happy about his room—it had looked cold and bare and although the landlady seemed kind enough she hadn’t looked too clean, and supposing he were to become ill, who would look after him? She stood in the middle of Kalverstraat, suddenly not sure if she should have left him.

Mrs Morgan stayed in hospital for another three days, becoming progressively more cheerful because it seemed unlikely that she would need an operation after all. Besides, the professor visited her each day and she made no secret of her liking for him. He spent ten minutes or so listening gravely while she explained some new symptom she feared she might have, and then courteously contradicted her, impervious to her undoubted charm and quite deaf to her suggestions that he might, in the not too distant future, pay her a visit at her Long Island home. He seldom spoke to Abigail and when he looked at her it was with a coldness which she admitted to herself upset her a great deal more than it should have done.

They went home on the sixth day, this time in Mr Goldberg’s Buick motor car; the professor had paid a visit the evening before and had stayed a little longer than usual, reassuring Mrs Morgan as to her future health, and had bidden her goodbye with his usual cold politeness, nodding briefly to Abigail as he went away. On her way off duty, half an hour later, she had seen him in the main ward, doing a round with his registrars and housemen, Sister and attendant satellites of students, nurses, physiotherapist and social worker. He looked very important but completely unconscious of the fact, an aspect of his character which she found strangely endearing.

The days following passed pleasantly enough. Mrs Morgan was out of bed now, although she preferred to keep to her room, walking a little and talking incessantly about her flight to the States, which she anticipated with all the impatience of someone who always had what they wanted when they wanted it. Abigail was impatient too—although she damped it down—for pay-day. She had had several letters from Bolly and from the sparse information they contained as to how he fared, she guessed that life was being difficult for him. She had already decided that she would send almost all her money to him, for she was almost certain that Mrs Morgan would ask her to stay another week, perhaps longer, and she didn’t want him to wait any longer for it. The moment she got back to London she would go to the agency again and ask for another job. She reviewed her plans almost daily, and behind all this careful scheming was the thought that she would never see the professor again once she had left Holland. A ridiculous thing to worry about, she told herself scornfully, for she very much doubted if he would notice if she were there or not. She dismissed him firmly from her thoughts and went out each day, exploring Amsterdam.

It was on the morning that she was due to be paid that Mrs Morgan asked her if she would stay another week. ‘I know I don’t really need you, honey,’ she said, ‘but you are such a comfort to have around, and Dolly and Eddy don’t need to worry about me at all. I’ve booked a flight for next week—a week today—if you would stay and see me safely away?’

She opened the crocodile handbag with the gold fittings which looked almost too heavy for her to carry and took out an envelope. ‘Here’s your salary, honey—I got Eddy to see to it for me. You’d rather have the cash, I’m sure. I bet you’ve got your eye on something pretty to buy with it.’

Abigail agreed pleasantly. She had grown quite fond of her patient while she had been looking after her and she saw no point in disturbing her complacent belief that the rest of the world lived in the same comfortable circumstances as herself. She put the envelope in her pocket and picked up the guide book of Holland which she had been reading to Mrs Morgan. Later, when she was free that afternoon, she would go to the post office and send the money to Bollinger, and perhaps now that she knew when she would be finished with the case, she should write to the agency and ask if they had anything else she could go straight to. The problem remained at the back of her mind while she read aloud about the delights of Avifauna and the best way of getting there, she was interrupted half way through by her companion telling her with enthusiasm that she intended to return. ‘Because,’ said Mrs Morgan, ‘this is a sweet little country and I must say some of the people I’ve met are well worth cultivating.’ She giggled happily and Abigail, who knew that she was talking about Professor van Wijkelen, smiled politely and wondered what success she would have in that quarter.

With her patient tucked up for her afternoon nap, Abigail was free to go to her room and open the envelope. There was two weeks’ salary inside and her fare—but only her single fare. She had expected to be given the return fare and had neglected to ask anyone about it. Perhaps she was only entitled to half her travelling expenses; on the other hand, Mrs Morgan might give it to her with her next week’s pay. She put the fare away in her bag, popped the rest into the envelope she had ready and got into her outdoor clothes.

It was cold outside and bleak with the bleakness of January. The clouds had a yellow tinge to them and the wind was piercingly cold. She hurried to the post office some streets away, where there were clerks who spoke English and would understand her when she asked for a registered envelope.

The post office was warm inside. The walk had given her eyes a sparkle and put some colour into her cheeks. She had perched her knitted beret on top of her head and wound its matching scarf carelessly round her throat. She took her gloves off and blew on her cold fingers and went up to the counter.

It took a little while to understand the clerk and then she was so disappointed that she could hardly believe him. She had taken it for granted that she could send either the cash or a money order to Bolly and it seemed she had been hopelessly at fault—she could do no such thing. Go to a bank, suggested the clerk helpfully, where there would be forms to be filled in and a certain amount of delay. But she wanted Bolly to have the money now—within the next day or two. If she waited until she went back herself that was a whole week away—besides, she had promised Bolly. She sighed and the clerk sighed in sympathy and she said, ‘Well, thank you very much for explaining. I should have found out earlier, shouldn’t I?’

‘Can I help?’ The professor—she would have known his icy voice anywhere. She whirled round to face him.

‘Oh, how funny to meet you here, sir. I don’t think so, thank you. It’s just something that was my own silly fault anyway.’

‘Why should it be funny, Nurse Trent? I also write letters, you know.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do, only—only I should have thought that you would have had someone to post them.’

‘Indeed? I am not particularly interested in your suppositions, but I find this one extraordinary. How can I help you?’

Persistent man, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She explained in a matter-of-fact voice and apologised again for being stupid.

‘Why should you be stupid?’ he asked irritably. ‘You were not to know before you asked. How much money did you want to send?’

‘Forty pounds. No—I’ve got to take some off …’ she began to reckon twelve and a half per cent of forty pounds in her head and the amount came different each time she did it. Finally she asked, because he showed signs of impatience, ‘How much is twelve and a half per cent of forty pounds?’

‘Five pounds. Why?’

‘Well, that’s what I have to pay the agency for as long as I work for them.’

‘Iniquitous! It so happens that I am going over to London this evening. I will take the money, since you seem so anxious to send it.’

She stared at him, astonished. ‘But you don’t even … you’re very kind, but I couldn’t trouble you. I shall be going back myself in a week’s time.’

The professor tweaked her out of the queue forming behind her.

‘Ah, yes—I should be obliged if you would remain in Amsterdam for a further few weeks. I have a patient upon whom I shall be operating in ten days’ time, and he will need a special nurse in hospital and probably to accompany him home when he is sufficiently recovered. Your usual fee will be paid you.’

Abigail’s voice sounded a little too loud in her own ears. ‘But you don’t …’ She stopped—what had his personal opinion of her got to do with it anyway? He wanted a nurse and she was available. She answered him with her usual calm good sense, ‘Yes, Professor, I should be quite willing to stay on for as long as you require me.’

He nodded carelessly, as though he had known all along that she was going to say yes.

‘Very well, we will consider the matter settled,’ and when she looked at him it was to find him smiling. Perhaps it was because she had never seen him smile that her heart lurched against her ribs and her breath caught in her throat. It transformed his handsome face into one of such charm that if he had at that moment suggested that she should remain in Holland for the rest of her life, she would probably have agreed without further thought. But her idea wasn’t put to the test; the smile vanished, leaving him looking more impatient than ever.

‘Give me the address of the person who is to receive the money,’ he suggested, ‘and I will see that it reaches him—or her.’

‘Him,’ said Abigail, and would have liked to tell him about Bolly, but quite obviously her companion was anxious to be gone. She handed him the envelope with the letter inside and the forty pounds hastily pushed in with it. She had forgotten about the agency fee, but he hadn’t.

‘Twelve and a half per cent?’ he wanted to know.

He really was in a hurry. ‘I’ll—I’ll take it out of my pay next week. You’re sure …?’

He interrupted without apology, ‘Stop fussing, Miss Trent.’ He stuffed the envelope into a pocket with a nonchalance, Abigail thought vexedly, of a man who found forty pounds chicken feed, wished her a curt goodbye and walked away. She began to walk back to the flat, her head bent against the sneering wind, telling herself that the reason she felt so happy was because Bolly would have the money by the following evening, or at the very least, the morning after.

The professor came to see Mrs Morgan three days later. He paid his visit while Abigail was out for her afternoon walk and left no message for her at all. It wasn’t until the evening previous to Mrs Morgan’s departure that he came again. Abigail was packing her patient’s clothes, surrounded by tissue paper, orderly piles of undies, innumerable hats and an assortment of suitcases. Evidently Mrs Morgan never worried about excess baggage. That lady was reclining on the couch, directing operations; she looked very well and remarkably attractive, which was more than Abigail felt, for her head ached and her usually neat hair was a little untidy, nor had she had the time to do anything to her face for some time, and over and above these annoyances she was worried about Bolly; she had had a cheerful letter from him, thanking her for the money, but she sensed that he was hiding something from her. She was thinking about it now and frowning—she was still frowning when there was a knock on the door and Doctor Vincent and the professor walked in. They both wished her a good evening and she flushed a little under the professor’s brief, unfriendly glance, very conscious that she wasn’t looking her modest best. They stayed perhaps ten minutes, made their farewells and started for the door. But this time Professor van Wijkelen made a detour and came to a halt by her and her pile of luggage.

‘I understand that you will be taking Mrs Morgan to Schiphol tomorrow morning. You will be fetched from there and taken straight to the hospital. Perhaps you can arrange to have your luggage with you.’ His eyes strayed over the ordered chaos around them. ‘I trust you have a good deal less than this.’

‘One case,’ Abigail told him briefly, and he nodded. ‘I will leave a message for you at the hospital tomorrow,’ he stated. ‘Good evening, Nurse.’

He had gone before she could thank him for posting her letter.

Mrs Morgan was actually bidding Abigail goodbye at Schiphol when she interrupted herself to exclaim, ‘There, I knew there was something, honey! I’ve clean forgot to give you your money.’ She made to open her unwieldy bag, but it was too late; a smiling official indicated the passenger conveyor belt which would take her one stage nearer the plane. ‘I’ll post it to you,’ she called, waved and smiled and nodded, and was borne swiftly away; so easy for her to say it, thought Abigail a little forlornly, but where would she send the money to? Mrs Morgan knew that she was going to another job, but she hadn’t asked for any details and Abigail hadn’t volunteered any. Perhaps she would send the money to the agency. If so, would the severe woman who had interviewed her send it on, or would she keep it and expect Abigail to call for it? And what about the rest of her fare—she hadn’t had it yet.

She stood pondering, pushed to and fro by the hurrying people around her. She had been silly; she should have asked for her salary and her fare sooner. But she hadn’t liked to, even though the money was rightly hers. And now she had landed herself with only a few pounds. Supposing the professor had changed his mind about employing her for his next patient? She had been rash enough to buy herself a pair of shoes the day before, and now she was left with less than her fare to England. She moved at last, back to the reception area to fetch her case. She had been foolish twice over; the professor had said that she would be fetched from the airport, but how was she to know who was looking for her? Supposing they couldn’t find her and she was left—supposing they forgot all about her, supposing … Her gloomy thoughts were cut short by the professor’s voice. She hadn’t seen him, but here he was beside her, taking her case from her as relief as well as delight flooded through her, although her quiet ‘Good morning, Professor,’ was uttered in her usual voice. She received an ill-tempered grunt in reply and a brief, ‘Come along, Nurse,’ as he made for the door.

She trotted beside him because otherwise she could never have kept up with him, and to lose him now would be unthinkable. There were a great many cars outside and she wondered which of them was his.

He stopped in front of a black Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, sleekly and unobtrusively perfect among the other cars, opened its doors, told her to get in with the cold courtesy she had come to believe was the only alternative to his ill-humour, and went to put her case in the boot. He didn’t speak when he got in beside her, and was still silent as he edged the car away from the crowded bustle of the airport and on to the main road. They were tearing along the motorway to the capital when she ventured helpfully:

‘I expect you came yourself so that you could save time telling me about the patient.’

She looked at him as she spoke and he turned to meet her gaze briefly. She wished that he would smile again, but he didn’t, although when he did speak she had the impression that somewhere, deep down inside him, he was laughing. Imagination, she told herself roundly; why should he laugh?

‘A doctor,’ he stated flatly. ‘Professor de Wit, seventy years old. He’s to have a gastroenterostomy—CA, of course, but everything’s in his favour, he’s got a sound heart and chest and a great desire to live. He is to have a room in the private wing and you will be working under Zuster van Rijn with whom you will arrange your off-duty, please.’

Having thus given her the bare bones of the case he fell silent once more, and Abigail, not knowing if he was occupied with the intricacies of the day’s operating list, forbore from disturbing him. It was only when he drew up in front of the hospital entrance and called to the porter to come and collect her case that she said:

‘Thank you for posting my letter. I heard from—that is, it arrived safely. I’m very grateful to you.’

He looked at her with quick annoyance. ‘There’s no need to say any more about it,’ he stated with such finality that she felt snubbed, so that she too was annoyed. ‘I shan’t,’ she told him crisply. ‘Obviously gratitude and thanks are wasted upon you, sir.’

She walked briskly into the hospital, not waiting to see what the porter was going to do about her case. She was half way across the width of the entrance hall when she was amazed to hear the professor laughing. It was a deep bellow and sounded perfectly genuine.

It was surprising to her how quickly she slipped back into the routine of hospital. She had been given the same room again and this time it was so much easier because she knew some of the nurses and they greeted her as an old friend. Zuster van Rijn seemed glad to see her again too; they were short-staffed on the surgical side, she told Abigail, and specialling could be awkward unless there were enough nurses.

‘Will you work as you did before,’ she asked, ‘and take an afternoon off? I know it’s not quite fair that you shouldn’t work shift hours as the other girls do, but that way I can spare a nurse to take over while you’re off duty. There will be the same night nurse as you have already worked with, and you shall have your days off, of course, but how or when I do not know at the moment. You are content?’

‘Quite content,’ Abigail told her. Days off didn’t matter, not for the first week at any rate, for she hadn’t any money to spend. The problem of how to get the money over to Bolly was looming heavily again too; she had done nothing about it because she had expected to return to England, now she would have to start all over again. She dismissed her problems and followed Sister, prepared to meet her patient.

She liked him on sight. He was lying in bed and although his face was pinched and white with his illness, he was still a remarkably good-looking old man. Excepting for a thick fringe of white hair, he was bald, but the fringe encircled his face as well in rich profusion and his blue eyes were youthful and sharp. She shook his hand—gently—because she could see that he was an ill man, and despite his alert expression and merry eyes, probably in pain as well.

Zuster van Rijn left them together after a few minutes and Professor de Wit said, ‘Pull up a chair, my dear, and let us get to know each other. I believe Dominic wishes me to spend a week in bed before he operates, physiotherapy and blood transfusions and all the other fringe benefits of his calling which he so generously offers.’

Abigail laughed with him. So the professor’s name was Dominic—she stored the little piece of information away, though what good it would do her she had yet to discover. She listened to the old man’s placid talk in his slow, almost perfect English and by means of gentle questions of her own found out that he slept badly, ate almost nothing, had lost his wife twenty years previously, had a doting housekeeper to look after him, and a dog and a cat to keep him company, as well as a half-tamed hedgehog, a family of rabbits and a pet raven. They were discussing a mutual dislike of caged birds when Professor van Wijkelen came in.

The two men, she saw at once, were old friends. It was also apparent that the older man trusted the younger completely. He lay listening quietly while the professor told him exactly what he was going to do and why.

‘It sounds most promising, Dominic. I gather I am to be a new man by the time you have finished with me.’

‘Shall we say soundly repaired, and fit for another ten or fifteen years—and that’s a conservative estimate.’

‘And what does Nurse say?’ It was her patient who spoke.

Her smile lighted her ordinary face with its gentleness and sincerity.

‘I never think of failure—Professor van Wijkelen will operate and it will be a complete success, just as he says.’ She looked across at him as she spoke and found him staring at her, and there was no mistaking the faint sneer on his face, but because she liked him, she saw the hurt there too. Someone at some time had turned him into a cold, embittered man; she wondered who it was and hated them. Once, just once, he had smiled at her and she wanted him to smile like that again, but that, at that moment, seemed unlikely.

She settled down to a steady pattern of work, the same work as she would have been doing in a London hospital, even though the language was different, but all the doctors and a good many of the nurses spoke English and she herself, with the aid of her dictionary and a good deal of good-natured help from everyone else, managed to make herself understood. The days passed quickly. Under her patient’s kindly direction she went each afternoon to some fresh part of the city, sometimes to a museum, sometimes to gaze at the outside of some old house whose fascinating history he had described to her delighted ears while she was fulfilling the various duties which made up her day. He was looking a little better, mainly due to the blood transfusions, to which he submitted with an ill grace because they interfered with his movements in bed. He was a great reader and an even greater writer and a formidable conversationalist. Abigail became fond of him, as indeed did anyone who came in daily contact with him. The day before his operation he paid her, handing her an envelope with a word of thanks and a little joke about him being strong enough to do it the following week, which touched her soft heart because although she had complete faith in Professor van Wijkelen, things quite outside his control could go wrong. She tucked the envelope away under her apron bib and as she did so wondered for the hundredth time why Bolly’s last letter had been so strange; asking her not to send him any more money for at least another week. A good thing in a way, because she had not yet discovered the best way of sending it to him, all the same, she felt a vague disquiet.

Professor van Wijkelen came each day, treating her with his usual polite chill, at direct variance to the obvious regard he had for his patient. She stood quietly by while they talked together and longed for the warmth of his voice to be directed just once at herself. A wish which was most unlikely to be fulfilled, she told herself wryly, handing him charts and forms and reports and at the end giving him her own report very concisely in her clear precise voice. He liked to take her report outside the patient’s room and did her the courtesy of giving her his full attention. And now, on this day before he was to operate, he listened even more carefully than usual. When she had finished he said, as he always said: ‘Thank you, Miss Trent,’ and proceeded to give her detailed instructions as to what he wished her to do on the following day.

The operation was a success, although only the next few days would show if the success was to be a lasting one. Abigail had taken her patient to the theatre and remained there to assist the anaesthetist. For a good deal of the time she was free to watch the professor at work. He was a good surgeon completely engrossed in his work and talking very little. When at length he was finished, he thanked the theatre sister and stalked away without a word. He was in his old friend’s room within minutes of his return to it, though. Abigail was still getting the old man correctly positioned and adjusting the various tubes and drip when he came silently through the open door.

‘I don’t want him left, Nurse. I have spoken to Sister—if you wish to go off duty, she will send someone to take over. Is that clear?’

‘Perfectly, thank you,’ said Abigail, and because she was checking the closed drainage, didn’t say any more. She had no intention of going off duty; she had promised Professor de Wit that she would stay with him and she could see no reason why she shouldn’t do just that. She was, when all was said and done, his special nurse. Professor van Wijkelen said abruptly:

‘He’ll do—with careful nursing,’ and turned on his heel and left her.

She didn’t leave her patient again, only for the briefest of meal breaks and the professor came in twice more as well as his registrar, a portly little man whom Abigail rather liked. He spoke a fluent, ungrammatical English and she got on famously with him and she was grateful to him too, because he came often to check on the patient’s condition and cheer her with odd titbits of gossip so that the day passed quickly. It was half an hour before she was due off that Zuster van Rijn came rustling down the corridor to tell her that the night nurse had been struck down with a sore throat and a temperature and wouldn’t be able to come on duty, and there was no one to take her place. ‘I can put a nurse on until midnight, though, and then she need not come on until the noonday shift. Could you possibly …?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Abigail. ‘I’ll go off at eight, have supper and a sleep and come back here at twelve.’

Zuster van Rijn looked relieved. ‘That is good—tomorrow morning I will get someone to take over while you go to bed for a few hours.’

So it was that when Professor van Wijkelen came at one o’clock in the morning, it was Abigail who rose quietly from her chair near the bed. His glance flickered over her as he went to look at his patient; it was only when he was satisfied as to his condition that he asked curtly:

‘Why are you on duty? Where is the night nurse?’

‘It’s quite all right, sir,’ said Abigail soothingly. ‘Nurse Tromp is off sick and there wasn’t time to get a full-time night nurse. I’ve been off duty, I came back at midnight.’

‘Until when?’

‘Until I can be relieved. Zuster van Rijn will arrange something.’

‘Have you had your days off?’

‘I’d rather not have them until the professor is better.’ She spoke uncertainly because he was looking annoyed again. ‘I imagine that my days off can be fitted in at any time, as I’m not a member of the hospital staff.’

‘You have no need to state the obvious, Nurse. You must do as you please and I daresay Zuster van Rijn will be glad if you remain on duty for a few days until Professor de Wit is on the mend.’

He spoke carelessly as though he didn’t mind if she had her days off or not, and indeed, she thought wearily, why should he?

He went away then and she spent a busy night, because there was a lot of nursing to do and the professor had regained consciousness and wished to be far too active. But presently, after an injection, he dropped off into a refreshing sleep and Abigail was free to bring her charts up to date, snatch a cup of coffee and then sit quietly between the regular intervals of checking one thing and another. It was, she mused, a splendid opportunity to think quietly about the future, but perhaps she was too tired, for when she tried to do so, she seemed unable to clear her mind. She gave up presently, and spent the rest of the night idly thumbing through her dictionary, hunting for words which, even when she found them, she was unable to pronounce.

The professor came again at seven o’clock. Abigail, with the help of another nurse, had made her patient’s bed and sat him up against his pillows; she had washed him too and combed his fringe of hair and his whiskers and dressed him in his own pyjamas. He looked very old and very ill, but she had no doubt at all that he was going to pull through, for he had a good deal of spirit. She was drawing up an injection to give him when Professor van Wijkelen arrived; he looked as though he had slept the clock round, and now, freshly shaved and immaculately dressed, he sauntered in for all the world as though he were in the habit of paying his visits at such an early hour. His good morning to her was brief; so brief that it seemed pointless, but she answered him nicely, smiling from a tired face that had no colour at all, unhappily aware that there was nothing about her appearance to make him look at her a second time.

He didn’t say much to his patient but motioned her to give the injection, walked over to the window and sat down at the table there and began to study the papers she had laid ready for him. He had given her fresh instructions and was on the point of leaving when he remarked:

‘You look as though you could do with a good sleep, Nurse.’

‘Of course she needs a good sleep,’ Professor de Wit’s voice was testy even though it was weak. ‘Just because you choose to work yourself to death doesn’t mean that everyone else should do the same.’

‘I have no intention of working anyone to death. Nurse is doing a job like anyone else and she has a tongue in her head. If she cannot carry out her duties, she has only to say so.’

He didn’t look at her but flung ‘I shall look in later,’ over his shoulder as he went.

‘Such a pity that …’ began her patient, and fell asleep instantly just as Abigail was hopeful of hearing why something was a great pity—something to do with Professor van Wijkelen, she felt sure.

The next few days were busy ones. Her patient continued to improve, but there was a great deal of nursing care needed and Abigail was a conscientious nurse. She took her daily walk because she knew that she needed the exercise in the fresh air, despite its rawness and the bitter wind which never ceased to blow, but her days off she saved up; she would take them when the case was finished. There had, as yet, been no talk of sending Professor de Wit home although it had been made clear to her that she was to accompany him. They would be in hospital another week at least—two probably; if it hadn’t been for the niggling worry about Bollinger, she would have been happier than she had been for a long time. She had made some friends in the hospital by now and she was battling on with her Dutch, helped a great deal by her patient, who now that he was feeling better spent a fair proportion of his waking hours correcting her accent and grammar.

It was the day after the drip came down for the last time and the old man had walked a few steps on her arm that Professor van Wijkelen had come to see him and on his way out again had said in his usual austere way:

‘Nurse, if you are free tomorrow afternoon, I wish you to come with me—there is someone who wants to meet you.’

‘Who?’ asked Abigail, who liked to know where she was.

‘Shall we say you must wait and see?’ he enquired silkily, and then suddenly, as though he sensed that she was about to refuse, he smiled with such charm that she would have agreed to anything he wished. ‘Please,’ said the professor.

She nodded, knowing that when he looked at her like that she wanted nothing more than to please him. She was thoughtful after he had gone and Professor de Wit said nothing, although she had expected him to. When she saw that he didn’t intend to discuss it with her, she launched into an argument on the subjunctive in the Dutch language, concentrating fiercely upon her companion’s learned comments, because Professor van Wijkelen was taking up much too much of her attention these days.