Saturday's Child Page 11

  ‘You’re off duty,’ he snapped at her. ‘There is a grave shortage of nurses for a few days, but I have asked for extra staff. You will take your usual time off, Nurse.’

  Abigail said, ‘Yes, sir,’ before Zuster Ritsma, who was looking guilty, could speak; if there were extra nurses, well and good, otherwise they would carry on as she had suggested and he would be none the wiser. This thought allowed a look of complacency to cross her grave face and he was quick to see it. ‘Why do you look like that?’ he demanded, ‘as though you had been clever about something.’

  Abigail gave him an innocent look. ‘Me?’ she asked. ‘What have I to be clever about?’

  He grunted, nodded briefly and went away, followed by Henk, who winked cheerfully at her as he passed. She was left on her own then, busy with the babies—their drips, their charts, their tiny, feeble pulses, their unhappy vomiting and the continuous cleaning up and comforting. When Zuster Ritsma did appear again she looked as agitated as someone so calm could look.

  ‘The nurses—the professor asked for them, you know? Two of them have the first symptoms … the other one has gone home at a moment’s notice because her mother is ill.’

  ‘That’s OK—we’ll carry on as we said we would, shall we, Zuster? Provided the night nurse doesn’t mind, I certainly don’t.’

  The professor came again in the afternoon, looking preoccupied, but beyond studying the babies’ charts and altering his instructions accordingly, had nothing to say to her. And early in the evening Henk came and stayed for ten minutes or so and, unlike the professor, asked her if she was managing and was there anything she needed. She was feeling a little tired by now and longing to get out of her enveloping gown and mask; she hadn’t had them off since she had been relieved for her dinner; tea had been brought to her on a tray and she had had it while she wrote up the charts.

  It was a quarter to ten when the professor came again. Only his eyes showed above the mask, staring at her coldly, although he had nothing to say until he had examined the babies at some length. But presently he straightened himself, professed satisfaction that they were at least holding their own, and then in a voice of withering chill demanded to know when she had been off duty.

  ‘Well,’ said Abigail carefully, ‘you see, it’s like this—I haven’t. It seemed a good idea.’

  ‘You disregarded my instructions, Nurse Trent?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘No, don’t interrupt me. I am not in the habit of having my wishes ignored.’ He went on disagreeably but without heat, ‘I asked you to come to this ward to help out temporarily, nothing more. When I need advice from you concerning its management, I shall no doubt ask you. Until then, be good enough to refrain from interfering.’

  Abigail adjusted a drip to a nicety and said kindly, as though she were reasoning with a bad-tempered child, ‘There’s no need for you to get into a nasty temper, Professor. You know very well that everyone here falls over their own feet to satisfy your every whim, and don’t pretend you don’t. Zuster Ritsma carried out your orders to the letter, but she couldn’t prevent two of the nurses due on duty from sickening with salmonella, nor could she stop the third one from going home to look after her ill mother. She was so worried that I suggested that the night nurse and I should do a twelve-hour stint each until there are more nurses. That’s all—nothing to lose your cool over.’

  She stopped abruptly; she had said much more than she had intended, and none of it very polite. He was, after all, a consultant in the hospital and a well-known surgeon. She met the stare from his blue eyes and tried not to feel nervous.

  ‘I have not—er—lost my cool, Miss Trent—it is not in my nature to give way to my feelings, although I am bound to plead guilty to a bad temper.’ His eyes gleamed above the mask and she wondered if he was laughing, but decided that it was most unlikely. ‘I am indebted to you for your help and I apologise for jumping to conclusions. I will see that your off-duty is made up to you as soon as it can be arranged.’ He turned and walked away as silently as he had come, leaving her feeling bewildered. She had expected a good telling off at the very least; instead he had been—what had he been? It was difficult to know, but she suspected that he had been amused at her outburst.

  The night nurse came and they spent the next twenty minutes poring over charts and studying the babies together, until finally Abigail was free to leave the ward. She tore off her gown and mask, threw them in the bin and hurried to the changing room where she took off her uniform and cap and tugged on a skirt and sweater without much attention as to how she looked, bundled her hair up under the woolly beret, flung on her coat and made her way to the front entrance of the hospital. It was very dark outside and the wind seemed, if anything, more bitter than a month ago when she had first arrived in Amsterdam. The winter was lasting a long time; she tucked her chin into her scarf and started down the steps.

  The Rolls was at the bottom of them and the professor was at the wheel. He got out when he saw her and she made to pass him with a cheerful good night, but he put out a hand and stopped her. ‘Get in,’ he said.

  There was nothing she would have liked more than to have sunk into the comfort of its leather-covered interior, but perversely she replied, ‘The walk will do me good, thank you, sir. I need the exercise.’

  Wasted breath. He urged her gently towards the open door. ‘This is hardly the time of day to go walking around,’ he said testily. ‘As for exercise, we shall consider that presently.’

  She saw that she had no chance against him. She got in and sat silent, fuming at his arrogance and wondering what he had meant about exercise. The journey was a short one. He turned the car silently into the Begijnsteeg and stopped and ushered her out, to fall into step beside her. ‘I also need exercise,’ he stated, and took her arm to lead her across the silent square. Abigail thought at first that he would stop at Mrs Macklin’s door, but he didn’t pause, striding briskly along, and she, perforce, keeping pace with his large well-shod feet. He didn’t speak for a few minutes and nor did she; for one thing she had been surprised into speechlessness by his action and for another she was far too busy with her thoughts. She had been rude to him in the ward, so probably he was going to give her a telling-off. She sighed without knowing it and braced her tired shoulders.

  He spoke at length. ‘Have you the door key?’ and when she said that yes, she had, he fell silent again. It must have been five minutes later before he asked her, ‘How much terramycin are we giving Jantje Blom?’

  Jantje was the smallest and the frailest baby. She told him the amount and they went on walking briskly over the cobbles, the wind creeping meanly through her coat so that she shivered.

  The professor stopped and peered down at her in the dim light. ‘I haven’t done this for a long time,’ he remarked thoughtfully, and she, thinking that he was talking to himself, said soothingly: ‘No, I don’t suppose many people do,’ and was amazed when he burst into a bellow of laughter so that she said: ‘Oh, hush, you’ll wake all the old ladies!’

  She shouldn’t have spoken like that, she supposed, she stood still, waiting for him to snarl something nasty about young women being pert, but all he said was: ‘That isn’t what I meant, but you don’t understand, it doesn’t matter at the moment. I’m sorry I was ill-tempered this evening.’

  ‘You had every right to be,’ said Abigail fairly. ‘I was abominably rude.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t mind—at least you’re honest.’ His voice sounded bitter and she made haste to say, ‘I expect it’s worrying for you,’ and he laughed again softly; she wondered why, shivering with cold, and he said at once,

  ‘God, I’m thoughtless—you’re cold.’

  ‘Yes, but I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Not if you catch a chill.’

  She shook her head in the dark. ‘I’m very tough.’

  He walked her briskly to Mrs Macklin’s house. ‘Your spirit’s tough,’ he corrected her.

  The house was in darkness. They stood very close in the hall while she foun
d the light switch and then led the way to the kitchen, where, to her surprise, he said, ‘I’ll get the tea,’ and sat her down by the table against the wall. Presently, with the teapot between them, sitting opposite her in one of the narrow wooden chairs, he began to discuss her small patients, and although she was very tired by now, she listened intelligently and even ventured one or two opinions of her own as to their treatment. It was a surprise to her when the Friese clock on the wall chimed midnight, and it surprised the professor as well. He got to his feet with the remark that he should be shot for keeping her from her bed, and although she protested, he washed the cups and saucers and tidied everything away before putting on his topcoat and going to the door. Abigail got up too, because she would have to lock it after him, and followed him out into the hall, but when she put out a hand to switch on the light his large one came down on hers and prevented it. ‘No need,’ he said very quietly, then caught her close and kissed her, and this time, she thought confusedly, he must have been putting in some practice. He was through the door and down the steps with a muttered good night before she could utter a word.

  She went on duty the next morning with her thoughts in confusion—she had been too tired to do more than tumble into bed and fall asleep the night before, and there had been no time to think in the morning for Mrs Macklin had been full of questions about her work as they sat at breakfast together. Only at the end of Abigail’s recital of the day’s happenings had she said with something like complacency, ‘I heard you come in last night, my dear, but Dominic was with you, wasn’t he, so I knew you would look after yourselves and there was no need for me to come down.’

  ‘Professor van Wijkelen was kind enough to bring me home,’ said Abigail, with a composure she didn’t feel. ‘He came in for a cup of tea. It was very cold yesterday, wasn’t it?’

  Her companion ignored this red herring. ‘He works too hard,’ she observed, ‘and I daresay he’s worried about this infection—whatever it is. I hope you won’t catch it, Abigail.’

  Abigail assured her that she wouldn’t, cleared the table, washed up, wished Mrs Macklin goodbye and set off for hospital. She went the long way round so that she could have a quiet think as she went, but somehow only one thing occupied her thoughts and that was the professor’s kiss. As she went through the hospital gates she wondered how it would be when they met.

  It needed only one look at his face as he came towards her in the ward to see that they were back to square one. He looked withdrawn and tired; she wasn’t sure how old he was, but today there were lines she had never noticed before. He bade her good morning with the austere good manners which so daunted her, and went at once to work on the four babies.

  They were a little better, she reported, her disappointment well hidden behind a professional manner not to be faulted. She gave chapter and verse of their progress during the night and since she had been on duty, adding that Jantje was not responding quite as well as the other three. His mother, she informed the professor, was waiting in the visitors’ room on the landing and hoped for a word with him. He nodded without looking at her, got out his stethoscope and when he spoke again it was only to give her further instructions, and presently when Henk joined them, the two men talked together in their own language and it was Henk who turned to her at last and detailed the new treatment the professor had decided upon for Jantje. They went away together, with a cheerful wink and smile from Henk and the briefest of nods from the professor.

  It wasn’t until after the list that the professor came and then it was almost six o’clock, and although they discussed Jantje together he had little else to say. After he had gone she wondered sorrowfully what it was she had done to cause him to change so towards her. She had actually believed that at last he was beginning to like her, or at least to tolerate her, but she had been wrong. She tended the babies carefully and tried not to think about him.

  Off duty at last, she changed rapidly, a little uneasy about the walk back to the Begijnhof; there was no bus going near enough to make it worth while to take one; it was only ten minutes’ walk, but it was dark outside and looking out of the window she could see sleet beating upon it. She would get wet. She hurried through the hospital, her mind busy trying to remember some other way home which would save her going through the narrow dark lanes.

  Long before she had reached the front hall she had given up the idea; the day had been long and she was tired and the effort was too great. She went through the door and down the steps and the sleet bit into her face like miniature knives and forced her to close her eyes. When she opened them a few seconds later, the Rolls was within a few feet of her and Jan was already getting out and holding the door open for her to get in. He said cheerfully, ‘Good evening, miss, I am to bring you to Mrs Macklin’s house.’

  ‘Oh, Jan, how lovely! But who …? Did Professor van Wijkelen tell you …?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  His tone was fatherly and final, and indeed Abigail was too tired to argue. She sat back in her seat beside him, wondering why the professor should take care of someone he could barely greet civilly; perhaps he was afraid that if she was out in the rain and caught cold, she would be of no further use to him—but that hadn’t bothered him the previous night. Because she was tired and rather unhappy the memory of it brought tears to her eyes, and when the car stopped she thanked him in a quiet, normal voice and would have got out, but he got out too and started to walk with her across the cobbles. When she protested, he said merely, ‘The professor told me to, miss,’ and waited while she went up the steps before he wished her good night and walked away, back to the car.

  She hadn’t expected Mrs Macklin to be up, but that lady popped her head out of the sitting room as she went into the house and without appearing to notice her woebegone expression, said cheerfully, ‘There you are, dear—I didn’t feel like going to bed, so I’ve made a jug of cocoa for us both. You’re tired—come in by the stove and be warm and comfortable for half an hour.’

  She turned her back and went and sat down again, leaving Abigail to take off her outdoor things and brush away the tears. When she was sitting opposite Mrs Macklin in the comfortable warmth of the little room, her companion asked, ‘A bad day?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Abigail admitted. ‘Three of the babies are much better and the fourth will do, I think, and there aren’t any fresh cases today and none of the contacts are proved positive—I should think the worst’s over. Henk seemed to think so—they’ve found the source—one of the porters.’

  ‘Did you see Dominic?’

  ‘Yes, he came to see the babies.’

  ‘I heard the car—he didn’t come in this evening.’

  ‘No, Jan brought me home, actually. I hadn’t expected … he was waiting for me … the professor had sent him.’ Abigail drew a determined breath. ‘Mrs Macklin, why is he so—so considerate of me, and yet he doesn’t like me at all?’ She sighed, took a sip of cocoa and looked enquiringly at the older woman.

  ‘I’ve been hoping you would ask me that,’ said Mrs Macklin surprisingly. ‘I didn’t feel I could tell you, but now that you’ve asked—’ she nodded her grey head in satisfaction. ‘One can’t gossip about one’s friends, but there comes a time … The reason Dominic dislikes women is because he mistrusts them—young women, that is.’ She waited expectantly for Abigail to say something.

  Abigail poured more cocoa for them both; all she said was: ‘You’re sure you want to tell me?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m going to tell you, my dear—he’s far too nice a man to be misjudged, especially by you, Abigail.’

  Abigail let that pass. Mrs Macklin went on: ‘He’s—let me see turned forty now. When he was a young man, in his early twenties, he married—a lovely girl, tall and dark, I remember she was most arresting. I don’t think that for one moment he loved her—infatuated perhaps, and that passes for love for a little while, doesn’t it? She was the kind of girl men fall for, and because Dominic was young and handsome and knew everyone
, as well as being a wealthy man—you knew that, Abigail?—she married him. Within a few weeks he discovered that she was having affairs; before six months were out she was killed in a car crash with her current boy-friend. Dominic changed from that day—oh, he wasn’t brokenhearted, he had long since lost all feeling for her, but his pride was hurt. He was still charming to the girls of his acquaintance, but it was as though he had resolved to live his life without them. He had—still has—his work. It absorbs him, doesn’t it, and always will. Mind you, he keeps his true feelings well hidden,’ she paused, ‘at least I always thought so, but now I’m not so sure—he goes out a great deal, because he has many friends and he’s well liked. He’s still a very good-looking man, of course, he has almost everything; looks, brains, an excellent position in life, more money than he knows what to do with—but no love.’

  Abigail’s hands were clasped so tightly round her cup that the knuckles showed white. She said in a tight little voice, ‘Yes,’ and went on inconsequently, ‘He loves little children, and he’s good to his patients; they trust him. It’s very sad that he has no one to love and won’t allow anyone to love him.’

  Mrs Macklin gave her a long thoughtful stare. ‘Very,’ she agreed, ‘especially as every female under forty who can get within striking distance of him has done her best to remedy that fact.’

  Abigail, who seldom blushed, went becomingly pink. ‘Oh, is that why he?—surely he would never think that I—he gets irritated with me, all the time—well, almost all the time,’ she amended truthfully. ‘I didn’t know—I’ll try and keep out of his way as much as possible. Perhaps he’ll meet some girl who can make him happy. I hope so.’

  She got up and went to the kitchen with the cups on a tray. ‘You could make him happy,’ her heart urged her silently, ‘because you love him.’ She drowned the lunatic thought with a gush of water from the tap and washed the cups and saucers with a deliberately empty mind, and when she went back to the sitting room, beyond thanking Mrs Macklin for her confidence, made no reference to their conversation. Instead she enquired how her companion felt and listened sympathetically to Mrs Macklin’s small grumbles about her health. They went to bed soon after that, and Abigail lay trying not to think about the future, because it would be without Dominic and she couldn’t imagine it without him, even though, because he had been let down once, so long ago, he wouldn’t even allow himself to like her. After all, she told herself wryly, she had got used to his irritable manner and cold voice by now; they made no difference to her feelings, and now that she knew their reason, she wouldn’t mind any more—well, not very much.