Last April Fair Page 5

  ‘They’ll be here in a few minutes; you’ll go with her and stay. I’ll get a message to her parents. May I have their name?’

  It didn’t enter her head to argue with him. ‘I’ll get her things together and mine too. The name’s de Wolff and they’re on the Blenheim, going to Lanzarote and then Teneriffe and Las Palmas—they’re expected back on Saturday.’

  ‘Too late. Now go and get ready. I’ll see you later.’

  Packing furiously in Gaby’s room, one anxious eye on her patient, Phyllida paused for a second. She didn’t know the man’s name; he might not have been telephoning the hospital, he might just disappear as suddenly as he had appeared; perhaps the ambulance wouldn’t come. She shut the case with hands which still shook and then uttered a sigh of relief as she heard steady feet coming down the corridor towards the room.

  She should have known better, she chided herself as she got out of the ambulance at the hospital. Her new-found friend was waiting at the entrance with a nurse and doctor and two porters. He wasted no time on greeting her, said merely: ‘Follow us,’ and led the procession along a corridor, past several wards and into a small room beyond them. Here Gaby was put to bed by Phyllida and the nurse while the two doctors talked together. Once she was asked if she had any notes about her patient and paused to fetch them from her case.

  ‘They were given to me in case the ship’s doctor wanted them,’ she explained, ‘and when he’d read them he pointed out that he hadn’t the facilities for Gaby should she become worse. He couldn’t understand why she had been allowed on the cruise in the first place. Nothing was said about her being ill when the cruise was booked, he was sure of that. Mrs de Wolff had told me that Gaby was expected to live for another year at least, perhaps longer, but she must have been mistaken.’

  The two men nodded and after a minute of reading the big man said: ‘She’s recently completed her fifth course of chemotheraphy—Daunorubicin and Cytosine.’ He glanced at Phyllida. ‘Had she started the course of cytoreduction?’

  ‘No, I understood it was to be started when we got back.’

  ‘Well, it’s too late to do anything about that now.’ He handed back the notes. ‘I’ve sent a radio telegram to the Blenheim; we should get an answer very shortly. And now that we know the name of the hospital where she has been treated, we can telephone them.’ He paused at the door. ‘You’ll stay here.’ His companion went ahead of him and he turned to say: ‘My name is van Sittardt— Pieter van Sittardt.’

  ‘Mine’s Phyllida Cresswell.’

  ‘We’ll be in the building, ring if you want one of us—we’ll be back.’

  She was left with the unconscious Gaby and nothing to do but worry as to whether she had neglected to do something which might have saved her patient. Common sense told her that she hadn’t; she had done exactly what she had been told to do. Moreover, she had warned Mr and Mrs de Wolff repeatedly that Gaby wasn’t improving. They had taken no notice of her— indeed, she suspected that they had thought that she was being fussy and self-important. Or perhaps they hadn’t wanted to know. And they couldn’t have delivered the letter from the ship’s doctor at the hospital…

  Gaby looked beautiful lying there. She might have been asleep, only her pallor was marked and her breathing so light that it was hardly noticeable. It was inconceivable to Phyllida that her parents could have gone off so lightheartedly, knowing, as they surely must have done, that Gaby was very ill indeed. Tidying the already tidy bedcovers, Phyllida wanted to cry.

  Gaby died two hours later and it was half an hour after that when the message arrived from her parents.

  They would fly back on the following morning.

  Phyllida had looked dumbly at Doctor van Sittardt when he had come to tell her. For once her self-possession deserted her and she was uncertain what to do. In hospital there was a fixed procedure, followed to the letter, but here, miles from home with no one to turn to, it was altogether a different matter.

  But there was someone to turn to—Doctor van Sittardt. He suggested that she should return to the hotel and return again after breakfast the next day. ‘You’ve had nothing much to eat, have you? I’ll meet you in the bar at half past seven and we’ll have dinner together.’

  ‘Yes—well—thank you, but there’s…’

  ‘I’ll deal with anything that comes up, if you will allow me. There are certain formalities, and her parents aren’t here.’

  ‘You’re very kind.’ Phyllida studied his face and saw its impersonal kindness, and because it was such a relief to let someone else cope, she had agreed, gone back to the hotel, bathed and changed and gone down to the bar to find him waiting for her. She was glad then that she had put on the blue-patterned crêpe and taken pains with her face and hair, for he was wearing a white dinner jacket—and very elegant too, easily the most attractive man there; on any other occasion she would have enjoyed the prospect of an evening in his company, but now she kept remembering Gaby. A shadow crossed her pretty face as he reached her and he said in a friendly, brisk voice: ‘Now, Phyllida, no regrets. It was inevitable, and you did everything possible.’ He took her arm and found stools at the bar. ‘What will you drink?’

  He talked about everything under the sun and never once mentioned the day’s happenings. Neither did he tell her much about himself; he was staying at the hotel for a day or two and then going to visit friends, Dutch people who lived permanently on Madeira because of the wife’s health, but that was all. By the end of the evening Phyllida still didn’t know where he lived or anything about him save his name.

  Not that there was any need to know, she told herself as she got ready for bed. After tomorrow they weren’t likely to see each other again, as she would be going back with the de Wolffs to England and another job. She frowned at her reflection as she sat brushing her hair. Was this perhaps a sign that she should accept Philip after all? If it was she felt remarkably reluctant to take any notice of it. Philip, in the last few hours, had become strangely dim.

  She slept soundly, although she hadn’t expected to, and went down to breakfast, expecting to see the doctor. There was no sign of him and she ate hurriedly and then made her way in the early morning sunshine to the hospital, and met him at the entrance.

  He gave her a businesslike good morning and turned her round smartly. ‘I was coming to fetch you from the hotel, but since you’re here we may as well go.’

  ‘Go?’ she looked at him without understanding.

  ‘To the airport—to meet Gaby’s parents.’

  ‘Oh—yes.’ She went pink, ashamed that she hadn’t thought of that for herself; she should have hired a car to meet them.

  The doctor went on placidly: ‘I think that perhaps if there are two of us? It’s a painful thing to have to do on one’s own.’

  She gave him a grateful look and got into the rather ramshackle car beside him and he set off without waste of time, travelling east from Funchal to the airport some twenty kilometres away. Half way there Phyllida said: ‘I’m scared, having to tell them—you won’t leave me, will you?’

  His hooded eyes glanced sideways at her pale face. ‘No. Tell me something, have the de Wolffs got money?’

  She gave him a startled look. ‘Well, yes, I think so. He owns several factories and has a big house in the country as well as a London flat. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It will help when it comes to making arrangements presently.’ He overtook a bus with inches to spare. He said quietly: ‘Even if I had been a pauper I would have chartered a plane as soon as I’d had that message yesterday.’

  ‘So would I—I expect they feel terrible.’

  They didn’t have to wait long at the airport. The twice-weekly plane from Las Palmas arrived on time, and within a few minutes the de Wolffs were coming towards them. Mr de Wolff began speaking as soon as he was within a few yards. ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded. ‘I hope it’s not a wild goose chase. I didn’t telephone—no point. Luckily there was a plane leaving this morning
, and heaven knows it’s been inconvenient.’

  And Mrs de Wolff added petulantly: ‘Such a rush, and we’ve had to leave our luggage on board…’ She paused and looked at Phyllida. ‘What’s wrong with Gaby this time?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ said Phyllida, breaking all the rules of hospital training; bad news should be broken to relations in as gentle a way as possible…but it didn’t matter, for the de Wolffs reacted just as she had feared they would. ‘Why weren’t we told sooner?’ and ‘I want to know what went wrong!’

  It was here that the doctor took over; smoothly but with an edge to his cool professional voice. ‘You were told. I sent a radiogram yesterday, asking you to get in touch with the hospital at once. Gaby was desperately ill—I told you that too. And nothing went wrong.’ The edge had become a cutting knife. ‘She received devoted care from Miss Cresswell and everything that could be done in the hospital was done.’

  Phyllida looked at them both, searching for signs of grief, and could find none. Perhaps they were stunned; too shocked to feel anything. She said quietly: ‘Doctor van Sittardt most kindly came to my aid yesterday…’

  ‘Surely you knew what to do? We engaged you as a trained nurse.’ Mrs de Wolff’s voice rose sharply.

  ‘Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,’ said the doctor, his voice without expression. ‘There was nothing to be done. Gaby was already a very ill girl. You knew that?’

  Mrs de Wolff threw him an angry glance. ‘Well, of course—the doctors told us she would die, but not as soon as this.’

  ‘If she had stayed in hospital, or even quietly at home,’ observed the doctor, carefully noncommittal, ‘her life might have been prolonged for a short time.’

  ‘We needed a break, we’d already booked on this cruise.’ Mr de Wolff answered for his wife. ‘We thought it would do her good, make her forget she was sickly.’ He looked away from the doctor’s stare and added uncomfortably: ‘It isn’t as though she were our own daughter. We adopted her when she was a baby—she was a gay little thing when she was a child, but she grew up so quiet and dull.’

  The doctor didn’t reply to this, neither did Phyllida, and after a moment Mr de Wolff said irritably: ‘Well, we’d better go to the hospital, I suppose.’

  He and his wife got into the back of the car and Phyllida settled herself beside the doctor, trying not to hear Mrs de Wolff grumbling behind her. ‘I shall have to have this dress cleaned,’ she complained, ‘this is a dreadful car.’ And then: ‘I suppose we’ll have to arrange to have Gaby taken back home, otherwise people might think it strange.’

  Phyllida sat very upright, staring before her, her eyes wide so that she might stop her tears. Not that it helped; they tumbled silently down her cheeks and she wiped them away with a finger, stealing a glance at her companion to make sure that he hadn’t noticed. He was staring ahead too, driving a little too fast, his mouth grim. He hadn’t seen, she thought with relief, then went a slow red as his hand, large and cool, came down on hers and gave it a comforting squeeze. But he didn’t look at her.

  She wondered afterwards how she had got through that morning. Sorrow, regret, shock she could have coped with, but neither of the de Wolffs needed sympathy. Reluctantly they had conceded, in the face of the doctor’s firm statement, that Phyllida had done all that she had been able to do, but they expressed no gratitude, only plunged briskly into the problems facing them, and when she asked them when she would be returning to England they told her that they would all fly back together in a few days’ time, so that when Doctor Sittardt wanted to know if her future was settled, she was able to tell him that she would be leaving with the de Wolffs.

  She helped Mrs de Wolff pack up Gaby’s things after breakfast the next morning while Mr de Wolff was at the airport, making final arrangements, and when Mrs de Wolff suggested quite kindly that she might like to have a swim in the hotel pool before lunch, she went gladly, quite touched by her employer’s consideration.

  The water was warm and the sun shone. Phyllida swam lazily for a while, lay in the hot sunshine for a while and then went to dress ready for lunch. From her bedroom window she saw the Blenheim lying on the other side of the harbour; she would be sailing shortly and they should all have been on board by now, going home. Phyllida sighed, slipped into a cotton dress, brushed her hair smooth and went downstairs. Mrs de Wolff had told her to wait for them in the bar, and she chose a table in a corner and found herself wishing that the doctor had been there to keep her company. She hadn’t seen him since they had left the hospital on the previous day and by now he would be with his friends. She occupied her time thinking about him because it wouldn’t help anyone to think about Gaby and it was hard not to do that when she was on her own. It surprised her presently to find that she had been there for more than half an hour and, vaguely uneasy, she asked one of the barmen if there was a message for her and then, at his positive ‘No’, went to the reception desk and asked the same question.

  She was surprised when she was handed a note, but not unduly alarmed. Something must have prevented Mr de Wolff from returning from the airport and probably his wife had gone out there to meet him. She opened the envelope and wandered out on to the terrace to read her letter. It was very hot now and the sea was a deep blue under the cloudless sky. The Blenheim, she noticed idly, was edging out of the harbour.

  The letter was brief but its message was clear enough; the de Wolffs, their arrangements made at the airport concerning Gaby, had decided to sail home on the Blenheim. They were sure that Miss Cresswell would understand and she could follow in her own good time, taking whichever route she preferred. A cheque covering her fees was awaiting her at the Fred Olsen offices in the town.

  Phyllida sat down abruptly on a stone bench and reread the letter. No mention was made of a return ticket. She supposed they had forgotten it; they must have also forgotten that there wouldn’t be another boat for a week, and although there were two flights a day to England they went via Lisbon and would doubtless cost a good deal of money. And she hadn’t a great deal of that with her; enough to buy presents and small necessities for herself, but she very much doubted if that and the cheque they had left for her would be enough to get her back home. And what about the hotel bill?

  All thought of lunch escaped her. She went back to the reception desk and asked about the bill and heaved a sigh of relief to find that it had been paid, but only until the following day. She told the clerk that she would be leaving then and went to get her handbag. She was halfway down the hill to the town when she remembered that it was Saturday and the shipping office would be closed. The only thing to do would be to visit the Tourist Office and find out about hotels.

  And when she got there it was to discover that they had shut for the afternoon siesta. At a loss, Phyllida wandered down the Avenida Arriaga and into the Jardim de Sao Francisco and sat down under the trees. There weren’t many people about in the heat of the day although there was plenty of traffic, providing a background for her thoughts.

  Good sense was taking over from the feeling of panic she had been struggling to ignore. It should be easy enough to find a small, cheap hotel for a couple of nights and surely her money would stretch to a flight home on Monday—perhaps the night flights were cheaper if she could get on one. And once she was back in London everything would be all right. She could cash a cheque at the bank, telephone home; go home. She closed her eyes and leaned back against a juniper tree.

  ‘They were a little concerned about you at the hotel,’ remarked Doctor van Sittardt quietly as he sat down beside her. He put out a hand and pushed her gently back as she started up. ‘You left rather suddenly without your lunch.’ He glanced at her. ‘The clerk mentioned a letter.’

  He obviously expected an answer and Phyllida realised that he was exactly what she needed—vast and calm and reassuring. She managed the shadow of a smile, dug into her handbag and handed him Mrs de Wolff’s note. ‘I always thought,’ she observed in a small voice, ‘that I was a capable pers
on, able to cope with things when they went wrong, but it seems I’m not. I rushed straight out of the hotel to get a cheaper hotel and book a flight back to England on Monday, but of course everything’s closed for the weekend or until four o’clock. So I thought I’d come here and think things out.’

  He had been reading while she spoke, now he glanced up, his blue eyes studying her steadily from under their heavy lids. ‘I suspected something like this would happen; if they could dismiss Gaby’s death so easily they weren’t likely to treat you any differently. I should have warned you, but as you say, you are a capable girl, quite able to cope.’

  Phyllida nodded, her teeth clamped together to stop the trembling of her mouth. He thought her able to take care of herself and was doubtless thankful that he wouldn’t have to put himself out any more on her account. All right, she would look capable even if it killed her!

  ‘Well now,’ went on her companion blandly, ‘shall we go and have lunch, or would you like a good howl first? It’s very pleasant here and not many people about, and I’ll lend you my shoulder.’

  Phyllida unclenched her teeth and let out a tiny wail. ‘Oh, however did you guess? And you’ve just said I’m so capable!’ She made herself sit up straight. ‘But I’m all right now, really I am—it was having a surprise… Do please go and have your own lunch, I’m not hungry.’

  He said patiently: ‘I guessed because I’ve sisters of my own to plague me, and however capable you are, you have to let go sometimes. A drink is what you need, and a meal. You can weep to your heart’s content afterwards if you still want to.’

  He swept her to her feet and walked her briskly, despite the heat, back towards the heart of the city. Down a narrow side street he stopped in front of a small restaurant, its tables spilling out on to the pavement, its interior dim and cool. He must have been known there, for they were given a table in a corner by an open window and offered a menu.