The Final Touch Page 8

  He was overwhelmed once again by the little girls. ‘You’ll say yes, won’t you, Charity? You must! Miss Bloom wants you to come, don’t you, Miss Bloom?’

  ‘Oh, indeed I do, it sounds delightful.’

  So Charity said that yes, she would love to go with them, and presently they got into their outdoor things and trooped out of the house into the winter night.

  Charity hadn’t realised that the centre of the city was so near the house. Five minutes’ walk brought them into the Heerengracht and from there it was only a short distance to the Leidsestraat.

  The streets were crowded with last-minute shoppers and people out to enjoy themselves. They strolled along now under the bright lights of the decorated shops, stopping to look in the windows; the professor had one small daughter at each hand and Charity and Miss Bloom followed wherever they went. Presently they had coffee in one of the big cafés on the Rembrantsplein. It was noisy and colourful and, as Mr van der Brons observed in his effortless English, ‘Not quite his cup of tea,’ but the little girls loved it.

  They walked back presently through streets becoming even more crowded and once back in the house Charity was persuaded to have another cup of coffee before she went back to the hospital. By then it was early evening and she was anxious to be gone; probably the professor had plans of his own and she hastily invented a party in the nurses’ home to which she had been invited. She uttered the fib so emphatically that he had to hide a smile but he got to his feet and declared that he was ready to drive her back, uttering the hope that the party would be fun.

  She bade Miss Bloom goodbye, a final one this time, kissed the children and hugged them, and went out to the car with the faithful Samson dogging their footsteps. She didn’t want to go; it had been a lovely afternoon but she had been lucky to have had it, she reminded herself briskly.

  Mr van der Brons got out of the car when they reached the hospital. He opened the door for her, reiterated the hope that the party would be fun and a good one and bade her goodnight. At the last moment he bent and kissed her cold cheek. ‘I shall see you tomorrow,’ he told her. He smiled down into her surprised face. ‘Why do you look so puzzled?’

  She shook her head and blurted out, ‘You kissed me—was that because it’s Christmas?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

  He gave her a gentle shove through the door. ‘Get inside; it’s cold. Goodnight, Charity.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ZUSTER KINGSMA had been right; Charity went on duty the next morning to find that an old woman, sitting over an oil heater, had dozed off and fallen over, knocking the heater over at the same time. She was severely burned and frail and although Mr van der Brons, called in at four o’clock in the morning, had worked hard over her, she died. It cast a shadow over Christmas, a shadow they did their best to dispel for the sake of the other patients. Since there were no more admissions that day, nor on Christmas Eve, everyone hoped for a quiet Christmas.

  Charity had had an early duty; she was free at half-past three and intended going out to have another look at the shops. Several of the nurses with whom she was friendly had gone home for Christmas and the others were on duty; to stay in the quiet sitting-room in the nurses’ home seemed a dull prospect.

  She went unhurriedly through the hospital on her way to her room; it was already dusk and cold in the back corridors of the hospital. She would go to a coffee house, she decided, and have coffee and a broodje and watch the crowds in the streets. Tomorrow she would be on duty early with Sister and in the evening she would go to Evensong at the English Church and then join the nurses who were off duty in the sitting-room and watch television.

  She was met at the door of the nurses’ home by Zuster Hengstma. ‘You are to return if you please to the burns unit; the professor wishes to speak to you.’

  Charity gulped down sudden panic. What on earth had she done or not done? She sped back the way she had come and arrived pale with fright at Sister’s office.

  Mr van der Brons was sitting at the desk and there was no sign of Sister. He got up when she went in, came round the desk and took her hands in his. ‘Don’t look like that—there is nothing wrong, but I wished to speak to you and you had gone off duty before I was free to do so.’

  He was still holding her hands in a comforting grasp and some of the colour came back into her cheeks. ‘I thought…’ she began. ‘I don’t know what I thought—all the things I could have done wrong…’

  ‘I have wanted to talk to you but there has been no opportunity; indeed I am due in Theatre in five minutes’ time and this is certainly neither the time nor the place which I would have wished for. But what I have to say will take only a moment and you will have time to consider it. I have for some time considered the advantages of having a wife, Charity, someone who will love Teile and Letizia and who can understand that my work is important to me. Will you marry me, Charity?’ And at her sudden gasp of surprise he said, ‘Don’t say anything now. Go away and think about it and we can talk about it some other time. I am aware that my proposal sounds businesslike but I see no point in wrapping it up in meaningless soft phrases; you are too sensible a girl for that. Only believe me when I say that I have a great regard for you and believe that we could be happy as a family.’ He smiled suddenly and bent and kissed her. ‘Now run along and think about it. I don’t suppose we shall have a chance to talk again for a day or so but I will try and arrange something.’

  Even if she had wanted to say anything there was no chance, for someone tapped on the door to say that they were ready for him in Theatre and, with another smile, he went away.

  Charity didn’t move; she was incapable of it anyway, because her head, for the moment, was empty of all thought and when her brain came alive again her reaction was one of resentment. No one had ever proposed to her before and now that she had received a proposal from a most unlikely source it had been delivered in a businesslike manner calculated to send any girl into high dudgeon. It was only after a few moments fuming that it actually struck her that Mr van der Brons had asked her to marry him. She went over all that he had said, recalling every word, and upon reflection it seemed plain to her that it had been businesslike because that was exactly what he had meant. There was no question that he was in love with her. What was it he had said?—‘meaningless soft phrases’. He wanted someone to look after his little daughters now that Miss Bloom was leaving and it had to be someone who didn’t expect to be the centre of his universe; the burns unit was that, or possibly Mevrouw de Groot.

  One of the nurses put her head round the door, looked surprised, said, ‘Sorry, I thought Sister was here,’ and went away again, and Charity remembered where she was. She didn’t know what was going on in Theatre, but she couldn’t run the risk of meeting Mr van der Brons. She peeped out into the corridor, saw that it was empty and nipped smartly out of the unit, over to the nurses’ home.

  Any wish she had had to go out had been swallowed up in the wave of puzzled doubt and vexation which swept over her. She went to her room and sat there, not even thinking sensibly. It was fortunate that several of her friends among the nurses were off duty too and came knocking on her door. They were all going to the sitting-room, they told her, to sing carols; the directrice would be there and they would have a glass of sherry and eat kerstkrans, a special ring-shaped cake baked especially for Christmas, and, since she seemed incapable of sensible thought, she went with them.

  She had expected to lie awake
all night worrying but she slept soundly and woke with the surprising thought that everything would get sorted out without her fussing.

  The unit was busy; there had been another admission during the night, a small boy who had found a box of matches. Hoofdzuster Kingsma was giving the report when Mr van der Brons came out of Theatre and came into her office. He looked grey with fatigue but he remembered to wish them all a happy Christmas before he gave her instructions about the child. ‘He’ll do, I think,’ he finished. ‘I’ll be back presently to take another look.’

  He had spoken in Dutch and Charity, who was beginning to get to grips with that language, wondered what sort of a Christmas Day he would have—and the little girls—Miss Bloom was still there, of course…

  He didn’t go at once; he had a gift for each of them and when he came to Charity he handed her a brightly wrapped packet with a smile which differed in no way from those he had given to everyone else there. She thanked him quietly before Zuster Kingsma handed over a gift from his staff. Charity had no idea what it was; she had been asked to subscribe to it but she had forgotten to ask what it was to be. It looked like a book, she thought. Wim van Beek was there too, with a bottle of sherry and chocolates. He hadn’t been married long and Zuster had given him coffee-mugs from all of them. His nice face beamed round at them all. ‘Ineke will be so pleased,’ he assured them, and then followed Mr van der Brons out of the room.

  The day’s work got started, Christmas or no Christmas. The nurses snatched their coffee when they could and went to their dinners one at a time. Mr van der Brons was back during the morning and Wim van Beek also came to check on the little boy. Charity, back from a hasty meal, was sent to special the child until the nurses who were to take over came on duty.

  The small boy, although horribly burned, was responding well to his treatment. Mr van der Brons had said that he would recover and Charity believed him. She was handing over to Corrie Vinke, who was to relieve her, when he came once more. Zuster Kingsma was with him and she nodded to Charity to go. She was at the door when he spoke, his back to her as he bent over his small patient. ‘Zuster Pearson, Teile and Letizia wish you a happy Christmas and invite you to tea on Saturday—the twenty-eighth—may I tell them that you will come?’

  He glanced briefly over his shoulder at her; his face wore its usual placid expression. No one would think… She refused to remember his proposal. On the face of it he appeared to have forgotten it too. With a heightened colour she said in what she hoped was a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Oh, how kind of them; of course I’d love to come. Please thank them.’

  She escaped then, avoiding the interested glances cast in her direction.

  It was at supper that evening that someone asked, ‘How ever did you get to know Mr van der Brons’s children, Charity?’

  She had no need to answer, for several voices vied with each other to explain about the fire and how brave she had been and it was Zuster Smit who explained that Charity had been rather poorly afterwards and the professor had been kind enough to take her to his home. ‘A kind of treat because Charity had burnt her hands and ruined her clothes. He is a kind man.’ There was a chorus of assent and thankfully someone suggested that they should go along to the sitting-room and see what was on TV.

  Charity wasn’t on duty until the afternoon on the second Christmas Day, so she got up late, mooned around with some of her friends, drinking coffee and eating the biscuits which the kindly Zuster Hengstma had provided. Presently she dressed and they went down to a rather festive meal before they went on duty with the prospect of duties until ten o’clock that evening. She was to take over from Corrie again and she found that young lady itching to go. ‘My boyfriend is waiting,’ she confided in Charity. ‘We’re going dancing, and I’ve got a late pass; thank heaven I’m not on until tomorrow afternoon.’

  Charity was bending over the small boy. ‘How is he? Sister says he’s going to pull through. I’ve had the report—the treatment hasn’t changed, has it?’

  ‘He only rouses briefly—Mr van der Brons wants him sedated for another twenty-four hours. He’ll do the first dressing under anaesthetic and decide what’s best then.’

  Charity nodded. They had been talking in a mixture of English and Dutch for although they didn’t share the same language they shared the same nursing knowledge and it was fairly easy to understand each other.

  ‘Have fun,’ said Charity.

  ‘Tot ziens,’ said Corrie.

  Wim van Beek came presently and checked on the child’s progress.

  ‘You enjoy our Christmas?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Charity told him, ‘it’s very like ours, you know. I hope you have had some time at home?’

  ‘A few hours, and this morning I have been at home. Mr van der Brons has gone home now and I will be on duty until midnight, so please hope that there will be no emergency.’

  He went away presently and she attended to her chores, wrote up her observations, drank the tea that the maid brought her during the afternoon and began on the report which Mr van der Brons would expect to have ready for him when he came in the morning.

  The child was quiet; beyond the adjusting of the various appliances needed to help his recovery, and the frequent observations, there wasn’t a great deal to do. The afternoon darkened and she went and switched on the shaded light by the bed. Hoofdzuster Kingsma came and went and presently it was time for her supper, and an hour later Charity, relieved by one of the other nurses, went to her own meal. Since it was Christmas the usually simple meal had been replaced by cold chicken, salad and great dishes of pommes frites and there was ice-cream afterwards. Nothing to drink, of course, but there was plenty of lemonade and great pots of coffee.

  There were still several hours to go before she would go off duty and the next day the small excitement of Christmas would be over for another year.

  She was wrong, although the admission of three teenagers who had set a room alight with smouldering cigarettes and been unable to get out of it before the whole place was afire could hardly be called a small excitement. Hoofdzuster Kingsma, after a couple of hours off duty, was there when they were admitted, and Charity could see why Mr van der Brons set such store by her; she had her off-duty staff back within ten minutes, sent the more junior nurses to take over on the wards and gathered her staff nurses to cope with the sudden influx of work. Wim van Beek and two of the housemen were there and so, within fifteen minutes, was Mr van der Brons, elegant in a dinner-jacket which he stripped off and flung down in Sister’s office before being tied into a gown, listening to Wim and Sister while a nervous student nurse tied the tapes.

  Charity, dealing with plasma infusions, morphia injections and the delicate task of cutting away charred clothing, didn’t notice the passing of time. It was almost midnight when Sister sent her off duty and the professor was still in Theatre, the fourteen-year-old girl was back in her bed in intensive care, and the second boy was still waiting to go to Theatre.

  ‘I’ll stay if you like,’ Charity offered.

  ‘I would prefer you to come on duty at half-past seven in the morning—there will be much work,’ said Hoofdzuster Kingsma. So Charity went to her bed, sleepily aware that neither Sister nor Mr van der Brons were likely to go to bed that night at all.

 
When she went on duty in the morning Sister had at last gone off duty and Theatre Sister had taken over. She had been there for most of the night too and after giving the report she went away, leaving the senior staff nurse to take over. There were plenty of nurses on duty and a good thing too, reflected Charity, for there was more than enough work for them all to do. Mr van der Brons and Sister came together halfway through the morning and, although his good mornings were as courteous as always, his mind was wholly on his patients. Charity, going off duty that afternoon, thought that she had never been so busy in her life before.

  She had her tea, curled up on her bed and slept until suppertime, then had a shower and got into bed, blissfully aware that she wasn’t working until the afternoon. It was as she was going on duty then that she remembered she was to go to tea with Teile and Letizia on the following afternoon.

  The unit was back in its well-ordered routine; Mr van der Brons came and went all day with van Beek at his heels and as far as Charity was concerned she might not have been there. True, he spoke to her once or twice, but only concerning a patient, his eyes on her face, his own wearing its usual calm expression. For two pins, she thought, going off duty that evening, I won’t go to tea tomorrow—a resolve swallowed up by Mr van der Brons’s quiet voice the following morning.

  ‘The children look forward to seeing you, Charity. Miss Bloom has gone and they are missing her badly.’

  She wore the red needlecord, for it seemed right for the nice old house on the gracht and she wasted no time changing into it. The little girls must be feeling lonely without Miss Bloom; Charity hoped that they would have someone nice in her place. She paused, staring into the looking-glass as she brushed her hair. If—but only if—Mr van der Brons had been serious and if—and again if—she married him, there would be no need of a governess. He would be killing several birds with one stone—a governess for his little daughters, someone to act as his hostess to his friends and a listener who would understand him if he should at any time wish to discuss his work. She frowned fiercely at her own reflection. When it was put like that, she felt like rejecting the idea outright; on the other hand…