by Betty Neels
She tumbled her cup on to its saucer and almost broke it. ‘You what? This evening? But it’s almost six o’clock now; why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You sound like a wife.’ He was laughing at her. ‘If I had told you it would altogether have spoilt your day; you would have been looking at your watch every ten minutes.’ He sat looking at her for a long moment. ‘You know, Claribel, you are the only girl I know who doesn’t bore me; you eat bread and cheese and inspect churches and don’t fidget with your hair and make-up and you make an excellent cup of coffee and yet you make any man proud to take you out to dinner.’
She stared back at him. ‘Why did you come?’
He got to his feet. ‘My dear Claribel, I have just told you. Thank you for my tea. Your biscuits melt in the mouth. Tot ziens.’
She was at the door with him. ‘What does that mean?’
‘In this case, until I see you again.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that.’ She gave him a frosty smile and offered a polite hand. It was disconcerting to have it held gently and then kissed.
She watched him drive away, shut the door smartly and poured herself another cup of tea. ‘I didn’t like him when we met,’ she told the cats, ‘and then I did, or I thought I did, but I don’t. And if he thinks I’ll give him biscuits next time he comes, he’s in for a disappointment—dry bread and water.’ Her voice rose indignantly. ‘I shan’t open the door.’
But while washing up it crossed her mind that it wasn’t very likely that he would come again. She had been far too easy with him; she should have refused his first invitation. He was unsettling—not her type… She said it twice out loud to make sure that she believed it.
So she should have been glad that there was no sign of him, let alone mention of his name, during the ensuing week. She had decided to go home for the weekend but instead of going on the Friday evening, she told herself that there was no rush; she caught a mid-morning train on the Saturday, refusing to admit to herself that she had been hoping for Mr van Borsele’s imperious thump on her door.
‘You’re pale, dear,’ observed her mother. ‘You’ve been working too hard, cooped up in London; I hope you get into the parks at the weekends. Does that solemn young man—Frederick wasn’t it?—still walk you miles on Sundays?’
‘No, Mother—he’s going to marry a girl he met when he went home a month or so ago.’
‘Oh, do you mind, darling?’ Her mother was bending over the tapestry frame she worked at with religious persistence.
‘Not a bit.’
‘Oh, good. I never thought that he was quite the right man for you. Do you see anything of that nice man who gave you a lift here?’
‘He is Dutch, mother dear; he lives in Holland. He comes over to Jerome’s to operate from time to time.’
Her mother eyed her narrowly. Dear Claribel wasn’t fibbing, but she was holding something back. Mrs Brown allowed herself a small smug smile. She was a firm believer in motherly instinct, and so far it had never let her down.
She made no demur when dear Claribel decided that she would have to go back to Meadow Road by an earlier train than usual. Things to do, she had said vaguely, smalls to wash and she simply had to turn out the kitchen cupboard. Her mother agreed soothingly, packed up a pot of homemade marmalade and a rich fruit cake and begged her not to work too hard. ‘Have fun, too,’ she advised. ‘I’m sure you get lots of dates.’
Claribel agreed, as indeed she did—but she didn’t always accept them.
Monday morning began all wrong; she woke late, her hair refused to go up with its usual smoothness, the cats didn’t want to come in from the yard and she broke a plate, then to crown it all she missed her bus. She got to Jerome’s out of breath, a little peevish and with a heightened colour.
‘Late,’ observed Miss Flute, ‘but not too late to go the men’s ward—Mr Shutter’s round.’
Claribel cheered up at once. The wards were interesting; the patients she had to treat there were suffering from complicated broken bones which it gave her great pleasure to straighten out again. She sped through the hospital and reached the group of people gathered round Sister just as the clock struck the hour.
They were just inside the ward doors and as they swung open Sister stepped forward; it was her prerogative to say good morning before anyone else. But it wasn’t Mr Shutter who answered it. Mr van Borsele, followed by another group, this time the registrar, house-man and students, strode through the door, acknowledged her greeting with a courteous smile and cast his eyes over her entourage. Claribel had gone a good deal pinker than she already was by reason of her haste and his gaze paused momentarily at her astonished face and then swept on without any sign of recognition. Not that he could have said anything, but a smile would have been quite permissible. The day had begun badly, she reflected, and it looked likely to continue so. She submerged herself among the nurses and the lady social worker, no easy task since her splendid person made the rest of them look like midgets, and she followed dutifully in the wake of Mr van Borsele and his team. She wasn’t left long in obscurity, though; she had been treating several of the patients and Mr van Borsele wished to see what progress had been made, so she lifted arms and legs, demonstrated the head traction on one unfortunate young man who had had a fracture of his cervical spine, and then assisted an elderly man to demonstrate his walking powers.
‘Very nice,’ commented Mr van Borsele in measured tones. ‘Shall we see this patient Mr Shutter has told me of? He’s for theatre this afternoon. Miss Brown, you will begin passive exercises as soon as he is conscious—he is unfortunately a chronic bronchial but if we are to save that leg we must operate immediately. So breathing exercises and hourly coughing, if you please.’ His glance was impersonal.
He left the ward presently and, after a brief consultation with Sister, Claribel went back to the physio department, where she poked her bright head round Miss Flute’s door. ‘May I come in? I say, I’ve been given that man who came in last night with the compound fracture of the left leg. He’s a chest as well; I have to give him hourly treatment starting when he’s in recovery coming round from the anaesthetic—that’ll be late afternoon, I suppose. And I’m booked solid down here.’
Miss Flute looked unworried. ‘Yes, dear, I’ll have to transfer your patients for a day or two. Someone will take over for night duty? What hours have you got, did anyone tell you?’
‘Sister asked me to stay until eight this evening; she said she’d be seeing you.’ Claribel paused. ‘It’s a bit awkward—the cats, you know.’
Miss Flute, who had an elderly moggie herself, nodded sympathetically. ‘Suppose you go home about three o’clock—you can be back before five o’clock? The list doesn’t start until three o’clock; I should think you won’t be needed for a couple of hours.’ The phone rang and she stopped to answer it, nodding her head and saying yes, yes, several times.
‘Sister,’ she told Claribel. ‘Would you like to do eight in the morning till half past four; she can have Mrs Down from then until eight o’clock and I’ll do the night shift.’ And, when Claribel lightly protested, ‘No, don’t argue, Miss Brookes can hold the fort here until midday, when Mrs Green can come on duty here until she relieves you. It will only be for a few days; once we’ve got him going it will be a TDS job. We’ve done this before, there’s no reason why it won’t work again.’
Miss Flute’s word was law. Claribel, after a hurried return to her flat to see Enoch and Toots, presented herself in Intensive Care to wait for the arrival of the patient. He came from the recovery room with two nurses in attendance and for the first hour there was nothing for her to do except watch the nurses hoist the plastered leg on to a Balkan beam and apply the weights. A very nasty compound fracture, one of them told her; bits of bone all over the place, but Mr van Borsele had assembled them with infinite patience, pinned them neatly, nailed the bone together and was of the opinion that the leg would be quite useful in a few months’ time. The leg, at the moment, look
ed of no use at all, with toes sticking out of the foot end of the plaster and a long window cut so that the big incision which had been made could be examined frequently.
Presently the man opened his eyes and Claribel started her work. He certainly had what she would have described as a nasty chest, but he had no wish to cough.
‘Oh, come now,’ said Claribel at her most beguiling. ‘You’re going to feel so much better, and that’s a promise. It’s no good you arguing, for I have to do this every hour, but the more you cough the quicker I’ll stop plaguing you.’
The man swore softly but he did as she asked and presently lay back on his pillows while the nurses made him more comfortable.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Mr van Borsele in her ear. ‘If you can keep that up for a couple of days he’ll be OK.’ He went past her to bend over his patient and then went away again as quietly as he had come.
Miss Flute came just as quietly at eight o’clock, nodded briskly to Claribel, exchanged a few knowledgeable remarks and bade her go home just as Mr van Borsele returned, so there was a small delay while Claribel gave her report and, when she would have gone, ‘Wait for me, if you please, Miss Brown.’ His voice was pleasant but held a note which she didn’t care to ignore. She went to stand with Miss Flute while he conferred with the night nurse and Sister, took another look at his patient and rejoined them to wish Miss Flute goodnight and urge Claribel through the door.
In the corridor he said briefly, ‘I’ll be outside the physio department entrance in five minutes. I’ll run you home.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need. I’m perfectly able…’
‘Don’t argue, Claribel; we’re both tired and you need a night’s sleep—I want that man fit in the shortest possible time.’
She said, ‘Very well, Mr van Borsele,’ in such a meek voice that he opened his eyes wide although he said nothing. They went down in the lift to the ground floor and parted without a word.
She was tired; she hadn’t realised that until now. The patient was a heavy man and unwilling, and he had been hard work; supper and bed would be delightful. She changed and locked the door after her and found the Rolls waiting. Mr van Borsele, lounging over its bonnet, opened the door for her, got in and drove away without speaking. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic and Meadow Road when they reached it was deserted. He got out when she did, took her key and opened the door and followed her inside.
‘Coffee?’ asked Claribel, anticipating what he was going to say.
‘No, tea, I think. And a sandwich?’ He went past her and put the kettle on. ‘Hello, Claribel.’
She turned to stare at him. ‘But you saw me this morning…’
‘So I did, but that was—how shall I put it?—a professional meeting. Now we are just you and me.’
He watched her face, reading her thoughts. ‘The last thing I would wish to do would be to lay you open to the hospital grapevine.’ He took the teapot from her and poured hot water into it. ‘I value your friendship too much.’
She stood there watching him empty the teapot, spoon in tea and pour on the boiling water. ‘You don’t seem like a friend,’ she muttered. ‘Oh, you’re very kind, giving me lifts and—and a day out and dinner…but I don’t understand you. Sometimes I’m not sure if I like you.’
‘I know that. Don’t let it worry you.’ He smiled suddenly at her and she saw then that he was tired. She said quite sharply, ‘Do sit down; I’ll make those sandwiches. Do you have to go back to Jerome’s?’
‘In an hour or so, yes.’ He lounged back in his chair and closed his eyes and she felt a sharp pang of pity as she got out the bread and butter and started on the sandwiches. He hadn’t stirred when she had finished so she fed the cats and carried the tray noiselessly into the living-room. He needed a good hot meal, she thought worriedly; probably he hadn’t had lunch and would forget about his dinner if he was worried about his patient. He was a man who drove himself too hard.
She piled sandwiches on a plate and poured the tea, and when she turned round he was watching her closely; there was nothing sleepy about his gaze.
She said tartly, ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I was. What is in the sandwiches?’
‘Cheese and pickles, ham, lettuce and tomato.’
He munched contentedly. ‘Tell, me, Claribel, when you marry will you be prepared to offer your husband refreshment at whatever hour he comes home?’
‘Well, of course, provided he’s been working and not just gallivanting around.’
He said seriously, ‘I can’t imagine your marrying a man who gallivanted. These sandwiches are delicious.’
‘Didn’t you have any lunch?’
‘No.’ He took another sandwich and bit into it.
‘But you’ll get dinner when you get back to Jerome’s?’
‘Probably. It depends on how that man is doing. You take over in the morning?’
‘At eight o’clock. What kind of a chance has he?’
They talked comfortably about the case and presently he got up to go.
He wasted no words on polite observations that he would see her in the morning or anything similar, merely bade her goodnight, adding a laconic, ‘Thanks for the food, Claribel.’
Leaving her, as he usually did, feeling cross.
She saw him frequently during the next day or two but only on the ward, and then to do no more than pass her report to whichever nurse was on duty.
The patient was hard work, but he was responding at last; by the third day Claribel no longer needed to be with him continuously. Miss Flute went back to her office and Claribel and Mrs Green shared a complicated schedule of duty for another thirty-six hours before he was pronounced out of danger and needed physiotherapy only morning and evening, so that he could be fitted in with her other ward cases.
It would be nice to be back to normal working conditions, Claribel assured Miss Flute, while at the back of her mind there was regret at not seeing Mr van Borsele again. And when the following day she went to the ward for a round, it was Mr Shutter who arrived to take it. Gone back to Holland, ruminated Claribel, busy showing Mr Shutter just how nicely a boy with cut tendons of the hand had regained very nearly its full powers. Not that she missed him, but he could have said goodbye.
She was going home for the weekend; she raced to the flat as the buses were slow, gobbling her tea, showered and changed, fed the cats and ushered them to their basket. With luck she might just catch the train before her usual one. She was dashing about on a last-minute check when the door knocker was thumped. The sound brought her up short; only one person used such force and he, to the best of her knowledge, was in Holland.
He was on the doorstep. She drew a breath. ‘I’m just leaving…’
‘The warmth of your welcome leaves much to be desired,’ he observed mildly. ‘All the same, I shall come in.’
Which he did, shoving her gently ahead of him until they were both in the living-room.
She turned to face him. ‘Look, I’m catching a train home—I shall miss it!’
‘I’ll drive you down—I’m going that way.’ He gave her a beguiling smile. ‘We could have a cup of coffee now and I’ll give you dinner on the way.’
‘Mother’s expecting me.’
He lifted the receiver off the cradle and handed it to her. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He went into the kitchen, unfastening the cat’s basket as he went, leaving her speechless. She put the receiver back and followed him into the kitchen. ‘Look, this really is too much; you walk in here and tell me what to do, and now I’ve missed my train!’
He was spooning coffee into two mugs. ‘We’ll get there before the train or very soon after.’ He added blandly, ‘Shouldn’t you let your mother know?’
She went back to the telephone and rang her mother, aware that she was taking the line of least resistance. Her temper wasn’t improved by her mother’s cheerful voice. ‘How nice, dear. Your father and I both hoped that we’d meet your nice y
oung man again…’
‘He’s not my young man.’ She spoke in a cross rather loud voice and put the receiver down quite sharply.
‘Is it so refreshing,’ remarked Mr van Borsele from the kitchen, ‘to be referred to as a young man, even when the speaker is now in a nasty temper.’
He handed her a mug of coffee with a disarming smile and she found her peevishness evaporating. She said, half laughing, ‘Doesn’t anything upset you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He was quite serious. He sat down in the easy chair and sipped his coffee and, because she found the silence a little awkward, she asked, ‘Are you over here to work again?’
He nodded. ‘We shall change that plaster—I think I may close the wound; he’s doing extremely well. And there’s a rather complicated case Mr Shutter has asked me to discuss.’
‘Don’t you mind going to and fro so often? Don’t you want to be at home?’
‘Do you not have a saying, “Home is where the heart is”?’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Do you mean that you can’t settle down?’
He smiled a little. ‘At the moment it would be premature.’
She picked up the mugs and took them to the kitchen. ‘You’re going to get married, Mr van Borsele?’
‘The name is Marc, and yes, that is my intention.’
‘Then you won’t come over to England so often?’ She turned to look at him and met his dark eyes and felt the colour flooding her face when she saw his raised eyebrows. She said gruffly, ‘I didn’t mean to be nosey.’
She scooped up the cats and put them back into their basket. ‘I’m ready when you are.’ Her voice was wooden with embarrassment. ‘It’s kind of you to run me home.’ She took a quick peep at him and saw that he was smiling. ‘What’s so funny?’
He took the basket from her. ‘You know, you really are rather a dear girl—you’ll make a splendid wife.’ He opened the door and she went past him, her question unanswered.
