by Betty Neels
He brushed that aside. “That can easily be attended to. If you will let me know what time you intend to leave, everything will be arranged and all you need will be sent here to you this evening.”
She blinked. “How nice—there’s a ferry leaving at midday from Dover.” She added doubtfully, “It’s the holiday season…”
“Don’t worry about that.” He was comfortably efficient; obviously she was to have no worries on the journey. He left in another five minutes, the tiresome details dealt with, leaving her with nothing further to do but pack; fill up with petrol and telephone home, all of which she was forced to do that evening when she came off duty, having had not a moment to call her own until then.
She didn’t see Miss Evans again before she left, a message telling her to take what uniform she needed with her, and to notify the Office as soon as she knew the date of her return, was all the official acknowledgment she received of her departure, an omission easily made up for by the enthusiastic help of her friends, who assisted her to pack, provided the odds and ends she had had no time to purchase for herself, and even volunteered to tell Clive, whom she had completely forgotten in the excitement of the moment. She dashed off a note to him the next morning just before she left and then forgot about him almost immediately.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS A smooth journey, even if crowded, but Charity hardly noticed that; she was immersed in a copy of The Lancet she had borrowed from Mr Howard after she had asked him urgently on the previous afternoon to tell her all he could about her patient’s complaint.
“Oh, so you’re going after all?” he had snorted at her. “I can do better than tell you, there was a first-class article about it in last week’s Lancet.” And he had brought it down to the ward that evening, when he came to do a final check of his patients.
She studied it now, learning it almost word for word, so that later on she would know what everyone was talking about. It was a well-written article, written by a professor at the Utrecht School of Medicine, a certain Everard van Tijlen, a man, she considered, reading it through for the last time, who knew what he was about—a fine decisive style and sound knowledge of the subject. She put it away in her case and went up on deck to watch the flat coast of Belgium creep nearer.
She made good time from Zeebrugge to the Hague; it was only a little after seven o’clock when she drew up smartly before the address she had been given. The block of flats was large and modern and obviously luxurious and in a pleasant part of the city. She wasted no time, but got out, locked the car, went into the foyer and asked to be taken to the fifth floor by the porter.
Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek lived in style, she discovered when his apartment door was opened by a small woman with an unhappy face; the hall was large and square and furnished with taste and there seemed to be passages and doors leading off in all directions. The woman smiled uncertainly.
“Oh, are you the English nurse?”
Charity smiled and said that yes, she was. This, unless she was very much mistaken, was Mr Boekerchek’s wife. “I’m sorry to arrive so late,” she apologised. “If I could just put my car away and get my luggage…”
Her hostess went back to the door where the porter still lingered and spoke to him and then turned to Charity. “If you would let him have the keys,” she suggested, “he’ll put the car away—there’s an underground garage—and bring up your cases,” and when Charity had done this and closed the door the poor lady burst into tears.
“I never thought you’d come,” she sobbed, “and Arthur was so dead set on having you and no one else, and I thought if you wouldn’t come, he’d refuse surgery and then what would happen?”
Charity put an arm round the little lady’s shoulders and led her across the hall to a half-opened door which she hoped was a sitting-room. She was right, it was. She settled Mrs Boekerchek in a chair and sat down close by. “But I am here,” she pointed out cheerfully, “and we’ll have your husband on his feet again in no time at all.”
Her companion sniffed, blew her nose and made a great effort to calm down. “I don’t know what I expected,” she confided, “but you’re quite different, I reckon—no wonder Arthur wouldn’t budge.” She got up quickly. “There, see what an old fool I am—you must be tired to death and I’m wasting your time. There’s a meal for you—I’ll get Nel to serve it…”
Charity had got to her feet too. “That sounds lovely, but could I have five minutes to tidy myself and then go and see Mr Boekerchek? Will his doctor be coming this evening?”
“No—tomorrow morning. He’s to go to Utrecht, you know. The ambulance is coming at nine o’clock to take him to the hospital there—I’ve forgotten its name—Dr Donker said he’d see you before you went.” She was leading the way across the hall again and into one of the passages. “This is your room. I hope you’ll be comfortable—there’s a shower room beyond. Shall I come back for you in a few minutes?” She sounded wistful; Charity guessed that she needed company to take her mind off her husband’s illness.
“Give me ten minutes,” she agreed readily.
The room was luxurious; a pity, thought Charity, tidying herself hastily, that she would only have one night here. After that it would presumably be the Nurses’ Home in Utrecht. She fancied that it might be very like the Home at St Simon’s. She cast a lingering look round the room and turned to smile at Mrs Boekerchek at the door.
Mr Boekerchek certainly looked ill. He was pale and decidedly irritable despite his pleasure at seeing Charity. He had lost a lot of weight too, and confided to her that he was quite unable to work any more and suffered from a depression which was a blight both to himself and his wife.
“Hyperinsulinism, that’s my trouble,” he declared, “that professor what’s-his-name who’s going to carve me up, explained it to me—can’t say I made head or tail of it, though. But I trust him all right—lucky I’d already met him.” He managed a thin smile. “Just as long as you know what he’s talking about, eh? I’m glad they got hold of you. I do declare that I wouldn’t have agreed to surgery unless they had. I’m a daft old man, aren’t I? but thank God, I’m important enough to be humoured.”
Charity stayed with him for the rest of the evening, studying the notes the doctor had left for her before settling him for the night, eating a hasty supper and then going to sit for half an hour with his wife, whom she tried, not very successfully, to comfort before going to her room and bed. It seemed to her that her head had barely touched the pillow before Nel was shaking her awake with a cup of tea on a tray and the news that it was six o’clock, something the city’s carillons let her know, a dozen times over.
Mindful of the doctor’s visit at eight o’clock, she dressed, in uniform this time—and went along to her patient’s room. He had slept well, he told her, and was positively cheerful at the idea of getting things going at last. She helped him wash and shave, made sure that he was comfortable, checked his packed case, and went along to the kitchen. Mrs Boekerchek was up too, fussing round the stolid Nel while she prepared their breakfast. Mr Boekerchek, naturally enough, had very little appetite. Charity saw to his wants first and then made a healthily sustaining meal herself while her companion drank quantities of scalding coffee and jumped up and down like a yo-yo. She wasn’t going to Utrecht with them; Charity was to telephone her later on in the day, and tell her what had been decided, and when the decision to operate had been taken she would go over to the hospital and stay if it were considered necessary.
Charity discussed Mrs Boekerchek’s plans at length and in a cheerful voice and was rewarded by seeing the unhappy little woman’s face brighten. “Wear something pretty when you come,” she advised her, “something your husband likes; it will help him enormously, you know, if he’s feeling weak and ill, to see you looking pretty and nicely dressed—and don’t be upset when you see him after the op. He’ll look very pale and strange and there’ll be tubes and things all over the place—they look dramatic, but he won’t notice them, so don’t
you either.”
Her words had the desired effect. Mrs Boekerchek fell to planning various outfits and even pondered the advisability of a visit to the hairdresser. “I have a rinse, you know,” she confided. “It needs to be done every week or so—Arthur is dead set on me not going grey, I reckon.” She eyed Charity’s burnished head with some envy. “Yours is real, I guess,” she asked wistfully.
“Well, yes,” Charity felt almost apologetic about it, “but quite often people think it isn’t.” Her pretty mouth curved in a smile. “Do you mind if I go to my room and make sure everything is ready? We mustn’t keep the ambulance waiting and I’m not certain how long the doctor will take—it’s almost eight o’clock.”
He came a few minutes later, a small dark man with thick glasses and hair brushed carefully over the bald spot on the top of his head. He spoke English with a fluency she instantly envied and plunged at once into instructions, details of his patient’s illness, and dire warnings as to what might go wrong and what she was to do if they did. She listened attentively, collected the necessary papers he had entrusted to her care, wished him goodbye and rejoined her patient. Ten minutes later they were in the ambulance, on their way to Utrecht.
It was a journey of forty miles or so, and since they travelled on the motorway for almost the entire distance and the ambulance was an elegant sleek model built for speed, they were soon on the outskirts of the city, but here their progress slowed considerably, and Charity, bent on keeping her patient’s mind on the normal things of life, encouraged him to describe the city to her, and looked when told to do so through the dark glass windows, trying to identify the various buildings he was telling her about. He had become quite cheerful during their ride together and had told her about his work and his family and home in the USA.
“This country’s OK,” he told her, “but a bit cramped, I guess—why, you can drive from one end to the other in the matter of a few hours, now, back home…” He paused. “I guess it’s OK, though, like I said—nice people, no need to learn the language, and a good thing too, for it’s a tongue-twister, all right. Where are we now?”
Charity had a look. “Going up a narrow lane, walls on either side—the backs of houses I should think. Oh, here’s a gate and a courtyard—I believe it’s the hospital.”
She was right. The ambulance passed the main entrance and drew up before a double swing door. Within minutes Mr Boekerchek was stretched tidily under his blankets on a trolley and they were making their way through the corridors and vast areas filled with crowded benches—Outpatients Charity guessed, and wished that there was more time to look around her. They were in a lift by now, though, on their way up to the sixth floor.
The lift door swung open on to a square hall which opened in its turn into a wide corridor. Someone must have given warning of their arrival, for there was a youngish woman in uniform waiting for them.
She smiled as she shook hands. “Hoofd Zuster Doelsma,” she volunteered. “Charity Dawson,” said Charity, not sure what to call herself, “and this is Mr Arthur C. Boekerchek.”
They proceeded smoothly down the corridor, lined with doors along one side and with great glass windows, giving one an excellent view of the wards beyond them, on the other. Half-way down Zuster Doelsma opened a door, revealing a small bright room with a modicum of furniture and a very up-to-date bed. Piped oxygen, intercom, sucker, intensive care equipment—Charity’s sharp eyes registered their presence with satisfaction; there was everything she might need. There was a small, comfortable chair close to the bed and a compact desk and stool facing it, and cupboards built into one wall; she would examine them presently. Now she turned her attention to settling her patient comfortably in his bed, much cheered by the appearance of a little nurse bearing a tray with two cups of coffee on it. Sipping it together, she and her companion decided that the room was nice, that Zuster Doelsma looked friendly, that the hospital, in fact, was very much like the most modern of American hospitals which Mr Boekerchek could call to mind.
He was in the middle of telling her so when the door opened and the giant from Vlissingen walked in, closely attended by his registrar, a houseman and Zuster Doelsma. Charity stood and stared at him with her mouth open, watching as he went to the bed, shook Mr Boekerchek by the hand, spoke briefly and then turned round to face her. If she had been surprised to see him, he most certainly was not. He gave her a cool nod, offered a firm hand and remarked: “Ah, the English Miss Dawson, come to stay with us for a little while. An opportunity for you to demonstrate your talent for languages; you should acquire a smattering of Dutch during that period.”
She felt her cheeks warm under his quizzical look and checked a childish urge to shout something rude at him. Instead she said in what she hoped was a cool voice: “I think there will be no need of that, Professor, for my Dutch would probably turn out to be as bad as your manners.”
They were standing a little apart from the others; she watched his eyes narrow as a smile touched the corner of his straight mouth. “So we are to cross swords, Miss Dawson?” he wanted to know softly.
“Well, it seems likely,” she told him sturdily, “though not during working hours, naturally.”
His laugh of genuine amusement took her by surprise. “A pity,” he observed, “for we shall have little opportunity of meeting.”
She didn’t answer him, for she was fighting disappointment; she had wanted to meet this man again, even though she had never admitted it even to herself, and now, by some quirk of fate, here he was, and obviously not sharing her feelings, indeed, very much the reverse. She promised herself then and there that she would make him change his opinion of her; and this satisfying thought was interrupted by his:
“You look very pleased with yourself about something. Now, supposing we have a talk with the patient.”
She could see within minutes that here was a man who knew his job. He had a measured way of speaking, although he was never at a loss for a word and he was completely confident in himself and the results of the operation he intended to perform, without being boastful. It was also equally apparent to her that whatever his private feelings were towards herself, he had no intention of allowing them to influence their relationship as surgeon and nurse, for when he had talked to Mr Boekerchek he drew her on one side and his manner when he spoke was pleasantly friendly with no hint of mockery or dislike. “I shall want you in theatre,” he told her. “I shall operate at one o’clock tomorrow afternoon and you will be good enough to adjust your duty hours so that you will be available until midnight of that day. You are conversant with intensive care?”
“Yes, Professor.”
He nodded. “You will be directly responsible to me for all the nursing care of Mr—er—Boekerchek. I know that you will be unable to be here all the time, and a nurse has been seconded to share your duties. But please understand that I shall hold you responsible. I will explain…”
Which he did, and at some length, and she listened carefully, storing away facts and techniques and his way of doing things, because he would expect her to know them all.
“You have nursed these cases before?”
“Two—not recently, though. I read your article in The Lancet.”
There was a brief gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Indeed? I had no idea that The Lancet was read by anyone other than my own profession.”
He was needling her again, but she kept her cool, saying quietly:
“The consultant surgeon for whom I work at St Simon’s lent it to me. I had no idea that it was you…”
“Why should you?” he asked coolly, and turned to go. “You will be in theatre at five to one tomorrow, Sister Dawson.”
She was kept busy for the rest of the day; Mr Boekerchek was to undergo a series of tests, which meant a constant flow of path lab people in and out, And he had to be X-rayed too, an expedition upon which she accompanied him, as well as being seen by various other people connected with his future well-being; the anaesthetist, a youngish man,
darkly good-looking and with a charm of manner which Charity was sure must endear him to his patients. He was charming to her too, speaking English, of course, like almost everyone else in the hospital. The professor’s nasty remark had been quite unnecessary and it still rankled; she registered a resolve not to learn or speak a word of Dutch, happily forgetful that she would be the one to suffer from her resolution, not he, and turned to smile at another caller, the professor’s registrar, a short, rather stout young man with a round, cheerful face and a habit of quoting his chief on every possible occasion.
“You will find the operation most interesting,” he assured Charity, standing in the corridor outside her patient’s room. “Professor van Tijlen is outstanding in surgery, you know, and this particular operation is of his own technique—he has done already one dozen and they live yet.”
Charity said tartly: “Marvellous—what else does he specialise in?”
“All illnesses of the stomach and the—the gut.”
“Big deal,” she observed flippantly, and at the look of uncertainty upon her companion’s face hastened to explain: “That’s just an expression in English. It means how—how marvellous.”
Mr van Dungen looked mollified. “He is a wonderful man,” he told her sternly, and then smiled. “You will perhaps call me Dof?”
“Of course. My name’s Charity.” They smiled at each other like old friends and she added: “I say, you’ll help me out if I get in a jam, won’t you?” and had to repeat it all again differently, explaining that getting into a jam didn’t mean quite what it sounded like.
