by Betty Neels
In the kitchen she found Lucy already busy and her mother, surprisingly calm about their unexpected visitor, getting a tray of coffee ready. They had introduced themselves, she told Charity with a smile for the professor, and perhaps he would like to go and talk to her father while she had a bath and got some clothes together. “And I’ll be up in a minute to help you pack, dear,” called her parent as she went upstairs.
She was downstairs again within half an hour, still not quite believing that the man she had been trying to forget was sitting opposite her father, discussing the growing of roses. Seeing him there, stretched out comfortably in the old-fashioned armchair, she wondered how she could have been silly enough to suppose that she could ever forget him. She never would, she knew that now, nor would she be able to tell him that she had lied when she had told him that she disliked him—not that that mattered, for he so obviously didn’t mind what she thought of him—she had made no impression upon him at all, but she happened to be a good nurse and he required her services; his personal feelings didn’t enter into it.
He got up as she went into the sitting-room, pulled forward a chair for her and then resumed his talk with her father. In the strong light of the summer morning she could see that he was tired and the strong sunshine turning the grey in his hair to silver made him seem more so. Following her train of thought she asked: “Would you like me to drive for the first part of the trip?” and could have bitten out her tongue the moment she had said it; he would laugh, of course, or at best refuse; he might even make some remark about women drivers, although she thought it unlikely. He did none of these things, but accepted her offer promptly without any show of surprise, and her father broke off his earnest advice about black spot long enough to observe: “Oh, Cherry’s a born driver—you’ll be quite safe with her.”
She was a little nervous of the Lamborghini to begin with, but as its owner, sitting beside her, showed no signs of anxiety, the enjoyment of driving such a splendid car overcame her nerves. Safely over Woodbury Common and through Honiton, she relaxed a little. They hadn’t talked much; casual remarks about the weather and the scenery, no more, and after a silence lasting rather longer than before, she asked him where he wanted to take over the driving. When he didn’t reply she ventured a quick look. The professor was asleep. She drove on, her feelings alternating between pleasure at his faith in her driving and vexation at his complete lack of interest in herself.
She was too good a driver to allow her thoughts to colour her driving; all the same, two hours later with the M3 within striking distance, the vexation was rapidly getting the upper hand.
“Pull into the next lay-by,” suggested her companion gently, “and we’ll change places.”
The suspicion that he hadn’t been asleep at all crossed her mind as she did as he had suggested and brought the car to a halt before she turned to look at him. “Why did you pretend to be asleep?” she asked sharply, certain that her guess was correct.
“Oh, but I did sleep for quite half an hour,” he gave her an innocent look which she didn’t trust, “and you were driving so well it seemed a good idea not to distract your attention from the road. Besides, I had some thinking to do.”
Charity looked down her lovely nose; if he preferred thinking to engaging her in conversation, then she couldn’t care less, she told herself as they changed places, and when he asked her if she was quite comfortable, she answered him with a decided snap and turned her head away to watch the countryside. She kept it there for a long time and only turned it back again because she had such a crick in the neck.
“Ah,” said Professor van Tijlen instantly, “out of the sulks?”
He was driving at a steady seventy now, with all the nonchalance of a boy on a bicycle, but not, she was bound to admit, putting a foot wrong. She choked on the torrent of words which crowded her tongue and managed a calm: “I’m not sulking; I have no reason to do so.”
“Liar,” he said cheerfully. “I’ve yet to meet a pretty girl who didn’t expect a large slice of attention from her men companions—and turned sour when she didn’t get it.”
Charity smouldered for several seconds and when she spoke her voice was high with temper. “You are a very rude man, the rudest I have had the misfortune to meet! I can’t think why I agreed to come back with you to Holland—indeed, it’s only because Mr Boekerchek wants me—for two pins you can stop the car and I’ll go back home!”
“For such an experienced driver you’re singularly ignorant of the rules of the road, dear girl. We are on a motorway, remember? Besides, I should be endangering both your life and your limbs if I were to dump you in the middle of the M3.” His voice changed and became gentle and friendly. “I don’t mean to tease. I’ll apologise handsomely, shall I? And for good measure I’ll give you full marks for being such a good driver—there aren’t many I would trust myself to in my own car.”
The unqualified generosity of this pronouncement caused her to forget her ill humour and exclaim: “Oh, do you really mean that?”
“Indeed I do.” He spoilt it by adding, “If only your accent were as faultless as your driving.”
He seemed determined to annoy her, and Charity wondered, rather unhappily, why. She said with surprising meekness: “I don’t have much opportunity of speaking any language but my own.”
He glanced sideways at her. “I hear that you are a very clever young woman.”
She answered him seriously, without conceit, thinking of Clive.
“It’s a great handicap. I should like to be small and fair and too delicate to lift things…” She broke off at his roar of laughter and said huffily: “It’s all very well to laugh, you’re not a girl.”
Which made him laugh still more.
They were almost at Camberley and she wondered which way he intended going; they hadn’t stopped at all and they had been travelling more than three hours. As though he had read her thoughts, he said: “I’m going to turn off here and cut across to Maidstone—we can pick up the M2 on the other side. We’ll stop for lunch.”
She imagined that they would stop somewhere along the road, but he travelled on until they had almost reached Reigate, when he turned off again, so that she asked a little anxiously: “Is there time? I mean, we’re off the road.”
“Plenty of time—and we need a little peace and quiet for half an hour, don’t you agree?”
He stopped in Abinger and took her to a quiet little country pub, where the food was surprisingly good. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was, and now she thought about it, tired too, so that she was grateful for her companion’s casual conversation which required little or no effort on her part. He was being very nice; she supposed that he would be nice to anyone in similar circumstances, whether he liked them or not; he was good at hiding his feelings and she was, after all, a guest, more or less, until she reached the hospital, and he was a man who would accord his guest every courtesy, even if he detested them. The thought was a lowering one.
He hadn’t mentioned his patient once; presumably he would tell her all she needed to know when they arrived at the hospital.
“I’ve no uniform,” she exclaimed suddenly.
They had had their coffee and were sitting at their leisure, facing each other across the small table. “They’ll fix you up at the hospital,” he assured her confidently, “there must be someone there who is your size.”
She choked. “I should hope so. I’m quite a normal shape, you know.”
He twinkled nicely at her and she thought he was going to say something quite different from his: “Did I imply that you weren’t? I’m sorry. Shall we go?”
For the rest of their journey the professor maintained a pleasant, impersonal manner towards her—he was consideration itself when it came to her comfort, but he showed no sign of wanting to get to know her better. His conversation was casual and did not touch once upon herself or anything to do with her, nor did he exhibit any curiosity as to her reasons for leaving St Simon’s, or her pla
ns for the future. Which was a good thing, for she had none.
The ferry was tolerably full, the evening pleasant. They had stopped for a cup of tea before they went on board and once there, Charity politely refused the professor’s offer of a meal in the ship’s restaurant, largely because he so obviously had expected her to accept his invitation, but she had cause to regret this an hour or so later for she had a healthy appetite and she was hungry. But by this time her companion had opened his despatch case and was immersed in its contents, making notes in his spidery scribble, oblivious of his surroundings. She leafed through the generous pile of magazines he had bought for her and thought longingly of food while she studied him covertly.
He was a handsome man, there was no doubt of that, but she thought it unlikely that he allowed that fact to concern him overmuch; he was self-assured, true, but not self-conscious. She was contemplating his high-bridged nose when he looked up and caught her at it. She saw the muscle twitch at the side of his mouth and went a delicate pink, but all he said was “How about a sandwich?”
She thanked him in a relieved voice which caused the muscle to twitch again as he went in search of refreshment. He came back very shortly with a tray loaded down with cups of tea and a variety of sandwiches, and while she ate the simple meal she watched him working his way through the sandwiches like a hungry schoolboy while he explained that he was making notes for a lecture he had been asked to give in Vienna shortly.
“You don’t mind if I work?” he asked her some what belatedly. “It’s a splendid opportunity, for I am not distracted by anybody.” He smiled in a kindly fashion at her; quite obviously there was nothing about her person to distract him. Not that she would wish that, she reminded herself sternly, she wasn’t in the least interested in him or the things he did or the way he lived, even though she loved him—a highly satisfactory state of affairs which didn’t prevent her from falling into a brown study as to where he lived and what his home was like and who looked after him.
He went back to his writing presently and she gave a good imitation of reading Vogue. They didn’t speak again until he gathered up his papers at last and remarked that they should be almost there. Which they were.
They had about a hundred miles to go, through Antwerp and on to the motorway to Breda and Utrecht. Charity had never been that way before, and she found the country flat and depressing; she was feeling tired now and was secretly thankful that she would have a little time to get settled in before the operation. Her companion talked seldom; she supposed that he had a lot on his mind and as they understood each other so well, he had no need to exert himself to be charming; she had told him that she didn’t like him. She frowned; it was a pity that she couldn’t tell him the truth, but that of course wouldn’t do.
Their journey was almost over. It was half past eleven at night, she swallowed a yawn and hoped he hadn’t noticed. It would be nice to lean her sleepy head on his enormous shoulder, but it might interfere with his driving—beside, it was the wrong head; she wasn’t the pretty fair-haired girl who had been in the car with him.
The hospital lay silent, most of its windows dark, only here and there did she glimpse the faint night lights in the wards. The professor stopped the car outside the main entrance, warned the night porter to let the Night Superintendent know that they had arrived, and took her luggage from the boot.
Charity watched him, a disappointment she didn’t understand filling her tired senses. It caused her to say quite tartly: “Please don’t wait, I’m perfectly able to find my way—you must want to get home.”
To which speech he answered nothing at all. When the Night Superintendent arrived, the professor engaged her in conversation for a few moments, told the porter to find someone to take the luggage over to the Home, and then asked Zuster Wit if she would be good enough to let his registrar know that he was back. Only when both these persons had gone on their errands did he turn to Charity. She couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim light of the entrance hall and when he took a step towards her, she asked: “Did you want something?”
“Yes, this,” he said softly, and bent to kiss her. She was still finding her breath when he said on a half laugh: “Kiss and be friends—is that not what you say in your country?”
He took her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push. “Now go to bed, Miss Dawson.”
CHAPTER FIVE
MR BOEKERCHEK was in the same room as he had previously and he certainly looked ill, although his face lighted up when he saw Charity and he broke at once into a string of apologies for bringing her all the way back to Holland. “But I couldn’t face it all over again, honey, not unless you were there to bully me and make me laugh and stop me being scared.” He peered at her anxiously. “The professor told me that you were at your home—have I spoilt your holiday?”
Charity reassured him. “No, not a bit of it—I decided to leave St Simon’s some weeks ago and I was at home wondering what I would do next. I’m sorry this has happened, it’s rotten hard luck for you, but I’m sure the professor will settle it once and for all this time. Is Mrs Boekerchek staying in Utrecht or coming over from your home each day?”
She encouraged him to talk as she started on the familiar round of pre-op preparations—indeed, by the end of the morning, she felt as though she had never been away—everyone remembered her; the radiologist greeted her like an old friend, so did Dof van Dungen and Zuster Doelsma. And the professor—he came that afternoon, looking remote; it could have been another man who had kissed her the night before. There was no expression on his face when he spoke to her, his voice was bland; she was the nurse in charge of the case, that was all.
Pride forbade her from so much as smiling at him, she answered his questions in a cool, professional voice, her green eyes as cool, schooling her thoughts in keeping to the matter in hand—Mr Boekerchek. He was to go to theatre at two o’clock the following day, said the professor, and Miss Dawson would be good enough to arrange her off duty as she had done previously. She understood, did she not, went on the bland voice, that she would be expected to forfeit a good deal of her free time for the first three days?
She assured him that the arrangement suited her very well and begged him, in her best professional manner, not to give the matter a thought. He said nothing at all to this, only stared at her; it was a welcome relief when Dof asked about the pre-med, and in due course she escorted him to the door, very correct in her borrowed uniform and stiff, plain cap, where he wished her an equally correct good day.
She didn’t see him again until she stood in the theatre beside the unconscious Mr Boekerchek, and when he came in he took no notice of her at all, which was, after all, only to be expected. The operation took longer than the first one had done but proved rewarding, for the professor found two more adenomata this time and that with the greatest difficulty, and after an exhaustive search for any further lurking tumours, he closed the wound with a Redivac drain and what Charity took to be a pious prayer in Dutch that this would be the last of the business.
The remainder of the day and the first part of the night allowed for no personal reflection; Mr Boekerchek was a tough man, but the operation had been a severe strain on him. He lay, once more in his space foil blanket, happily unaware of the activity going on around him, of Charity working endlessly to get him back on the road to recovery once more, of the professor standing by his bed, assessing his chances with a thoughtful expression on his handsome features. But thanks to everyone’s efforts, he opened his eyes late in the evening, made a hazy remark about Charity’s cap, said: “Don’t cry, honey,” to his wife, who was, and went to sleep again.
In the morning when Charity returned to duty again, he was still hazy but decidedly better, a fact which the professor had no hesitation in telling him later in the morning, and which he repeated when he paid an afternoon visit to his patient, and Mr Boekerchek, much more himself now, nodded his tired head. “You look like a guy who wouldn’t lie all that easily,” he muttered
. “I’ll believe you. Where’s that nurse of mine?”
“On the other side of the bed,” the professor advised him, “but don’t try and turn round to look at her, you might fall foul of your drainage tube. We’ll have it out tomorrow.” He glanced across the bed. “Come round here, Sister Dawson, and let Mr Boekerchek see you; I believe he considers you a goodluck mascot.”
She did as she was told without looking at him, to turn a calmly smiling face upon her patient. “That’s better,” said Mr Boekerchek. “The pair of you…” he closed his eyes and went immediately to sleep.
His progress was steady after that; on the fourth day after the operation Charity was able to take a few hours off duty, and delighted to be free after several days of hasty meals and long sessions in her patient’s room, she changed into a sleeveless cotton dress of a delicate apricot colour and went out into the crowded streets of Utrecht. But they held little appeal for her; it was too hot for their crowded pavements and she had no shopping to do.
She wandered off down a narrow side lane and found herself in a quiet street, brick-paved, with a canal on one side of it and a row of tall, fine houses on the other. She strolled on, examining the face of each house as she passed it. They all looked rather alike, with their solid front doors and great square windows, their size suggesting that they had been built for giants to live in.
Unlike most of the Dutch houses she had seen, these had no net curtains at their windows, only glimpses of velvet or brocade hangings. The people who owned them must be rich, Charity decided, for their upkeep would be enormous. She had come to a halt before a particularly impressive residence; perfection itself with its fresh paintwork and shining windows, calculating how many daily helps would be necessary for its proper upkeep, when her attention was diverted by a car drawing up beside her—the professor in his Daimler. She was furious with herself for flushing at the sight of him and her colour deepened still more when he remarked as he got out:
