by Betty Neels
`My dear child, no one is ill, I hope?"
'No, Mevrouw, just a private matter.' 'Coenraad will be disappointed.'
Adelaide wriggled uneasily in her chair, and said at last:
`I haven't told him yet-at least I thought it best to leave a letter.' She struggled to make her voice matter-of-fact. `He might not understand...' she began, then stopped, for someone was pealing the front door bell. The door banged shut, footsteps sounded in the hall. Adelaide recognised them; she had been listening to their coming and going in the clinic for the past year. She felt as though she was about to faint, but fainting wouldn't help her now. She half rose from her chair, and looked imploringly at her hostess. The old lady smiled at her. `I do believe it's Coenraad. Now isn't that nice?'
CHAPTER TEN
THE door opened quickly and violently, and the professor walked in. He shut the door with extreme quietness and stood leaning against it, looking at Adelaide. She had never seen him so angry; his mouth was a thin straight line and there was a vein throbbing at his temple. She deduced, quite rightly, that he was in a towering rage, and waited for the storm to break.
He transferred his gaze to his aunt, and said, in a deceptively mild voice: `Good afternoon, Tante Anneke-and to you, Miss Peters.'
She caught her breath as he turned narrowed eyes, glinting with rage, on to her once more.
`How fortunate that I find you here. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain this note.'He waved her letter at her, and she noticed that he was without his overcoat. She looked at the antique wall clock as it chimed the half hour-half past two. She frowned. Why had he got her letter already, when she had been so careful to tell the porter to deliver it at five O'clock? She said in a bewildered voice:
`I thought you had a clinic...'
He stared at her, and she stared back, hiding her agitation as best she might.
`So I have, Miss Peters, none knows that better than you. It just so happened that on this very afternoon I chose to accompany Dr Van Hoven to the front door and collected my post at the same time.'
Adelaide made a small, helpless gesture. 'There's nothing to explain, sir-it's all in my note.'
She picked up her handbag and got up from her chair to take her leave from the Baroness, ignoring him. `I really must go, Mevrouw, or I shall miss my train, and I mustn't keep the taxi waiting any longer.'
The professor didn't move from the door, but said very quietly:
`There is no hurry, Miss Peters. I saw your taxi as I came in, and told Bundle to bring your luggage in and pay off the driver.'
Adelaide found herself shaking with rage at the arrogance of this remark. She stamped her foot into the deep pile of the carpet.
`How dare you?' she asked in a choking voice.
The professor appeared unaffected by this display of temper. Indeed, he looked to her to have recovered his usual good humour. He folded his arms across his chest, and returned her look with one of amused tolerance, which had the effect of inflaming her feelings still further. At this point, the Baroness, until now a silent but interested spectator, got to her feet with a polite murmur and walked over to the door, which her nephew, after dropping a kiss on her cheek, carefully shut behind her. Too late, Adelaide took a few steps across the room, with the vague idea of going through the door too, but the professor put his shoulder against it.
`No,' he said.
She looked at the window, and heard him laugh.
`You'll have to stay and face the music. Won't you sit down?' he continued politely. He left the door and started to walk towards her, and she backed, then blushed furiously as he asked:
`Where are you going? I only want to ask you some questions.'
She knew he was laughing, but carefully avoided his eye and sat down on the extreme edge of a stiff little chair, clasping her shaking hands together.
`Now, Miss Peters, pray help me to understand your note. Are your parents or brothers ill, that you have to return to England so suddenly?'
She hesitated, searching for the right answer, and was almost unnerved when he said, `The truth, Addy,' in a very gentle voice.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. `They're all quite well, thank you.'
When he said, `Do they know you are going home?' she could only shake her head.
`So the "urgent personal matter" concerns yourself?'
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, her eyes fixed on his waistcoat, while he read the letter through again at his leisure.
`You've written "May I congratulate you and wish you and Freule Keizer every happiness in the future." I wonder why?'
Adelaide swallowed a sob rather noisily and said forlornly: `You're going to be married.' She looked quickly up at his face, to see him frowning fiercely.
`I can't think how you got to hear of it,' he said carefully.
`Freule Keizer told me the day before the ball,' she gulped. `She met me as I was going for a walk.'
She was smoothing the fingers of her gloves and heard the professor draw a sharp breath.
`Oh, yes, and what exactly did she tell you?'
Adelaide was past caring what happened next, and repeated Margriet's conversation with her, while he listened in silence.
`She asked me not to tell anyone, but that doesn't mean you, does it?' She spoke to her gloves, not daring to look at him.
He made no reply to this, but said in an understanding way:
`So that explains the toothache.' She nodded. `So that Margriet and I could go to the ball together,' he continued. She nodded again, and stole a look at him. He was polishing his glasses but looked up and caught her gaze. His eyes were the blue-grey of a Dutch winter sky; she found that she was unable to look away from them.
He said reflectively: `I do not know why it is so, Adelaide, but you are obsessed with the absurd notion that I should marry Margriet. Oh, I know that it has been common gossip that we should do so, but I have never botheredd myself with gossip, nor have I encouraged it. I must make it plain to you that I do not wish to marry her, nor have I ever given her an indication that I intended to do so. It was unfortunate that she told you that she hoped to marry me-it was, how do you say? wishful thinking on her part.' He gave his glasses a final polish and adjusted them carefully. `What a pity that we should have this misunderstanding just as you are on the point of leaving us.'
Adelaide sat silent; there was really nothing to say. She had managed to drag her eyes away from his face, and was once more staring at her gloves. She thought fully how silly she had been; he didn't mind her going in the least. His next words confirmed this.
`I wonder if you would consider coming back for another day or two-until Friday? The clinic is very busy, and you couldn't be replaced until next week. Let me see, it's Tuesday, I shall be taking a day off tomorrow...'
She realised he was expecting an answer. If she had wanted proof that he regarded her only as a useful member of his staff, she now had it. He had come after her because he needed her back in the clinic; that had been the reason for his anger too. She would have liked to have left the house and never see him again, but she had nowhere to go. She forced herself to look at him and answer quietly:
`Provided the Directrice has no objection, I'll stay until Friday, sir.'
`That's a great relief.' He suddenly became very brisk, and went over to the fireplace and pulled the old-fashioned bell rope hanging there. When Bundle answered it, he asked him to get a taxi and put Adelaide's luggage in it.
`I shan't expect you at the clinic this afternoon, Miss Peters; you'll wish to unpack a few things, I expect. May I suggest that you go back now and do so?'
Adelaide got meekly to her feet, and then on her way to the door, said: `But I must say goodbye to Baroness Van Essen.'
`I'll make your excuses; she'll understand.' He looked at his watch pointedly. `I really must get back to work.'
She coloured painfully, and went quickly into the hall, where he followed her.
`I'll ring Ma
tron and explain: I'm sure there will be no difficulty.' He ushered her out to the waiting taxi with all possible speed, and Adelaide found herself driving back to the hospital before having the time to voice her protest at not seeing the Baroness. The professor had seemed to be in a great hurry-for him, of course, it had been nothing but a great waste of time.
Adelaide looked miserably out of the window, and tried not to think.
Adelaide was surprised at the Matron's smooth handling of her return to hospital. She went straight to that lady's office upon her return, feeling rather foolish and quite unable to think of anything to say. The Directrice, however, did not seem to expect any explanations, but made some vague remarks about Adelaide's change of plans, told her that her uniform was ready for her in her old room, and hoped she would go on duty at the usual time on the following morning. Adelaide could only suppose that the professor had given her some plausible reason for his clinic Sister's strange behaviour.
The next day seemed endless. The nurses who had heard that she was leaving on Friday greeted her with dismayed surprise; Dr Beekman who was taking the clinic said very little, however, but gave her his usual `good morning' and talked trivialities. Once or twice she caught him looking at her rather searchingly. She supposed the professor had told him too, and was grateful to him for not enlarging upon the whole sorry business.
The clinics were not as busy as usual, but Casualty was full, with a steady trickle of burns and scalds, cut heads, and small broken arms and legs. The staff were kept busy, and Adelaide went off duty late and rather tired. After supper Zuster Boot asked her to go to the cinema, and she agreed readily, thinking that it would pass the evening hours. She sat through the programme, watching the film with eyes that saw none of it.
She slept very little that night; she longed yet dreaded to see the professor in the morning. She wished with all her heart that she had never agreed to work until Friday. She dropped into a heavy doze just before she was called, and as she wearily pinned up her hair, looked at the hollow-eyed, tired face in the mirror and had to admit that no man, least of all the professor, was going to give her a second glance that morning.
She greeted him in subdued tones, and felt her spirits sink to an even lower level when Coenraad, asked by Piet Beekman if he didn't think that she looked rather off colour, didn't even bother to lift his eyes from his work, merely saying `probably' in a voice intended to convey his complete lack of interest. Presently, however, he laid aside his charts and askedd her cheerfully if she had been able to change her boat reservation for the next day, and expressed the hope that she would have a pleasant crossing. Adelaide, who had now reached the stage when she didn't care if she had to travel by canoe, replied mendaciously that she was looking forward to it immensely. The professor then suggested, with the air of a man who had taken care of the civilities, that they might as well start work, and was soon engrossed in examining a screaming child with a very nasty impetigo. This seemed a suitable time for Adelaide to slip away to her office; Zuster Wilsma was back from her coffee break and could perfectly well take the clinic for an hour or two. Adelaide had known that it would be difficult seeing Coenraad again, but his bland indifference was something from which she had to escape. Halfway to the door, however, she was halted.
`I should like you to stay, Sister.' He spoke in a voice he seldom used; she knew better than to ignore it, and went meekly back to the desk. He had his back to her, looking at a film on the wall screen.
`Have you checked the Out-Patients' list?' His tone implied that she had not. `There are several difficult children this morning, so we might as well make use of your powers over the juvenile mind while you are still with us.'
He looked over his shoulder at her, but she did not meet his gaze, but looked at the film with an expressionless face, and said in a very professional voice: `Very well, sir, just as you say.'
It was a tiring morning. The professor was right, as he so often was. One noisy toddler succeeded another till Adelaide's patience was exhausted. Somehow she got through the morning, and during her dinner hour thankfully wrapped herself in her cloak and walked in the hospital grounds. The air was cold and fresh; she went back to the clinic and made herself a cup of coffee and sat and sipped it until the nurses came back from their dinner.
The afternoon clinic was, if anything, worse than the morning. At four o'clock the professor remarked that if he didn't have a cup of tea and five minutes' quiet, he would be a nervous wreck. Adelaide silently agreed, and sent the nurse for the tea tray, then told her to go and have her own. She put the tray on the desk and turned away to go to her own office, but the professor forestalled her.
`Won't you have a cup with us, Sister? Then we can get on again without delay.' She had no choice but to pour out his tea and put it on the desk beside him. He thanked her without looking up from his work, and she was glad when Piet called to her to bring her cup over to the window with his. She had barely sat down to drink it when the phone rang. The professor answered it and said, `For you, Sister.'
Adelaide put down her cup and went over to the desk and took the phone from him; her hand brushed his as she did so, and the touch set her pulse hurrying, so that her voice shook as she said:
`Sister Peters speaking.' She was surprised to hear the Directrice's voice.
`Sister? I see that you are on duty until noon tomorrow. Professor Van Essen tells me that there will be no clinic in the morning, and I see no need for you to come on duty. I expect you will be glad of a few extra hours before your train leaves. Perhaps you will come and see me in my office between nine and half past tomorrow.'
Adelaide said, `Yes, Directrice,' and `Thank you,' and replaced the receiver. The professor had stopped writing and was watching her. She met his bland gaze with a look of enquiry.
`You didn't tell me that there was to be no clinic tomorrow morning, sir.'
`There seemed little point, Sister,' his voice was cool, `since you will not be here.'
She looked away, and murmured `Of course, sir' then went back to her cooling tea and Piet, who looked at her unhappy face and plunged into an account of little Piet's efforts to walk. She didn't hear a word of it, but his kindly voice soothed her, so that presently she collected up the tea cups on to the tray and went to call the next patient with her usual quiet composure.
The clinic wound to a close about half past five and the professor got up from his desk as the last small patient was ushered out.
`I am going to the wards,' he said abruptly. He nodded at Piet, who was already taking off his white co t, looked austerely at Adelaide and stalke-daway. The nurses had already started to clear; she plunged into the untidy
mass of papers on his desk, intent on getting cleared up and away before he should return. Piet put on his coat and came and stood beside her.
`We shall miss you, Adelaide.' He produced a small -parcel from a pocket and pressed it into her hand. `This is from Leen and me just to remember us by.'
She took the little packet and thanked him warmly-she was going to miss Leen and Piet and the baby and Mijnheer de Wit and all the friends she had made in the hospital very much. She held out her hand. `Goodbye, Piet. I've loved working here.' She added wistfully, `I hope you or Leen will write to me sometimes and tell me all the news.' She hesitated, then went on: 'Piet, I shall be gone before Professor Van Essen comes back-would you say goodbye to him for me?' She saw the surprised doubt on Piet's face, and hurried on: 'I'll write when I get to England.'
`If that's what you want, Addy,' said Piet slowly. Adelaide watched his burly form go through the door, and began with feverish haste to clear up. Coenraad never hurried his evening rounds, so she should have plenty of time to get away. She took a final look round the now spick-and-span office and went to find Zuster Wilsma. To her surprise, all the clinic nurses were waiting for her. They gave her a parting gift and wished her goodbye with a friendliness which warmed her heart.
Adelaide went to her room on the pretext of finishin
g her packing, but there was little to do, and she sat idle, trying not to think about never seeing Coenraad again, and when at last she went to bed, she cried herself to sleep.
Her haggard appearance at breakfast was put down to her reluctance to leave the hospital. She was generally liked, and her friends' goodbyes were sincere. Back in her room, she put on the green coat and hat, did her face with more care than usual, then went downstairs to the office. It was already after ninewhen she had said goodbye to the Directrice, she would go for a walk around the canals.
The Directrice smiled at her kindly and pushing the pile of papers before her aside, talked agreeably for several minutes before shaking hands and saying goodbye. Adelaide opened the door and went outside into the corridor. Coenraad was standing there. He had apparently just come in, for he was wearing a car coat and was even then pulling off his gloves. She hadn't expected to see him again and she stood irresolute in the open doorway, doing nothing. He took a leisurely stride towards her and stretched an arm to close the door, before taking her arm in a gentle, inescapable hold, and started walking down the corridor towards the hospital entrance. Adelaide, unable to do anything else, went with him. Half-formed sentences came and went in her head, but none of them made sense. They went through the door and straight to his car.
