Saturday's Child

by Betty Neels

  Saturday’s Child

  Betty Neels

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE ROOM WAS chilly and severe, as was the woman sitting behind the desk in one of its corners. The desk lamp, which only partly held at bay the fog of the darkened January sky outside, also served to illuminate her features, and the girl who had taken the chair on the opposite side of the desk in answer to the woman’s brisk nod occupied herself in giving her interviewer a softer hair-style, appropriate make-up and a more becoming dress. These alterations, mused Miss Abigail Trent, as she admitted to that name, would take away at least ten years from the age of her unconscious interviewer, who looked up and repeated, ‘Your age, Miss Trent?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’

  ‘Your education?’

  Abigail murmured the name of a well-known girls’ boarding school. when her father had been alive there had been money enough …

  ‘You are state Registered?’

  Abigail nodded and when asked to give the name of her training school mentioned a famous teaching hospital in London.

  ‘Have you family ties?’

  She thought of the two cousins in Canada; they sent her Christmas cards each year, but they could hardly be described as ties, nor, for that matter, could Uncle Sedgeley, her mother’s brother, married to a peer’s sister and landed gentry, and totally disapproving of her father, her mother’s marriage to him and to Abigail herself. She said quietly in her pleasant voice: ‘No,’ and when she was asked what branch of nursing she had most recently been in, said: ‘Surgery—the operating theatre, too.’

  ‘You’re willing to travel?’

  It sounded like the beginnings of an advertisement in the Personal Column of The Times. She said, ‘Certainly,’ and smiled at the woman, who didn’t smile back but looked at her watch as though time was rationed for her interviews and she had used it all up on Abigail. She got up briskly and went across to the filing cabinet against one wall and started pulling out its drawers. Presently she came back with a small folder and sat down again. ‘I think we could offer you a post immediately if you are prepared to take a medical case. A patient in Amsterdam—an American woman staying with friends there, in their flat. She has been in hospital with severe gastric symptoms and is now back with them—still in bed, of course, pending the doctor’s decision. She didn’t care for the hospital, for she speaks no Dutch and found the regulations a little trying. She is, I gather, rather …’ She wisely left the sentence unfinished and went on: ‘You will be paid twenty pounds a week and receive your board and lodging, and she is prepared to pay your fare at the end of a fortnight. The flat is, I believe, in one of the best parts of the city. You will have two and a half hours free every afternoon, and such other times as you can arrange for yourself. Should you take the post, you will pay this agency twelve and a half per cent of your salary until such time as you leave.’

  She finished speaking and sat, tapping her ballpoint on the blotting pad in front of her. After perhaps half a minute she enquired, ‘Well, Miss Trent, do you care to take the case?’

  It wasn’t quite what Abigail wanted, although she hardly knew what she did want—only to get away from London—from England, for a while, so that she could adjust herself to a future which no longer held her mother. And she needed the money. She got to her feet. ‘Yes, I’ll take it,’ she said. ‘When do you want me to go?’

  ‘Please sit down again.’ The woman looked more severe than ever. ‘I’ll give you the patient’s name and address and advise you on the easiest way of getting to the case. I suggest that you fly over early tomorrow, so that you will arrive in Amsterdam by lunch time—that should give you time to unpack, see your patient and begin your duties without delay.’

  Abigail blinked the fine silky lashes of eyes which were her sole claim to beauty in an otherwise ordinary face. They were brown and large and the brows above them were silky too. But her nose was too short, her mouth too wide and her hair too mousy to give her even a modicum of good looks. She wasn’t sure at this moment if the change would be for the better; probably not, but she could always go back to hospital again. She held out a hand in its slightly shabby glove and took the papers which the woman was holding out to her.

  Two minutes later she was outside in the street, standing rather uncertainly on the pavement while the passers-by pushed and jostled her first one way, then the other; not meaning to treat her roughly, but intent on getting to wherever they were going as quickly as possible. Presently she crossed the road, drawn by the cheerful lights of a Golden Egg restaurant, and went inside. It was almost twelve o’clock on this damp and foggy day in the first week of January; lunch in a pleasant warmth seemed a good idea. She chose egg and chips and coffee and while she was waiting for them got out her little notebook and started doing sums. Twenty pounds a week would be a godsend; she hadn’t earned any money at all for three months now. When her mother had fallen ill, she had given up her job at the hospital and stayed at home to nurse her, because the doctor had told her that her mother had only a few months to live anyway, and Abigail couldn’t bear the thought of her living out those last few weeks in some strange hospital bed. She had gone home for almost three months, and her mother had had every small comfort and luxury she wished for or needed, and Abigail had spent what money she had saved, which wasn’t much, to pay for them. Her mother’s pension had paid the rent of their small flat and the household expenses, but when she had died there had been nothing left at all. The furniture went with the flat, her mother’s jewellery, never very valuable, had been sold over the last five years, and Bollinger, who had served her father faithfully until his death and had refused to leave them after it, was owed almost a year of his low wages. The funeral had taken almost all the money she had, and now today, barely a week later, she had gone out to get a job, and it had had to be private nursing—that way she would get her board and lodging free and would get paid sooner.

  The egg and chips arrived and she ate them, still doing sums in her head. She would just about be able to get to Amsterdam and have a pound or two in her purse until she was paid. Two weeks wasn’t long to wait, and anyway it didn’t look as though she was going to get much free time in which to spend her money. Even when the twelve and a half per cent had been deducted, she would still be able to send Bollinger some money. He would retire now, she supposed, but he would only have his old age pension, and that wouldn’t go far in London. She began to worry about where he would live; after that night they would have to leave the flat and she wasn’t going to leave him to struggle on his own after the years of service he had given them, and he had been so kind and helpful to her and her mother. The food on her plate became dimmed by the tears in her eyes, but she fought them back and doggedly went on eating the chips on her plate and drinking the coffee she didn’t want any more.

  She took a bus back to the flat, the small top flat just off the Cromwell Road where they had lived since her father died and Abigail had started her hospital training. As she put her key in the front door at the top of the long flights of stairs, she could hear Bollinger in the kitchen; he came to its door as she went inside and said comfortably:

  ‘There you are, Miss Abby, the kettle’s on and I treated us to some crumpets. Nothing like a nice hot crumpet.’ He went back to the gas stove. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘I’ve got a job, Bolly—twenty pounds a week, in Amsterdam, nursing an American woman. I’m to go tomorrow, and isn’t it lucky I’ve still got my passport from that trip we had to Ostend? So everything’s going to be OK.’ She cast her coat and hat over the back of one of the wooden chairs at the table and went to get the teapot from the dresser. ‘Now, about you—did you manage to find anything?’

  �
�I did—the woman at the paper shop, remember her? She’s got a daughter with a house just round the corner from here. I can have a room and me meals with her and her husband. Four pounds and fifty pence a week—leaves me plenty, so don’t you worry your pretty head about me.’

  She looked at him with deep affection, loving him for the cheerful lie. He was almost seventy, she knew, and he had worked very hard around the flat since they had moved into it, shopping and cooking and repairing fuses and waiting on her mother hand and foot. It was impossible to repay him, but at least she would see that he got the money which they owed him and then a small weekly pension after that so that he could find a proper home and not some small back room where he would be lonely. Years ago he had been her father’s gardener and odd job man, and when her father had died he had somehow stayed on with them, smoothing her mother’s path, offering practical advice when it was discovered that there was no money at all, and Abigail had never quite discovered how it was that he had persuaded her mother to keep him on at such a ridiculous wage.

  She made the tea and they sat down together with the plate of crumpets between them. ‘I’m glad you’ve got somewhere to go for the present,’ began Abigail. She opened her handbag. ‘They gave me five pounds in advance on my salary,’ she went on mendaciously. ‘I’ve got more than enough and this’ll help you to get started, then each week, once I get my pay, I shall send you some money,’ and when he began to protest, ‘No, Bolly dear, you’re my friend and you were Mother’s and Father’s friend too—I can well afford to pay you back the wages we owe you and then pay you a little each week. It won’t take me long, you see, for I get my room and my food for free, don’t I? And in a little while I’ll get a hospital job again and perhaps we can find a small place and you can come and run it for me while I work.’

  She smiled at him, trying not to see that he was getting quite elderly now and wouldn’t be fit to do much for many more years—something she would worry about when the time came, she told herself vigorously. She poured more tea and said cheerfully: ‘How funny Uncle Sedgeley was yesterday. I wonder what he and Aunt Miriam would have done if I’d accepted their invitation to go to Gore Park and stay with them? They hated Father, didn’t they, because he was a Methodist parson and hadn’t any worldly ideas and they hadn’t been near …’ She paused, unable to bear talking of her mother. ‘Aunt Miriam told me how fortunate I was that I had a vocation, for all the world as though I’d taken a vow not to marry.’

  ‘Of course you’ll marry, Miss Abby,’ said Bollinger, quite shocked.

  ‘That’s nice of you to say so, Bolly, but I’m afraid she may be right, you know. I’m twenty-four and I’ve never had a proposal—nothing even approaching one. I’m a sort of universal sister, you know, because I’m plain.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense, Miss Abby. You just haven’t met the right man, that’s all. He’ll come, don’t you fret.’

  ‘Yes? Well, when he does I shan’t marry him unless he lets you come along too,’ she said firmly. ‘Now let’s go and see this room of yours and then I’ll treat us to the pictures.’

  A remark which would have shocked Uncle Sedgeley if he could have heard it; to go to the cinema barely a week after her mother’s funeral—unthinkable! She could just hear him saying it, but it didn’t matter what he thought; her mother would have been the first one to suggest it. Life went on and you didn’t forget someone just because you sat in the stalls and watched some film or other without seeing any of it, and at least it would be warm there and infinitely better than sitting in the little flat talking, inevitably, of old times with Bolly, something she couldn’t bear to do.

  She said goodbye to him the next morning and started her journey. She had booked her flight when she had left the agency, obedient to the severe woman’s instructions, and had packed her case with the sort of clothes she considered she might need, adding the blue uniform dresses and caps and aprons she had been forced to buy, and now on the plane at last, she got out her little notebook again and did some anxious arithmetic. With luck she wouldn’t have to spend more than the equivalent of a few shillings; stamps for her letters to Bollinger, small odds and ends for herself. She hoped that her patient might need her for more than two weeks—three, or even four weeks at twenty pounds a week would mount up nicely, and they were going to pay her fare too. She closed the little book, opened the newspaper the air hostess had handed her and read it with grave attention, fearful of allowing her thoughts to wander, and was surprised when far below she saw the flat coast of Holland, glimpsed through the layers of cloud.

  Schiphol, she discovered, was large, efficient and pleasantly welcoming. With hundreds like her, she was passed along the human conveyor belt which eventually spilled her into the open air once more, only to be whisked up once more into the waiting bus which would take her to Amsterdam. It covered the ten miles to the capital with a speed which hardly gave her time to look around her and she got out at the bus terminus, still not quite believing that she was in Holland. It seemed such a very short time ago since she had said goodbye to Bollinger, as indeed it was.

  Mindful of her instructions, she took a taxi to the address in the Apollolaan. It was, she quickly discovered, away from the centre of the city, for they quickly left the bustling, older part behind, to drive through modern streets lined with blocks of flats and shops. When they stopped half way down the Apollolaan, she got out, paid the driver from her small stock of money and crossed the pavement to enter the important-looking doorway of the building he had pointed out to her. It was of a substantial size, and from the cars parked before it, inhabited by the well-to-do, and inside the thickly carpeted foyer and neatly uniformed porter bore out her first impression. He greeted her civilly, and when she mentioned her name, ushered her into the lift, took her case from her and escorted her to the fourth floor. Here he abandoned her, her case parked beside her, outside the door of number twenty-one—occupied, according to the neat little plate at the side of the door, by Mr and Mrs E. Goldberg. Abigail drew a heartening breath and rang the beautifully polished bell.

  The door was opened by a maid who, in answer to Abigail’s announcement of her name, invited her to enter, waved her to a chair, and disappeared. Abigail looked at the chair, a slender trifle which she felt sure would never bear the weight of her nicely rounded person, and stood looking around her. The hall was carpeted even more lushly than the foyer; the walls were hung with what she considered to be a truly hideous wallpaper, embossed and gilded, and as well as the little chair she had prudently ignored, there was a small settee, buttoned fatly into red velvet, and another chair with a straight back and a cane seat which looked decidedly uncomfortable. A wall table of gold and marble occupied the space between two doors, burdened with a French clock and matching vases. Abigail, who had a nice taste, shuddered delicately and wished that her mother could have been with her and share her feelings. For a moment her opulent surroundings faded to give place to the little flat in the Cromwell Road, but she resolutely closed her mind to her memories; self-pity helped no one, she told herself firmly, and turned to see who was coming through the door on the other side of the hall.

  It had to be Mrs Goldberg, for she looked exactly like her name. She was middle-aged, with determinedly blonde hair, blue eyes which were still pretty and a baby doll face, nicely made up, which, while still attractive, had lost its youthful contours. She smiled now, holding out her hand, and when she spoke her voice was warm even though its accent was decidedly American.

  ‘Well, so you’re the nurse, my dear. I can’t tell you how glad we are to have you.’ She added dramatically, ‘I am exhausted, absolutely exhausted! Night and day have I been caring for our dear Clara—she is so sensitive, you know, we couldn’t leave her in hospital, although I’m sure they were kindness itself to her, but she’s used to the little comforts of life.’ The blue eyes looked at her a shade anxiously. ‘We hope that the worst is over; Doctor Vincent will be in after lunch and this evening he’ll br
ing a specialist—the very best to be got, I assure you—to see dear Clara, and he’ll decide whether to operate or not.’ She paused to take breath and Abigail asked quickly: ‘You’d like me to take over immediately, I expect? If I could go to my room and change …’

  Mrs Goldberg smiled widely, showing a hint of gold tooth. ‘My dear, will you? I simply must rest. We lunch at half past twelve—so early, but when in Rome, I always say—If you could get into your uniform and make poor Clara a little more comfortable?’

  ‘Of course.’ Abigail smiled understandingly, hoping at the same time that Mrs Goldberg might suggest a cup of coffee or tea. Half past twelve was an hour away and she was, while not exactly tired, in need of a few minutes to collect herself, but Mrs Goldberg made no such offer, but followed her from the hall and into a short passage and so to her room. It was nice, with a view over the Apollolaan and comfortable anonymous furniture so often found in guest rooms, and it had the added attraction of a bathroom next door. As soon as she was alone Abigail unpacked her uniform, washed her face and hands, put her mousy hair up into its tidy bun, perched her frilly cap on top of it, buckled her belt around her trim waist and with a nicely made-up face, went back into the hall.

  Mrs Goldberg must have been waiting for her; she appeared suddenly, like a cheerful outsize fairy, from one of the doors and said approvingly:

  ‘My, how quick you’ve been, and what a quaint outfit—that cap, it’s not a bit like our nurses wear back home.’

  Abigail explained quickly that her hospital took pride in allowing its trained nurses to wear that particular headgear—it had been worn for a very long time and no one, least of all the nurses, wanted it changed.

  ‘Mighty becoming,’ commented Mrs Goldberg, ‘it sure will tickle poor Clara pink.’

  Abigail, following her companion through another door, wondered if her patient felt well enough to be tickled by anything. At first sight it seemed not. Mrs Clara Morgan lay uncomfortably hunched against far too many pillows. Some of these she had tossed to the floor, the remainder were crowding into her back, which probably accounted for her petulant expression. She acknowledged Mrs Goldberg’s introduction languidly and said tiredly, ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Nurse, I’m very poorly and I need a great deal of skilled care and attention.’