by Betty Neels
‘It’s fantastic,’ declared Abigail. ‘I simply can’t believe it—do you like him, Bolly?’
‘Yes, that I do, Miss Abby—a bit of a toff, you might say, but a gent all right.’
Abigail blew her nose again to prevent herself from bursting into another bout of tears. ‘Oh, Bolly, it’s like being home again. And of course I shall go on paying you your money—have you any idea how much it is we owe you? Don’t you see, Bolly, I must pay you back now that I know about it and can afford to do so?’
‘Well, if it makes you happy, Miss Abby. How long do you think you’ll be here?’
‘I’m not sure. Another two weeks, perhaps three. What have you done about your room?’
‘I give it up, it wasn’t all that hot. This professor, he says he knows someone in London lets rooms, very nice—a bit more than I got, but if I save me wages …’
‘And I pay you each week while you’re here, and by the time I get back to London and you’re running a bit low, I’ll be in another job and be able to send you something each week.’ She hugged him. ‘Oh, Bolly, it’s all so wonderful, I can’t believe it. Are you happy here? Where do you live?’
‘Here, of course, Miss Abby. I got a room at the top of the house—very snug and warm it is too.’
‘You don’t have to work too hard?’
‘Lord love you, no, Miss Abby—nice little bit of garden behind, and I does the odd job—and I’m to go to his other house in the country once a week and see to the garden there.’
Abigail stood silent, digesting this new aspect of Professor van Wijkelen. ‘Well …’ she began, and was interrupted by the door opening to admit a small round dumpling of a woman with a pleasant face. She shook Abigail by the hand and said in very tolerable English, ‘The housekeeper, Mevrouw Boot,’ and Abigail, mindful of her Dutch manners, replied: ‘Miss Abigail Trent.’
Mevrouw Boot eyed her with kindly curiosity as she spoke. ‘The professor begs that Miss will return to hospital when she must. There is a car at the door in five minutes. He excuses himself.’
She smiled again and went quietly out of the room, and Abigail looked at Bollinger and said with unconscious sadness, ‘He doesn’t like me, you know,’ and had this statement instantly repudiated by Bolly who exclaimed in a shocked voice:
‘That I can’t believe, begging your pardon, Miss Abby—a nice young lady like you …’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter in the least,’ said Abigail with such firmness that she almost believed what she was saying—but not quite, because it mattered out of all proportion to everything else. ‘I’d better go, I suppose it’s a taxi and I oughtn’t to keep it waiting. Come to the door with me, Bolly.’
They crossed the hall, lingering a little. ‘The professor says you’re to come whenever ye’re inclined,’ Bolly explained, ‘but not the days I go to the country.’
She nodded and stopped. ‘All right, Bolly, I’ll remember. I’m very grateful to him. Do you suppose I should write him a letter?’
He looked astonished. ‘You see him, don’t you, can’t you do it then?’
She shook her head. ‘I told you he doesn’t like me,’ and as if to underline her words one of the doors opened and Mevrouw Boot came into the hall and before she closed the door behind her, Abigail and Bollinger had an excellent view of the professor sitting at a desk facing it—the powerful reading lamp on it lighted his face clearly; he was staring at Abigail with no expression, giving her the peculiar feeling that she wasn’t there, and then lowered his handsome head to the papers before him. The door closed and when the housekeeper had gone, Abigail said softly:
‘You see, Bolly? He doesn’t even want to see me, let alone speak.’
She smiled a little wanly, wished him a warm goodbye and went outside. The Rolls was before the steps, an elderly man at the wheel. He got out of the car when he saw her and opened the door, smiling nicely as he did so although he didn’t speak, and she returned the smile, for he had a kind face, rugged and lined—like a Dutch Bolly, she thought as she settled herself beside him for the journey back to the hospital. During the short ride she tried her best to reconcile the professor’s dislike of her with his kindness to Bollinger. There had, after all, been no need to offer the old man a job, even a temporary one. She hoped that Bolly hadn’t told him too much, although she discounted as ridiculous the idea that he might have acted out of sympathy to herself as well as Bollinger. It was all a little mysterious and she gave up the puzzle and began to ask her companion some questions about Amsterdam, hoping that he could understand. It was an agreeable surprise to find that he could, and moreover, reply to them in English.
At the hospital, she thanked him for the ride, wondering who he was and not liking to ask for fear the professor would hear of it and consider her nosey. She went back to her patient with her curiosity unsatisfied, to find him feeling so much better after a refreshing nap that he wanted to know what she had been doing with her afternoon. She told him, skating over the more unexplainable bits, and rather to her surprise he made very little comment, and that was about herself and Bollinger. About the professor he had nothing to say at all.
The days slid quietly by, each one bringing more strength to Professor de Wit. He was to go home in a week’s time, said Professor van Wijkelen when he called one morning soon after Abigail had been to his house, and as he had said it, both he and his patient looked at her.
‘You’ll come with me, Abby?’ asked her patient, who considered himself on sufficiently good terms with her by now to address her so. The professor’s cool, ‘I hope you will find it convenient to go with Professor de Wit for another week, Nurse Trent,’ sounded all the more stilted. She said that yes, of course she would, hiding her delight at the idea of seeing the professor, even if he hated her, for another few days, and the lesser delight of knowing that she would be able to repay Bolly quite a lot of money. She went away to fetch the latest X-rays the professor decided to study, walking on air.
She told Bollinger about it the next day when they met, as they often did, for a cup of coffee and half an hour’s chat. Bollinger, she was glad to see, looked well, and he was happy with his gardening and the odd jobs he was doing around the house. He had been to the country too, but Abigail didn’t press him with questions about this; somehow she felt that the less she knew about the professor’s private life, the better it would be.
She hadn’t been back to the house on the gracht—not since the time when he had looked right through her, as though she were someone he didn’t want to see there. Each time Bollinger suggested it, she had some excuse, but when she went home with Professor de Wit, she would have to do better, for she discovered that the older man had a small house within walking distance of the professor’s home, and Bolly would expect her to go and see him quite often and she could think of no good reason why she shouldn’t. The professor had even told Bollinger to use the small sitting room where they had met, and offer Abigail tea if she wished, which, considering the lack of friendliness he showed towards her, puzzled her very much.
She took care during the next few days to keep herself busy, both in her work and her leisure; under her patient’s tuition, she was beginning to make a little headway with her Dutch, and because it pleased him excessively and kept him interested in something while he struggled through the unrewarding days of convalescence, she spent a good deal of time outside her working hours with him, not admitting to herself that it served her purpose very well and gave her a real excuse for not going to the house on the gracht.
The professor came daily, sometimes twice, but beyond wishing her a good day and asking her in a strictly professional manner how his patient did, he made no effort to talk to her. About Bollinger he had said nothing at all, and the short, painfully careful note she had sent him had been ignored.
But she was not able to follow this rather cowardly scheme for any length of time; Professor de Wit took her to task for not going out enough, and dispatched her to Kalverstraat on her
next free afternoon to fetch him some books he had ordered. She knew her way about by now and hurried down the narrow lanes, wrapped warmly against the snarling wind and the first powdering of snow from a heavy sky. There were several ways in which she might reach the bookshop; she chose the longest of them, because although it didn’t pass Professor van Wijkelen’s house, it went close to it, which, she told herself sternly, was the silliest reason for taking it.
There were several alleys connecting one gracht with the next. She went down one of them now, her head bent against the quickening snow, her feet sounding loudly on the uneven cobbles and echoing against the silent warehouses, leaning, crooked with age, against each other on either side of her. She was nearly at the end when a movement in the gutter drew her attention—a slight movement, made without sound. She slowed her pace to investigate, crossing the road gingerly; it might be a rat, and she was afraid of rats. But it wasn’t a rat, it was a kitten, a very small one, its dirty black and white fur clinging wetly to its bony body, a few drops of blood on its filthy white shirt-front. She stooped and picked it up with care, fearful of hurting it, and exclaimed with pity at its pathetic lightness. It was an ugly small creature, with a large nose; even when clean and well fed, she doubted if it would be worth a second glance. It gave her a penetrating glance from blue eyes and mewed, and all thought of fetching her patient’s books went out of her head. She wrapped the waif in the ends of her long scarf, cradled it against her and hurried on. The professor’s house was only around the next corner. She would go there and get Bolly to take care of it after she had examined it to see where it had been hurt.
At the house she hesitated. To ring the front door bell and ask to go in so that she might attend to a stray kitten seemed to her to be taking advantage of the professor’s message that she might stay for tea with Bolly—and probably it had been mere civility on his part, with no thought of her accepting. She didn’t think he was at home—there was no car to be seen and the house stood silent in the snow. She knocked on the little door beneath the steps and waited.
Bollinger opened the door, his face lighting up at the sight of her. ‘There, Miss Abby,’ he exclaimed, ‘I knew you’d be along—on such a nasty day too. Come in and we’ll have a cuppa.’ He opened the door wider, saying: ‘But I don’t know if you should come in this door. The one above’s for you.’
‘Well, no—I shouldn’t think so,’ Abby stated. ‘I haven’t been invited you know—besides, I’ve got something—look.’
They carried the kitten to the kitchen at the back of the house, a surprisingly bright room overlooking a small walled garden, now shrouded in snow. There was no one there; Bolly explained that Mevrouw Boot had gone out to see some relative or other and the daily woman who came in to do the rough work had gone home. ‘Let’s put the little beggar in front of the stove,’ he suggested, ‘get him warm, then we can have a look.’
Which they accordingly did, to be rewarded after a few minutes by a faint movement from the small creature, who put out a pink tongue and weakly tried to lick its fur. ‘There,’ said Bolly, who knew every old wives’ tale and believed them all, ‘she’ll get better—she’s licked herself.’
Looking at the bedraggled kitten, Abigail refrained from saying that she considered that a too optimistic statement. Nevertheless, they must try to do something. Because there had been nothing else, she had wrapped it in her scarf; now she produced a handkerchief and started to clean its dirty fur. She did it very gently because she was afraid of hurting it, but she managed to get off enough of the muddy wet to discover where it was hurt. There was a cut on its puny chest, not a large one, but probably deep.
‘If I had a pair of scissors …’ she began.
Someone had come into the kitchen and joined them. ‘If I might take a look?’ the professor enquired almost apologetically.
It was Bolly, who had gone to the stove to warm some milk, who answered him. ‘Ah—good thing you’ve come, sir—this here beast don’t look too good, Miss Abby found him in one of them alleys round the back.’ His tone implied that the alleys in question failed to win his approval. ‘She brought him here.’
‘And quite right too.’ The professor was on his knees beside the scrap stretched on Abigail’s scarf, his capable hands busy. ‘I didn’t hear the house door bell,’ he commented mildly, and looked at Abigail.
‘No—well, I didn’t come in through the big door.’ At his raised eyebrows she hurried on, ‘I—I had to take the kitten somewhere and I was close by and I thought that Bollinger might help—so I rang the bell of the little door under the steps.’
He had picked the kitten up and was inspecting the cut. ‘It is, of course, no concern of mine, Miss Trent,’ his voice was smooth, ‘but I can assure you that you have no need to—er—creep in the tradesmen’s entrance of my house.’
‘I didn’t creep …’ began Abigail indignantly. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘And if you had known?’
She went pink, longing to tell him that ringing the door bell of his house was something she would never willingly do, knowing herself unwelcome in it. She said nothing, but took the saucer of milk from Bolly. She asked:
‘Can it have this? Is it likely to need an anaesthetic?’
His mouth twitched, but he said gravely enough, ‘I think there will be no need of that. Give him a little of the milk and I’ll put a stitch in. He’ll be all right in a day or so—he’s nearly starved to death.’
He got to his feet and went away, to return presently with a needle and gut, scissors and a spray of local anaesthetic. ‘Bring him over here,’ he commanded Abigail, ‘and hold him still on the table. Bollinger, turn on the light, if you please.’
He was very quick and the kitten lay still, licking the last drops of milk from its small chops. When he had finished, the professor unbent himself and gathered up his odds and ends.
‘And now what is to become of the creature?’ he wanted to know blandly. ‘You intend to take him back with you, Miss Trent?’
Abigail removed her finger from the kitten’s clutches and stared down at it. It was unthinkable that it should be turned into the streets; she would have to take it with her, and heaven knows what they would say about it in hospital—perhaps she could keep it in her room and take it back to England when she went … Her thoughts were interrupted by the professor’s voice. ‘No doubt you think that he should remain here?’
She looked at him then. He had never been particularly pleasant to her, but she refused to believe that he was an unkind man. ‘I don’t think you would turn anyone or anything away if they needed help,’ she stated flatly, and added, ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’
The stare from his blue eyes was shrewd; when he didn’t answer she went on quietly, ‘It’s quite all right if you don’t want to be bothered. I’ll manage. Thank you very much for being so kind.’ She smiled at him and the plainness of her face was changed to a kind of beauty. She picked up her scarf and began to arrange it around the kitten, then buttoned up her coat. Her fingers faltered at the top button when the professor spoke.
‘I beg your pardon for teasing you. Of course the animal shall stay here.’ His manner changed to a fierce mockery. ‘In any case, how could I refuse after your pretty speech?’
‘I meant it,’ said Abigail, trying to keep the hurt out of her voice. ‘Thank you, Professor. It won’t be any trouble to you, I know Bollinger will keep it out of your way, won’t you, Bolly?’ she besought the old man, who said at once, ‘Of course I will, Miss Abby, don’t you fret your pretty head, I’ll do me best—you won’t know him when you come.’
‘Your thoughtfulness does you credit, Miss Trent, but I assure you that the kitten will be welcome. I have a dog who will be delighted to have company when I am not here, and as the kitten is a female, I foresee no difficulties.’ He started for the door. ‘Bollinger, perhaps you would be so good as to make a pot of your excellent English tea and bring it to my study. Miss Trent, be so good as
to accompany me.’
Abigail was astonished to a state of speechlessness. ‘Me?’ she wanted to know, and then, remembering, ‘But I can’t—I’ve got to go to the Kalverstraat and get Professor de Wit’s books.’
Her host’s eyes flickered to his watch. ‘No matter, I have to go there myself this afternoon—I’ll bring them with me when I call in later.’
He held the door open for her, so certain that she would do as he wished that she saw no other course open to her. She went past him and up a few steps, old and worn uneven by countless feet over the years. There was a door beyond them which he pushed open and they were, as she had guessed, in the back of the hall, which they crossed to enter a room she took to be his study. The walls were lined with books, a large circular table standing in the centre of the room held more books as well as papers, unopened letters as well as opened ones, several copies of World Medicine and The Lancet and a great many journals in the French and German tongues. She turned, round-eyed, from this businesslike disorder, to view the desk in one corner, very tidy, although there was a sheaf of papers pushed to one side as though he had risen from his chair in haste. That same chair was tall and straight and definitely not for lounging, but there were two leather armchairs on each side of the brightly burning fire, and a table lamp beside one of them cast an inviting glow. It was a well-lived-in room; she could imagine the professor sitting here working and reading; the thought conjured up a picture of a lonely, bookish life, which she felt sure was quite erroneous; with his good looks and unmarried state, not to mention the fact that he was undoubtedly wealthy, he would be much in demand among his friends and acquaintances. She frowned because it was foolish of her to speculate upon his private life, but the frown turned to a delighted smile as a Great Dane came from behind the desk and offered a paw. Abigail shook it and hugged him as well. ‘Beautiful,’ she addressed him, ‘and so …’ she remembered just in time how vexed the professor had looked when she had admired the hall. She said instead, ‘What’s his name?’
