by Betty Neels
Her mother’s voice, high and girlish and slightly complaining, greeted her as she opened their flat door.
‘Hannah? You’re late, darling. I’m afraid I haven’t done anything about supper yet; this warm weather has brought on one of my wretched headaches…’
Hannah went through the narrow hall into the sitting room. Her mother was lying on a rather shabby sofa, one beautifully kept hand to her forehead. ‘Don’t bang the door,’ she added sharply, and Hannah said, ‘No, Mother. I’m sorry you’ve got a bad head. I’ll get supper presently.’
She gave a small soundless sigh as she said it; she was tired and hot and hungry, and just for a moment she allowed her thoughts to dwell on life as it had been five years ago. She had been nineteen then, living at home and helping her father as well as coping with the major share of the housekeeping in the nice old house where they had lived. There had been a lot to do and plenty of time in which to do it and leisure to ride the elderly cob her father kept in the field beyond the house, or cycle round the lanes. She drove her father too and helped the old crotchety man who ruled the garden, and as though that wasn’t enough, she cooked most of their meals, so expertly that guests would compliment Mrs Lang on her cook, to be answered by a charming smile and a murmured: ‘Oh, we manage very well between us,’ which left them with the strong and erroneous impression that she had spent hours in the kitchen turning out the delicacies on the table. Which wasn’t true, of course, but Hannah never let on; her mother was selfish and dreadfully lazy, but she loved her, despite the rather tepid affection her parent accorded her.
Hannah stooped to kiss her mother and then went into the small kitchen to put on the kettle; she had missed her tea and if she was to get their supper she simply had to have five minutes’ peace and quiet first. She took the tray into the sitting room and sat it on the little table in the window, then sat herself down on a high-backed chair beside it.
‘Been busy?’ asked Mrs Lang idly.
‘Oh, about the same as usual.’ Hannah knew that her mother had very little interest in her work, indeed, she shuddered away from illness. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mother?’
Her mother accepted a cup with a wan smile. ‘Dear child, what a comfort you are—it’s selfish of me, but I’m glad that you have no plans to marry.’ Mrs Lang sipped her tea and took a quick questioning look at Hannah. ‘You haven’t, have you? I don’t suppose you get much chance to meet young men…only doctors and students.’
‘They seldom marry nurses, Mother. They can’t afford to.’
‘Oh, well, I daresay you’ll meet some nice man one day.’ Mrs Lang added with complete insincerity: ‘I do hope so.’ After a pause she added: ‘And poor little me will have to look after myself.’
‘I don’t suppose I’ll get married,’ said Hannah gruffly, ‘so you don’t need to worry. What would you like for supper?’
And presently she went into the kitchen and made a soufflé and salad, and all the while she was doing that she wondered what it would be like to be married and pretty like Mevrouw Eysink, lovingly spoilt and petted and the proud mother of a little baby like Paul, not to mention a devoted husband rushing over each weekend with armfuls of gifts…
‘Roses,’ said Hannah, gazing unseeingly at the view of chimney pots from the kitchen window, ‘hand-made chocs and diamonds…’
‘What did you say, dear?’ called her mother from the sitting room.
‘Supper’s ready, Mother.’
Hannah spent her days off in the usual way, slowly developed over the five years during which they had lived in London. At first they had made a point of going somewhere—an art gallery, a film they wanted to see, or a concert, but gradually things altered. Mrs Lang began to complain that she found the housework too much for her, even though Hannah did most of it in her off duty, and then, just for a little while, there had been the young man from the hospital pharmacy, who had taken Hannah out on several occasions. She hadn’t wanted to take him home, but she finally gave in to her mother’s request to meet him, and then sat and listened to her mother destroying, in the nicest possible way, the tentative friendship she and the young man had formed.
Not that her mother lied; she merely made it appear that Hannah was a dedicated nurse and moreover had promised her father when he died that she would live with her mother and look after her. Mrs Lang, without actually saying so, had led him to believe that she was suffering from something vague and incurable which necessitated constant loving attention. The young man hadn’t given up immediately; he asked Hannah out once more and she had accepted. But when she had mentioned it to her mother that lady said without a moment’s hesitation that she had invited several people to dinner on that particular evening and had relied upon Hannah to cook the meal. She had dissolved into easy tears, murmuring that she supposed that she was of no account any more and Hannah must certainly go out if she wished; the invitations could be cancelled. ‘The first dinner party I’d planned for months,’ she had finished plaintively. And the soft-hearted Hannah had hugged her and declared that she didn’t mind if she didn’t go out and she’d love to cook the dinner for their guests.
The young man didn’t ask her out again; they still smiled and nodded at each other when they met in the hospital, but that was all. It hadn’t been quite the romance Hannah had dreamed of, but it had been pleasant enough while it lasted, and somehow after that the little outings were discontinued. Her mother liked to watch TV in the evenings and do her embroidery or knit, and on the one or two occasions that Hannah had met friends from the hospital and gone to a cinema, she had been gently chided for leaving her parent by herself. So nowadays she turned the flat out, did the week’s shopping and the washing and escaped thankfully to the library, where she spent a long time choosing books.
Very occasionally she went shopping for herself, but by the time their living expenses were paid and her mother had deducted her allowance from her pension, there wasn’t much money over. Hannah, who loved clothes, had to make do with things in the sales and the multiple stores, but she had a splendid dress sense and a nose for a bargain and contrived to be in the fashion even if the clothes she bought were cheap.
There would be more money soon, she thought as, her days off over once more, she started back to the hospital. She had been offered a relief Sister’s post in a couple of months’ time, and she was going to accept it. It would mean leaving the baby unit which she loved, but she had to get a Sister’s post as soon as she could, and one couldn’t quarrel with one’s bread and butter. Perhaps later on, when Sister Thorne retired…Ten years’ time—it seemed an age away; she would be thirty-four and settled into a rut from whence there was no escape—perhaps by then she would apply for her job.
She turned in at the entrance to the hospital, looking up at its mid-Victorian pile with an affectionate eye. It was a frankly hideous building, red brick and a mass of unnecessary turrets and balconies, high narrow windows which took the strength of an ox to open and shut and dreadfully out-of-date departments, yet she had a very soft spot for it. When, in a few years’ time, St Egberts was moved to the magnificent new buildings across the river and already half completed, she would regret going. It had stood for hundreds of years where it now was, dominating the narrow city streets and rows of smoke-grimed houses, and it would never be quite the same again.
She had chosen to go back after supper. She could have stayed at home for another night and got up early and gone on duty in the morning, but it was always such a rush. She pushed open the main doors and crossed the entrance hall. Just as she was turning into one of the dark passages leading from it she was hailed by old Michael, the Head Porter.
‘Message for you, Staff Nurse—Mevrouw van Eysink wants you to go to her room as soon as you come in.’ He grinned at her. ‘Very important, she said.’
Hannah had gone to poke her head through the small window in the lodge. ‘Me? Why? Have I done something awful, Michael?’
‘Don’t ask me, love. Sh
e sounded excited like and said I was to be sure and keep an eye open in case you came back this evening. Her hubby’s with her.’
Hannah frowned. ‘I can’t think of anything…’ she began. ‘I suppose I’d better go.’
She altered course, taking another passage which led her to the lifts. She wasn’t supposed to use them, but there was no one about. She gained the Prem. Unit and slid inside the doors and peered cautiously round the office door. Louise was there, writing: the night nurses would already be busy settling their small patients for the first part of the night, making up feeds and handing out cocoa and sleeping pills to the mothers.
‘You’re late,’ whispered Hannah.
Louise raised her pretty head. ‘Hullo—Sister went off late and left me a mass of stuff to finish and of course we had an emergency in. I’m almost finished, though. I say, your Mevrouw van Eysink wants to see you.’
‘That’s why I’m here. Is something awful wrong?’
‘Not a thing—all a bit mysterious and hush-hush; hubby’s here, and the uncle was here this morning. I say, did you know that he’s a famous paediatrician?’
‘Yes, I knew. I’ll nip along now—see you presently—I’ll make a pot of tea.’
Mevrouw van Eysink was sitting up in bed and her husband was sitting beside her, an arm round her shoulders. He was a nice-looking young man and as he got up when Hannah went into the room, he was smiling widely.
‘Hannah!’ cried Mevrouw van Eysink. ‘You do not object that we take your free time? But Paul must go back tonight and it is most important that we talk together.’
Hannah walked over to the bed, casting an eye over the sleeping small Paul as she went. ‘Paul’s all right?’ she wanted to know.
‘He has gained three hundred grams, but he does not like the other nurse—she is sweet and very efficient, but I think that deep inside her she becomes impatient and he knows it. He is a clever boy.’
Hannah agreed warmly. Baby Paul, arriving too soon into the world, had shown a good deal of spirit in just staying in it, let alone turning himself into a normal healthy baby.
‘We wish to ask you…’ began Mevrouw van Eysink, and nudged her husband, who went on:
‘I am taking Paul and Corinna home at the end of next week, Hannah, and we want you to come with us. I have spoken to your Directrice and the doctors who have been attending and they say that it would be quite possible for this to be done, provided that you agree.’
Hannah’s wide mouth had opened, so had her eyes. ‘Me? Go with you to Holland? Oh, I’d love to!’ She beamed at them both. ‘But how?’
‘Oh, you would be lent to us as a necessity to little Paul’s health. Three weeks or a month. By then Corinna will be almost her own self once more.’ He added slyly: ‘Don’t worry about your chances for the relief Sister’s post; they’re as good as ever.’
Hannah had forgotten all about that anyway. ‘Oh, I’d be glad to come.’ The smile faded as she remembered her mother. ‘Mijnheer van Eysink, could I let you know for certain tomorrow? You see, I live with my Mother and she—she doesn’t like being on her own; I’d have to arrange for someone…’
‘Why, of course, Hannah, but I’m sure your mother would manage for a week or two with someone to help her. Is she ill or an invalid?’
‘No, no, she’s…she’s just…’
Mevrouw van Eysink gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Well, you talk to her, Hannah,’ she advised briskly, ‘and let us know tomorrow. Perhaps if she realised how important it is for little Paul to thrive for the next few weeks—and he does it better with you than with anyone else—I am sure she will fall in with your plans.’
Hannah, looking at the two smiling, happy faces, decided not to argue the point. She would have to think of something; she would be off in the evening and although she hadn’t meant to, she would go home and talk to her mother.
She stayed a few minutes longer and then went over to the home, where she joined her closest friends over the inevitable pot of tea and told them her news. They were flatteringly surprised and excited, although one or two of them wondered privately if she would be able to persuade her mother to let her go—they had met Mrs Lang upon occasion and found her charming, pretty and quite ruthless when it came to having her own way.
Hannah went on duty in the morning, half prepared to find that the van Eysinks had changed their minds, but the moment she entered Mevrouw van Eysink’s room, she was met with an eager demand for her answer.
She picked up little Paul and handed him to his mother before she replied. She would have to explain a little more about her mother, and she did it carefully, anxious that her patient wouldn’t think that she was finding excuses not to go to Holland. ‘So you see,’ she finished, ‘it’s just a question of finding someone to be with Mother while I’m away, only it is a little difficult. She hasn’t many friends and almost no family, and she would dislike a stranger.’ She wrapped herself in the bathing apron and went to fetch Paul from Mevrouw van Eysink.
‘We must think of something, Hannah.’ Lost in thought, Mevrouw van Eysink nibbled at a beautifully manicured finger. ‘I think perhaps I know what to do, but I will say no more at present.’ She smiled brilliantly. ‘You will see your mother this evening? Good, then we must hope, is it not?’
‘I’m bound to think of something,’ declared Hannah, more to comfort herself than anyone else. She bathed and fed Paul while his mother kept up a lively chatter about nothing in particular. And Hannah, her neat head bowed over the scrap on her knee, tried to think of someone whom her mother would accept as a companion for a few weeks. She could call to mind no one at all.
Presently, her two patients comfortable, she tidied everything away, and with the promise of sending coffee as soon as she could reach the kitchen, she picked up her tray and left the room. She was halfway along the corridor when she met Uncle Valentijn. He passed her with a coolly courteous good morning and a glance which didn’t really see her. She doubted very much if he remembered who she was.
CHAPTER TWO
BUT HANNAH WAS WRONG. Uncle Valentijn greeted his favourite niece with a kiss, peered at the baby and asked: ‘What have you been saying to your so sensible Hannah? She was fairly dancing down the corridor.’
He was told with such a wealth of detail that finally he put up a large, well-kept hand. ‘Now let me get this straight. She’s to go back with you? A splendid idea; she’s been with you both since you were admitted, hasn’t she? She seems a very calm young woman, hard-working and presumably unencumbered by boy-friends?’
‘Well, you make her sound very dull!’ declared Mevrouw van Eysink indignantly.
‘She is not what I would call eye-catching.’ He was laughing at her.
‘Pooh, I’d rather have her than six of your Nerissas—lanky, self-centred…’
Uncle Valentijn’s eyebrows drew together and the smile disappeared. ‘Perhaps I should mention to you that Nerissa and I have just become engaged.’
‘Oom Valentijn, you haven’t!—it’s a joke!’
‘No, it is time that I married again. I’m nearly forty, you know, liefje. Nerissa is a lovely girl, very chic and good company.’
‘Is that what you want?’ His niece’s voice was quite shrill. ‘Don’t you want to love someone and be loved and give you a nice family?’
He got up and walked over to the window. He said flatly: ‘I used to think that I did. Nerissa and I suit each other very well; I think I am past the fine raptures of youth.’ He added soberly: ‘And I’ll thank you to be courteous to my future wife at all times.’
He turned round and smiled at her, but his eyes were angry, so that she said weakly: ‘Yes, of course, Uncle Valentijn,’ and then to change the subject as quickly as possible, ‘What shall I do about Hannah? Her mother—it seems she is likely to make it difficult for Hannah to come with us. Not that Hannah said so, but the nurse who relieves her told me that Mrs Lang is a very selfish woman; she is a widow and has been spoilt all her life. Hannah go
es out very seldom, I am told, because although her mother is never unpleasant, she makes Hannah feel guilty. And I am sure that she hasn’t enough money to get a companion, and even then her mother might refuse to have such a person. What am I to do?’ She raised tearful blue eyes to her listener.
‘You’ve set your heart on having Hannah, haven’t you?’
‘She saved little Paul’s life when everyone else said that he had no chance, and she made me be brave. If anything should happen to little Paul now…’
‘In that case we must think of something, must we not?’ He turned round as a ward maid came in with the coffee tray. ‘Leave it to me, my dear.’
Stowing her worries away behind a calm face, Hannah worked her way through her day and then took herself off home, reluctant to have to explain what her mother would regard as unwelcome news, and still vainly searching for some argument which her mother might agree to. Not that that lady would refuse point blank, nor would she rant and rave, but she would weep a little and point out that she led a lonely life and Hannah mustn’t consider her, so that Hannah, with her too soft heart, would give in.
And Mevrouw van Eysink had made her promise to go and see her when she got back to the hospital, declaring dramatically that she wouldn’t sleep until she knew if Hannah was to go with them or not, and because the staff nurse on night duty was a friend of Hannah’s and would turn a blind eye to a late visit, she had agreed, which added yet another worry, for how was she to explain if her mother had made it quite impossible for her to go with baby Paul?
