by Betty Neels
She stayed happy for the next two days, although on the third morning, when she was due at the hospital again, she was noticeably tired. She answered the sober-faced young doctor’s careful questioning cheerfully enough, submitted her finger for the routine prick, and then went off with the nurse to have her second transfusion. When she had gone Araminta got up to go too, but the doctor stopped her.
‘The professor wishes that I should tell you how Mrs Shaw progresses. I am afraid that today’s results are not good—twenty-nine per cent, despite her previous blood transfusion. She is now gravely ill, but I think that she must not be told of this.’ He looked earnestly at her. ‘You agree?’
‘Yes, I do. She’s been very happy—she thinks she’s getting better…’ Araminta stopped to steady her voice. ‘Only I can’t make her husband understand.’
‘That has been the difficulty with us. The professor tells me that he is seeing Mr Shaw today, perhaps he will be able to explain. In the meantime, Mrs Shaw must lead a quiet life, you understand that? Let her sit up, if she wishes, but that must be all. There will be another transfusion very shortly, but she will be fetched by ambulance. The professor will arrange with Mr Shaw that he is to call his own doctor should Mrs Shaw become worse, and he will be asked to give a report by telephone each day. The end sometimes comes suddenly.’ He gave her a kindly smile. ‘You have met their house doctor? Doctor de Vos.’
‘I’ve never seen him, although I seem to remember my cousin talking to a doctor on the telephone.’
Araminta spent the next two hours in the waiting room, telling herself that Thelma might want her, and hoping that she might see Doctor van Sibbelt again. But there was no sign of him. She took Thelma home presently, feeling strangely let down.
The next few days passed quietly. If Thomas had seen Doctor van Sibbelt, he gave no sign, and Araminta could detect no change in his bullying attitude towards his wife. His impatient intolerance of her weariness was only too apparent, and he did little or nothing to curb Bertram’s tiresome demands to have this or that done for him. Araminta, sending the boy sulkily to his bed long after he should have been there, found herself speculating as to what would happen when Thomas was left on his own to cope with the boy.
It was the following morning when Thelma, sitting dressing-gowned in the living room while Araminta vacuumed, collapsed. She did it so quietly that Araminta, who had her back to her, heard no sound; only when she turned round did she see Thelma sagging in an untidy heap in her chair.
It was something she had dreaded and half expected. She switched off the vacuum cleaner, laid the unconscious girl back in her chair, took an almost imperceptible pulse and flew to the telephone. It didn’t occur to her to ring anyone else but Doctor van Sibbelt at the hospital, and when she heard his voice very calm in her ear, she told him what had happened without wasting words. And nor did he. His: ‘I’ll be with you in less than ten minutes, and see that the front door is open,’ was all she needed to hear. She went back to Thelma, and was still trying to revive her when he arrived.
He said without preamble: ‘I’ll carry her into the bedroom,’ and stooped to pick up the inanimate form while Araminta went ahead of him opening doors and turning back the bed covers, then sped back to the living room for his bag. It was only when he was busy with phial and syringe that he asked: ‘How did it happen?’
She told him with concise brevity and he nodded. ‘It was to be expected. There was nothing to worry you until she collapsed?’
‘No—she’s been very bright for the last day or so, although very tired. I asked Thomas to mention that to the doctor.’
He bent over his patient. ‘Telephone Mr Shaw and tell him to come now. When does the boy get home?’
‘Not until almost four o’clock.’ She was already half way to the door.
Thomas wasn’t available, said a brisk voice at the other end of the line; he had given instructions that he was on no account to be disturbed.
‘Tell him it concerns his wife,’ said Arainta, ‘and kindly look sharp about it.’
There was an annoyed gasp and the brisk voice said: ‘There is no need…’
‘Oh, yes, there is—this is urgent, life and death urgent.’
She cut Thomas ruthlessly short when she heard him prosily telling her not to disturb him with hysterical messages. ‘You’d better come home—now— Thomas. Thelma’s collapsed. The doctor’s with her; she’s unconscious.’
She didn’t wait to hear his reply, but slammed down the receiver and darted back to the bedroom to meet Doctor van Sibbelt’s steady eye. He moved away from the bed and said softly: ‘A few minutes at the most, I’m afraid—she isn’t responding at all.’ He bent and took off Thelma’s shoes and laid them neatly on the floor. Not looking at Araminta, he went on: ‘This is the best way, you know. There was no chance at all.’
‘Yes, I know. Is there anything I can do?’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’ He crossed the room and took her hands in his. ‘Don’t look like that.’
She said soberly: ‘She’s only thirty-five, you know—it’s very young…’ she had been going to say ‘to die’, but she choked on the words.
He tucked a hand under her arm and drew her back to the bed and they waited quietly side-by-side. Presently he leaned down and took Thelma’s pulse, then straightened himself. ‘A truly peaceful end,’ he said, and added something in Dutch.
‘You don’t think she knew?’
‘She would have known nothing.’ He paused as the flat door was opened and Thomas’s deliberate tread crossed the hall. He began to speak before he reached the bedroom, in a blustering, aggrieved voice: ‘Araminta, what is all this? I really cannot have you sending hysterical messages…’ He broke off, standing in the doorway while his rather high colour faded slowly. ‘Why wasn’t I told sooner?’ he wanted to know.
The doctor looked at him with distaste. ‘Your wife died rather less than five minutes ago,’ he said evenly. ‘We will leave you for a little while—we can talk presently.’
He walked to the door, sweeping Araminta with him, passed Thomas and closed the door on him. In the hall he said: ‘An unpleasant man. I find it hard to remember that he is a relation of yours, Araminta.’
‘So do I! He always was awful—now he’s older he’s much worse. What do we do next?’
‘Doctor de Vos should be here at any minute, I told someone to telephone him from the hospital.’ The doctor’s face assumed such a ferocious expression that she drew a quick breath and decided prudently not to ask any more questions for the moment. It was fortunate that the silence which followed was quickly broken by the arrival of Doctor de Vos. He was a thin, stooping man with a harassed expression, whom Doctor van Sibbelt introduced briefly before walking him up and down the hall, while they conferred together in muttered under-tones. Araminta, watching them, decided that they had forgotten her and went off to the kitchen. It would have to be coffee, she decided resignedly; the Dutch took their cups of coffee as seriously as the British took their tea, and she was in the minority. She had the percolator going and cups and saucers on a tray when she heard the bedroom door open and Thomas’s voice calling her, and the moment she poked her pretty nose round the door he began irritably: ‘I should like to know…’
He wasn’t allowed to finish. Doctor van Sibbelt interrupted him with a suavity which barely concealed the ferociousness she had observed earlier. ‘Ah, Mr Shaw, but first Doctor de Vos and I would like to know why it is that you told him that there was no need for him to call and see your wife. If you remember, I asked you to telephone him each day—something you did not do—and when he contacted you, you gave him to understand that he was not to visit as Mrs Shaw’s condition was very satisfactory, and this after Miss Shaw had asked you to let Doctor de Vos know that your wife was becoming increasingly tired.’
He was standing very close to Thomas now, towering over him, showing him a bland face, although Araminta sensed his fine rage as she waited to h
ear what Thomas would say.
Thomas blustered again. The two doctors heard him out gravely with impassive faces and slightly raised eyebrows, and presently he realized that he was getting nowhere and fell silent, looking round him until his eyes lighted upon Araminta, which caused him to say: ‘You should have told me—after all, you came here to look after Thelma. You’re a nurse.’
He was interrupted once more. ‘No possible blame can be laid at Miss Shaw’s door,’ said Doctor van Sibbelt in a cold voice, ‘and you are, I imagine, aware of that. I thought that I had spoken plainly enough to you the other day, but apparently you are one of those people who knows better than everyone else.’ He added with quiet authority: ‘Be good enough to show me where I may sign the necessary papers.’
Araminta went silently into the bedroom and fetched his bag, and he took it from her with a brief word of thanks, then disappeared into the dinning room and sat down at the table. Doctor de Vos followed him, and so, presently, did Thomas. Araminta went back to the kitchen and took the coffee off the stove and sat down. She supposed that Thomas would expect her to do a great many things when the doctors had gone. She didn’t want to do them, but she couldn’t refuse him, but afterwards she would pack her bag and leave as early as she could in the morning. She would be able to return to St Katherine’s after all, although perhaps she should stay for the funeral…
Her thoughts were interrupted by Doctor van Sibbelt who paused in the doorway, remote and professionally impersonal, to say that he had been given to understand that they would be going to a hotel for the night.
‘We have advised Mr Shaw to make all the necessary arrangements and he has done so; everything will be attended to and there should be nothing further for you to do. The boy is to go straight to friends after school, and his father will go there presently and meet him.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You’ll be all right! I’m afraid I must return to the hospital.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him sturdily, ‘and thank you for coming so quickly.’ She looked at him in sudden consternation. ‘Heavens, I suppose I shouldn’t have telephoned you, but you were the first person I thought of. You must have been taking a clinic…’
‘A teaching round,’ he corrected her, ‘but that doesn’t matter, I’m glad that…’ He didn’t finish what he had started to say. ‘Goodbye.’
Doctor de Vos went shortly after and Thomas came into the kitchen, saying stiffly: ‘I shall have to stay here until they’ve taken Thelma away.’
‘Then we’d better have coffee, Thomas. I’ll bring it into the living room.’
They drank it in almost total silence and presently when the door bell rang, Thomas went away, leaving Araminta to sit listening to the murmur of voices and the slow tread of feet in the hall. When everything was quiet again she went in search of him. He was putting things into an overnight bag and when she said at once: ‘Oh, shall I look out some of Bertram’s things for you? Are we going now?’
He didn’t quite meet her eyes, but fussed with the lock of the bag. ‘I’ve already packed all he needs. I shall go now, but I must ask you to stay here until five o’clock or thereabouts—the office may telephone with some urgent message for me, and you can see for yourself that I must go and break the news to Bertram.’
She agreed reluctantly. To sit in the flat alone for several hours was an uninviting prospect, but it was true that Thomas had had no time in which to make any arrangements about his work. He had shown no grief at Thelma’s death, but she would have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was suffering from shock.
He went to the door. ‘I’ll telephone you from my friend’s house,’ he told her. ‘As you’ve nothing to do this afternoon, you could start clearing out Thelma’s things.’
She looked at him with something like horror. Even allowing for shock, he was being horribly indifferent. ‘No,’ she forced herself to speak quietly, ‘I can’t do that, Thomas, she was your wife—although listening to you, I find that hard to believe. I shall pack my own things, though, and be ready to leave tomorrow.’
He stared at her in disbelief. ‘But what am I to do—and what about Bertram?’
‘I came here to look after Thelma. She doesn’t need me any more and you haven’t liked me being here, have you? Besides, I have a job to go back to, or perhaps you’d forgotten that? You must get a housekeeper, Thomas. And as for Bertram, he can’t bear the sight of me, anyway.’
‘You’re a hard young woman,’ Thomas pronounced, but she shook her head.
‘No, Thomas, I’m not, but you’re a hard man, and a hypocrite as well.’
He gave her a look of dislike as he opened the door and walked away without saying goodbye.
The flat was terribly quiet. Araminta packed her things, tidied the flat, drank the coffee pot dry, sitting lonely in the kitchen, then wandered into the sitting room. She felt lost and said; she hadn’t known Thelma well, but she grieved for her death, and she felt guilty too because she could find no sympathy for Thomas even though he deserved none. It would be a good thing for her to get back to St Katherine’s and her work once more and put the whole sad little episode out of her mind.
The unwilling thought that she wasn’t going to find it easy to put Doctor van Sibbelt out of her mind, too, disturbed her a little and to dispel her thoughts she went to the window and looked out. The early November afternoon was already fading and a steady wind was whirling the fallen leaves into untidy spirals and forcing the people walking in the street below to lower their heads against its chilly strength. It was a pity she wouldn’t see more of Amsterdam; only this modern corner of it and a brief glimpse of its older streets on their trips to and from the hospital. The nearby churches tinkled out their four o’clock carillons and Araminta went to the kitchen, made some tea, and turned on the radio. She turned on the living room lights too, as well as the hideous glass lamp hanging in the hall.
It was better with the lights on. She drank her tea slowly and when the clocks chimed the hour again, tidied the tea things away, made sure that she had all she needed packed for the night and sat down again to wait for Thomas to telephone, wondering idly which hotel they would be going to. He hadn’t mentioned it, now that she came to think about it, it had been Doctor van Sibbelt… Thomas hadn’t told her his friend’s name either, or where he lived. As her watch ticked steadily on towards six o’clock, she began to feel uneasy, especially as she wasn’t sure of the name of his office or where it was. Surely he had had ample time in which to break the news to Bertram, make arrangements for them all that night, and telephone her? He had been gone for almost four hours. On the other hand, he might have encountered all sorts of difficulties which had prevented her hearing from him.
She went through the flat, switching on lights in every room but Thelma’s, and found a book which she painstakingly read until she heard the clocks strike once more. It was very dark outside now, but she had left the curtains undrawn and she wandered from window to window, peering out, wondering what to do. She could of course pick up her overnight bag and go and find herself a hotel, leaving a note for Thomas, but on the other hand, if he and Bertram were to come back to the empty flat she would feel pretty mean. Perhaps his friend’s address, or even his office, would be in his study. She went along to see and found that although the door was open, everything else was locked; the only information on show was the calendar on his desk. She stood staring at it, wondering what to do. She wasn’t a nervous girl, but the idea of staying alone in the flat was daunting. She could of course try one of the other flats on the floor, but she had never seen any of the occupants, and supposing they couldn’t understand English? And she had no key. She spent ten minutes looking for one without success and had gone back into the hall when the door bell rang, sounding very loud in the quiet, so that she jumped with fright. It rang again almost immediately—whoever it was was very impatient. Araminta walked slowly to the door and opened it, and Doctor van Sibbelt walked in.
He stood just
inside the door, immaculate and calm and reassuringly large. ‘I was passing,’ he observed, ‘and noticed that all the lights were on. I couldn’t imagine that Mr Shaw would allow such an extravagance, so I came up to see what was happening.’ He lifted his dark gaze from her face and looked around him. ‘You’re alone?’
She had had no idea that she was going to cry. The tears trickled down her cheeks and she gave a loud sniff, quite unable to say anything. The doctor drew her close, one arm round her shoulders; it held her gently, although his voice was by no means gentle. ‘Cousin Thomas hasn’t been back? Do you know where he is?’
She shook her head, sniffed again and said: ‘He—he was going to telephone about five o’clock. He said he had to go and fetch Bertram and I’d have to stay here in case his office telephoned.’
‘And did anyone telephone?’
She shook her head again, sniffed for the third time and looked at him. ‘I have no idea what to do, but I’m not usually so poor-spirited—I think I’m a little tired, and it’s lonely here.’
He didn’t answer but took a very white handkerchief from a pocket and offered it to her. ‘I should have thought of this,’ he told her, ‘but no matter, it can be sorted out in no time.’
She eyed him from behind the handkerchief. ‘Oh—you know where Thomas is?’
‘Lord, no, my dear, nor do I intend to find out. You shall come with me.’
‘Oh, but I…’ She was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. ‘The telephone!’ she exclaimed superfluously, and hurried to answer it.
It was Thomas. Araminta listened wide-eyed to what he had to say and then spoke herself with some spirit. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ she declared. ‘Have you no feelings at all, Thomas? I’ll not stay…’
The receiver was taken from her grasp and her companion spoke: ‘Doctor van Sibbelt here—am I right in supposing that you expect Araminta to remain here alone tonight?’
She could hear Thomas’s querulous voice at the other end, and when the doctor said levelly: ‘I think you should take care of what you are saying, Mr Shaw,’ she looked at him enquiringly and asked: ‘What did he say—why do you look so angry?’
