Pineapple Girl

by Betty Neels

CHAPTER TWO

  THE FORTNIGHT went very quickly. The ward was busy for one thing, and for another, both Eloise and her mother had something to plan for. Refuting that wise but cautious saying about rainy days, Eloise took her mother shopping and persuaded her parent to invest in a good tweed suit, pointing out with rather muddled good sense that the garment in question would probably be twice the price by the time they could afford to buy it. Mrs Bennett, thus spurred on, found a dear little hat to go with it, had her good shoes re-soled and then turned her attention to her daughter. Eloise dressed well, considering she did so on a minuscule amount of money, but as her mother pointed out, Mrs Pringle very likely lived in some style, and she had to admit that her winter coat, although well cut and nicely fitting, was now about to see its third winter—moreover, she was heartily sick of it; something would have to be done to liven it up. This they achieved at a reasonable outlay by the purchase of an angora cap, scarf and gloves in a warm shade of honey which helped the dark brown of the coat considerably.

  Eloise found a dress too of almost the same shade; one of dozens similar in Marks and Spencer, but as she pointed out, the chance of anyone in Holland knowing that was remote. It was simply cut, with long sleeves and a wide belt to define her small waist, and if the occasion warranted she would dress it up with a neck scarf or some beads. Sweaters she already had, and skirts and an elderly velvet dress the colour of a mole, bought in their more affluent days; no longer high fashion, but it would, at a pinch, pass muster. The two ladies went home, packed their cases and professed themselves well pleased with their purchases.

  It had been arranged that Mrs Bennett should be fetched by Mrs Pringle’s car—a hired one, and as she confided to Eloise, it would be a treat in itself just to be driven all the way to Somerset. ‘Though Deborah always drove herself,’ she remarked, ‘and when I asked her why she had a chauffeur she said something about it being not like the old days and there was too much traffic. I must say I was quite surprised.’ Which Eloise wasn’t.

  Her mother gone, Eloise combated loneliness with a great deal of housework, slept soundly and went on duty for the last time before her holiday. The tiresome Mrs Fellows had long since gone, but the ward was full and some of the patients were ill; she went off duty tired out and with the good-natured wishes of her friends ringing in her ears she cycled home, thankful that she had nothing to do but go to bed. She got up early, finished her packing, cooked herself an early supper, washed her hair and after touring the little flat to make sure that everything was in apple pie order, went back to bed again; she would have to be up in good time in the morning, as she was to be fetched at eight o’clock.

  She woke to a bright day, the chilliness of autumn masked by brilliant sunshine. The winter coat was going to be a little heavy, but worn without a hat it would have to do. She took extra care with her pretty hair, made up her face carefully, collected her passport and purse, went through her handbag once more, and sat down to wait.

  Mrs Pringle was on time; Eloise saw the car from the window, gave a final look round and went downstairs. She felt excited now and happier than she had been for a long time, although she knew that the happiness would be dimmed before long—Mrs Pringle had put a brave face on things, but there were going to be days when she wouldn’t feel so good, when Eloise would have to coax and encourage and somehow rekindle the spark of hope every patient had tucked away inside them. And there was always the possibility, however remote, that Mrs Pringle might make a recovery—it could happen, no one knew why, and it didn’t happen often, but it was something to bear in mind and work for.

  Her patient was in the back of the car; if she were secretly worried about herself, no trace of it showed on her face. She told the driver to stow the luggage in the boot, invited Eloise to get in beside her and exclaimed happily: ‘I’m so thrilled at the idea of going home! I’ve been thinking of some of the things we might do together, but first I must tell you about your mother. I left her looking ten years younger and so happy—she sent her love and said you were to enjoy yourself. Such a dear creature and not changed at all, which is more than I can say for your aunt—how lucky she is to have you, Eloise. I always wanted a daughter. Of course it’s lovely having Pieter, but he doesn’t live at home.’ She sighed. ‘We always said that we would have six children.’

  ‘Mother wanted a large family…’

  ‘Yes. Ah, well, perhaps when you marry you’ll make up for it and have a pack of them—that will please her, though it’s not fashionable.’

  ‘Pooh,’ declared Eloise, ‘who cares about fashion?’ and just for a moment she saw herself, surrounded by several quite beautiful children, with a pleasant house in the background and an enormous garden, and somewhere close by, but regrettably vague, a husband. She might have elaborated on his appearance, only her companion was speaking again.

  ‘Well be met at Schiphol—Cor will be there with the car—this one is hired; as you know. It won’t take long to drive home from there—it’s less than a hundred and fifty miles. The village where we live is called Scharmerbloem—it’s small, but then you like the country, don’t you, dear? Just a few houses and a church. Groningen is only ten miles away, though.’

  ‘And your doctor—does he live in Groningen?’

  ‘Well, he has his consulting rooms there and beds in the hospital, but he lives quite close by us, by the side of a charming lake called Schildermeer. The village is called Oostersum—it’s as small as ours.’ She paused, ‘We do depend on our cars, of course, as although the main road isn’t too far away, it’s a good walk, though once you’re there the bus service is good.’

  They were threading their way through the London traffic towards the airport and Mrs Pringle glanced out of the window rather wistfully so that Eloise said quickly: ‘Of course you’ll be coming back in a month or so for a check-up, won’t you? Sir Arthur would want that.’

  ‘Yes, although he did suggest that he might come and see me—he’s an old friend of our doctor and it would give him an excuse to visit him.’

  ‘What a good idea! I expect your doctor knows everything there is to know about you, Mrs Pringle?’

  ‘Yes, dear, and I’ve great faith in him; he’s quiet and solid and sure of himself.’

  Eloise decided silently that probably he was big-headed; quite likely he wouldn’t take kindly to giving instructions to a foreign nurse. It was to be hoped that his English was adequate. She reflected uneasily that she had better get herself a dictionary and learn a few vital words of the Dutch language. In a way it was a pity that she wouldn’t be wearing uniform; a nurse never seemed a nurse unless she was in an apron and cap. As though her companion had read her thoughts, Mrs Pringle observed. ‘I’ve got some white dresses for you, dear—you don’t mind? There’s that dressing, and just in case I should have to stay in bed…’

  ‘How thoughtful of you, Mrs Pringle. I’ll wear uniform all the time if you want me to.’

  Her companion was shocked. ‘Good heavens, no, dear—you’re on holiday, at least, more or less—besides, I don’t want any of my friends to know about me. I shall say that you’re the daughter of an old friend come to spend a couple of weeks with us—will that do?’

  ‘Very well, I should think.’ Eloise looked out of the window. ‘We’re almost there; I’m quite excited, I’ve not been in a plane before.’

  Mrs Pringle was looking at herself in a pocket mirror. ‘I hate them,’ she said, ‘but they’re quick. The driver will see to our luggage and if I give you the tickets do you think you could cope?’

  It was all a little strange but straightforward enough; Eloise coped and presently found herself sitting beside Mrs Pringle, watching the runway under the plane slide away at an alarming speed. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, so she looked away and didn’t look again until they had left the ground beneath them.

  It was similar to travelling in a bus, she discovered, and once over her initial uneasiness, she peered down through the gaps in the cloud and saw t
hat they were already over the water. It seemed no time at all before her companion pointed out the Dutch coast, flat and very tidy, far below them, the sea frothing endlessly at its unending sands.

  Mijnheer Pringle was waiting for them and at first sight Eloise was disappointed; she hadn’t met him before, but his wife had always spoken of him with such warmth that Eloise had formed a picture of a commanding man, handsome and self-assured. And here he was, short, middle-aged and a little stout, with a round cheerful face from which the hair was receding, and not in the least good-looking. Nor was he commanding, although the porter seemed to treat him with respect. He embraced his wife carefully as though she were something precious and porcelain and then turned to Eloise, to shake her hand with a surprisingly hard grip and bid her welcome in fluent English. ‘The car’s here,’ he said, and took his wife’s arm. ‘Shall we go straight home or would you like to stop somewhere for coffee?’ He looked anxious. ‘Should you rest for an hour or two, Debby? We could go to an hotel.’

  Mrs Pringle gave him a loving look. ‘I never felt better, Cor.’ She glanced at Eloise. ‘We had a very quiet flight, didn’t we, dear? and I’d love to go home…’

  Mijnheer Pringle drove well, his wife beside him and Eloise in the back of the car. He kept up a steady flow of conversation, pointing out anything which he thought might be of interest to her and making little jokes. He was as brave as his wife, and she liked him. When he asked: ‘Do you not wonder why I, a Dutchman, should have so English a name?’ she said, surprised: ‘Well, I never thought about it—but of course it is English, isn’t it? I’ve always said Mrs Pringle, but that’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s Mevrouw. But you’re Dutch, Mijnheer Pringle, so why…?’

  ‘My grandfather came here when he was a young man and married a Dutchwoman, and my father was of course born here and married a Dutchwoman in his turn, so that I am truly Dutch although I have married an Englishwoman—amusing, is it not?’ He added: ‘And my good fortune.’

  Eloise saw him glance sideways at his wife and smile; it must be marvellous to be loved like that; the kind of love which would surmount illness and worse. Perhaps somewhere in the world there was someone like Mijnheer Pringle waiting for her. It would be nice if he were tall and handsome, but that didn’t matter very much; it was being loved that mattered. She thought briefly of the very few young men who had shown any interest in her, and even that had been casual. She wasn’t eye-catching and she hadn’t been any good at pretending to love someone when she didn’t; they had found her amusing but shy and old-fashioned, and mostly treated her in a brotherly fashion, before long telling her all about some wonderful girl they had met and asking her advice. It had been a little lowering.

  They stopped in Zwolle and had lunch. They were about halfway, Mijnheer Pringle told her, and would be able to travel fast on the motorway for almost the whole journey. ‘Although the last few kilometres are along narrow dyke roads—real country, pasture land mostly; with plenty of big farms although the villages are small.’

  ‘It sounds lovely,’ said Eloise, and meant it, for she was a simple girl with simple tastes; she had disliked London even while admitting its charm and she had done her best to overcome that dislike because as far as she could see she would have to stay there for the rest of her working days if she wanted a good job in a good hospital. She observed suddenly, thinking her thoughts aloud, ‘A lot of English nurses work over here, don’t they?’

  ‘Indeed they do.’ Mijnheer Pringle was scrutinising the bill with such intensity that she had the uncomfortable feeling that he might not have enough money to pay it. ‘Perhaps you like the idea, Eloise?’ he asked her kindly, counting out notes with care.

  ‘Well, it might be fun, but there’s my mother—she really wants to go back to Eddlescombe, you know.’

  Mevrouw Pringle gathered up her handbag and gloves. ‘Well, things do happen,’ she remarked vaguely. ‘I’m ready whenever you are.’

  It was still afternoon when they reached Groningen and Eloise looked round her eagerly, craning her neck to see everything at once and quite failing to do so; she was left with a delightful hotchpotch of tall, narrow houses, canals, bridges, a great many cyclists and even more people hurrying to and fro, darting into the streets and disappearing round tantalising corners.

  ‘You shall come whenever you wish,’ Mevrouw Pringle promised. ‘I don’t care for towns much—I like to sit about at home, being lazy.’ She spoke so convincingly that Eloise almost believed her.

  Mijnheer Pringle had been quite right about the roads. They were narrow, made of brick, and wandered through the wide landscape, perched as it were upon the numerous dykes. And the villages were indeed small, each a neat handful of houses encircling a church, a caf and a shop, and lying around and beyond the villages she could see the farms, large and solid with great barns at their backs, their fields dotted with black and white cows. Looking around her, she began to wonder just where the Pringles’ house might be, and had her answer almost immediately when they passed through a village much like the rest and then turned between high gateposts into a short drive bisecting the grounds of a house. It looked a little like a farmhouse, only there was no barn built on to its back, although there were plenty of outbuildings to one side of it. Its front door was plain and solid with an ornate wrought iron transom above it and the windows were old-fashioned and sashed, two each side of the door and five in the row above. There were flower beds, well laid out, and shrubs and trees carefully sited; it looked peaceful and homely and exactly what Eloise had hoped for. When Mevrouw Pringle said eagerly: ‘Here we are—I do hope you’ll like it here, Eloise,’ she replied that yes, she would, quite sincerely.

  Inside was like outside; the rooms lofty and light, furnished with large comfortable chairs and solid tables and cupboards. The carpets were thick underfoot and the curtains were equally thick velvet, fringed and draped, not quite to Eloise’s own taste but nonetheless very pleasing. But she had very little time to examine her surroundings; her patient was tired now and made no demur when her husband suggested that perhaps an hour’s rest would be just the thing. They all went upstairs, Mijnheer Pringle explaining as they went that Juffrouw Blot, the housekeeper, would be along with a tray of tea just as soon as his wife was on her bed. ‘We guessed that you would be tired, my dear, and you can have a good gossip with her later on, when you’re rested.’

  Alone with Mevrouw Pringle, Eloise quietly took charge, changed the dressing deftly, took off her patient’s dress and tucked her under her quilt.

  ‘Your room, Eloise,’ protested Mevrouw Pringle. ‘There’s been no time to show you…here’s Juffrouw Blot with my tea, she can take you…and ask Cor for anything.’

  Eloise made soothing little sounds while she tidied the room, was introduced to the housekeeper, a stoutly built middle-aged woman who smiled and nodded and talked to her for all the world as though she could understand every word, and then followed her obediently across the wide landing to the room which was to be hers.

  It was a pleasant apartment, lofty like all the other rooms in the house, and comfortably furnished with good taste if without much imagination. Eloise unpacked her bag, tidied her hair and did her face, peeped in at Mrs Pringle to make sure that she really was asleep and went downstairs.

  Mijnheer Pringle was lying in wait for her. ‘She’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Such a long journey, but she would insist…it is good of you to come…’ He looked away for a moment. ‘Her doctor will be coming this evening—our friend too. He will talk to you and explain…’

  ‘Explain what, Mijnheer Pringle?’ She knew the answer already, though.

  ‘Well—Debby has had this operation, you will have been told about that, of course. What you weren’t told is that she is going to die very soon—weeks, perhaps less. She doesn’t know that; they told her six months or more, got her on her feet and allowed her home because that was what she wanted…’ He sighed, one of the saddest sounds Eloise had heard for a long time
. ‘She’s to do exactly what she wants,’ he went on, ‘because nothing can make any difference now. I hope that if she needs you and your holiday is finished, there will be some way of keeping you here. She has taken a fancy to you, you know—she has always been fond of your mother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m determined that she shall be as happy as possible for these last few weeks.’

  Eloise swallowed the lump in her own throat. ‘Of course, and if she wants me to stay, I think it could be arranged; you would have to contact the hospital, of course—her doctor could help there. And if there’s anything I can do to help, will you let me know?’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you. Shall we go and have tea? It’s been taken into the sitting room.’

  There was no milk with the tea, drunk from small cups which held only a few mouthfuls. Eloise, dying of thirst, was debating whether to ask for a third cup and run the risk of being considered greedy when Juffrouw Blot opened the door, said something to Mijnheer Pringle and flattened herself to allow a visitor to enter the room. The man who had sent her the basket of fruit; her firm little chin dropped and her eyes rounded in surprise—a surprise which he didn’t appear to share, for his: ‘Ah, the pineapple girl,’ was casual to say the least as he crossed the room to shake Mijnheer Pringle’s hand.

  ‘You know each other?’ queried that gentleman.

  ‘No,’ said his visitor cheerfully. ‘That is to say, no one has introduced us, although we have met.’

  Mijnheer Pringle looked puzzled, but he was a stickler for good manners. ‘Eloise, this is Doctor van Zeilst, our very good friend. Timon, this is Miss Eloise Bennett who has kindly consented to spend her holidays with Deborah.’

  ‘I know.’ The doctor grinned at her. ‘News travels fast in hospitals, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Apparently.’ She looked at him coldly, quite put out because he had shown no pleasure at meeting her again. ‘I believe I have to thank you for your gift of fruit.’