by Betty Neels
Eloise had, for the moment, forgotten all about the girl; she said now rather lamely: ‘Oh, yes, of course…’
‘Of course what?’
She was watching the coffee percolate and didn’t look up. ‘Oh, just of course. It—it didn’t mean anything, actually.’ She fetched two mugs. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘Kind, thoughtful girl—yes, anything.’
She fetched bread and butter and a wedge of cheese and set them on the table with the coffee and watched him while he demolished almost all of them. Presently she said: ‘Mevrouw Pringle wants to go to Groningen tomorrow, to buy some clothes.’
He held out his mug for more coffee. ‘Let her; nothing will make any difference now and I want her to enjoy every minute…’
‘She’s such a nice person. Why should it happen to her, I wonder?’
‘My dear girl, death comes to us all, does it not, and none of us knows when. Deborah is in her early sixties—not old, but she has had a happier life than many people I know, one mustn’t lose sight of that.’ He got up and wandered over to the sink. ‘And don’t think that because I say that that I don’t mind her dying.’
He was nice, thought Eloise, watching him tidy away the remains of his meal, and strong enough to face up to things; he would be a tower of strength without appearing to make any effort at all. She went to the sink with her own mug and took a towel to dry the dishes and he said: ‘I’m going home now, but I’ll have another look on my way. Tell Cor that I’ll telephone later.’ He smiled at her. ‘How old did you say you were?’
‘Twenty-three—and you?’ After all, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander and she did want to know.
He didn’t mind telling her. ‘Thirty-seven. I’ll be back some time today. You know where to find me if I’m needed.’
He was gone, leaving her to stand in the kitchen, the dish-cloth in her hand, staring at nothing in particular.
Mevrouw Pringle slept until almost ten o’clock and when she wakened ate quite a good breakfast and signified her intention of going shopping as she had planned. She was dressed and sitting in the drawing room when the doctor called. He stayed only a few minutes and when he spoke to Eloise it was with a cool professional detachment which quite daunted her, it was quite a relief when he went, with the excuse that he still had one more patient to see on his round.
The afternoon was a success. Mevrouw Pringle spent most of it in a small, very expensive shop, deciding which of the dresses she was shown she should buy; in the end she bought two. ‘Such a splendid excuse to go somewhere exciting so that I can wear them,’ she confided to Eloise as they were driving back home. ‘Amsterdam, perhaps—we could make up a party and go to the theatre, spend the night there and show you something of the city…a little outing would do Cor good. The green would do nicely, wouldn’t it, dear? and then we might go to Hilversum for dinner one evening. The grey chiffon would be just right with that lovely pendant Cor gave me.’ She glanced at Eloise. ‘That was a pretty dress you wore last night, dear. Did you bring any more with you?’
‘Well, no—I didn’t know that I should be going out…’ She had no intention of telling her companion that that was the only party dress she owned. Mevrouw Pringle was kind enough to rush straight back to Groningen and make her a present of half a dozen dresses, so she added lightly: ‘I must do some shopping for myself,’ and then, quickly: ‘I like the green, it really suits you.’
It was a successful red herring which lasted all the way home.
It was difficult to make Mevrouw Pringle rest; she declared gaily that she felt marvellous. ‘And if I do feel tired, I can’t see that it matters,’ she pointed out gently, ‘and I’ve such a lot to cram into six months—it seems a waste of time to rest.’
Eloise kept her voice matter-of-fact. ‘Yes, it must seem so to you, but you’re doing so well, if you take reasonable care those six months could possibly stretch to another six.’
Her patient agreed happily. ‘You’re quite right, dear—you’re such a sensible girl and such a dear companion. If I had someone gushing sympathy over me I wouldn’t be able to bear it. Cor knows that, bless him, and so does Timon. So I’ll take your advice. What a pity Pieter is so busy, you could have had some young company.’
‘I’m quite content, Mevrouw Pringle—it’s like a holiday.’ Eloise made haste to change the conversation: ‘I had a letter from Mother this morning. She’s having a wonderful time; Mrs Plunkett’s brother is staying in the village and takes her out most days. They knew each other years ago, didn’t they? She says she’s getting fat.’
Mevrouw Pringle laughed. ‘I’ll believe that when I see her, but I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. I expect you were both glad to get away from London.’
Eloise had brought the car to a halt outside the house. ‘Yes—we don’t like living there, you know. It seemed the best thing to do at the time, but it wasn’t. The moment I can get a Sister’s job, I’m going to send Mother back to Eddlescombe—rent a cottage, or something. I’ll have to live at St Goth’s, but I shall be able to go home quite often.’
‘You might marry, dear.’
‘I’m not counting on it,’ said Eloise flatly. ‘I’m rather plain, you see.’
They had gone indoors and she settled her companion in a comfortable chair and declared that she would fetch tea for her. Doctor van Zeilst hadn’t been yet, perhaps he would come in on his way back from seeing his afternoon patients. She found that she was looking forward to his visit. ‘Although I can’t think why,’ she muttered as she crossed the hall on her way to the kitchen, ‘he doesn’t even see me.’
An observation which seemed true enough during the next day or so, for although he came each day, he exchanged only the barest civilities with her and the only occasions he sought her out were when he wished to discuss his patient’s condition, and then, as usual, he was coldly professional.
Eloise told herself that it was silly to mind; after all, it wasn’t as though they would be meeting each other for the rest of their lives. Sooner or later she would go back to St Goth’s and that would be that. She entered wholeheartedly into Mevrouw Pringle’s plans for each day, took great care of her in an unobtrusive way, and when Pieter was home, which wasn’t often, fended off his over-confident advances.
It was almost a week after the dinner party, as she and Mevrouw Pringle were returning from having lunch with her friends the Potters, that Eloise noticed her companion’s extreme pallor. It made her uneasy, although her cheerful: ‘How about a rest for an hour or two?’ as they reached the house gave no indication of that, and she kept up a gentle chatter while she eased Mevrouw Pringle on to a sofa in the sitting room and tucked her in cosily with a rug. Her manner was calm and unhurried as she did so, and when she had finished she said with just the right amount of casualness: ‘I’m going to leave you for a bit. I’ll come back presently with tea; we can have it here and talk over the day. It was such a lovely lunch—the Potters are such dears.’
Her companion’s tired face was lighted briefly by a smile. ‘You should see Timon’s house—we haven’t been…’
‘Unlikely,’ thought Eloise, and Mevrouw Pringle went on: ‘I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself as much as I have done these last few days. That’s a splendid idea of the Potters, that we should all go to Utrecht.’
‘It sounds smashing,’ declared Eloise comfortably, holding back the urge to fly to the telephone and get the doctor. But that would never do; Mevrouw Pringle mustn’t even begin to guess… She went unhurriedly from the room, but once in the hall raced silently to the study, dialled the doctor’s number and waited what seemed to be endless minutes before she heard his calm voice. ‘Van Zeilst.’
‘Will you come at once?’ she asked without preamble and forgetting to say who she was. ‘We’re just back from the Potters and Mevrouw Pringle doesn’t look too good. I’ve put her on the sofa in the sitting room; she thinks she’s just tired…’ She added in a voice she st
rove to keep calm. ‘Please hurry.’
‘I’m on my way. Let Cor know.’
She heard the click of the receiver and dialled the second number, and when Mijnheer Pringle answered, said quietly: ‘It’s Eloise. Will you come home at once, Mijnheer Pringle? Your wife isn’t well.’
She heard the sharp intake of his breath. ‘At once,’ was all he said.
Mevrouw Pringle was sleeping when she went back to the sitting room, her face pinched and milky pale. Eloise took an almost imperceptible pulse and waited.
She didn’t have long in which to do so; she had left the front door open and it was only minutes before she heard the doctor’s quick, firm tread.
He said nothing but went at once to bend over his patient, but presently he straightened up and asked quietly: ‘When did this start?’
She told him, a precise report, just as though she were on a hospital ward. He nodded. ‘She will probably regain consciousness, but only briefly, I’m afraid.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Cor should be here.’
They heard the car as he spoke and Mijnheer Pringle came in a moment later, and as though she had known that he had come, his wife opened her eyes and smiled at him. He spoke in a perfectly normal voice. ‘Hullo, darling, I thought I would come home early for tea.’
Mevrouw Pringle didn’t answer, although she was still smiling. She didn’t speak again.
The rest of the day was unreal. Eloise did what she had to do with the least possible fuss, saw that Mijnheer Pringle ate his meals, comforted the weeping Juffrouw Blot and made herself useful around the house and when asked to do so, sat down with Mijnheer Pringle in his study and ticked off names as he telephoned. He had remained very calm, but once or twice she had seen the look of utter disbelief on his face. Presently the truth would hit him hard and then, she felt sure, he would want to be on his own. It might be best if she returned to England as soon as the funeral was over—a decision substantiated by her mother when she was asked to telephone her. ‘I shall come to the funeral,’ her mother spoke with unwonted firmness. ‘Poor Debby, I didn’t know… Just a minute, dear.’ Eloise heard her talking to someone with her before she went on: ‘Mrs Plunkett’s brother is staying here—Jack—I knew him years ago, he’s offered to bring me by car. You can come back with us, darling.’
Eloise’s calm forehead wrinkled with surprise. It was unlike her mother to be so decided about anything, and this Jack Plunkett must be a very good friend to offer to drive her such a distance. She was tempted to ask several questions, but there were other calls to make. She agreed hastily because there was no time to do anything else, and rang off.
Later, as she and her host sat over a hastily cooked supper, she mentioned it to him. ‘Although I’ll stay if you want me to, Mijnheer Pringle.’
But he refused her offer. ‘I’m grateful, Eloise, you must know that, but there is little point in you staying and I think that it may be better if I’m alone for a time—besides, you have your job.’
And when Doctor van Zeilst joined them presently to drink the coffee Juffrouw Blot had brought, he agreed so readily that Eloise was conscious of a pang of annoyance. He sounded positively eager to see the last of her, his bland: ‘What a good idea, nothing could be better,’ left her feeling strangely forlorn, the forlornness turned to vexation when Mijnheer Pringle remarked that he needed the doctor’s advice about something and the latter remarked briskly that she might like to go to bed early. ‘I daresay you’re tired,’ he remarked, ‘and there’s no hurry for you to make your arrangements, is there?’
She almost heard him sigh with relief as she got up from the table. ‘None at all,’ she told him in a colourless voice, and wished the two of them goodnight before going to her room. She came downstairs again almost immediately. Juffrouw Blot would be in the kitchen all by herself, for the daily help went home at five o’clock; she might like a hand with the dishes. Eloise didn’t much like washing up, but she was aware that she needed to do something to keep herself occupied; to lie in bed and think would do no good.
Juffrouw Blot was at the sink, washing up with grim determination and crying her eyes out. She had known Mevrouw Pringle for many years and Eloise realised with surprise that no one had told her that her mistress was suffering from an illness from which she couldn’t recover, and the poor soul’s grief was genuine—more so, thought Eloise, than Pieter, who had come home when he had been told the news, and gone again within the hour, with the excuse that his work wouldn’t allow him to stay longer. She took a cloth and began to dry the plates, talking soothingly all the time, mostly English, of course, with a few Dutch words popped in at random and most of it quite unintelligible to her listener, but at least it gave some comfort.
Juffrouw Blot stopped crying presently and began to talk. She talked for a long time and although Eloise understood no more than one word in fifty, it did the poor woman good; she had had a lot to get off her chest, and now she was doing it. She tidied the sink, took the tea-cloths away from Eloise, went to a cupboard and returned with a bottle of port and two glasses. Eloise didn’t much like port, but it seemed part and parcel of Juffrouw Blot’s real efforts to overcome her grief. They sat down at the kitchen table and drank a glass each while the housekeeper continued to talk, and by the time they had finished she regained a good deal of her composure. She put the glasses in the sink and the bottle back in the cupboard and held out a hand to Eloise, saying in a watery voice: ‘Dank U, Miss,’ and Eloise, feeling quite inadequate said: ‘Not at all, Juffrouw Blot,’ and added hopefully: ‘Bed.’
The housekeeper nodded, shook hands once more and made for the back stairs, and when she had reached the top, Eloise turned off the lights and went back through the narrow passage which led to the hall. She was closing the door gently behind her when the doctor strolled out of the sitting room. She hadn’t expected to see him and she could think of nothing to say; she gave him a little nod and crossed to the staircase, only to be intercepted on the way.
‘I thought you had gone to bed,’ he observed mildly.
She paused to look up at him. ‘Probably you did, Doctor, but just because you told me to go to bed it doesn’t mean that I did so. It is barely ten o’clock.’
He leaned forward suddenly and gave a rumble of laughter. ‘You’ve been at the port,’ he said.
That magnificent nose of his must be very sharp. She looked down her own unimportant little nose and said austerely: ‘It really is none of your business, but I went to see if I could help Juffrouw Blot. She’s very upset, it was a shock for her, you know, and she was devoted to Mevrouw Pringle. It must have been hard for her to go on with her day’s work, cooking meals and clearing them away…’ Her voice faltered. ‘She offered me a glass of port and I had one while she talked.’
‘Did you understand what she was saying?’
‘Of course not, but that didn’t matter—she just wanted to talk.’ She added for no reason at all: ‘I don’t care for port.’
He looked down at her gravely although there was a gleam in his blue eyes. ‘You’re a very nice girl.’ He dropped his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. ‘If I ask you very nicely, will you go to bed? It’s been a hard day for all of us.’
She went upstairs at once with a muttered goodnight. He was being kind to her, just as he would be kind to anyone who needed kindness, but the ridiculous feeling that she would like to throw her not inconsiderable person on to his chest and bawl her eyes out would have to be firmly squashed. She was more tired than she thought and sad besides. It had, after all, been a dreadful day even though it had been inevitable and they had been prepared for it, but that didn’t make it any the less sad; she cried all the while she got ready for bed and she was still sobbing quietly when from sheer weariness she fell asleep.
Her mother arrived two days later; two long-drawn-out days during which Mijnheer Pringle had gone through the motions of leading a normal life, talking pleasantly about various topics, discussing the daily news, receiv
ing visitors with unfailing good manners. It was only occasionally that Eloise caught a glimpse of the grief he was concealing with such great efforts, and he confirmed this by telling her just before the first of his wife’s friends arrived: ‘You will understand, Eloise, that I shall be relieved when all this is over. I must have time to think, to adjust…I was of course prepared for Deborah’s death, but even so it is difficult. I shall never be able to thank you enough for being of such great help to us both during these last weeks.’
Eloise had said quietly: ‘Oh, but I did nothing, you know, but if I did help a little, then I’m glad. I hope you’ll write to me in a little while and tell me how you’re going on.’ She had hesitated. ‘You are sure that you want to stay here—just with Juffrouw Blot, I mean—with no friends?’
He had smiled at her. ‘Quite happy, Eloise. Besides, I have Timon, and he’s a tower of strength, and Pieter will be going to Curaçao very shortly and I think that I may accompany him—he will be working for most of the time, but I have old friends there. I can look them up.’ He had added in a rather toneless voice: ‘I won’t pretend that he feels his mother’s death as keenly as I do, but he is our son and we get on well enough.’
Her mother arrived just before lunch, driven by Mr Plunkett in his elderly, beautifully kept Rover. She was naturally subdued but glad to see Eloise again, and besides that, she was quietly happy about something. It took Eloise just half an hour to discover that the something was Mr Jack Plunkett. She had rather liked him when they had met; he was tall and thin and stooping a little and his grey hair was balding; he had blinked at her with kindly blue eyes through his spectacles when they had been introduced, and he treated her mother as though she were something precious. She and her parent were in her bedroom putting on their outdoor things to go to the funeral when Mrs Bennett said: ‘I know it’s not the right time to talk about being happy, darling, though Deborah would have been the first to want it… Jack Plunkett wants me to marry him, and I’m going to.’ She hurried on: ‘I know it’s ridiculous; we’ve only just met after years and years, but I think we shall be very happy.’
