A Match for Sister Maggy

by Betty Neels

  ‘I’m ready, Dr Doelsma.’

  It was quite chilly outside, she shivered as she waited for Paul to put the key in its hiding place. He caught her by the arm and started to walk briskly through the dark little cul-de-sac and across the small square to the alley leading to the Nieuwendijk. It was still full of people, most of them walking with the air of those on pleasure bent. Paul took the crown of the narrow street, Maggy’s arm still firmly tucked in his. They had only gone a little way when he stopped and pulled her round to face him, ignoring the frustrated, good-natured cyclists weaving around them.

  ‘You’re shivering.’

  ‘It’s my own fault,’ said Maggy soberly. ‘It wasn’t really warm enough to wear this dress, but I—I wanted to…’ Her voice died away uncertainly; she had remembered why she had wanted to wear the dress in the first place. Well, Paul had seen her in it, and a fine sight she had looked!

  Paul had let go of her and was taking off his jacket. The comforting warmth of it was already around her shoulders when she started to protest.

  ‘Paul, no! You can’t walk through Amsterdam in shirt-sleeves and a waistcoat!’

  ‘You called me Paul,’ he said quietly.

  Maggy felt her face getting hot, and was glad of the dark. ‘I wasna’ thinking—I didna’ guard my tongue…will you take your jacket back?’

  He caught her by the arm again, and started to walk her along at a great rate.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ was all he said.

  Maggy was glad of her long legs to keep up with his. She peeped sideways at him and saw that he was frowning fiercely.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been tiresome.’

  ‘I’ve already told you not to be silly.’

  There seemed no point in continuing even so meagre a conversation as theirs was. Maggy held her tongue, and continued to do so, sitting quietly in the car beside Paul and saying, ‘Yes, Dr Doelsma. No, Dr Doelsma’ in appropriate context to the few remarks he made on their homeward journey. When they reached his house, she jumped out quickly, thankful to find the door open. Anny was hovering in the hall. She gave her Paul’s jacket, and started up the stairs. She was out of sight by the time he appeared in the doorway.

  Mevrouw Doelsma was in her room, lying comfortably on a chaise-longue. She put down her book when she saw Maggy and said in a relieved voice,

  ‘Maggy, there you are! We have all been so worried about you. Fortunately Paul came home early and went at once to Amsterdam. Sit down and tell me all about it; dinner can wait.’

  It was during that meal, half an hour later, that it was decided that they should return the following day to Oudehof. Maggy sat listening to the discussion. She wouldn’t see much more of Paul—she would be returning to England very soon now; probably before he paid another visit to his mother. She sighed at the sadness of her thoughts, and Paul said,

  ‘Will you be sorry to leave Leiden, Maggy?’

  She assumed a determinedly cheerful face. ‘Yes, Doctor, but Oudehof is lovely too.’

  He nodded. ‘A pity you won’t be here for the skating.’

  It was a nice safe topic, and lasted them until the meal was finished and she was able to slip upstairs and leave Mevrouw Doelsma and Paul to their nightly game. When she went down later to suggest that her patient went to bed, he gave her a cursory glance, wished her goodnight and remarked in casual tones that he would see her in the morning. She waited until she had shepherded Mevrouw Doelsma to the door before replying in a colourless voice,

  ‘Very well, Dr Doelsma—and thank you for bringing me back this evening, and for being so…so…’

  He stood looking at her, his mouth faintly curved in a smile.

  ‘Magnanimous?’ he suggested.

  There were sparks in Maggy’s eyes; she drew a deep breath.

  ‘Whatever you say, Doctor,’ she said. It was amusing to him, she supposed, to tease her. She started to shut the door.

  ‘You haven’t said goodnight, Maggy.’

  She paused and looked over her shoulder. ‘Goodnight, Doctor.’

  ‘Paul,’ he interrupted. He was smiling, and her heart gave a lurch.

  ‘Goodnight, Paul,’ she said obediently, and shut the door.

  There was no sign of Paul when she went down to breakfast the following morning—Anny offered the information that the doctor had gone out early and would be back later. Maggy ate without appetite and went upstairs to get Mevrouw Doelsma ready for her journey. It was ten o’clock before they were ready and made their way down to the hall. Dr Doelsma was sitting on one of the carved chairs ranged against the wall, reading a newspaper. He looked up unhurriedly as they approached and got up, bidding them a cheerful good morning. His mother turned to make her farewells to Anny, and Maggy found herself a little apart, under a leisurely scrutiny from Paul. She drew her brows together and looked haughtily away, the hateful colour, creeping up her cheeks. She had dressed with care in a blue-green tweed suit, its velvet collar exactly matching the beret which went with it. Her shoes and handbag weren’t new, but they were good and beautifully polished. With female logic she had wanted to look her best for this, their probable last meeting. Even if he saw her again, she would most likely be in uniform.

  It was a pity that her gaze had settled on a portrait of a Doelsma ancestor—it might have been Paul gazing down at her from the canvas, with the same dark eyebrows and smile.

  Paul said softly in her ear, ‘Poor Maggy, we’re all round you, aren’t we?’

  She had lost her breath and made do with a dignified nod, only to be plunged into further confusion by his remarking,

  ‘You look delightful. Without retracting anything I may have said about potato sacks, I must admit that your obvious charms are greatly enhanced. Why have I not seen it before? It seems to me that whenever we have met you have been entrenched behind your uniform—you look delightful in that too, but intimidating.’

  Maggy raised astonished eyes to his. She asked uncertainly, ‘Me? Intimidating?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I was quite terrified of you at St Ethelburga’s when we went round your ward.’ He went on gravely, his eyes twinkling, ‘As stiff as a poker—I longed to pinch you to see if you were real. I kissed you instead, if you remember.’ Maggy blushed, and he stood and watched her. ‘It was a great relief to find that you were.’

  Maggy cast around for an answer to this and failed to find one; it was fortunate that Mevrouw Doelsma was on the point of rejoining them, she would get her goodbyes said quickly. She raised her lovely eyes to Paul and opened her mouth and was on the point of uttering when he said, reading her thoughts, ‘My dear good girl, don’t say goodbye. I’m driving you back to Oudehof.’ He grinned and took his mother’s arm, leaving her to take her leave of Anny. When she got outside, Mevrouw Doelsma was already sitting in the back of the car, and Paul was waiting by the open door. ‘Get in front,’ he said, in a voice which brooked no argument.

  Maggy got in without a word and sat passive while he fastened her seat-belt. Her thanks, uttered in a meek voice, caused him to look at her with suspicion.

  ‘You’re remarkably humble,’ he remarked. She ignored both the tone and the look, and instead looked over her shoulder to where his mother was sitting in the back of the car.

  ‘Mevrouw Doelsma, would you not prefer me to sit with you?’

  Her patient barely glanced up from the pile of letters in her lap.

  ‘No, dear. You see I have all these letters to read, and a shopping list to make out for Mrs Pratt—such a good idea of Paul’s that I should save myself the trouble of doing it once we get back to Oudehof.’ She opened an envelope, smiled vaguely in Maggy’s direction, and became at once immersed in its contents.

  Paul started the car. ‘Never mind,’ he said in a maddeningly sympathetic voice, ‘It’s only for a couple of hours.’

  Maggy caught his smile and found herself smiling back and decided, with her usual good sense, to enjoy the present. The future, bleak though it was going to be, could
take care of itself, so she sat back composedly, giving no sign of her thumping heart, and was glad when Paul did not appear to notice her pink cheeks and breathless voice.

  Once out of Leyden and on to the broad motorway, he started a gentle flow of inconsequential talk which put her so much at her ease that she forgot to be shy, and was soon chattering away with an enjoyment which she refrained from reminding herself would be but short-lived. After fifteen minutes or so, Paul turned off the Amsterdam road. ‘We’ll go through Haarlem,’ he said, ‘and Alkmaar. You might as well see as much of Holland as you can before you go back.’

  Maggy turned her head to look out of the window; she hadn’t wanted to be reminded. She said in a carefully cheerful voice. ‘How kind of you. I shall have such a lot to remember…’

  She watched the green meadows bordering the road—each with its complement of cows, neatly coated against the chill of autumn. ‘I mustn’t remember,’ she thought. ‘I must forget as quickly as possible—perhaps if I’m very busy.’ She became aware that he had spoken. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was thinking.’

  He smiled slowly; she couldn’t see his eyes beneath their drooping lids.

  ‘Madame Riveau asked me to thank you for your help yesterday.’ He gentled the Rolls to a smooth standstill, while the road ahead of them lifted itself on a giant hinge to allow a barge of incredible length to ooze its way beneath it on the canal bisecting the road.

  Maggy felt contrite. ‘Madame Riveau! How awful of me to forget her. Did you telephone the hospital—is she all right?’

  The bridge started to swing down. Paul, with his eyes on the traffic lights, said, ‘I went to see her this morning—they operated last night. She should do well now—no thanks to those graceless menfolk of hers.’

  The Rolls surged ahead again. Maggy took a quick look behind her, to see Mevrouw Doelsma still happily reading her letters. ‘I’m glad she’ll be well again—she worried me when I had her on my ward at St Ethelburga’s.’

  ‘You take your work very seriously, don’t you?’ Paul asked.

  Maggy raised her eyes to his. ‘Don’t you, too, Doctor?’

  His eyes were on the road ahead. They were approaching Haarlem, and he slowed down. ‘I? Of course, but I have the advantage over you, have I not? For when I marry, I shall have a wife and children to fill my life, as well as my work.’

  The pain in her heart seemed physical. ‘You mean that I have only my job? But that keeps me very busy.’

  ‘Don’t you want to marry, Maggy?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I’m quite happy, Doctor,’ she said, and gasped as he said,

  ‘You’re a poor liar, my girl,’ and before she could think of a reply, ‘Mama, shall we stop in Alkmaar for coffee and show Maggy the cheese market?’

  The conversation became three-cornered and stayed so until they entered Alkmaar, when Paul slowed the car so that Maggy might admire the grass-encircled water before they entered its narrow streets. It was getting on for midday, and the streets were pleasantly bustling.

  ‘What a cosy place!’ Maggy cried.

  Paul agreed. ‘Though it wasn’t always so—the Spaniards laid siege to it in the sixteenth century, you know. I imagine it was far from cosy then.’

  They had reached the end of the main street, and he turned the car into a very narrow street, lined with small shops. It opened rather unexpectedly on to a cobbled area, with a canal on one side and a row of houses and shops on the other. In its centre stood the Weigh-House, its delightful step gables climbing upwards, to culminate in a weather vane. Paul parked the Rolls just beyond this fairy-tale edifice and looked at his watch.

  ‘We’re just in time to see the clock. Jump out, Maggy.’ He leaned across her and undid her belt and opened the door. ‘We’ll be back in a moment, Mama.’

  Maggy found herself being hustled over the cobbles, just in time to watch the quaint little figures appear as the clock chimed. She stood gazing upwards, her eyes alight with interest, her lovely mouth slightly open. Paul stood beside her, an arm flung carelessly around her shoulders. When it was finished she said, ‘I think the bells and chimes are the things I’ll remember most. They’re so beautiful.’

  They started back towards the car, walking slowly, his arm still around her while he told her of the town. They collected Mevrouw Doelsma and crossed the cobbles to a small unpretentious café facing them. It was warm and very clean and smelled appetisingly of soup with a distinct whiff of brandy. They sat at a table covered with what Maggy thought was a run, and drank delicious coffee, while the proprietor stood chatting to them. She had to admire the way Paul contrived to translate for her, without interrupting the flow of the conversation.

  The weather had clouded over by the time they left the café. There was a cold wind blowing; it ruffled the canal water and made the trees rustle dryly. They got back into the car and Paul drove out of the little town on to the Den Helder road; it ran alongside a canal, running as straight as a ruler through the flat bare country. Maggy didn’t care for it, and said so. Paul agreed. ‘But I came this way so that you could see as much of Holland as possible. It isn’t all as beautiful as the country around Oudehof.’

  The road was empty ahead of them. The Rolls flashed along without hindrance. The tall blocks of flats on the outskirts of Den Helder appeared on the skyline. Maggy looked at them with a critical eye and offered the opinion that it appeared to be an ugly place.

  ‘Very ugly,’ said Mevrouw Doelsma. ‘Fortunately you aren’t likely to come this way again; I shall close my eyes,’ she added, ‘and you can tell me when we get to Hippolytushoef, for there it is much prettier.’

  This she did, leaving Paul to point out the meagre attractions of the town and then to explain the far more interesting details of the dyke they were about to cross. They went sedately through the great sluices and on to the road under the great sea dyke wall. Maggy thought it was a pity that it hid the sea from their sight, but the Ijlselmeer on their other side held sufficient of interest to keep her busy asking questions for the first few miles. Paul answered her carefully and with no sign of impatience, until she paused and asked, ‘Am I boring you? It must be tedious for you to tell me all this…’

  They were approaching the café half way along the Afsluitdijk. The car leapt ahead, eating up distance with effortless ease, as the needle crept up and up. Paul looked at her, and said, unsmiling,

  ‘You never bore me, Maggy, and never will. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know,’ said Maggy. Happiness swelled up inside her; it wouldn’t last, but it would be something to treasure—something she wouldn’t forget. She fidgeted like an awkward child, knowing that he was looking at her.

  ‘All right, you want to change the subject, don’t you?’ He scarcely waited for her nod. ‘That’s Friesland ahead—once we’re on the mainland, we turn off for Bolsward.’

  She watched the coastline rushing to meet them, grey against a grey sky, and presently they passed through a tongue of land, standing forlornly with a single row of small houses and a tiny lock, abandoned by the mainland. There was a woman hanging washing on a line in one of the back gardens, and no one else to be seen.

  ‘Do people really live there?’ Maggy wanted to know, ‘What do they do?’

  ‘Work on the dijk, fish…’ Paul answered carelessly. ‘It’s called Kornwerderzand.’

  They laughed at her attempts to pronounce it, but after half a dozen attempts she thought she did it rather well—it was another word to add to her small vocabulary.

  The mainland was reached and with it the Friesian farm-steads, standing solidly, backed by their enormous barns and surrounded by their acres of rolling meadows. Mevrouw Doelsma gave a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Oh, how nice to be back! I love Leiden, but this is my home.’

  ‘Mother’s a dyed-in-the-wool Friesian in everything but size,’ Paul teased gently. ‘Fortunately for her self-esteem, the girls and I managed to achieve the height and size she ha
d set her heart on.’

  He had pulled into the side of the road while a high, wide farm cart, drawn by a magnificent Flemish horse, rolled slowly past.

  ‘Yes, I have been so glad about that,’ murmured his mother, ‘and now all the children are shooting up so satisfactorily,’ she sighed. ‘I hope yours will be true Friesians, Paul.’

  They were moving again, and on the outskirts of Bolsward.

  ‘We shall have to wait and see, shan’t we, Mother?’ Paul answered blandly, and then, ‘Look on your left, Maggy, here’s the Gemeentehuis you so much admired.’

  She looked obediently, glad to have her thoughts diverted, and asked intelligent questions which kept the conversation safely impersonal, if slightly dull. It was a relief to leave Sneek behind and know that the journey was almost over. Probably Paul would go straight back after a late lunch. She fell silent, weighed down by the possibility that she would probably not see him again and that there was nothing that she could do about it. It was with feelings of relief that she saw that they were approaching Oudehof. They swept through the gates, and as Paul stopped the car, the front door opened to reveal Pratt, who had gone back several days earlier, his elderly sombre face wreathed in rare smiles. Mrs Pratt came bustling across the hall as they went in and in a surprisingly short time had them sitting down to the excellent luncheon she had prepared for them.

  They had eaten their smoked filleted eel on its hot buttered toast, and were half way through the Rolpens met Rodekool—spiced and pickled minced beef and tripe and apples and red cabbage—when Mevrouw Doelsma, who had been talking about nothing in particular, asked,

  ‘Paul, do you have to go back at once?’

  He put down his knife and fork and sat back in his high-backed chair so that he could watch Maggy.

  ‘No, Mama. If I may, I’ll stay until tomorrow morning.’

  Maggy’s hands tightened on her own knife and fork, but she didn’t look up when his mother said,