by Betty Neels
There was a seat on a KLM plane the following evening, Maggy agreed with Mevrouw Doelsma in a rather hollow voice that everything was most satisfactory.
As it was Maggy’s last day, her patient insisted that they should go out for a last ride. Maggy drove to Franeker and they visited the Solarium and then went on to Sneek and dawdled between the lakes. The weather was chilly and overcast; the Dutch countryside looked sad—probably at the thought of the cold winter ahead. They arrived back in time for tea, a meal which Mevrouw Doelsma had kept essentially English, abetted by Mrs Pratt, who had a strong belief that tea was not tea without scones and fruit cake and muffins in their season.
Maggy, pouring tea from the lovely silver pot into the delicate cups, wondered if she would ever enjoy hospital tea again. She packed before dinner, and went to Mevrouw Doelsma’s room as was her custom. The little lady pressed a fair-sized box in her hands, and begged her to accept it as a small parting gift. Maggy, who had retained a childish delight in receiving presents, sat down at once and undid the wrappings.
The box contained a soft kid leather handbag; its magnificence rendered her speechless for a moment. She stammered her thanks and Mevrouw Doelsma reached up and kissed her and said, ‘There, Maggy, it will last you all your life, and every time you use it, you’ll remember me,’ and she burst into tears.
Maggy hugged her gently. ‘I’ll remember you even without your lovely present to remind me.’
‘And Paul—will you remember Paul too?’
Maggy managed a smile, and said quite naturally, ‘Yes, I shall remember Paul too.’
They played bezique after dinner, until Mevrouw Doelsma declared that she was tired and said goodnight and went up to bed. Once there, however, she went straight to the telephone and dialled her son’s home in Leiden. Anny answered and she wasted no words before asking,
‘Did Mr Paul leave a telephone number with you, Anny?’
‘No, madam. He usually does, but this was only a short trip; but I think I can get a message to the University early tomorrow—he has a lecture there at nine, but he might be able to telephone you before then.’
Mevrouw Doelsma considered this advice and said, ‘Yes, do that, Anny. Please tell him that Sister MacFergus is leaving tomorrow evening from Schipol. He could telephone here if he wishes.’ She paused. ‘You are sure you can get him, aren’t you, Anny?’
Anny was sure. ‘I can contact the head porter, madam, and he will see that Master Paul gets your message when he arrives.’ Mevrouw Doelsma rang off, satisfied.
The doctor arrived in good time to give his lecture. He had, during the course of a wakeful night, decided to leave Munich as soon as was decently possible. There was a dinner that evening which he should attend. He would take an early morning flight to Schipol, telephone Pratt to bring the car to the airport, and go straight to Oudehof. He had to see Maggy.
He went thoughtfully through the imposing doors and looked up, vaguely irritated, as the porter called him by name, and then ran out from his little lodge in the entrance hall. Paul listened to Anny’s message without comment, grey eyes staring at the man from a white face. He thanked him politely, asked him to dial a number at Oudehof, just after ten o’clock, when his first lecture would be over, and strode on to the lecture hall, where, with an iron self-control which did not allow of his thoughts straying to Maggy, he delivered one of the best lectures he had ever given.
He was in the consultants’ room, talking quietly with a group of doctors, when his call came through. He took it in a quiet corner of the room, away from the others.
Pratt’s voice came, clear and rather thin, over the wire. ‘Mr Paul? I’ll fetch Madam at once.’
The doctor said quietly, ‘Wait, Pratt. Please find Sister MacFergus, and ask her to speak to me, and send someone to ask my mother to come to the telephone meanwhile. Hurry, will you? I have only a few minutes.’
He sat patiently until he heard his mother’s voice.
‘Paul? They’re looking for Maggy. She’s leaving just after lunch, and catching the eight o’clock plane. I—I tried to stop her, dear.’
‘Don’t worry, Mother; I’m sure you did all you could.’
‘Yes, I did, Paul. But when Maggy told me that you’d already said goodbye and that you would understand why she was going, there wasn’t much I could say.’
‘No, of course not, dearest.’ He spoke slowly, looking at the wall in front of him, remembering Maggy’s soft lips under his.
‘Pratt’s here,’ his mother told him. ‘No one can find Maggy. Perhaps she is out.’ She sounded doubtful.
The doctor looked at the clock on the wall before him. He had less than three minutes before the next lecture; the room was emptying already. He spoke unhurriedly.
‘Mother, will you tell Maggy to wait in the reception hall at Schipol. I’ll try and get a seat on the early evening plane from here. I believe it gets in thirty minutes before her flight leaves—No, that’s not enough time; ask her to transfer to the ten o’clock flight.’
He said goodbye, hung up and went back to the lecture hall; pausing at the lodge to tell the porter to get him a seat on the plane leaving Munich just before five o’clock that afternoon.
Maggy hated saying goodbye; it was with a feeling almost of relief that she saw the last of Oudehof as Pratt drove through the gates on to the main road and turned the car towards the Afsluitdijk. It was, he declared, the quickest way to the airport, even if not the prettiest. It was a sad, grey day, and Maggy’s face reflected the sadness. Pratt, a kindly man, did his best to maintain a cheerful conversation, and Maggy realising it, answered him civilly in an unhappy voice, telling herself that none of it was true, and that presently she would wake up and find herself back in her bedroom at Oudehof.
They got to Schiphol with almost an hour to spare. Pratt shepherded her past authority, found her a seat in the reception hall, and wished her a reluctant farewell, adding the fervent hope that they would all be seeing her again before very long. She shook his hand and laughed a little and said,
‘I think that is most unlikely, Pratt, but I shall remember these few weeks all my life, and Mrs Pratt’s and your kind help to me.’
She watched his elderly back disappearing through the door, and felt suddenly very lonely. He was her last link with Paul. She looked at her watch; she had almost half an hour before her plane left; the doctor’s flight was due in fifteen minutes. Not very long for her to decide how to avoid him. When Mevrouw Doelsma had given her his message, she had realised at once that she must not see him again. She had heard Pratt and Mrs Pratt calling to her that morning because the doctor was on the phone and wanted to speak to her, and she had stayed quiet in the stable with Cobber, longing to go. She had no idea what he would or what he could want to say to her; only she wanted to hear his voice, just once more.
Now she looked around her. There were a great many people milling around—late holidaymakers; business men; a small group of nuns, even a party of uniformed school-girls in charge of a harassed teacher. Maggy walked slowly towards them, wishing that it was time to board the plane. The temptation to go to the desk and get a transfer to the later plane was very strong, but she fought it back; there was no point in seeing Paul again. She looked nervously at the clock, then at her watch, and saw with a kind of despair that it wanted a minute to the half-hour. There was a plane circling to land—it touched down as she watched from the window; that would be Paul’s plane. She would be gone by the time he had cleared Customs and reached the departure hall.
In sudden panic she visualised him finding her before she could get away, and turned to see the long straggling queue, already spilling back into the hall from the pier leading to her gate. The hall seemed very empty. If she took her place at the back of the queue now, he would be sure to see her; she had her wretched size to thank for that certainty. She looked at the clock again; ten minutes had gone by, but the obedient crocodile was still standing patiently, waiting for the gate to open. The
re had been a delay perhaps, some small hitch; just enough to spoil her careful, unhappy planning. She wasted precious seconds, imagining Paul coming through the doors at the far end of the hall, and seeing her—and saying what? She only had to stay where she was to find out…
Maggy turned with a resolution she was far from feeling. She had to get to the head of the queue; she could see the gate at the far end of the pier. It was still shut, almost obscured by a bevy of navy blue school hats. She began to weave her way through the waiting passengers—a slow business with frequent pauses while she explained that she was travelling with the school party in front. She reached her goal at last, and smiled with such friendliness and relief at the schoolteacher that the worried little woman imagined that she must be someone she had met at some time, and smiled back and even made a remark about the delay, so that those in the queue behind who suspected Maggy of jumping the line decided that they had been mistaken after all. The man at the gate shared their views too, and told Maggy cheerfully that the girls would soon be safely on board—the delay wouldn’t last more than another ten minutes or so.
Maggy stood very still, not daring to turn around, realising sickeningly that by some stroke of fate she stood head and shoulders above her immediate neighbours. It was five past eight when the gate opened, and the first reluctant schoolgirl went through. Maggy looked back. Paul was approaching the pier; he looked immense and confident, and rather arrogant, even at that distance. He looked at her over the heads of the people between them. Their eyes met for a long moment before she turned quickly, showed her ticket, and walked as fast as possible to the waiting plane.
Paul watched the big KLM plane glide down the runway and waited until it was a speck in the grey, darkening sky, before he made his way to a telephone booth and rang Pratt. Having done this, he went and sat down, outwardly composed and patient, waiting for him to bring the Rolls back to the airport.
He replied to Pratt’s greeting with a brief grunt, then took the wheel himself and drove the short distance to Leiden at a speed which left his faithful friend and servant speechless. His house reached, Paul left Pratt to put the car away and went indoors, throwing his coat and gloves on to a chair as he strode through the hall to his study. A few minutes later, Pratt, on his way to the kitchen, was arrested by his master’s imperative voice demanding his presence, and made haste to answer the summons. The doctor was at his desk, unlocking a drawer.
‘Pratt, I shall want the car to take to England on tomorrow night’s Hoek boat. See about tickets and all the necessary papers, will you? Telephone Mijnheer Felman at his house and ask him to arrange it, and get that man—what was his name—to see to the insurance.’
‘The name is Mulder, sir. Shall I collect them for you tomorrow?’
Pratt was already dialling a number. Dr Doelsma put his passport in his pocket and walked across to the wall safe concealed behind a small picture on it. He selected a key from the bunch in his hand, and opened the safe door, felt around inside and withdrew a small leather bag, which he transferred to a pocket; it took him a little longer to find a small leather-covered case. He opened it, and stood looking at the magnificent sapphire and diamond ring, before closing it, and transferring it likewise to the same pocket. He stood deep in thought until Pratt had finished telephoning, then said,
‘Will you get hold of the Customs people first thing in the morning? I want to take the Van Beijnen pearls and a ring to England. They will be brought back within a few days. Arrange it, will you, Pratt? I’ll let you have their description, and leave you a blank cheque.’
Pratt inclined his head. ‘I’ll see to it, sir. Mijnheer Mulder will have everything ready by about three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
The doctor had seated himself at his desk, and was checking his appointments book. ‘I shall want Anny to pack a few things, too,’ he said.
‘For how long will you be gone, sir?’
The doctor met Pratt’s fatherly eye with his own grey ones, and said blandly, ‘That depends entirely upon Miss MacFergus. I daresay I shall telephone you within a day or so.’
Pratt allowed his elderly features to break into a smile. ‘Just so, sir,’ he said in a satisfied voice. Paul looked up from his desk again.
‘Don’t go, Pratt. Do I not have an uncle who has a slight acquaintance with the Archbishop of Canterbury?’
Pratt, who knew the doctor’s family history as well as he did himself, had only to think for a moment.
‘Indeed you have, sir. Your Great-Uncle Bartholomew on your mother’s side. He is, if you remember, a Bishop, and must, I feel sure, carry some weight in ecclesiastical circles. I gather it is a special marriage licence you have in mind, sir?’
Dr Doelsma leaned back and surveyed the older man with twinkling eyes. His earlier rage had entirely disappeared.
‘You gather correctly, Pratt, as always. How long will it take?’
‘I suggest you telephone the Bishop now, sir. He should be able to expedite the matter.’
The doctor got up. ‘Get him for me, will you, Pratt? I shall be in the kitchen; I want a word with Anny.’
Anny was sitting in her easy chair by the Aga, reading a magazine. She put it down as Paul entered the room, and started to get up, but he pushed her back with a gentle hand, helped himself to a slice of cake from the kitchen table, and drew up a chair to sit by her.
The housekeeper looked at him severely. ‘What about your dinner, Mr Paul? Done to a turn when you got in, and you went straight to the study.’
He looked rather blankly at her. ‘I forgot, Anny.’ He munched his cake.
‘So you missed Miss Maggy, sir.’
He reached for another piece of cake. ‘Yes, Anny, I did. But not, I fancy, through any fault of mine. I shall be going over to England tomorrow. Can I leave you to see that the master bedroom is prepared for our return?’
Anny settled her glasses more firmly on her nose, ‘It’ll be a real pleasure, Master Paul…’
She was interrupted by the telephone and Paul went to answer it. It was Uncle Bartholomew, who wasted several minutes discussing his arthritis, but once Paul had explained what he wanted became extremely businesslike. Paul put down the receiver at length, to encounter Anny’s eyes, round with excitement.
‘Do you know where Sister MacFergus is, sir?’ she asked.
He stood up. ‘No, Anny. I don’t, but if I have the licence, we can marry wherever we meet.’ He waved an airy hand, and disappeared, leaving her with her unopened magazine on her lap; her thoughts were far more interesting.
It took most of the evening to arrange for clinics and lectures to be taken by colleagues—his own patients he persuaded Dr Bennink to take over for a few days. He would have to make time to go to the hospital in the morning, before he went to Oudehof to see his mother. It was quite late when he sat down to a supper insisted upon by Anny; he sat over it a long time, thinking about Maggy.
St Ethelburga’s looked grey and rather grim as Paul drew up on the courtyard the following afternoon. He got out of the car and went inside, and old George, recognising him at once, said, ‘There’s a letter for you, sir. Is it Sir Charles Warren you wanted to see?’
Paul asked if he might have a few minutes of the Matron’s time, and while George was ringing her office, examined the entirely satisfactory contents of the envelope. Great-Uncle Bartholomew had certainly lost no time.
If Matron was surprised to see the doctor, she showed no sign of it, and it was only after a few minutes of polite conversation that she enquired if she could do anything for him. Paul shifted his bulk cautiously on the small chair. ‘I should like to see Sister MacFergus, if that is possible, Matron.’
She looked faintly surprised. ‘But Sister only returned from Holland the day before yesterday.’
Her tone implied that he had had ample opportunity to see her there should he have wished. ‘She was due some leave, and she didn’t look at all her usual self. I need her badly here, but I advised her to go to her
home for a week or two.’
‘May I have her address?’ he asked abruptly.
Matron hesitated. ‘I suppose so. Sister MacFergus made no mention of you coming…’
‘I don’t suppose she did,’ he answered easily. ‘She didn’t know.’
‘If I don’t give it to you, Dr Doelsma, I suppose you will find someone who will—’
‘Most certainly I shall, Matron.’ He smiled charmingly at her.
‘Very well. Her parents live in the factor’s house on Aultostish estate in Inverness-shire—her father is factor to the laird.’ She added dryly, ‘It’s about six hundred miles from here.’
He stood up. ‘Fortunately I brought the car over with me. Thank you for your help, Matron. Before I go, might I visit Mrs Salt for a moment? There is something I must tell her.’
Matron nodded dumbly, wondering what on earth he could have to say to old Mrs Salt on Women’s Medical. ‘Can you find the way, or shall I get a porter?’
Paul held out his hand. ‘I’ll find my own way; and thank you again.’
Mrs Salt didn’t seem very surprised to see him. She waited until he was standing by the bed and then said, “Ullo. I thought yer’d be ’ere. Sister came to see me. Wot yer done to ’er? She don’t look ’erself no more.’ She frowned fiercely at him.
He sat down beside her and said gently, ‘I’m not quite sure, Mrs Salt, but whatever it was it wasn’t intentional. I’m on my way to see her now.’
‘Ho, are yer?’ The old lady spoke belligerently.
Paul ignored her cross tone, but went on, ‘We shall both be here for your birthday.’
‘Are yer goin’ ter marry ’er?’ Mrs Salt smiled for the first time.
He got up. ‘Yes, Mrs Salt, before your birthday. Goodbye.’ He enchanted her by lifting one of her bony hands and kissing it.
