At the End of the Day

by Betty Neels

  ‘Have you had all your holidays for the year?’ His question was so casual that she answered it promptly. ‘Heavens no. We get six weeks you know; I’ve two more to come and several odd days owing to me.’

  ‘Something to look forward to. You take them when you like I suppose?’

  ‘Oh yes, although we have to fit in with whoever is to take over. Pat and I never have any trouble, she’s a splendid help to me.’

  ‘Do you travel?’ He was still casual, making conversation she supposed.

  ‘Almost never. I like to go home. Does that sound dull?’

  ‘Not in the least; I like to go home too. By that I mean Holland…’

  ‘I forget that you are Dutch. When you marry, will you live there?’

  ‘Later on, perhaps.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘My future plans are just the same as yours, Julia, undecided.’

  He swung the car into her street and drew up smoothly before the house. He got out, opened her door and reached into the back for Wellington’s basket, carried it into the entrance hall and stood looking down at her. ‘Well, I’ll say good night, Julia. On Tuesday it will be “Good morning, Sister Mitchell”.’

  ‘Like being two people,’ said Julia. ‘It’s a pity…’ She stopped and then went on, ‘Thank you for the lift. It was a nice weekend.’

  ‘Delightful. We hardly had a cross word.’

  He was staring at her and she studied his face carefully, suddenly wishful of learning every line of it. Not so young, perhaps, but still good looks to be reckoned with—indeed, he would never lose them, however old he was. When he wasn’t being peppery he was one of the nicest people she had ever known. That didn’t include Nigel, of course, she added hastily to herself, she mustn’t forget Nigel.

  She said hesitantly, ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ and then blushed when he refused. She had been silly to ask him; she was already Sister Mitchell again and he was Professor van der Wagema, who would doubtless be in a filthy temper on Tuesday and whose mind must be entirely taken up with thoughts of his future wife. Suddenly she wished with all her heart that he was Lauris again and not the professor. Her thoughts, sadly muddled, became chaotic, Nigel dwindled into a tiny cardboard figure in another world and the professor loomed larger than life. It wouldn’t do at all. She said urgently: ‘Oh, dear whatever shall I do?’ and snatched up Wellington in his basket and flew upstairs without another word.

  The professor watched her go, smiling to himself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN HER FLAT, Julia let an impatient Wellington out of his basket, gave him his supper and put the kettle on; a cup of tea might soothe her back to normal. But it needed more than that; how did one smother a sudden fierce onrush of feelings with tea? And had she gone stark raving mad? Wasn’t she engaged to Nigel and hadn’t she been in love with him for at least two years?

  She let her tea grow cold while she sat down to think it out. Perhaps she had been in love with him to begin with; she was still fond of him but all the glamour and excitement had gone a long time ago, only she had never admitted it. And now Professor van der Wagema had taken over; she had been in love with him for quite a time, she realised now, but hadn’t known it and the awful thing was that he regarded her as he always had done, a ward sister who carried out his wishes meticulously and who argued with him when she saw fit to do so. His recent friendliness she put down to his forthcoming marriage; love must have softened him.

  She drank tepid tea; it was a situation she would have to face up to. The professor must never find out, for a start, but he wasn’t likely to; when he wasn’t totally absorbed in his work, he would be totally absorbed in his wife, and Nicholas, of course. She hoped fleetingly that the boy would be happy; he had had his father to himself for a long time. And how about Nigel—she would have to talk to him, explain, if she could, make him understand although she shrank from telling him the truth, at least a good part of it. She was fond of him and it would hurt his pride needlessly if she told him that she had fallen in love with someone else. That was something she would have to keep to herself.

  She got ready for bed and then lay in the dark with Wellington curled up against her. She had been buoyed up with high-minded resolutions, but now all she felt was misery. It was unthinkable to marry Nigel now; a future with no purpose was just as unthinkable but it was something she would have to get used to. She would start at once by closing her eyes and going to sleep.

  She slept but she awakened early, and since lying in bed and thinking was of no use, she got up, had an early breakfast, tidied her room, attended to Wellington’s wants, went shopping and then walked the long way round to the hospital. She started up the stairs, going slowly, reluctant to start the day. At least, she told herself, the professor had no round until the next day which would give her time to pull herself together.

  He was there, at the top to the staircase and she paled a little when she saw him. His genial, ‘Well, well, Sister Mitchell, I must applaud your zeal; last time we met you were almost, but not quite, late,’ did nothing to improve the situation.

  She looked at him so wildly that he said in a quite different voice. ‘Are you ill, Julia?’ and took a step towards her, but she flew past him without answering, only to find him right by her, holding the ward doors open, an arm on hers, leading her willy-nilly to her office.

  He pushed her gently into her chair and closed the door and then stood in front of it, his great arms folded against his massive chest.

  ‘Well?’ he asked.

  She studied the desk before her; the night nurses report book, the off duty, the pile of forms ready for her to make out and sign. She would have to answer him, he wasn’t a man to be fobbed off with fairy tales. She took a breath: ‘I’m quite well, thank you, Professor. I’m a little tired, that’s all.’ She kept her eyes on his waistcoat and her voice steady.

  ‘Lying awake thinking about Longman?’ His voice was dry.

  She nodded. ‘Yes. I can’t—that is, I don’t think it would work out—him and me getting married. And I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ declared the professor and left the door to sit on a corner of her desk. ‘Let’s have it, otherwise you’re going to muddle through the day and get into a fine pickle. Does he know?’

  ‘Of course not—I only made up my mind during the night.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to tell him, won’t you? When do you have your next day off?’

  ‘At the end of the week. That’s a silly question just when I’m trying to explain…’

  ‘Not at all silly, when you know me better you will find out that I don’t ask silly questions. I have to go to Bristol on Friday, you can come with me and see him. Perhaps you can work out something between you—it may not be as bad as you think.’

  She said stubbornly, ‘I shan’t change my mind.’

  ‘A woman’s privilege, at least give him a chance. Things are always worse at night.’

  She glanced at him briefly; he looked kind and encouraging and he really wanted to put things right. The irony of it struck her so forcibly that she wanted to laugh. Instead she said soberly, ‘Thank you, it’s kind of you to want to help. I’ll come with you if I may and talk to Nigel.’

  He was looking austere again; perhaps he was already regretting his offer. ‘That’s if you really are going?’ she added uncertainly.

  ‘I’m going. We’ll have to leave early—eight o’clock? I’ll be at the front entrance.’ He got off the desk, and turned on his heel and went out of the office.

  She got through the day. It was a good thing that they were busy, with patients being discharged and others being admitted and a more than usual number going to X-Ray and Physiotherapy, not to mention the few trouble makers complaining bitterly about anything and everything they could dream up, and hindering the nurses from getting on with the routine chores around the ward. She went off duty in the evening and hurried back to a welcoming Wellington and the prospect of a solitary evening. The
re was always the chance that Nigel would ‘phone, of course, although she didn’t expect him too. All the same, she cooked her supper with one ear listening for Mrs Humbert, who lived on the ground floor, nearest the ‘phone box, to bellow up the stairs to her. But nothing happened; she washed her stockings and her hair and went early to bed.

  The professor came to do his round exactly on time, presenting a calm, austere front to those around him. His ‘Good morning, Sister Mitchell’ was uttered in brisk, impersonal accents so that she found herself wondering which was the real man, this impersonal, polite rather learned man, or Lauris, the satisfying companion she had grown to love.

  But if he could be brisk so could she. The round was conducted in an atmosphere of efficient and unhurried calm and the subsequent coffee drinking done to the accompaniment of small talk. She saw him go with relief even while she longed for him so much to stay. He was exactly the same when he did his second round on Thursday, and he made no mention of the following morning’s journey. She found it difficult to remain cool and calm for the rest of the day, which seemed twice as long as usual, but finally she went off duty, arranged with Mrs Humbert to feed Wellington while she was away the next day, put everything ready for the morning, and did the ironing, watching the television with one eye and trying not to think. There had been no word from Nigel and she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, but even if he wrote or ‘phoned she wasn’t going to change her mind.

  It was a chilly morning, she fed Wellington, handed the key to Mrs Humbert, and wearing the new tweed suit she had bought on her last shopping expedition to Regent Street, walked quickly to the hospital, wondering as she went why the professor hadn’t offered to pick her up from her flat.

  The Rolls was there and he was at the wheel. He got out when he saw her coming, and opened her door with a quiet good morning and got back in beside her.

  ‘If you’re wondering why I didn’t come to fetch you I had to see a patient in the private wing before he goes home today. Did you have breakfast?’

  ‘Yes—no, that is, a cup of tea and a biscuit.’

  ‘We’ll stop on the way. There’s a place at Sonning, we can turn off just before Reading and get back on to the M4 easily enough.’ He added: ‘You’ll fight better on a full stomach.’

  ‘I have no intention of fighting,’ said Julia haughtily.

  ‘You’re a little fool if you don’t—it’s your future, isn’t it worth fighting for?’

  Unanswerable without giving herself away. She mumbled something and looked out of the window.

  ‘That’s a pretty outfit—very fetching, but then it’s an occasion, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re doing it deliberately, aren’t you? Needling me?’

  ‘Yes, otherwise you’ll lapse into apathy and make no attempt to solve your problems.’

  ‘Supposing I can’t see him?’

  ‘My dear girl, even the busiest of surgeons has to stop for a bite to eat, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy a snack with him. After all it doesn’t take long to clear the air one way or the other.’

  She sat silent then, rehearsing what she was going to say, distracted from a variety of suitable speeches by his calm, solid bulk beside her. She couldn’t turn to look at him, of course, but she could watch his large, well kept hands on the wheel; far more satisfying than trying to think what to say to Nigel. She felt mean about Nigel, although she had a sneaking feeling that when he got over the shock he might be relieved. He would be able to forge ahead with his career without having to worry about supporting a wife and children. And his parents would be pleased, she was sure of that. She looked away and really tried to compose a soothing speech which wouldn’t hurt Nigel’s feelings. It was a relief when the professor swept the Rolls off the motorway and presently stopped before the White Hart where they ate a splendid breakfast before driving on again.

  They were threading their way through Bristol’s busy streets by half past ten and a few minutes later the professor parked the Rolls in the hospital’s courtyard. For a moment he sat quiet, then he undid his seat belt, stretched out a hand and did the same for her: ‘Well,’ he said, ‘here we are.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you—it was a lovely drive. Should I go to the porter’s lodge, do you think?’

  ‘You’ll come with me.’

  He got out of the car and went round to her door and gave her a hand. It felt cool and firm and reassuring; it would have been nice if she could have hung on to it; it might stop her confidence from oozing out of the soles of her best shoes. They walked side by side through the massive door and across an imposing stretch of marbled floor to the porter’s lodge.

  She couldn’t hear what the professor was saying for his back took up the whole of the little opening through which one addressed the porter inside, but presently he turned to face her. ‘You’re lucky; Longman isn’t operating until two o’clock. He’s doing a round at the moment but will be free in about an hour. We’ll have coffee.’

  He took her arm and hurried her outside again while she protested: ‘But what about you? You had an appointment…’

  ‘Midday—a working lunch.’

  ‘Oh—but how do you know about Nigel? Did you speak to him on the ‘phone?’

  ‘No, the porter has the theatre timetable in his Lodge and the ward sister of the Surgical Ward where he is at present, rang down to say that he was there. All I did was to leave a message asking him to come to the visitors’ waiting room when he was free. I am assured by the porter that we can reckon on an hour before he will finish.’

  ‘But oughtn’t I just to wait here? Supposing he’s early and I’m not back?’

  She was being walked inexorably out of the courtyard and into the street beyond. ‘There’s a coffee shop close by.’ The professor sounded positively soothing.

  She drank her coffee obediently, listening to the professor’s casual conversation, knowing that he didn’t expect her to take much part in it. Despite herself, her eyes flew to the clock every few minutes and when he suggested that she should go and do something to her face, she almost leapt from her chair. ‘Do I look awful?’

  He studied her gravely. ‘No, you look very pretty, but a little pale. You’ll do very well.’

  Thus encouraged, she peered in the enormous mirror in the powder room and decided that however awful she felt inside, she looked much as usual. And Lauris had called her very pretty. She savoured that for a moment before reminding herself that he was being kind, nothing more.

  The waiting room was totally neutral; off white walls with very modern prints, steel chairs with canvas seats, a conventional round table in the centre, its glass top neatly patterned with last year’s magazines, green-patterned curtains at the windows. Why, wondered Julia, sitting uneasily, did hospital authorities go nap on green?

  She had insisted on going back to the hospital at least ten minutes too soon and the professor hadn’t argued with her, but wordlessly escorted her the short distance from the coffee shop, ushered her in to the waiting room, told her briefly that he would be in the Rolls at two o’clock, and gone away.

  ‘He might have given me just one word of encouragement,’ said Julia to the empty room. The one consolation was that if he had said two o’clock, he had meant it. Her mind was empty; all the careful speeches she had been rehearsing had melted into thin air, but somehow that didn’t matter any more; words would come when she saw Nigel.

  He came ten minutes later, stopping on the threshold in utter astonishment.

  ‘My dear Julia, the last person I expected to see.’ He crossed the room to where she stood. ‘Have you come after that job? I heard it was being advertised, though I should warn you that there are at least two of the junior sisters who are after it; it would be better if you waited until those two posts come vacant next summer…’

  He kissed her. ‘Well, what’s the matter? Did you come by train?’ He frowned slightly. ‘I can’t think why you came—I did say I’d write.’

  ‘S
o you did, you said you’d ‘phone too,’ she reminded him gently. ‘I dare say you’ve been very busy.’

  ‘Oh I have—you’ve no idea; I can see that I’m not going to have much time to myself, but it’s a splendid job and it’ll lead to other things, too.’ He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘It may be better if we don’t marry in too much of a hurry, Julia; I’ll have to put my back into the work here and it’ll take up all my time…’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Nigel, I’ve been thinking all this week. I believe that we should call the whole thing off—us, I mean, getting married. Perhaps if I were ten years younger, I’d wait, but I’m thirty and I need to decide my future too, you know. I think—I’m sure—I want to stick to my career; there are several good jobs I could go after. If you were willing to marry now perhaps I’d change my mind, but it would be a great hindrance to you—to your career. So may we part the best of friends and no hard feelings?’

  He said sharply, ‘You’re throwing me over? Just like that? I had no idea that you were so ambitious. I thought you loved me…’

  ‘I’m very fond of you, Nigel, and I did love you, truly I do think I did, only we’ve gone on too long, haven’t we? If you’ll be honest, you’ll admit that.’ She achieved a smile of sorts. ‘Carve yourself a career for a couple of years and then find a nice girl—a nice young girl.’ She added quietly: ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘You mean it’s better for both of us—’ He sounded relieved to have been given a loophole. ‘Funny you should say that—Mother said the same thing when I was home. You think it’s the right thing to do?’

  She nodded, fighting the tears. Surely he could have shown a little regret? Hadn’t he loved her either? Or had he, like her, lost that love during the last year? She should be thankful, she mused, that he was taking it so well; it would have been nice if she could have told him about the professor but the idea was absurd; it was a secret she would have to keep to herself for ever.