by Betty Neels
It was raining on Sunday when she got up. It continued to rain throughout the morning and Constantia was on edge throughout lunch, expecting Mrs Dowling to tell her that she might as well have her half day at some other time so that she could go out. But fortunately she was too occupied in deciding whom she should invite to a small evening party she intended giving, and Constantia, clad in a sensible raincoat and with a scarf over her hair, made her escape.
The weather, it seemed, made no difference to the doctor and his small relations; the party set out for the promised walk, suitably clad and apparently not caring about rain and wind. The dogs came too, Sheba and Solly at their master’s heels, and Prince, looking quite ridiculous with his head poked through a hole in a plastic cape, cradled in the doctor’s arms. ‘Couldn’t leave him alone,’ he pointed out, ‘and there’s a quiet patch of grass where he can walk around for a minute or two.’
The children and the Alsatians skipped and ran around them while the doctor and Constantia walked more soberly, Prince walking gingerly beside them before being returned to the crook of the doctor’s vast arm. And all the while they talked; trying to remember later, Constantia had difficulty in remembering exactly what they had talked about. Nothing much, she supposed. All the same, when they turned for home she was surprised to find that the afternoon was rapidly sliding into dusk.
They had tea in the kitchen again, a generous spread to which they all did full justice, with Constantia wielding the teapot while they worked their way through sandwiches and cake and ontbijtkeok and appel gebak. They played Monopoly again when they had washed up, sitting on the splendid rugs in the sitting room, and Constantia, quite carried away at winning mythical thousands and then losing it all again, made just as much noise as the children. And presently she went to the kitchen, where she felt quite at home by now, and made cocoa for the children before they went to their beds.
They slept on the second floor, in what was obviously the nursery wing, with a playroom from which a number of bedrooms led. It was all very cosy and as Elisabeth assured her, they could summon their uncle at once by the house telephone in the boys’ room. Constantia wondered uneasily what happened when the doctor had to go out at night—did he leave the children alone?—perhaps Rietje slept in when he was on call for the hospital or expected a night case.
She broached the subject when she went back downstairs and the doctor, after only the tiniest pause, said easily: ‘Oh, Rietje is very good about sleeping here,’ and went on to tell her about an interesting case he had had during the week, so that she dismissed the matter without another thought.
The unseen Rietje had certainly done them proud for their supper. Constantia, accompanying the doctor down to the kitchen, laid the table while he fetched the food. There was soup ready on the stove and a mouth-watering quiche in the oven, and asparagus and potato straws, as well as a fresh fruit salad and cream for afters.
‘Whenever did she do all this?’ asked Constantia, ‘and how did she manage to keep it just exactly right for us to eat?’
‘It was no trouble to warm up while you were upstairs with Elisabeth,’ he told her placidly. ‘Would you like a sherry first?’
The kitchen was warm; its dark oak fitments reflecting the flames in the opened front of the Aga stove. The doctor had produced a bottle of Liebfraumilch to go with the food, and Constantia, inured to Mrs Dowling’s somewhat restricted diet, enjoyed herself. They didn’t hurry, there was no need, but talked as they ate although the doctor hadn’t much to tell her about himself; indeed, by the end of the meal she came to the conclusion that she knew no more about him than on the day they had met. She was on the point of saying so when the telephone rang and in answer to her questioning look, he said: ‘I switched it through when we came downstairs—you’ll excuse me?’
He went over to where it hung on the wall and stood listening, frowning a little, and presently began to speak to someone on the other end. He sounded brisk and very sure of himself, and Constantia wondered just what post he held at the hospital—something senior, she felt, judging from the assurance in his voice.
He rang off presently and came back to the table, saying pleasantly, ‘One of my cases in hospital—not desperate, though.’
All the same she said instantly, ‘You want to go— I’ll go back to Mrs Dowling.’ She was actually out of her chair when he pushed her gently back into it.
‘What a splendid girl you are—not so much as a pout or frown. Yes, I’ll have to go, but I shan’t be gone long. Would you stay here—the children, you know—’ and when she nodded, ‘we can have coffee when I get back. Go and curl up by the sitting room fire.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll telephone if anything turns up.’ He had gone without fuss; the door shut quietly behind him.
Constantia washed up then and left the kitchen tidy, and laid the breakfast table. The coffee tray had been left ready and the coffee was on the Aga. She paused to admire the massive silver coffee pot on the tray and the matching cream jug and sugar bowl; they were old and beautifully polished, and she wondered again who found the time to keep everything so exquisitely. Presently she wandered upstairs and sat down before the fire, a magazine open beside her, not reading it. She wondered if the doctor had lived in the house for a long time; perhaps it had been lent to him for the rest of his life, or perhaps he would inherit it from the old relation who owned it. She was ruminating over these possibilities when he returned, coming unhurriedly into the room.
‘Don’t get up,’ he told her, ‘I’ll fetch the coffee. Have the children been all right?’
‘I crept up to see—they’re all asleep. Was everything OK at the hospital?’
He nodded. ‘Yes—I’ve an excellent Registrar.’ He saw her surprise. ‘I have a few beds there—nothing like as many as Doctor Sperling.’
He went away and came back almost immediately with the coffee and set it on a little table near the fire, and then went to sit in his great winged chair on the other side of the hearth. Constantia felt that she had never been so content, but presently, and with reluctance, she told him that she must go back, and despite her protestations he went with her. The children would be all right for ten minutes, he assured her, and besides, he had warned Pieter that he would be taking her home some time during the evening.
They walked quickly through the quiet streets, too short a walk, thought Constantia, chattering away happily, telling her companion how much she had enjoyed her walk and the lovely supper and pausing in this to beg him to observe what a lovely night it was after the rain. The doctor strode along beside her, not saying much, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter; she could feel his friendliness although they were walking apart.
Nel had lent her a latchkey and he took it from her to open the street door and then put it back into her hand But he didn’t let her hand go, he held it fast in his own large one so that she looked up at him enquiringly. ‘I’m glad you liked being with us, Constantia. We—I liked having you. Will you come again? When do you have your next half day?’
‘I don’t know… Mrs Dowling doesn’t always tell me.’
‘Then I’ll telephone each day until she does.’ He smiled at her and then bent and kissed her gently on her cheek. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, and opened the door for her.
The kiss had surprised her, but of course everybody kissed these days, she told herself as she trod softly up to her room. She was undressed and in her dressing gown when she remembered that she had to take the key back to Nel who, when Constantia had her half days, was supposed to stay awake until she got in. The maid was already asleep, so Constantia laid the key on the bedside table and crept down to Mrs Dowling’s room and peeped round the half open door. Her patient was sleeping a nice healthy sleep; she sighed with relief and went at last to her own bed.
Doctor van der Giessen telephoned just as he said he would, and as luck would have it it was Mrs Dowling who answered it, for the telephone was by her chair so that she could use it without bothering to move out of it. Con
stantia, in the kitchen frowning over calories for lunch, heard her patient’s strident voice and belted upstairs, her mind already dealing with the treatment of insulin comas, to be met with Mrs Dowling’s mocking: ‘Your boyfriend, Nurse—and you can tell him from me that he can stop telephoning you at my house.’
Constantia didn’t answer but picked up the receiver, and Doctor van der Giessen’s placid voice observed: ‘I’ve set the cat among the pigeons, haven’t I? When is your half day?’
‘I don’t know.’ She was very conscious of Mrs Dowling’s beady eye on her back.
‘Then ask—now.’ The voice was still placid, but it obviously expected obedience.
So Constantia turned round and asked and Mrs Dowling said nastily: ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I should like to make some arrangements of my own, Mrs Dowling.’
‘I haven’t decided.’
Constantia’s patience was wearing thin—she wasn’t quick-tempered, but now she felt rage boiling around inside her. ‘I must remind you that I am entitled to two full days off a week, Mrs Dowling. Because of your dislike of being left alone until you were stabilised, I’ve not insisted on them. I think that I have every right to know on which days I may have my quite inadequate half days.’
Mrs Dowling’s eyes glittered with temper. Constantia watched her struggling to suppress it and waited calmly.
‘Well,’ burst out that lady finally, ‘I’ve never heard anything like it!’ She caught Constantia’s eyes fixed on her and ended lamely: ‘Oh, well, have it your own way. You can have Tuesday.’
‘And the second half day?’ prompted Constantia.
‘Saturday, I suppose.’ She glared furiously. ‘You wait…’ she began, but Constantia wasn’t listening. She was saying happily into the receiver: ‘Tuesday and Saturday.’
‘Good. I’ve visits on Tuesday, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t come with me in the car, is there? We’ll be back in time to give the children their tea.’
Mrs Dowling had a good deal to say about it, of course; little spiteful remarks about doctors and nurses and girls on their own making the most of their chances, but Constantia didn’t listen. It wasn’t like that at all; Mrs Dowling had got it all wrong. There was such a thing as friendship and there was nothing cheap about that.
On Tuesday, sitting beside the doctor in his car, she told Doctor van der Giessen all about it. ‘I’m sorry for the poor soul,’ declared Constantia, ‘she hasn’t any friends—not like you and me, I mean. Only people who come and play bridge and talk about each other behind their backs.’
The doctor agreed gravely, his eyes on the road ahead of him. ‘And have you many friends in England, Constantia?’ he wanted to know.
She thought about it before she answered. ‘Oh, yes, but I don’t think I could ask any of them to do something without even bothering to think if they would.’ She frowned because she hadn’t put it very well. ‘Do you see?’ she added.
‘I see. I hope you haven’t added me to their numbers? I can promise you that I would—er—do anything you asked without thinking it over first.’
‘So would I do that for you. Have you a great many friends?’
They were out of the town now, and he turned off the road to drive down a narrow side road between fields. ‘Yes, but I have a large family, you see, and one meets a lot of people…’
She was rather taken aback. ‘Oh—I didn’t know. I suppose I thought that you had a sister and that was all.’
‘My parents are dead, but I have another sister and two brothers, and more cousins and aunts and uncles than I care to remember.’
She said in a sad little voice before she could stop herself: ‘So you don’t really need any more friends.’
He stopped the car with smooth suddenness. ‘Constantia, my family are scattered and there isn’t a friend among my many friends who could fill your place.’
She said with a sudden burst of candour: ‘Mrs Dowling said I was out to get you, but I’m not. She’s a vulgar woman.’ She looked at him as she spoke, determined to be quite honest.
His face was as placid as always, only he was smiling a little. ‘Very vulgar,’ he conceded, ‘and I have never for one moment imagined that you were—er—out to get me.’ He looked away for a moment. ‘I’m surprised at her; did she not warn you that I had no money?’
‘Oh, days ago. As though that matters—I don’t think I’d want to be friends with someone rich. They might think you were making up to them all the time and you’d never be quite sure, would you?’
‘Probably not. I must say you have it in for the rich, haven’t you?’
He was smiling again and Constantia smiled back. ‘Only people like Mrs Dowling. I expect there are a lot of nice rich people about, only one doesn’t meet them.’
He started the car again. ‘Perhaps because the nice ones don’t find it important enough to talk about.’
His voice was silky; she looked at him in surprise. ‘You sound cross—have I said something to vex you?’
They were making good headway on the brick surface of the road. ‘Constantia, I don’t think that you could vex me. But believe me, there are some very worthwhile people around with money, who use it wisely even though it’s more than they need.’
‘Poor things!’ She spoke with heartfelt sympathy. ‘Though I expect if they’re as nice as you say they put it to very good use.’ They had turned in through an open gate into a farmyard. ‘Is this where you have a patient?’
‘Two—measles.’
The afternoon passed swiftly; the visits were for the most part to outlying farms, giving ample opportunity for conversation, and when they got back to the house in Oude Delft the children joined them within a few minutes and the pleasant pattern of tea and card games and bed wove itself into the rest of the day. True, the doctor had surgery after tea, but by the time Constantia and the children had washed up the tea-things and gone to the sitting room for a game of cards, he was able to join them for a rowdy game of Scrabble, played in Dutch for Constantia’s benefit. They had supper together when the children had gone to bed and he took her back to Mrs Dowling’s afterwards, only this time he didn’t kiss her.
Saturday was much the same, only the doctor had no surgery in the evening; they went for a walk in the afternoon and the invisible Rietje had done them proud with cake and sandwiches for tea. They sat round the kitchen table, all talking at once, with the dogs joining in and the cat sitting on Constantia’s lap. Just as home should be, she thought contentedly. She thought it again a couple of hours later when she and the doctor were having their after-supper coffee round the sitting room fire. She would miss it all when she went back to England, but she wasn’t going to spoil the happy present worrying about an unknown future. As they said goodnight outside Mrs Dowling’s front door the doctor said suddenly: ‘We’re old friends now; I find it absurd that you should call me Doctor van der Giessen—my name is Jeroen. Or do you find me too old to call me by my given name?’
‘Old?’ Constantia was quite taken aback. ‘But you’re not old—what an absurd thing to say! Of course I’ll call you Jeroen.’ She gave him her hand. ‘I’ve had a lovely time, thank you.’
He held the door open for her, still holding her hand. ‘I’ll telephone you if I may, if it won’t bore you; we could spend your next half day together.’
She nodded happily, blissfully unaware that there were to be no more half days.
CHAPTER FOUR
SUNDAY SEEMED EMPTY; Constantia missed the children and the dogs, and most of all she missed Jeroen, but she cheered herself up with the thought that she would be seeing them all within a day or two. She bore with Mrs Dowling’s ill humour, her accusations that the injections were painful, the food intolerable, Doctor Sperling neglectful; she was really quite happy. Besides, she was due to be paid in a very short while—she had spent very little of her weekly salary but had tucked it away out of sight. She had been tempted to spend it on several occasions, but s
he hadn’t done so; she might need it to live on when she got back to England, for she could possibly have to wait a little while for the next job.
She spent the day, when she had the chance to be by herself, trying to decide what she would do when she got back to England. If she were careful she would have enough money to take a few days’ holiday, but on the other hand she might miss a good case. A holiday could wait, she considered; after all, she had no one to think of but herself. She sighed at the thought and for once was glad to have her musings interrupted by her patient, who demanded a game of backgammon because she was bored.
Monday began badly, with Mrs Dowling making a fuss about her injection, declaring that she couldn’t possibly eat the breakfast she was offered, and bemoaning a headache.
Constantia sighed silently. Mrs Dowling, having already had her insulin, would come to grief unless she ate her breakfast. She pointed this out with her usual patience, to be told that she was a fool anyway, a remark which she ignored, merely suggesting that it might be a good idea if Mrs Dowling took a brisk walk to get rid of the headache—a forlorn hope, for her patient went out of doors on only the rarest of occasions. And as the morning wore on, the lady’s mood didn’t improve. Doctor Sperling when he came was given the sharp edge of her tongue and got himself away as quickly as he could, agreeing—very basely, Constantia considered—that unless his patient wished to go out, there was no need for her to do so. Which meant that by the afternoon, when she should have had an hour or so to herself, Mrs Dowling roundly averred that she could not be left on any account.
