by Betty Neels
His crisp ‘Busy?’ did nothing to help. She was aware that she didn’t look at her best; a concussion case had taken exception to her attempts to feed him and she was on her way home to change her apron, covered with Horlicks, nicely mingled with the medicine he had thrown at her, her cap crooked and a ladder in her tights where she had slipped against the bed. She frowned quite fiercely at him. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.’
He smiled at her. ‘Beastly stuff, Horlicks,’ he observed mildly. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’
Philomena gathered her reeking apron close and flew past him and down the stairs, reflecting that when they met it was always at the wrong moment. And in her room presently, she made herself take her time, not only replacing the offending apron, but re-doing her hair, powdering her unremarkable nose and changing her tights. Mr Dale was just about due for his round, and it seemed likely that Doctor van der Tacx would accompany him.
It was a pity that her efforts were wasted. There was no sign of him when she got back on to the ward, so she accompanied Sister as she escorted Mr Dale round his beds, behaving in an exemplary fashion so that even Sister Brice could find no fault with her, and when he had at last gone, dished out the patients’ dinners in her usual serene fashion. But her thoughts were by no means serene. All right, let him walk off like that—perhaps he had thought better of offering her the job, perhaps he had met a far more suitable girl while he had been in Edinburgh—the Royal Infirmary was renowned for the quality of its nurses, and Scottish nurses, she brooded darkly, were bonny girls. She laid a spoonful of carrots beside the boiled potatoes and added stew—he hadn’t even asked when she was off duty. She wiped her hands on the towel draped across her clean apron and wondered if he had left a letter for her.
Despising herself for being weak, she actually went along to the letter rack and looked, and of course there was nothing there. She ate her dinner in a morose frame of mind so unlike her usual self that several of her closest friends wanted to know if she were sickening for something.
She had an afternoon off because Sister Brice, disregarding the recommendations of those superior to her, wished to be off duty that evening while at the same time avoiding doing too much work in the morning, so Philomena had gone on duty at seven-thirty until her dinner and was to go back at five o’clock. It was an off-duty which had been frowned upon for some time now and used only when really necessary, but Sister Brice had been at Faith’s a long time now and was a law unto herself. Philomena, muttering darkly, flounced out of the dining room and began the journey over to the nurses’ home, trying to make up her mind whether it was worth changing to go out, or choose the easier course and just sit and read.
The choice was made for her; stationed strategically at the door of the nurses’ home was Doctor van der Tacx, not exactly lying in wait, for he was reading The Times as he lounged against the door and gave no sign of having seen her until she was almost on top of him, when he folded his newspaper neatly, put out a long arm to arrest her progress and remarked placidly: ‘There you are! What a wretched off-duty you have, but better than nothing, I suppose. Slip into something comfortable and we’ll go out.’
She found her voice. ‘I didn’t know…’ she began, and then: ‘I was going to have a quiet afternoon.’
His eyes twinkled down at her. ‘My dear Philomena, have you ever known me anything but quiet?’ He glanced at his wrist. ‘Ten minutes? We can walk in a park and have tea and discuss the details.’
It annoyed her that he had taken it for granted that she was going to take the job; after all, she had said that she would think about it.
‘There’s a great deal I want to know,’ she told him severely.
His instant: ‘But of course, you have an inquisitive nature and naturally you’re brimming over with questions—women always are,’ rather took the wind out of her sails. While she was still thinking of a suitable answer he opened the door and ushered her inside. ‘Ten minutes,’ he reiterated.
It was ridiculous, she told herself as she shed her uniform and got into her new Jaeger short jacket and matching skirt and paused to thank heaven that she had only that week bought a silky sweater in exactly the same shade of green. She tied back her hair, made up her face, thrust her feet into brown calf shoes, found their matching handbag and tore downstairs.
‘And where are you going, Philly?’ asked Shirley Dawes, the acknowledged beauty of the hospital and unfortunately aware of it.
Philomena paused briefly. ‘I haven’t the least idea,’ she said a little breathlessly, ‘but wherever it is, I’m late.’
It was satisfactory to see Shirley’s expression. She would have liked to have told her who was waiting for her downstairs, but ten to one the girl would find some way of getting there first.
The doctor hadn’t moved. ‘You’re punctual,’ he informed her mildly, ‘a splendid augury for your new job.’
She bounced to a halt beside him. ‘You’re taking a lot for granted,’ she said sharply. ‘I haven’t said I’d take the job.’
‘But you’re going to, aren’t you, Philly?’ He sounded so certain that she found herself saying simply:
‘Yes, I am.’
‘We’ll take a taxi to Regent’s Park. It’s the nearest, I believe. There’s a place close by where we can have tea.’
They were walking across the yard which separated the nurses’ home from the hospital. ‘I’m on at five o’clock,’ Philomena told him.
‘Yes, I know—there’s plenty of time.’ He saw her look of enquiry. ‘I rang the ward and asked Sister Brice. I asked her to tell you that I would be waiting for you—you didn’t get the message?’
Philomena’s faint ill-humour melted away. ‘No… I—I expect she was busy and forgot…’
He pushed open the swing doors at the entrance and stood aside to let her pass him. ‘Loyalty,’ he commented, ‘that’s another thing in your favour. I can see that you’re going to be a valuable addition to our staff.’
He hailed a taxi and popped her in, talking about nothing much until they were in the park, walking towards Queen Mary’s Garden. ‘Now, let us get down to ways and means. Will you give in your notice tomorrow morning?—let me see, that means that you will be free at the end of May. Do you feel up to driving yourself over? I will make arrangements for the journey and send you written directions in good time. You can go straight to the clinic in Ommen…someone will be there to take you on to Theo’s house and settle you into Ellie’s lodgings. We pay rather higher salaries in Holland,’ he mentioned a sum well above the pay packet she received from Faith’s, ‘but the hours are different, of course. Eight o’clock surgery on weekdays, lasting until well after ten o’clock, sometimes later, clinics every afternoon—babies, post and prenatal, ear nose and throat, eyes—we deal with them all, sending on those who need specialised treatment or hospital. Evening surgery again at six o’clock, and that lasts until eight o’clock at least. No clinic on Saturday, but a morning surgery. You’ll be free half day Saturday and all Sunday, but one in four you’ll be on call for emergencies. We hope to arrange for a part-time nurse to take over one afternoon in the week so that you will have time to shop and so on.’ He stopped and looked down at her. ‘Quite a programme, isn’t it? Still feel like tackling it?’
‘Yes,’ said Philomena.
‘Good. We don’t all work in the same place at once, of course—there are always two of us at the clinic, though, but you will be expected to go wherever you’re needed most. If Theo has a measles outbreak in Ommen you’ll spend most of your time there; if I get whooping cough in Vilsteren you’ll give me a helping hand.’
‘Yes,’ said Philomena again. She had seldom encountered whooping cough, but now she found herself quite looking forward to a possible epidemic of it; Walle would be nice to work for.
They had reached Queen Mary’s Garden, pleasant enough in the spring sunshine although it was still chilly weather, and they began to walk briskly along its paths. ‘Any questions?’ ask
ed the doctor.
‘Well, supposing I don’t suit—or supposing I find I can’t cope?’
‘We’ll call the whole thing off, of course. Reasonable notice on either side, and no ill-feelings, though I don’t expect that will happen.’ He stopped suddenly and turned her round to face him. ‘Do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’ She felt surprisingly sure of that. ‘What about learning Dutch?’
He smiled a little. ‘Well, you’ll be able to learn the basics in a month, provided you’re prepared to work hard at it. I know a Dutchwoman living here— Kensington, Addison Crescent; she works at the Embassy and I’m sure she would give you lessons. I’ll fix it for you and ask her to telephone you. We’ll pay, of course—after all, you’re learning the language to oblige us.’ He took her arm. ‘That’s settled, then. Let’s have tea, there’s a café in Prince Albert Road.’
Busy in the ward that evening, Philomena found time to reflect that everything had been arranged with astonishing ease. Even if she had wanted to draw back now it would be difficult—but she didn’t, she was looking forward to going to Holland and working there, and she was, a small voice at the back of her head reminded her, looking forward to seeing the doctor again and very much more often, too. She went off duty feeling as though her day was complete, although it wasn’t quite. During supper she was called to the telephone to find that Mevrouw Kring was anxious to find out if she could start her lessons the very next day. They spent a busy five minutes arranging times to suit them both and rang off in a spirit of promising goodwill. Forgetful of the rest of her supper, Philomena rambled across the yard to her room and got into her dressing gown. Her friends, coming to see what had happened to her ten minutes later, found her bowed over her writing pad, so absorbed that she didn’t so much as lift her head.
‘Philly, your supper—you forgot it,’ and: ‘Philly, what are you doing?’
She looked up at that. ‘Supper?’ she wanted to know. ‘I forgot. I’m writing out my notice.’
Her room was bulging with various friends and acquaintances by now, and a chorus of protests deafened her. Indeed, no one believed her until she showed them what she had written. It was Jenny who declared: ‘She means it! Philly, explain—here, I’ll put the kettle on and you can tell us over a cup of tea.’ She paused at the door. ‘I say, you’re not getting married, are you?’
Philomena giggled. ‘Of course I am—he’s a millionaire and has six cars and three houses and—and a yacht…’
There was a shriek of laughter. ‘Don’t be daft,’ said a voice from the back. It hadn’t been said unkindly, but Philomena sighed silently all the same; it was a great drawback being plain…’I’ve got a job in Holland,’ she said cheerfully, ‘working for a country town partnership. They want me to go in a month’s time. I thought it might be fun.’
‘But your Sister’s post…you can’t speak Dutch…it’s so far away,’ and: ‘Whatever made you do it, Philly?’
She ignored the last question. ‘There’s nothing for a year at least, and I’m going to take Dutch lessons—it’s all arranged. I get the same salary—a little more, actually.’
‘What will your family say?’ asked Jenny.
Philomena got off the bed and put her mug down on the dressing table. ‘Oh, lord, I quite forgot to telephone! I’ll go now—keep some tea for me.’
Her stepmother thought it might be rather fun, although she didn’t want to know a great deal about it—indeed, she didn’t ask with whom Philomena was going to work or where, and when Philomena started to tell her she said with careless affection: ‘Not now, darling— I’m just in from a simply appalling dinner party, so boring, and that ghastly Mrs Lovell was there and simply dominated the conversation. You’ll be home before you go, I expect? We’ll have a nice chat then. Do you see anything of that nice Walle van der Tacx?’
‘Well, actually…’ began Philomena, and was interrupted with:
‘Of course he goes on the wards sometimes, I suppose, but that’s hardly social, is it? One can hardly expect…I simply must ring off, darling Philly, I’m dog tired—such an evening!’
Philomena went back to her room trying not to feel let down; after all, her stepmother had never taken much interest in her work at the hospital, and it was hardly likely that she should change. Something of her feelings must have been reflected in her face as she joined her friends, for no one said much, a few comments about surprising her family as she was pressed to have more tea, and that was all before they plunged into the more interesting aspects of her future—clothes, for instance, and did people in Holland live any differently from people in England? ‘And are they all as handsome as that gorgeous type who strides round with Mr Dale?’ someone wanted to know. ‘Keep a weather eye open for him, Philly.’ And Jenny added kindly: ‘You never know, perhaps you’ll meet him.’
‘I daresay I shall,’ said Philomena calmly. ‘He’s one of the partners in the practice I’m going to work for.’
And after that the hurt from her stepmother’s lack of interest was quite swamped in the excited interest of her friends. ‘Philly, you dark horse…how about having me over for a weekend? How did you manage it?’ And from Shirley Dawes, who had just put her head round the door to see what all the noise was about: ‘So that’s where you were going all dolled up. I should have thought…’ her gaze slid over the various pretty and not quite so pretty faces and returned to Philomena. ‘Whatever does he see in you, Philomena?’
Philomena itched to slap the lovely face. ‘He sees a hard-working girl who won’t want to go out every evening, has no immediate prospect of getting married and with no nonsense about her.’ Her voice was almost placid and she grinned as she spoke, so that Shirley, discomfited, stood for a moment in the doorway, just staring, and as no one offered her tea, she went away.
‘Cat!’ declared Jenny. ‘Clever old you to think up that bit about not going out in the evening, and no matrimonial prospects.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Philomena flatly. ‘That was exactly what he did say.’
She gave in her notice the next morning, and although her superior pointed out that she was behaving in a rather rash fashion, especially with promotion ahead of her, she politely refused to reconsider her decision and skipped off through the hospital back to the ward to break the news to Sister Brice.
The month went quickly. What with her Dutch lessons, a number of shopping expeditions and a variety of farewell parties given by her various friends, Philomena had little time to wonder if she was doing the right thing, and when she went home to say goodbye to her stepmother and Chloe and Miriam, they made so light of the matter that her vague doubts were quite put at rest. It was only as she was on the point of leaving that her stepmother asked her where exactly she would be working: ‘And you’d better give me the name of the doctor, I suppose, and your telephone number—you know how we hate writing letters, darling—you can ring us up when you feel like it.’
‘Ommen,’ said Philomena, ‘that’s the name of the town. I’m to work for a partnership of doctors as their surgery nurse—you’ve met one of them: Doctor van der Tacx.’
There was a little silence while the three of them stared at her.
Then: ‘Philly, however did you manage it?’ asked Chloe.
‘Well, I didn’t. They want a hard-working girl who doesn’t hanker for the bright lights and he—he seemed to think I filled the bill.’
‘He’s quite right,’ agreed her stepmother kindly. ‘I’m sure you’ll be exactly what they expect.’
Philomena didn’t answer; she remembered her resolve, she remembered too the case full of new clothes she had purchased with such care and the new make-up she had chosen. They would help to turn her into a different girl, someone the doctor might look at twice and realise that there were other aspects of her besides being hard-working and loyal and punctual. She said goodbye and got into the Mini and drove back to London, a little scared of the traffic when she reached the city, but determined to overcome her f
ear. The kind of girl she intended to become was a super driver…
The same determination had driven her on to work at her Dutch lessons. Her teacher was a reserved, middle-aged woman who had, however, unbent considerably when she discovered that Philomena really wanted to speak Dutch and understand it too. A month wasn’t nearly long enough, of course, but at least at the end of that time Philomena had learned the basics of that language; her accent might not be all that her teacher could wish, but she had mastered a little simple reading and could understand a good deal of what was said to her.
She set out for Holland a few days later, after a splendid send-off by her friends at the hospital, a homily from Sister Brice about remembering that she was now a trained nurse and should always act accordingly, and the good wishes of the patients on the ward. They had clubbed together to give her a present, a box of beautifully embroidered handkerchiefs, and there had been a card too, signed with their names. Philomena packed it with her new clothes, looking upon it as a kind of good luck symbol.
She had arranged to go from Sheerness, because that way, Doctor van der Tacx had assured her in a businesslike letter confirming her appointment, would be easier for her, avoiding Rotterdam and the busy heart of the country. She had pored over a map for hours, learning the route by heart, trying to reckon how long the journey would take. But at least she would have the whole day in which to travel, as the ferry got in early in the morning and she could breakfast on it before she landed.