by Betty Neels
She was so busy the next morning that she had no time to think of anything at all but her work. She heaved a sigh when she had dished the dinners, sent most of the nurses to their own meal, and started on her second round of the day, this time accompanied by the most junior nurse on her staff. They tidied beds as they went, made the patients comfortable for their short afternoon nap, and under Eleanor’s experienced eye the little nurse took temperatures, had a go at the blood pressures, and charted the diabetics. They had reached Miss Tremble’s bed and were, as usual, arguing with that lady, this time about the freshness of the lettuce she had had on her dinner plate, when she broke off her diatribe to say: ‘Here’s that nice doctor again, Sister.’
Eleanor managed not to turn round and take a look, but the little nurse did. ‘Ooh, isn’t he groovy—I think he’s in a hurry, Sister.’
She couldn’t go on pretending that he wasn’t there. She turned round and started to walk down the ward towards him with Miss Tremble’s urgent: ‘And don’t forget that we haven’t finished our discussion, Sister,’ and the little nurse, uncertain as to what she should do, dogging her footsteps.
Fulk was businesslike. ‘Forgive me for coming into the ward without asking you first, Sister,’ he said, all politeness. ‘I did mention it to Sir Arthur, but it seemed best not to telephone you.’ He smiled: ‘We are rather short of time.’
‘We?’
‘Henry is here too and dying to see you. I hope you won’t mind, I left him in your office.’ He glanced at the little nurse and gave her a nice smile. ‘Could Nurse keep an eye on the ward for a couple of minutes while you say goodbye to him?’
‘Yes, of course. Nurse Angus, you could take Miss Robertson’s temp, and have a go at her BP too—I’ll only be a moment.’
She walked down the ward beside Fulk without speaking, partly because he was behaving like a consultant again and partly because she couldn’t think of anything to say, but once through the door and in the office with Henry prancing round her, Fulk became Fulk once more, his dark face alight with amusement. ‘Well, Henry,’ he asked, ‘I’m right, aren’t I? She doesn’t look like Eleanor at all, does she?’
She stood while they looked her over slowly. ‘No,’ said her brother at last, ‘she doesn’t. I like you better with your hair hanging down your back, Eleanor, and up an apple tree or fishing, though you look very important in that funny cap.’ He looked at Fulk. ‘Don’t you like her better when she’s home?’ he appealed.
‘Oh, rather. She terrifies me like this, all no-nonsense and starch.’ Fulk grinned at her. ‘Looking at you now,’ he declared thoughtfully, ‘I can see that you have changed quite a bit since you were five—for the better. I am not of course discussing your character.’
He gave her no time to answer this, but: ‘We have to go, we’re on our way to Hull. Henry wants to know when he can telephone you once we get home.’
‘I’m off until one o’clock tomorrow—will you have got there by then?’
‘Lord, yes. Say goodbye, boy, or we shall miss the ferry.’
She bent to Henry’s hug, slipped some money into his hand and begged him to send her a postcard or two, then gave him a sisterly pat on the back, for Fulk was already at the door. ‘Have fun,’ she said, and added a casual goodbye to Fulk who, although he had said nothing, she felt sure was impatient to be gone, but he came back from the door.
‘Don’t I get a kiss too?’ he asked at his silkiest, and not waiting for her to speak her mind, bent his head.
When they had gone she stood looking at the closed door; Henry had kissed her with childish enthusiasm, but Fulk’s technique had been perfect; moreover the enthusiasm hadn’t been lacking, either.
CHAPTER FIVE
HENRY TELEPHONED the next day, his breathless voice gabbling excitedly over the wire into her interested ear. The journey had been super, so had the Panther, so was Fulk’s house, and Moggy hadn’t minded the dog at all and had settled down very well and wasn’t that super too?
Eleanor agreed that everything was just as super as it could be; she wasn’t going to get any interesting details from him, that was apparent, and she was disappointed when he rang off without any mention of Fulk other than a highly detailed account of his driving.
A series of postcards followed, inscribed in her brother’s childish hand, and from the sparse information they conveyed, she concluded that life for him was just about as perfect as a small boy could wish for, although exactly what made it so wasn’t clear, and when she telephoned her mother it was to hear that his letters home were almost as brief as the cards he sent and exasperatingly devoid of detail.
It was almost a week after Henry had gone that he mentioned, on a particularly colourful postcard, that his throat was a bit sore; the information had been sandwiched between the statement that he had been to a museum at Leeuwarden, and had eaten something called poffertjes for his supper, so that she had scarcely noted it. Mrs MacFarlane had written to say that Fulk had telephoned several times to say that Henry appeared to be enjoying himself, so much so that on the last occasion he had suggested that the boy might like to spend another week or so with him so that he could be in Holland for the feast of Sint Nikolaas. ‘And of course your father and I said yes at once,’ wrote her mother. ‘How kind Fulk is.’
Very kind, Eleanor had to agree, feeling somehow deflated as she finished the letter and hurried off to change out of uniform. Perry Maddon, the Casualty Officer, was taking her to the theatre that evening and she was quite looking forward to it; he was another nice lad, she thought as she slid swiftly into a plain wool dress, but she would have to take care not to encourage him. At the moment they were good friends and that, as far as she was concerned, was how it was going to stay. He wasn’t the man she could marry—she didn’t give herself time to consider the matter further, but caught up her coat and made for the hospital entrance.
The evening was a success, the play had been amusing and afterwards they had coffee and sandwiches at the Blue Bird and walked down the road to the hospital, talking lightly about nothing in particular. It had been a pleasant evening, Eleanor decided as she tumbled into bed, so why had she this sudden feeling of impending disaster? So strong that it was keeping her awake. It couldn’t be the ward; Miss Tremble, usually the root of any trouble, had been perfectly all right all day, and although there were several ill patients she didn’t think that they would take a dramatic turn for the worse. She did a mental round of the ward in her sleepy head, trying to pinpoint the probable cause of her disquiet. ‘My silly fancy,’ she chided herself out loud, and went at last to sleep.
Only it wasn’t fancy; Fulk van Hensum came the next day, walking into the ward as she served the patients’ dinners from the heated trolley in the middle of the ward. She was facing away from the door so she didn’t see him come in, but the little nurse, her hand outstretched to take the plate of steamed fish Eleanor was handing her, said happily: ‘He’s here again, Sister.’
‘And who is here?’ queried Eleanor, busy with the next plate. ‘Sir Arthur? One of the porters? The Provost himself?’
The little nurse giggled. ‘It’s that great big man who came last time, Sister.’ She smiled widely over Eleanor’s shoulder, and Eleanor put down the plate and turned her head to have a look.
It was Fulk all right, standing very still just inside the ward door. He said at once: ‘Good day to you all. Sister, might I have a word with you?’
His voice was calm, as was his face, but she went to him at once. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said, low-voiced. ‘Will you tell me, please?’ She lifted her lovely eyes to meet his dark steady gaze.
‘It’s Henry, isn’t it?’ she added, and took comfort from his reassuring little smile. When he spoke his voice held the considered, measured tones of a doctor and he took her hands in his and held them fast; their grip was very comforting. ‘Yes, it’s Henry. He has rheumatic fever.’
Her mouth felt dry. ‘I remember now, he had a sore throat—he wrot
e that on one of those postcards… Is he—is he very ill?’
‘You mean, is he going to die, don’t you, my dear? No, he’s not. He’s very ill but not, I think, dangerously so.’ His smile became very gentle. ‘If that had been the case I shouldn’t have left him, you know.’
‘No, of course not. How silly of me, I’m sorry. Is he in hospital?’
Fulk’s brows rose a little. ‘Certainly not. He’s at my home with two excellent nurses to look after him. The only thing is, he wants you, Eleanor.’
‘Then I must go to him—may I come back with you?’ She raced on, thinking out loud without giving him a chance to answer her. ‘No, that won’t do—I expect you’re over here on business of your own, but I could go tonight. They probably won’t give me leave, but I shall go just the same. I must telephone Mother first, though, and you’ll have to tell me where you live—you wouldn’t mind, would you?’
He had her hands still in his. ‘Dear girl, how you do run on, and there’s no need. I’m here to take you to Henry; I’ve already telephoned your parents and I’ve been to see your Principal Nursing Officer. You’re free to go just as soon as you can hand over to your staff nurse. I’m on my way to Tongue now to fetch Margaret; she’s coming too, for when Henry feels better he’ll want to be up and about, and he mustn’t do too much too soon, you know that as well as I—I thought she might help to amuse him during his enforced idleness. She will be ready and waiting for me; we’ll be back to pick you up within a few hours.’
She looked at him in bewilderment. ‘Fulk, Tongue’s three hundred miles from here, even in that car of yours it would take you hours…’
‘Of course it would, but I’ve a plane to fly me up to Wick, and as good luck would have it, James is at the manse and will drive Margaret to the airport to meet me; we should both arrive there at about the same time and be back here without much time lost.’
She smiled rather shakily at him. ‘You’ve thought of everything. Thank you, Fulk. Tell me what time I’m to be ready and where I’m to meet you.’
‘Good girl!’ He looked at his watch. ‘There’ll be a taxi to take you to the airport—can you be ready by five o’clock? You may have to wait for a little while, for I’m not sure just how long we shall be. Bring enough luggage for a couple of weeks—and don’t forget your passport, and when you get to the airport go to the booking hall and wait until we come. OK?’
Eleanor nodded. ‘Yes. Oh, Fulk, how kind you are— I feel so mean…’
He didn’t ask her why she felt mean, only smiled faintly and gave her back her hands. ‘Go and finish those dinners,’ he advised her. ’Tot ziens.’
A little over four hours later, sitting quietly in the airport, her one piece of luggage at her feet, Eleanor had the leisure to look back over the afternoon. It had been all rush and bustle, of course, but there had been no difficulties; Fulk must have seen to those. She had merely done exactly as he had told her to do, trying not to think too much about Henry, keeping her mind on prosaic things, like what to wear and what to pack. She had taken the minimum of everything in the end, and worn her warm tweed coat over a green jersey dress, and because it was a cold evening and it might be even colder in Holland, she had put on the little fur hat and the fur-lined gloves she had bought herself only that week. She looked very nice, and several men turned to give her a second look, although she was quite unaware of this—indeed, she was unaware of Fulk standing a little way off, looking at her too, until she had a feeling that she was being watched, and when she saw who it was she stood up quickly, relief sending a faint colour into her pale face as he walked over to her and picked up her baggage.
‘You haven’t been waiting too long?’ he asked. ‘Margaret’s waiting in the plane—if you’re ready?’
Perhaps he was tired, she thought as she walked beside him; his voice had sounded austere and formal, as though her being there annoyed him. Perhaps it did, but it was no time to split hairs as to who liked whom or didn’t. Henry was the only one who mattered. She followed him through the formalities, taken aback to find that he had chartered a plane to take them over to Holland; she had supposed that they were going on a normal flight, but perhaps there wasn’t a direct flight to Groningen. It must be costing him the earth, she worried silently, but there wasn’t time to think about that now; Margaret, waiting eagerly for them, was full of messages from her mother and father and questions about Henry, all jumbled up with excited talk about her journey. ‘And wasn’t it lucky that I had my passport for that school trip last summer,’ she wanted to know, ‘and that James was home. There’s a letter from Mother in my pocket. She’s very worried, but she says she knows Henry’s going to be all right with you and Fulk there— Oh, look, we’re moving!’
It was only when they were airborne and Margaret had become silent enough for Eleanor to gather her wits together that she realized what the journey had entailed for Fulk. He had been very efficient and it must have taken his precious time—consultants hadn’t all that time to spare from their work—and the cost…her mind boggled at that. She turned round to where he was sitting behind them, wanting to tell him how grateful she was, and found him asleep. He looked different now, the faint arrogance which she detected from time to time in his face had gone. He bore the look of a tired man enjoying an untroubled nap, and for some reason it put her in mind of that time, so long ago, when he had picked her up and comforted her. He had been safe then, he was safe now; nothing could happen to her… Her face softened and she smiled faintly, then composed her face quickly, but not quickly enough.
‘Now, why do you look at me like that?’ demanded Fulk softly. ‘I could almost delude myself into believing that you had changed your opinion of me.’
‘You have been very kind,’ she began primly, and he grinned.
‘Ah, back to normal and that disapproving tone of yours.’
‘That’s unfair!’ she cried. ‘I was just going to thank you for being so absolutely marvellous, and now you mock at me and it’s impossible for me to say it…’
‘So don’t, dear girl; my motives have been purely selfish, you know. If you’re with Henry I shall feel free to come and go as I please.’
‘That’s not true—of all the silly tales! You know as well as I do…’ She stopped and looked away for a moment and then back again at his smiling face. ‘I’m truly grateful.’
He said, gently mocking: ‘That I should live to see the day when Eleanor MacFarlane is grateful to me,’ and then, before she could protest at that: ‘What is in that cardboard box?’
‘Crowdie—Henry loves it. I thought, when he gets better and begins to eat, he might like it on his bread and butter. There’s a little Orkney cheese too. They’ll keep in the fridge—you’ve got one, haven’t you?’
There was a gleam at the back of his eyes. ‘I believe so—if not, I’ll get one the moment we arrive.’
She looked at him in astonishment. ‘But surely you must know what you’ve got in your own house?’
‘Well, I’m a busy man, you know—I tend to leave such things to my housekeeper.’
‘The sooner you have a wife, the better,’ declared Eleanor matter-of-factly. ‘She’ll see to your household. I expect your housekeeper will be glad to have someone to consult about such things.’
‘Well, I shall have a wife soon, shan’t I?’ His voice was meek. ‘Though I have a strong feeling that Imogen won’t wish to be bothered with such things as fridges—she isn’t very interested in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she will be once you’re married,’ said Eleanor hearteningly.
‘And you? Do you like the kitchen, Eleanor?’
She drew Margaret’s sleeping head on to her shoulder. ‘Yes, of course, but it wouldn’t do if I didn’t, living where we do—you’ve seen for yourself how far away it is; we have to be independent of shops, you know.’
‘You don’t hanker after the bright lights?’ He asked the question half seriously.
‘No—at least I don’t t
hink so; I don’t know much about them.’
‘So if some man living at the back of beyond wanted to marry you, you wouldn’t hesitate to say yes?’
‘If I loved him I wouldn’t hesitate, but then it wouldn’t matter where he lived.’
He gave a little nod, much in the manner of one who had solved himself a problem. ‘Is Margaret asleep?’ and when she said yes: ‘You had better close your own eyes—it may be well past your bedtime by the time you get your sleep tonight.’ His voice was cold and formal again, he closed his eyes as he spoke and she looked at him indignantly; he had a nasty way of making her feel, when it suited him, of no account.
Hours later, sitting by Henry’s bed, holding his hot hand in hers, she had all the time in the world to concede that Fulk’s advice had been good. She had dozed off, still indignant, and had only wakened as they came in to land at Eelde airport, a little to the south of Groningen, where she and Margaret had been bustled out with ruthless efficiency by Fulk, guided through Customs and told to get into the back seat of the waiting Panther, and when Margaret had declared with sleepy peevishness that she was hungry and wanted to go to bed, he had told her with bracing kindness that she would be given her supper in no time at all and be tucked up in bed before she knew where she was; he gave Eleanor no such assurance, though, and she bit back the yawn she longed to give and tried to appear alert and wide awake. Not that that had mattered at all, for he didn’t look back at her once, which didn’t stop her asking the back of his head: ‘Do you live in Groningen? Is the city far from here?’