Sister Peters in Amsterdam

by Betty Neels

  Adelaide, listening to him skilfully cutting the ground from beneath her feet, wished most

  unreasonably that he had asked her for any et her reason than that of convenience. She rei»embered what Mijnheer de Wit had said ;shout her hair. Perhaps the professor wouldn't care to go out with someone as conspicuous its she was.

  `What about my hair?' she said gruffly, and watched him look her over, rather taken ,hack.

  `I imagine you will run a comb through it,' he suggested mildly.

  `I don't mean that.' She stopped and swallowed. `You don't mind going out with it?'

  The professor suppressed a smile. `No, I don't mind. Should I?"

  'The Dutch don't like red hair, and-and I)eople stare at me sometimes. Mijnheer de Wit told me. You heard me telling Piet Beekman about it.' She went rather pink.

  `I remember. We discussed ears and noses too, didn't we?' He spoke seriously enough, but she cast him a suspicious look.

  `Yes, well, you know what I mean. Do you mind?'

  `No, I don't mind. You forget that I had an English grandmother, perhaps that account for the fact that I quite like it.'

  Adelaide felt relieved. `Then I should like to come, thank you. I'll be at the front door in about half an hour.'

  She whisked away, all her splendid resolve forgotten in the excitement of going out with the professor.

  She looked very nice as she came down the hospital steps, thirty minutes later. Her green coat was well cut, and the little green hal matched it exactly; she was wearing the gloves that St Nicolaas had given her. She greeted the professor rather shyly, but with great composure. She had taken herself to task while she changed. The professor was a kind and considerate man for whom she worked and as such it was perfectly natural that he should take an interest in her work. It was all very simple. Just the same, when she had taken a final look in her mirror she had turned away quickly, suddenly pierced with a longing to be blonde and Dutch and beautifully dressed, and, above all, admired by Coenraad van Essen.

  She looked about her with naive pleasure as she got into the professor's dark green car, rind remarked with a disarming frankness:

  `How beautifully it's polished. Whenever do you find the time to keep it all so?'

  The professor made a little choked sound and thought of Henk, his elderly chauffeur, who cherished the car like a baby, not to mention the Rolls-Royce in the garage behind his house. He tried to imagine Henk's face if ever he found his master cleaning the car.

  `I have some help,' he said briefly. `Do you drive, Miss Peters?"

  'Oh, yes,' said Adelaide cheerfully. `My father's got an old Austin, but I'm a bad driver, and as we can't afford a car for a good many years yet, I only drive when there's no one else.'

  They turned into the Leidsestraat and, after a minute or so, pulled up. `Here we are,' said the professor. `I thought at first we would go to the Five Flies, but I think you'll like it better here.'

  She looked at the sign over the door. Dikker and Thijs. She had never heard of them. They went inside to a quiet, elegant opulence that took her breath. There was music somewhere in the background as the head waiter came forward to greet them.

  'Goeden Avond, Juffrouw,' he bowed smilingly to Adelaide.

  'Goeden Avond, Mijnheer de Baron.' He led them to a table and settled her in a chair. She looked across the table, frowning quite fiercely at the professor, who waved aside the proffered menu, and sat back comfortably, waiting for the question he knew was coming.

  `Why did he call you Baron?"

  'I am.'

  `You mean that you're a baron as well as a professor? I didn't know.' She sounded disapproving.

  `Yes,' he answered coolly. `I saw no reason to tell you.'

  She looked like a little girl who had been unexpectedly slapped.

  `I'm sorry, Adelaide, I didn't mean that. I inherited one and worked for the other. It doesn't make any difference, you know. I'm the same man I was ten minutes ago.' He beckoned the hovering waiter. `Would you like to choose, or will you leave it to me?'

  She looked at the menu; it was large and listed an impressive array of dishes. It was written in Dutch too. She might choose something fearfully expensive.

  `Please will you choose for me? Something simple,' she added, mindful of his pocket. The professor chose carefully, ordering dishes which would have cost her a week's pay. The waiter went away. Adelaide clasped her hands in her lap, and said in a little rush:

  `I'm sorry, Professor.' She sounded rather stiff, but eyed him honestly. `I was very rude. Of course it's none of my business. It's just that I was surprised.'

  She had no idea what a peculiar effect she was creating on her companion, but privately and fervently wished that she could stop blushing.

  `Thank you, Miss Peters. Tell me, don't you approve of titles?'

  She opened her eyes wide. `Well, of course I do. Only I'm not used-that is, I don't know anyone with one. I-I don't come from that sort of background. My father's a country parson.' She said it with pride.

  He smiled charmingly. `Yes, I know, your Matron told me. Tell me about your family.'

  She didn't realise how skilfully he was putting her at her ease. It wasn't until they were sitting over their coffee that she said suddenly:

  `You wanted to ask me questions about my work, and I've talked and talked.' She looked at him anxiously. `Did I bore you?"

  'Indeed no, I've enjoyed every minute. We can talk about work some other time."

  'I think I should go back now,' she said. She hadn't realised that they had been sitting there for so long. He didn't try to stop her.

  `Supposing we drive back round the canals?' he suggested. `It's a lovely evening. Amsterdam is at her best on these spring nights.'

  The professor knew his own city well, pointing out the picturesque houses and telling her small fragments of history which he thought might interest her. Half way down the heerengracht he stopped the car. `Shall we get out for a minute? You'll see it all so much better, and it's very lovely here.'

  It was indeed lovely; the canal lay smooth and cold in the moonlight, and on either side the beautiful gabled houses stood as they had stood for centuries. Adelaide had a strange t eeling of timelessness. She sighed and shivered. The professor put an avuncular arm around her and pulled her close into the comfort of his tweed coat.

  `You're cold. I shouldn't have suggested that we got out of the car.'

  `I'm not cold; it's just that this is all so beautiful and peaceful and ageless. I shall miss it very much when I go back to England.'

  She pointed across the canal. `What a lovely house that is, opposite. I wonder who live there, and if they love it and look after it. I expect it's beautiful inside.'

  `Yes, it is."

  'Have you been inside?' she asked. `I live there.'

  Adelaide turned to look up into his face. `You mean you live there ... it's your home?"

  'Yes. It's rather large for me, you know. He smiled down at her. `The ancestor who built it had a wife and children; I shall have to follow his example.'

  Adelaide didn't reply. The idea of the professor having a wife and children and livinL, happily with them in his lovely house, while she went back to England and never saw hini again, was very lowering to her spirits. She wanted this moment to last for ever; his arm felt very solid and comforting around her, and she would have liked to have buried her face in his shoulder and had a good cry. Instead, she took a few steadying breaths.

  `It really is time I went back.' Her voice didn't sound quite right, but she persevered. `Thank you for a delightful evening. I did enjoy it.'

  She moved, but instead of releasing her, his ,irm tightened and pulled her round to face him. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to study it intently. She looked white in the moonlight, and forlorn. She stood passive in his arms while he bent his head and kissed her; she returned his kiss with an innocent passion, forgetful of everything but that moment. When they drew apart she whispered:


  `Please don't say anything.'

  They got into the car, and drove without speaking to the hospital. The professor helped her out and went and pulled the old-fashioned hell outside the nurses' home, then stood waiting beside her on the doorstep. He was as calm and self-possessed as usual. She stole a look at his face; it was impossible to read his thoughts. He turned his head and looked at her in a detached, faintly amused way. She thought wearily, `He was just being kind.' She said in her soft little voice:

  `Thank you for comforting me just now-I suppose I was feeling homesick. I'll not think of it again, and I know you won't wish to either.' The door opened then, and she slipped inside with a murmured good night.

  The days slipped by; it was the end of spring, although the weather was still cold, with rain and wind and low-flying clouds. Adelaide did some sight-seeing. She went to Alkmaar-thc cheese market wasn't open, it was too early in the year, but she loved the quaint little town. She explored Delft, and wandered round its magnificent churches and longed for enough money to buy some of its exquisite pottery. She spent a day with one of the Sisters whose home was in Medemblik. It way like living in the sixteenth century again, only the inhabitants spoilt it by wearing modern clothes. She whiled away several hours in the old castle; it was cold and draughty and grim, but it had a lovely view over the Ijsselmeer.

  The clinic was as busy as always; in Casualty, burns and scalds and injuries from skating gave place to broken arms and legs From falling off bicycles, and limp little peoI)le who had fallen into the canals, fishing or sailing boats.

  That particular Saturday there had only been a small clinic in the morning. Dr Beekman had taken it as the professor was away. Casualty was slack too. Adelaide sat in her office and worked at her books and thought about him. She supposed he was somewhere with that odious Freule Keizer. She got out a sheet of paper and applied herself to making out the off-duty for the following week. She sat and looked at it for a few minutes, then tossed it aside rather pettishly and began to draw rows of beaky noses on her blotting pad. She wondered what Zuster Boot had meant when she said that the professor came from a patrician family. She would look it up when she went off duty. On second thoughts, she decided that she wouldn't look anything up; she was getting far too interested in the man. She tore up the beaky noses and started once more on the off-duty. She decided, once again, that she would be pleasant and friendly in a cool way; she was a sensible young woman, not a silly girl, it should be quite easy to keep to her resolution. She drew a splendid beaky nose, with eyes beside it adorned with glasses. She looked at it longingly, then tore the paper up savagely.

  That evening she went for a long walk with two of the Sisters. They got back to the home tired out, and she went to bed and slept at once. She was awakened by one of the night Sisters, and sat up in bed to find the light on. She looked at her clock. She had only been asleep for half an hour; it was barely eleven. Night Sister came from Friesland, and spoke a Dutch Adelaide found difficult to understand, but she was able to make out that there had been a bad accident-a bus full of children coming home from a school outing. There were, according to first reports, a lot of casualties; she was wanted on duty at once.

  Adelaide dressed fast, screwed her hair up anyhow, and pinned her cap on to the deplorable result. She fastened her blue buckled belt as she ran: she had forgotten her cuffs. All the lights were on in Casualty and the clinic; one of the nurses was already laying out extra equipment. Adelaide swept instruments off shelves, collected receivers and trays, and put them in the autoclave. She told the nurse to lay up trolleys wherever she could find the room, and asked her to get the salines and blood plasma bottles out, then she went to the cupboard and got out the two satchels which were kept for emergencies; she was collecting the pethidine and morphia ampoules from the DDA cupboard when Piet Beekman came in. He saw the satchels.

  `Good girl, we'll go straight there. They can manage here for the time being. There'll be plenty for us to do.'

  They caught up their satchels and ran outside to the waiting ambulance. It raced through the city, along the Rokin, across the Dam Square and into Damrak, and turned off into one of the small streets close to the station. It halted on the edge of a large crowd which made way for them to reach the space cleared by the police. The small victims were lying and sitting around the wreckage from which the police and ambulance men were still passing children. The bus in which the children had been travelling had gone into the back of a lorry-load of scrap-iron, and an oil tanker behind it, unable to stop in time, had hit the bus with such force that the back had been lifted high into the air. It now rested at a sharp angle, its nose buried in the piles of scrap-iron on the wrecked lorry, its back wheels in the air.

  They wasted no time: Dr Beekman marshalled his helpers into a team, and started going from one child to the next, Adelaide with him, giving the necessary injections and first aid so that the children could be moved as soon as possible back to the hospital. Two ambulances had already moved off; Adelaide and Piet were bending over a small boy when a policeman made his way over to them. He looked worried. `There's a child still in there,' he said. `She's jammed on the steering wheel and none of us can reach her. We're waiting for the acetylene cutters and the other equipment; the fire brigade are bringing them, but it will take a bit of time to clear the nose of the bus from the wreck of the lorry, before we can use any of it. The child's injured for sure, and terrified. We're afraid she might fall before we can get her out, and there's nothing but broken glass and iron below her.'

  Piet said, without pausing in his work: 'Isn't there enough room for a man to get through, or are you afraid of his weight tipping the bus?"

  'Both,' said the policeman. `We've had several attempts.'

  Adelaide finished a neat bandage on the boy's leg and got up from her knees.

  `Let me go,' she said. 'I'm small and light enough to crawl down the bus, and I'll stay with the child until you can get us out.'

  Piet looked doubtful, but she gave him no time to say anything, and walked quickly across to the wrecked bus with the policeman. He picked her up and lifted her until she could reach the ruined door, get a hold on it, and wriggle inside. She was appalled at the mess: it was a shambles. She kept very still and looked round her, deciding what to do. Shy would have to make her way down the steeply inclined bus to where she could hear the child crying. She began to edge through the mass of broken seats and woodwork. As she got nearer, her torch picked out the terrifying barrier of broken glass between her and the child. Great spears of it stood rooted in the floor, hideous icicles of it hung from the crazy ceiling. Adelaide crawled nearer; she could see the little girl now, covered in dust and filth, and frantic with fear. She was on her back, her body wedged in the spokes of the wheel, her head hanging and small legs dangling. Adelaide went as near as she dared, slid an arm carefully between two jagged pieces of glass, and put it under the child's head. Then she eased the other arm through a splintered hole and under the thin small knees. She drew a sighing breath and took stock of the situation. The child, as far as she could see, was covered in scratches and abrasions, but there slid not appear to be any large wound. She was light in Adelaide's arms, but they were already starting to ache, and she wondered how long she would be able to support the small body, crouching awkwardly, not daring to move. She was conscious of a fine dust creeping up her nostrils; her clothes were covered in it. She had lost her cap; her hair hung in a red tangle around her shoulders, her apron was hopelessly torn, and so was the sleeve of her dress. She supposed that help would come soon. The little girl looked at her with enormous eyes; she had stopped crying. Adelaide smiled.

  `Hullo, what's your name?'

  She could barely hear the whisper: `I'm Miep.'

  `What a lovely name,' said Adelaide chattily. `Well, Miep, I'm going to sit here with you for a minute or two until someone comes to get us out. Shall I tell you a story?'

  She embarked on a story of The Three bears. It was a jumbled
mixture of Dutch and English; she wondered if Miep had any idea what it was about-she wasn't sure herself after a minute or two, but it seemed to soothe the child, for she didn't cry again. Only when a piece of wreckage came tumbling wildly down the bus, to slide away into the dark around them, did she cry out. Adelaide's voice faltered as the torch beside her toppled over and rolled away, its light doused. She cried in a frightened little voice, `Oh, Coenraad, please come.' Saying his name had made her feel better; she suddenly knew that he would, and told Miep so in such a cheerful voice that the little girl stopped crying again and listened quietly to Adelaide's story.

  Coenraad van Essen sat beside his aunt in the stalls of the Concertgebouw; the programme of classical music was almost over, but to the professor the strains of Beethoven's fifth symphony merely provided a dimly heard background music to his thoughts. His mind was wholly engaged with the problematic treatment of the acute interssusception which he had admitted that afternoon. He was annoyed to be disturbed by a tap on the shoulder. He listened to the whispered message given to him by an attendant, spoke briefly to his aunt, and went to the manager's office to take Dr Beekman's call. He listened without interrupting while Piet spoke, said briefly that he would be along at once, and went to get his car.