by Betty Neels
It seemed a little severe. Lucy gave him a rather beseeching look which somehow she managed not to change to one of understanding when the eyelid nearest her winked. Willem, it seemed, was a man of parts.
Mies, of course, hadn’t seen the wink. She said softly still: ‘Oh, Willem, you’re joking,’ and then when he didn’t reply: ‘You are, aren’t you?’
He gave her a long steady look across the table. ‘You and I will have a talk, Mies, but not now. We are giving Lucy a farewell dinner party, are we not?’
And Mies, to Lucy’s surprise, agreed meekly. They finished the meal in an atmosphere of enjoyment, even if they all had to work rather hard at it, and when they left presently, Mies did no more than nod across at Fraam as did Willem. Lucy didn’t look at him until the very last moment and then only for a few seconds. He smiled so faintly that she wasn’t sure if he had or not. They went home in a taxi, on the surface in good spirits. It wasn’t until Lucy was in bed and on the edge of sleep that she began to wonder who was in love with whom; whichever way she looked at it, she hadn’t helped much. True, Willem had pressed her hand and thanked her when she had wished him goodbye, but she wasn’t quite sure why, and as for Mies, she was her usual gay self, only she didn’t mention Fraam at all. Lucy wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.
She was to return on the night ferry to Harwich and go from there straight to St Norbert’s where she was due on duty the following morning, which meant that she still had the whole day in Amsterdam. Packing was something which could be done in half an hour—indeed, she had it almost finished by the time she went to breakfast. Doctor de Groot bade her goodbye at the table, for he had a day’s work before him and was going on to a meeting in the evening, so that he wouldn’t get home until she had left, but Mies was free and the two of them planned a last look at the shops with coffee at one of the cafés or in the Bijenkorf and after lunch at the flat, one last canal trip through the city. True, Lucy had taken the trip twice already, but she found it fascinating and as she pointed out to Mies, it would fill in the afternoon very nicely and the weather was too good to waste it in a cinema.
The canal boat was only half full and they sat as far away from the guide as they could, so that Mies could point out the now familiar highlights of the trip to Lucy. ‘Oh, I’d like to live here,’ breathed Lucy, craning her neck to see the last of the smallest house in the city.
Mies turned to look at her. ‘Well, all you have to do is to marry someone who lives here,’ she observed.
‘I don’t know anyone...’
‘That is not so; you know Willem and you know Fraam.’
‘But Willem never looks at anyone but you, Mies, and Mr der Linssen...’ Lucy sighed, ‘well, take a look at me, and then think of all those lovely girls I’ve seen him with.’ She added firmly: ‘Besides, he’s not my type.’
Mies hadn’t been listening. ‘Willem doesn’t look at other girls?’ she wanted to know.
‘You know he doesn’t. He talked about you all the time when we were out.’
‘But he is angry with me. Perhaps I shall never see him again.’ Mies sounded worried.
‘Oh, pooh, of course you will, but I think he’ll read you a lecture when he does.’
‘Read a lecture?’
Lucy explained. ‘And you’d better listen,’ she declared, ‘unless you’re really in love with Mr der Linssen or he’s in love with you.’
Mies looked a little shy. ‘It would be such a triumph,’ she confided. ‘He would be a prize which would make me the envy of all.’
‘You make him sound like an outsize fish—you ought to make up your mind, Mies.’
Her friend turned thoughtful blue eyes on to her. ‘You wish Fraam for yourself, perhaps, or Willem?’
‘Good lord, no!’ Lucy was genuinely shocked. Willem was a dear, but the only feelings she had for him were motherly, and as for Mr der Linssen...she stopped to think about that; certainly not motherly. She decided not to pursue the matter further.
It had been decided that it would be better for her to catch an earlier train to the Hoek. The boat train was invariably full and it was far better to get on board before it arrived. The two girls had tea out and then went back for Lucy to finish the last of her packing before having a light supper. Lucy felt a vague sadness when it was time to leave; she had had a lovely holiday, she declared to Mies, who had gone to the station to see her off. ‘And you must come and see us.’ She kissed Mies warmly, ‘and I hope you...’ She tried again: ‘I hope that whatever you decide, you’ll be very happy. Let me know.’
She hung out of the window, waving for as long as she could see Mies on the fast-receding platform. The station wasn’t exactly beautiful, but it was clean and airy and had an atmosphere of bustle and faint excitement and in the gathering dusk of a fine September evening, it looked romantic too—anything could happen, she thought vaguely as she turned away and sat down—only not to her, of course. Anything romantic, that was.
She occupied her journey staring from the window, watching the lights in the villages and towns as the dusk deepened, conscious that she would have liked to have got out at each stopping place and got on a train for Amsterdam. She fell to wondering what would happen if she followed her inclination instead of obeying circumstances; Mies would be surprised but nice about it and so would her father, but she suspected that it would fall very flat the second time round. She would have to go off on her own—she became rather carried away here—get a job and somewhere to live. Her sensible head told her that there were things like money, work permits and an ability to speak the language standing in the way of her fantasy, and it would be more sensible to concentrate upon her future in England.
Less than a year now and she would take her Finals. She tried to imagine herself as a staff nurse, even as a ward Sister, but failed singularly in her efforts to get enthusiastic about it. She went back to peering through the dusk at the placid countryside. But now it wasn’t placid any more; the train was running through the busy Europort, its chimneys and refineries mercifully hidden by the evening dark, and then it had slid to a quiet halt in the Hoek station. The train wasn’t very full. Lucy waited until most of the passengers had got out and then got down on to the platform and turned round to haul out her case. Her hand was actually about to touch it when Mr der Linssen’s calm voice said, ‘Allow me,’ from somewhere behind her, causing her to shoot round like a top out of control and go smack into his trendy waistcoat. ‘Well,’ said Lucy, ‘I never did!’ She retreated a few inches and looked up at him. ‘I mean—you here and whispering at me like that—I nearly took off!’
She gave him a questioning look and he said at once: ‘Doctor de Groot couldn’t get away to see you off. I hope you don’t mind me standing in for him?’
She was surprised but nicely so. ‘That’s awfully sweet of him to think of it, and nice of you. Did you happen to be coming this way?’
‘Er—yes, in a manner of speaking.’ He spoke with a soothing casualness which made it all seem very offhand and relieved her of any feelings of guilt that she might be wasting a perfectly good evening for him.
‘Have you got your ticket?’ He had conjured up a porter and handed over her case. ‘There’s time for a cup of coffee—it will give everyone else a chance to go on board. The boat train isn’t due in for some time yet.’
A cup of coffee would be nice, thought Lucy, it must have been the thought of that which made her feel suddenly quite cheerful. They walked through to the restaurant, full of travellers, heavy with smoke and smelling of well-cooked food. There weren’t any empty tables; they sat down at one in the window, opposite a stout middle-aged pair who smiled at them and wished them good evening and then resumed their conversation over bowls of soup.
‘Hungry?’ asked Mr der Linssen, and when she hesitated: ‘I am. Let’s have soup before the coffee.’
‘I did have a kind of supper before I left,’ explained Lucy, ‘but the soup smells delicious.’
She smiled across at the woman opposite her, who beamed back at her and spoke in Dutch. Mr der Linssen answered for her, falling into an easy conversation in which only a word or two made sense to her, and when he shook his head and laughed a little she asked a little impatiently: ‘Why do you laugh? What are you talking about?’
The soup had come, he handed her pepper and salt and offered her a roll before he answered. ‘The lady thought that we were man and wife, but don’t worry, I put her right at once.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Lucy said tartly, ‘why should I worry about something so absurd? This soup is quite heavenly.’
Her companion’s eyes gleamed momentarily. ‘We make good soup in Holland,’ he offered with the air of a man making conversation. ‘My mother is a splendid cook and makes the most mouth-watering soups.’
‘Your mother?’ Lucy swallowed a spoonful and burnt her tongue. ‘I didn’t know you had a mother.’
He considered this, his head a little on one side. ‘I don’t remember you ever asking me,’ he pointed out placidly. ‘I have a large family, as large as yours. I hope that you will give my regards to your parents when you see them. Do you go home?’
She spooned the last of her soup. ‘No, I’m due back on duty at two o’clock tomorrow. I’ll go home as soon as I get days off, though.’
‘And you take your Finals soon?’ he asked idly.
‘Next summer.’ Their coffee had come and she handed him a cup.
‘Ah—then I presume you will embark on a career?’
‘Well, I haven’t much choice,’ said Lucy matter-of-factly. ‘I expect I shall like it once I’m in a—a rut.’
‘You have no wish to get out of a rut? To marry?’ He added: ‘To—er—play the field?’
What a silly question, she told herself silently. She turned her green eyes on him. ‘Me? You’re joking, of course.’ She went on kindly: ‘I expect you’re so used to taking out beautiful girls...they’re the ones who play the field, though I’m not quite sure what that means...that you don’t know much about girls like me. Parsons’ daughters,’ as if that explained completely.
Apparently it did. He sat back in his chair, very much at his ease. ‘You know, you’re quite right. What an interesting little chat we are having.’ He glanced at the paper-thin gold watch on his wrist.
‘Unfortunately I think you should go on board; the boat train is due in ten minutes or so.’
Lucy got up at once. Her companion might have found their chat interesting, but she had not, although she didn’t quite know why. She thanked him politely for her soup and coffee, reiterated her hope that he hadn’t wasted too much of his evening on her and went to the ticket barrier.
Mr der Linssen stayed right with her. As she got out her ticket he said: ‘I could of course give you a meaningless social peck on your cheek. I prefer to shake hands.’
She was conscious of deep disappointment; a peck on the cheek from someone like Fraam would have done a great deal more for her self-esteem than a handshake. She stuck out a capable little hand and felt his firm cool fingers engulf it. ‘I’ve had a very pleasant holiday,’ she told him, for lack of anything more interesting to say.
He let her hand go. ‘The finish of a chapter,’ he observed blandly, ‘but not, I fancy, the end of the book. Run along now, Lucy.’
The porter was ahead with her case, so she went through the barrier and didn’t look back. A long time ago, when she had been a shy teenager, spending her first evening at a village dance with the doctor’s son, he and a friend had taken her home at the end of the evening. They had said goodbye at the gate and she had turned round halfway down the short drive to the Rectory to wave, and surprised the pair of them laughing at her. She had never turned round since—not that she had had much chance; she didn’t go out all that much. Perhaps Mr der Linssen was looking at her in that same hateful mocking way; she longed to know, but she wasn’t going to take any chances.
On board she was ushered into a stateroom with an adjoining shower, a narrow bed and all the comforts of a first-class hotel.
‘There’s a mistake,’ she told the steward. ‘I’m sure Doctor de Groot didn’t book this cabin for me.’
He gave her an impassive look and fingered the large tip in his pocket. ‘This is the cabin booked for you, miss.’ He added in a comfortable tone: ‘The ship’s half empty, I daresay that’s why.’ He nodded to the dressing table. ‘There’s flowers for you, miss.’
A bouquet, not too large to carry, of mixed autumn blooms, beautifully arranged. The card with it was typed and bore the message: ‘Happy memories, Lucy.’ It wasn’t signed; Mies must have sent it, bless her. Lucy sniffed at the roses and mignonette and Nerine Crispa tucked in between the chrysanthemums and dahlias and carnations; they would make a splendid show in her room at the hospital. She felt a return of the vague longing to rush back to Amsterdam, but ignored it; it was a natural disappointment because her holiday was over, she told herself as she unpacked what she would need for the night before going up on deck to watch the ship’s departure.
* * *
St Norbert’s looked depressingly familiar as the taxi drew up outside its grimy red brick walls and her room, even when the flowers had been arranged in a collection of borrowed vases, looked like a furnished box. She unpacked quickly, had a bath and in her dressing gown went along to the pantry to see if any of her friends were off duty. Beryl, from Men’s Medical, was there, so was Chris, on day duty on Children’s. They hailed her with pleasure, invited her to share the pot of tea they had made and adjourned to her room for a nice gossip until it was time to don uniform and go to lunch.
The meal, after the good living in Doctor de Groot’s flat, seemed unimaginative; Lucy pushed a lettuce leaf, half a tomato and a slice of underdone beef round her plate, consumed the milk pudding which followed it and took herself through a maze of passages to the Principal Nursing Officer’s office.
Women’s Surgical was to be her lot; day duty for three months and would she report herself to Sister Ellis at once, please. The Principal Nursing Officer, a majestic personality with a severe exterior and a heart of gold, pointed out that as several of the nurses on that ward had fallen sick with a throat bug, Lucy’s return was providential and she must expect to do extra work from time to time. Time which would, it was pointed out to her, be made up as soon as possible.
Lucy said ‘Yes, Miss Trent,’ and ‘No, Miss Trent,’ and hoped that life wasn’t going to be too hard; Sister Ellis was an elderly despot, old-fashioned, thorough and given to reminiscing about her own training days when, it seemed, she worked for a pittance, had a day off a month, worked a fifty-six-hour week and enjoyed every minute of it. She never tired of telling the student nurses about it, always adding the rider that she had no idea what girls of today were coming to. No one had ever dared tell her.
Women’s Surgical was on the top floor, a large, old-fashioned ward with out-of-date sluice rooms, side wards tucked away in awkward corners and bathrooms large enough to take half a dozen baths in place of the old-fashioned pedestal affairs set in the very centre of their bleak white tiles. Lucy climbed the stairs slowly because she still had a few minutes to spare, and pushed open the swing doors which led to a kind of ante-room from which led short passages to Sister’s office, the kitchen, the linen cupboard and a small dressings room. Straight in front of her were more swing doors leading to the ward; she could hear voices, curtains being pulled and the clatter of bedpans coming from behind them. Just nicely in time for the B.P. round, she thought sourly as she tapped on Sister’s door. Amsterdam seemed a long way away.
CHAPTER FIVE
LUCY, A HARD worker, found her capacity being stretched to its limits; even with Sister Ellis’s splendid and uncomplaining example, her da
ys were gruelling. One of the staff nurses went off sick on the day following her arrival on the ward and she found herself doing the work of two. Something, as Sister Ellis assured her, she was perfectly capable of doing, and indeed that was true, only it left Lucy too tired to think two thoughts together by the end of the day. But she had her reward; after a week the nurses began to trickle back from sick leave and two days later, she was given her days off with an extra one added on to make up for the extra hours she had worked. Sister Ellis had given her an evening off too so that she packed her overnight bag during her dinner hour, raced off the ward at five o’clock, tore into her clothes, and leaving Chris to clear up the mess, made for Waterloo Station, determined not to miss a moment of her freedom.
Her mother met her at Crewkerne because her father had a Parish Council Meeting and Lucy prudently offered to drive home. Mrs Prendergast had learned to drive a car of necessity, not because she particularly wanted to and she treated the Ford as an arch-enemy, only waiting to do something mean when she was driving it; consequently she gripped the wheel as though she had been glued to it, braked every few yards, ill-treated the clutch and never went faster than forty miles per hour. Fortunately her family had nerves of steel and patient dispositions; all the same, they ganged up to prevent her driving whenever possible. Lucy took the wheel now, and since her mother wanted to talk, didn’t hurry overmuch, answering her parent’s questions with all the detail that lady liked to have. ‘And that nice man who brought you home,’ enquired Mrs Prendergast, ‘did you see him?’
‘Oh, yes,’ admitted Lucy cheerfully, ‘several times. He lives in Amsterdam and knows Doctor de Groot quite well—he and Mies are very thick.’
She didn’t see her mother’s face fall. ‘She must be a good deal younger than he is...’