Saturday's Child

by Betty Neels

  ‘And mine’s a little too tight,’ said Abigail, ‘which is far worse.’ She looked down at her person rather anxiously. ‘I hope the seams don’t pop. How lucky there won’t be anyone there to see, though I expect you’ll be bound to meet someone.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Macklin, and her dark eyes snapped with amusement, but Abigail, with her head twisted over one shoulder trying to see if she looked all right from the back, missed that.

  They were to be fetched by Jan, who would collect Professor de Wit first, Mrs Macklin told her and at ten to eight, Jan rang the door bell and escorted the older lady to the car, while Abigail made a few last-minute arrangements for Jude’s comfort, she hurried after them and got into the seat beside Jan, leaving the two older members of the party to greet each other on the back seat and then talk non-stop throughout the entire short journey.

  Jan seemed to know exactly where they were to go. He gave Mrs Macklin an arm up the stairs in the Concertgebouw, and Abigail, her arm tucked protectively in Professor de Wit’s, followed him happily. They had a box and once the party was seated Abigail looked around her with a good deal of interest.

  The auditorium was full and, from what she could see of the audience, it was smartly dressed. It was all much more splendid than she had anticipated and she thanked heaven silently that the brown dress, although not exciting, was at least passable, but she forgot that presently when the music started. She was sitting beside Mrs Macklin with an empty chair beside her, but she forgot her companions too, leaning forward, her elbows on the red plush of the box, her chin in her hands, staring down at the orchestra. It was the faintest of sounds which caused her to turn her head. Dominic van Wijkelen was sitting beside her in the chair which had been empty; he nodded briefly into her surprised face and became at once absorbed in the music, and most unreasonably the thought that she might just as well not be there for all the notice he had taken of her crossed her mind, then she stifled a laugh, because she herself had been completely absorbed not a minute since, and anyway, what was there about her to rival the music? She focused her attention once more and found that although the magic was still there it was tempered by the presence of the professor, sitting so close and so withdrawn.

  The music came to an end and the lights went up and in the general buzz of clapping and talk the professor got up and went to bend over Mrs Macklin’s chair; he didn’t take his seat again until the lights were lowered and he hadn’t spoken one word to Abigail. She sat like a statue, wondering if she hadn’t been meant to come with Mrs Macklin—whether she had misunderstood, and this, mixed with a rising hatred of the miserable brown dress, caused her calm face to assume an expression of extreme disquiet, which was perhaps the reason for the professor to place a hand quietly over her own, clasped in her lap. The expression on her face turned to one of great surprise; she turned her head slowly to look at him, her mouth a little open, her eyes saucer-round, and met a look to melt her bones, a look she had only seen on his face when he had been bending over a patient—kind and gentle and faintly smiling, and when she attempted to pull her hand away, he merely held it in a firmer grip, and the smile widened. There was nothing to do but leave it where it was, tear her gaze away from his and stare at the orchestra below.

  He gave her her hand back when the lights went up and asked, still smiling: ‘You are enjoying your day off, Abigail?’

  She found her voice, a little high and squeaky. ‘Yes, thank you. It was lovely to see Bolly—thank you for letting me spend the day at your house and giving me lunch and tea.’

  ‘A pleasure which I was unfortunately prevented from sharing,’ he replied. ‘What do you think of our Annie?’

  They talked about commonplace things and soon her heart stopped its absurd racing, and she was able to tell herself that probably the music had made him feel romantic and she was the nearest woman—a tale which held no water at all when presently the lights went out and he possessed himself of her hand again.

  The evening was like a dream—a dream from which she had no desire to waken, but the concert came to an end and Abigail put on the serviceable winter coat once more, took Professor de Wit’s old arm and walked slowly in the wake of the others, down to the car. Jan wasn’t there this time. The professor stowed his passengers comfortably and got behind the wheel himself, disentangled the Rolls with remarkable patience from the multitude of cars around them and drove without haste through the city. They had stopped before his house before Abigail had even begun to wonder where they were going, and she found herself, in company with the two older members of the party, being ushered into the welcoming warmth of the hall, where Bolly, who had opened the door to them, took their coats and invited them to enter the drawing room—a room Abigail had not yet seen. She smiled at Bolly and paused a moment to have a word with him before following the others inside, and became aware that the professor was beside her, but beyond giving her a quick glance he didn’t speak to her but to his guests in general.

  ‘It seemed a good idea if we had a drink and a sandwich before we part,’ he said pleasantly, and piloted them to the chairs scattered around the great fireplace, and as though she had been given her cue Mevrouw Boot came in with a trolley and Bollinger behind her.

  Abigail, eating tiny hot sausages, bitterballen and vol-auvents and drinking the Cinzano she had asked for, made conversation with Professor de Wit and contrived at the same time to look around her. The room was large and lofty with an ornate plaster ceiling and panelled walls painted white, divided by gilded columns. The floor was completely covered by a fine carpet of a delicate, almost faded pink, and the chairs, of which there were a considerable number, were upholstered in a variety of shades in that colour, as well as muted blues and greens. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling’s centre, reflecting light into every corner, and a number of matching wall chandeliers. The curtains were of the same dull pink as the carpet, and the only dark colours in the room came from the paintings on the walls, family portraits and landscapes for the most part. It was a delightful room, restful as well as beautiful; it made her feel dowdy, and the knowledge that her host’s eyes were upon her did little to make her feel anything else; she and her brown dress stuck out like a sore thumb in the beautiful pastel-tinted room. She turned her shoulder to the professor and listened attentively to the old man’s dissertation on the music they had been listening to.

  They stayed an hour before the professor drove them home, Professor de Wit first, to be handed over carefully to the ministrations of Juffrouw Valk and then on to Mrs Macklin’s house. The professor accepted Mrs Macklin’s offer of a cup of coffee with the air of a man who had had no refreshment for a considerable time, and sat down to talk to her while Abigail went to the kitchen to make it. But Mrs Macklin took only a few sips, declaring that she was now too tired to enjoy it and would go to bed at once, but despite this she refused Abigail’s help, merely allowing her to help her off with her dress when she got to her room and then sending her downstairs again. Abigail had expected the professor to be on his feet, coated and ready to go home, but he was still sitting where she had left him, and now as she entered he got to his feet and fetched the coffee pot from the top of the stove and refilled their cups. Abigail sipped in silence, while her thoughts, like mice on a wheel, spun round, trying to find a suitable topic of conversation.

  There was no need. The professor put his cup down and said in the kind of voice he used when he was giving her details of a patient: ‘You look very pretty, Abigail.’

  He was of course either being kind or joking—she thought the former. She was not in the least pretty, certainly not in the brown velvet. Probably her nose was shining too. She said in a small voice:

  ‘Thank you, I don’t know why you said that because it’s not true, but thank you all the same.’

  She gasped when he answered her blandly, ‘No, it’s not true. You’re not pretty, you’re beautiful, because you’re honest and kind. I told you, did I not, that you had restor
ed my faith in women, and now I’m a little afraid.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it may not be true …’

  She got to her feet and walked over to him. ‘It’s quite true,’ she assured him, and smiled up into his face. She only just stopped herself in time from telling him how much she loved him. But perhaps he didn’t want love—not from her—perhaps she was just a stepping stone to some other girl, a girl who really was pretty and led his kind of life. She kept the smile there, though, and he smiled slowly back, towering over her. For the third time he kissed her, and this time it was a kiss to keep her awake for a very long time after he had gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHE WAS TALKING TO Henk when the professor came on to the ward the next morning. They had been laughing about something or other together and she turned a still smiling face to him, and although her good morning was quiet, her eyes were warm; a warmth dispelled instantly by the austerity of his face and his own dry, ‘Good morning, Miss Trent.’ He looked as though he had been up all night, she thought, which might account for his withdrawn air. When he asked for the reports on the babies, she gave them in a brisk friendly voice, not smiling at all. Perhaps when Henk went … Henk didn’t go; he suggested it, for he was wanted on another ward, but the professor told him rather sharply to remain where he was, so that it was impossible to say anything, even if Abigail had known what to say. Which she didn’t.

  After a night of thinking, sometimes very muddled because she had dozed off from time to time and the thoughts became dreamlike and quite unmanageable, she had come to the conclusion that in some way she had been the means of making him realise that not all women were like the girl he had so disastrously married. She doubted if he had any feeling for her—gratitude perhaps, a slow dawning friendship which was destined to come to a premature end once she was back in England, and right at the back of her mind, hardly to be thought of, was the possibility that he had, much against his will, fallen a little in love with her.

  She watched him stalk away from the ward after a blandly polite goodbye and admitted that the possibility of him entertaining any feelings for her was so slight as to be non-existent. She picked up Jantje and put him on the scales. He was beginning to gain weight now and looked like a baby once more. He smiled windily at her and she said aloud:

  ‘He’s going to send me away, dear boy. I’ll bet you my month’s money on it, for either he has set his sights on some blonde lovely and wants me out of the way, or I embarrass him.’

  She was right, of course. She didn’t see him the next day and the following afternoon, just before she was due off duty, he turned up, with Henk and Zuster Ritsma. The babies were examined, a fairly short business now, and then he turned round to address Abigail.

  ‘We seem to be over our emergency, Nurse. I must thank you for your help, we are all deeply appreciative of it. Shall we say that you can go at midday tomorrow?’

  She had expected it, and now it had happened it wasn’t as bad as she had thought it would be. She said matter-of-factly, ‘That suits me very well, thank you.’ She glanced at him and managed to smile briefly, then found his eyes upon her in a thoughtful stare. But when he spoke it was abruptly. ‘I’ll say goodbye, Nurse.’ He offered his hand and she took it and remembered vividly how he had held it at the concert and how, later, he had kissed her. She smiled again, too brightly, quite unable to speak.

  Mrs Macklin, when she was told, was so astonished that she could think of nothing to say for several seconds. ‘I thought you would be here for weeks—months even,’ she managed at last. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be at the hospital for ever, but Dominic always has so many private patients and he has often told me how difficult it is to get a nurse for those who want to stay at home. You’re not mistaken, my dear?’

  ‘No, I expected it—at least for the last two days I’ve been expecting it.’

  ‘Since we went to the concert,’ commented Mrs Macklin sharply.

  ‘Well, more or less.’ Abigail got up from her chair, ‘If I’m to leave at midday I’ll go back to England by the night boat, if I can get a ticket.’

  It would be better that way, for she would be able to sleep on board and when she got to London she could go straight to the agency and get another job. She went up to her room and started to pack in a halfhearted fashion. She would have liked a good weep, but there was really no time; she had to see Bolly before she went and got her ticket and say goodbye to Professor de Wit, and what was the use of crying anyway? She screwed up the brown velvet dress into an untidy bundle and rammed it into her case. She didn’t care if she never wore it again, but the pink dress she folded carefully in tissue paper and tucked it away, out of sight, under her spare uniform. It was a pity, she told herself, that she couldn’t tuck her dreams away as easily.

  She left the hospital the next day, handing over to the nurse who was to relieve her before going to say goodbye to Zuster Ritsma, who shook her fervently by the hand, wished her well and told her that any papers concerning her work would be posted on and what was her address.

  Abigail gave the name of the agency, and when Zuster Ritsma, not quite understanding, persisted that she wanted Abigail’s home address, explained that just for the time being she had no home. Zuster Ritsma, the eldest of a large family to whose welcoming bosom she retired on her days off, gave her a deeply pitying look, and Abigail, to forestall the sympathy she could see in the sister’s eye, asked for her money.

  Her companion looked blank. She knew nothing about it, she said. She had understood that the professor would be paying her as he had engaged her in the first place.

  ‘I think you had better ask him, Nurse Trent—if you would like to go to the consultants’ room and see if he is there?’

  Abigail liked no such thing; to ask him meekly for her salary after he had so thankfully wished her goodbye was more than enough. She had just sufficient money to get to London and a pound or two besides; she would manage until he sent it on to her. In any case, she consoled herself, Mrs Morgan’s money would have arrived at the agency by now. There remained only Bolly to worry about; she was glad now that they had already discussed her return to England, leaving him behind for a little while. She made her way to the house on the gracht, doing hopeful, inaccurate sums in her head.

  Bolly was surprised and disconcerted at her news. ‘A bit quick,’ he observed. ‘I don’t like the idea, Miss Abby—you on your own.’

  ‘But, Bolly,’ she made her voice reasonable and cheerful too, ‘we did agree that it was the best thing, remember? I shall be quite all right, with any luck I’ll get a job straight away and then I can start looking for a flat. I shall be much happier knowing that you’re here while I’m doing it.’

  And seeing Dominic each day, she added silently. Still determinedly cheerful, she went on: ‘I must go now, Bolly dear. I’ll write to you the minute I get fixed up, I promise.’ She gave him an affectionate hug, bade farewell to Annie and Colossus and went round to Professor de Wit’s house, where she told him her news and wished him goodbye. Unlike Bollinger, the old man didn’t seem in the least surprised to hear that she was leaving.

  ‘A natural sequence of events,’ he called it, and when she enquired what he meant he told her she would have to wait and see, but she could mark his words. Abigail smiled and murmured and decided he didn’t mean anything at all; he was old and so clever as to be a little eccentric at times. She kissed him goodbye with real affection.

  She had plenty of time when she got back to Mrs Macklin’s. The boat train didn’t leave until the late evening. She ate a simple supper with Mrs Macklin, who was frankly tearful at the prospect of her leaving and only cheered up when Abigail pointed out that she would most certainly return one day, ‘For if I can come once I can come again,’ she pointed out, knowing that she never would, because then she might meet the professor again and she wouldn’t be able to bear it. A clean break, she told herself silently, was by far the best.

  She cleared the supp
er things away and made coffee, then sat by the stove, chatting with false gaiety until it was time for her to put on her outdoor things and fetch her case. She had refused Bolly’s offer to take her to the station; he was an old man and she didn’t like the idea of him being out in the cold darkness. She would go to the Spui and find a taxi. She told Mrs Macklin what she was going to do as she went to the door. It opened as she got to it and the professor, looking more irritable than ever, came in. He said without preamble, ‘I intended to take you to the boat, but I’m expected in theatre in an hour. I’ll take you to the station.’

  Abigail frowned. How like him to be so awkward; they had said goodbye—not a very pleasant one, but still goodbye, and here he was again, just as she had schooled herself to be sensible about the whole wretched business.

  ‘Please don’t bother,’ she told him, a little stiffly, and noticed as she said it how tired he looked. ‘I was just on my way to get a taxi.’

  He couldn’t have been listening, for he took her by the arm and walked her back to where their mutual friend was sitting, calmly knitting as though she had the house to herself. The professor greeted her briefly and said smoothly, ‘I was just telling Abigail that we must leave in five minutes.’

  ‘Clever,’ thought Abigail. ‘Now he’s got her on his side’, but aloud she said, ‘I’m most grateful, sir,’ in the kind of voice she used on the wards when she addressed consultants. She saw him wince, which quite pleased her, and brightened still more when the idea that he might be going to pay her crossed her mind. She bade Mrs Macklin goodbye and followed him out on to the cobbles to the waiting car. The drive would take five minutes, perhaps a little longer, so there would be no need to talk—a view, apparently, not shared by her companion, however, for once he was behind the wheel he began testily: