Saturday's Child

by Betty Neels

  Zuster Ritsma looked at him with resignation. She had been on her feet for a long time and now here he was, wanting to do a round, she supposed. Before she could speak he said, ‘No, no round.’

  ‘A cup of tea?’ she smiled her relief.

  ‘Thank you, no.’ He hadn’t looked at Abigail, but he gave her the briefest of glances now, a look of cool enquiry which prompted her to ask:

  ‘You would like me to go, sir?’

  ‘Since it concerns you, Nurse Trent, I see no need for that.’ He smiled thinly. ‘We are now fully staffed, or nearly so; it only remains for me to thank you for the help you have given us and tell you that there is now no further need of your services. I am sure that we are all most grateful to you for the way in which you helped out, but I am sure you will be glad to be free to arrange your own future.’

  Abigail listened to this speech with absolute amazement; she wasn’t even sure if half of it were true to begin with, but she could hardly challenge him on that score. She was a freelance nurse, under no obligation to give or receive a month’s notice, so presumably the hospital could terminate her job when they wished. She found her voice and filled the awkward pause with an over-hearty, ‘Oh, splendid, I shall be able to go back …’ Her voice petered away, because unless someone paid her, she couldn’t go back to England; she hadn’t got her fare any more, for she had paid Mrs Macklin for her room, and she had been paying for her meals in hospital too. She could borrow from Bolly, but that was something she wasn’t prepared to do; she had leaned on Bolly enough in the last few years.

  Neither Zuster Ritsma nor the professor appeared to notice her hesitancy.

  ‘We shall miss you, Nurse Trent,’ said Zuster Ritsma kindly. ‘You are good with the children, is that not so, Professor?’

  ‘Very good.’ He spoke shortly and turned to go, his face blandly polite, no more. ‘You will leave tonight, Nurse Trent.’

  It was a command, no less, and she seethed, but she didn’t bother to answer him, nor did she look up as he went. He could at least have wished her goodbye. She blinked back tears and said shakily, ‘I’ll make a fresh pot of tea, shall I? This lot’s cold.’

  And Zuster Ritsma, after one look at her face, sat down at her desk, instantly absorbed in the papers on it, so that Abigail had time to compose herself and subdue the searing misery and bewilderment and rage which worked so strongly beneath her starched apron.

  It was a good thing that the rest of the day proved to be so busy she had no time to think at all, and when at length it was nine o’clock and she was free to go, she made her farewells as quickly as possible before hurrying through the hospital which had suddenly become alien ground. She couldn’t get away faster, she told herself.

  She had told Zuster Ritsma about her delayed pay and that kind soul had been sympathetic but quite unable to do much about it. She had sent Abigail down to the hospital office where they dealt with such things and she had been met with blank looks and shrugged shoulders. As far as she could understand from the clerk she wasn’t on the hospital pay roll at all; Professor van Wijkelen had engaged her to work for him and had made himself responsible for her salary, and beyond suggesting that she should find him and ask for herself, the clerk had no advice to give.

  She went past the porter’s lodge without hearing the man on duty wishing her good night and plunged outside into the dark. The desultory snow had ceased again, the pavements were wet under her feet and she shivered as she ran across the forecourt. She was totally unprepared for Jan’s voice calling, ‘Miss, miss!’ from the car which slid silently alongside her. He smiled and opened the door, saying in his heavily accented English, ‘I am to take you home, so please to get in.’

  Abigail shook her head. ‘Thank you, Jan, but there must be some mistake—Does the professor know that you’ve come to fetch me? And anyway I don’t want to.’

  Jan looked at his most fatherly. ‘I am just this minute told by the professor to take you home, miss,’ he contrived to look worried. ‘He will be angry if I return and say that you would not go with me.’

  She got in beside him, answering his polite remarks absentmindedly while her mind ran on and on, trying to decide what she would do. To remain in Amsterdam was unthinkable, to go back to England was impossible for the moment. She would have to get a job until she had enough money. When they arrived at the Begijnhof she thanked Jan and asked if he would take a message for her. ‘To Bollinger,’ she explained. ‘Just tell him that I’ve gone away for a few days and he’s not to worry, Mrs Macklin will let him know more about it later.’ It sounded harmless enough like that, by the time Bollinger got worried enough to ask Mrs Macklin, she would certainly have another job, and she could always think of something to tell him when the time came. It was all a little vague, but it would have to do. She wished Jan goodbye and reminded him not to tell anyone else but Bollinger what she had said, and he agreed cheerfully, wishing her Tot ziens as he went back to the car, a hopeful form of farewell to which she was unable to subscribe. She wished him goodbye and went soberly indoors.

  Mrs Macklin was in the kitchen making their bedtime drinks. She turned and smiled as Abigail walked in, saying, ‘There you are, child—how nice and early. You must have been walking fast.’

  ‘Jan brought me in the car.’

  ‘Dear Dominic, what care he takes of you.’ Mrs Macklin spoke with a satisfied pride which sparked off Abigail’s held-down feelings.

  ‘He does nothing of the kind,’ she declared hotly. ‘He doesn’t care a brass farthing for anyone but himself! He’s cold and heartless and I detest him. He’s given me the sack, today—this very afternoon—just like that—he said …’ she choked. ‘He owes me weeks of salary too …’ She burst into tears.

  The whole story came out; in fragments which didn’t make sense at first, but Mrs Macklin had patience. Slowly she sorted out the facts from the fiery condemnation of the professor’s character, the bewilderment as to why it had happened and determination, repeated many times, never, never to see him again. ‘And I would rather die,’ declared Abigail in far too loud a voice, ‘than take a penny from the man!’ She turned a tear-blotched face to her listener. ‘I love him so,’ she said miserably.

  ‘There is, of course, a mistake somewhere,’ said Mrs Macklin with kind firmness. ‘Someone or something has caused him to behave like this.’

  Abigail took a drink of cooling cocoa which she didn’t want. ‘But why didn’t he at least tell me? I thought he trusted me, I even thought that he was beginning to love me a little—that’s absurd, of course. Look at me, no one ever looks at me more than once—no man, that is.’ Which wasn’t quite true, but she was in the mood to exaggerate. ‘And Dominic least of all.’ She put down her cup. ‘I’m going away, Mrs Macklin.’

  ‘Yes, dear. Where to? England?’

  ‘I can’t—I haven’t any money, at least, not enough.’

  ‘I will gladly lend …’

  ‘You’re a dear, Mrs Macklin, but no, thank you, I won’t borrow unless I’m quite desperate. If I could get a job somewhere away from Amsterdam, just long enough to save my fare. I must get away.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s the right thing to do, Abigail?’

  Abigail got up and took the cups and saucers over to the tray on the table. ‘Yes, I’m sure. I couldn’t stay, you see, I might see him. I haven’t known him long, I should be able to forget him.’

  Both ladies knew that this was a silly remark, but neither of them said so. Mrs Macklin nodded her head and offered:

  ‘In that case, I believe I can help you. I have a friend, a Mevrouw Hagesma. She lives in Friesland, in a tiny village north of Leeuwarden. She’s had a stroke and although she can get about, she finds it difficult on her own. Her daughter is going home to be with her, but not for a week or so. I think she would be delighted if you would go and stay with her and help her. The only thing is, she’s very poor.’

  Abigail said quickly, ‘She need not pay me; as long as I could have a
room and some food, it would give me a chance to decide what to do—there must be some work I can do, I don’t care what. Even if it’s only a few gulden a week—I don’t need much to make up the money for my fare.’

  ‘I still think you should borrow from me, my dear.’

  Abigail crossed the little room and planted a kiss on the smooth, elderly cheek. ‘What a kind person you are, Mrs Macklin, but I won’t. I’ll go to your friend if she’ll have me, at least I’ll be out of the way.’ She gulped, determined to put a bright face on things. ‘I’ll go back to England just as soon as I can and get a job and then Bolly can come back.’

  ‘He’s very happy at Dominic’s house,’ Mrs Macklin reminded her.

  ‘You think he’d like to stay? If—if Dominic would keep him and he’d be happy, then that would be wonderful. He deserves better than I can offer him.’ She sighed. ‘Could I write to your friend tomorrow and ask…?’

  ‘She sits up till all hours,’ Mrs Macklin interrupted her to say. ‘I’ll telephone her now.’

  Ten minutes later Abigail said wonderingly, ‘Well, I can hardly believe it—all fixed up so quickly. I’ll pack tonight and leave on that early train—you’re sure it runs?’

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ Mrs Macklin smiled at her. ‘I shall miss you. What am I to say if—when Dominic calls?’

  ‘He won’t. He’s—he’s finished with me, I think. Perhaps he remembered his wife and thinks I should get like her—he must be mad,’ Abigail’s voice rose a little, ‘if he thinks that. His wife was lovely, wasn’t she? with lots of men-friends. I couldn’t be more different—perhaps that’s why. I mean, I’d be such a safe, unexciting sort of wife, wouldn’t I, because he would never need to be jealous of me.’

  Mrs Macklin quite rightly took no notice of this diatribe. ‘What shall I tell him?’ she repeated.

  ‘That I’ve gone to another job; he’ll not want to know more than that, if he asks. And please don’t tell him where I am or about the money.’

  Her companion gave her an understanding look. ‘No, dear. Now go to bed, you have to be up early in the morning. What about Bollinger?’

  Abigail explained about him. ‘I don’t think he’ll worry, not for a little while, and if he comes to see you, if you’ll just tell him that I’m working—another case—and that I’ll write.’

  She said goodnight and went away to pack and then to go to bed and lie awake until it was time for her to get up. The night had been very long. She dressed with relief, had a sketchy breakfast, took Mrs Macklin a cup of tea, wished her goodbye and left the house.

  The train journey to Leeuwarden was uneventful. Abigail, watching the flat, wintry fields as they flashed along, saw nothing. Because of her sleepless night she was quite unable to think; wisps of conversation flitted in and out of her tired mind, snatches of things she had said and done in the last few weeks since she had met Dominic, came and went, tangling themselves into a frenzied, half-remembered muddle which did nothing to improve a rapidly worsening headache. She got out at Leeuwarden and a kindly ticket collector sent her to the station café to have a cup of coffee while she waited for the bus, which wasn’t due for an hour. There was a map on the café wall, and she studied it, glad to discover that the village she was going to was a long way away from Dominic’s home. As far as she could make out, it was on a side road, half way between Leeuwarden and Holwerd on the coast. The side road, according to the map, ended at Molenum, which was the place she was going to. For the first time since she had accepted the job, she wondered what sort of a house she was going to, and what kind of a village it was in.

  Molenum, when she reached it, was small; one shop, a post office in the front room of a small house in its main street and a very large church. The landscape was rolling and wide and there weren’t many trees. There was a chill, damp wind blowing in from the sea, some miles away, and absolutely no one to be seen. She watched the bus lumber away and went into the shop.

  The woman behind the counter was tall and gaunt and middle-aged, dressed severely in black. She stared at Abigail in a disconcerting way which she found a little daunting as she said: ‘Dag, mevrouw,’ and then, ‘Mevrouw Hagesma?’

  The stare melted into a nice smile. The village was so small, probably everyone in it knew she was coming; she smiled back as the woman came from behind the counter and pointed up the narrow cobbled road, past a row of dollshouse-sized cottages, to a house standing alone; it was just as small as the others, but it had a garden all round it. Abigail said ‘Dank U’ and picked up her case and started towards it, aware that, as she passed, the spotless white curtains at the little front windows were stirred by invisible fingers. She opened the gate and walked up the narrow brick path and knocked on the old-fashioned wooden door; it had a small square shutter in it which opened to allow an eye to examine her before the door was opened.

  Mevrouw Hagesma was tall and gaunt too, and quite old, but her face was kind and her eyes were as bright and blue as a little girl’s. It was then that Abigail realised that she would have to speak Dutch, something she hadn’t thought about before. She embarked on a few muddled phrases to which the old lady listened with grave courtesy, and then said slowly, her speech thickened by her stroke, ‘A friend of Mrs Macklin’s is a friend of mine,’ and led the way into the living room. She walked with a stick and very slowly and one arm hung, not quite uselessly, at her side.

  The room was comfortably furnished and tidy, but the pristine cleanliness Abigail knew was a Dutchwoman’s pride was absent. The old lady waved an arm clumsily around her and shrugged her shoulders, and Abigail understood the gesture to be one of apology because not everything was exactly in its place, nor was it quite spotless.

  It was surprising how, after those first few minutes, they managed to understand each other. Abigail had a room like a cupboard at the top of the ladder-like stairs—she unpacked her few things and went down again to find Mevrouw Hagesma making coffee. While they drank it, and with the aid of the little dictionary Abigail always carried with her, she found out all she needed to know about the old lady as well as telling her as much as she thought necessary about herself. Mevrouw Hagesma nodded and smiled her slightly lopsided smile when Abigail had finished. ‘We shall be friends,’ she told her, and although she spoke in Dutch, Abigail understood her very well.

  Abigail had expected the days to drag, but surprisingly they didn’t. There was so much to do in the little house, and once Mevrouw Hagesma saw that she was a good housewife, able to sweep and dust and polish and not grumble about it, she was content to leave a great deal to her. Not that Abigail allowed the old lady to be idle. She had her exercises to do each day, and her reading, and Abigail was helping her to write once more with her still partly paralysed hand. Mrs Macklin had telephoned several times too and Abigail had longed to ask about Dominic but didn’t, and Mrs Macklin didn’t mention him.

  Each morning, just before dinner time, Abigail took Mevrouw Hagesma for a walk, a very short one, down to the village shop, where she rested for a little while and then back home again. It was a slow clumsy business, but the old lady looked forward to a gossip with Mevrouw Beeksma in the shop and most mornings there were customers there too so that the gossip became half an hour’s chat, something which the old lady enjoyed very much although Abigail found the elderly, soberly clad ladies unexciting. They spoke Fries, which made it impossible for her to understand them, and when they spoke to her in careful, slow Dutch, she still had difficulty in understanding them. She got into the habit of wandering round the little shop, examining the crowded shelves, looking at the tins and packets, learning their prices for the sake of something to do, and when she found that Mevrouw Hagesma enjoyed correcting her wild attempts to speak Dutch, she suggested that they should spend a little time each evening struggling with that language and improving her deplorable accent. It passed the long hours before bedtime and the old lady, now that she had something to occupy her mind, began to improve rapidly.

  Abigail had bee
n there ten days when Mevrouw Beeksma told her that her daughter had been taken ill and had been taken to hospital in Leeuwarden. Abigail, wrestling with the shopkeeper’s pantomime of screwed-up face, hands clasped to back and urgent bendings, tried to guess what complaint the poor girl had. Renal colic, perhaps, or even a slipped disc—she made a sympathetic murmur and listened to Mevrouw Beeksma bemoaning the fact that she wouldn’t be able to go and see her each afternoon, because there was no one to mind the shop. If only there was someone to take the place over for an hour or so each afternoon, said poor Mevrouw Beeksma, looking gaunter than ever.

  ‘I will,’ said Abigail, not stopping to think.

  ‘Wel, neen’ declared Mevrouw Beeksma, and then: ‘Waarom niet?’

  Why not indeed, thought Abigail, she had been wanting a job—here it was. For the first week it hadn’t mattered too much because deep down inside her she had hoped that Dominic would come thundering after her. But of course he hadn’t, and now it was urgent that she should earn some money; she would have to go when Mevrouw Hagesma’s daughter came, it would be splendid if she could earn enough money to go straight back to England before that time.

  ‘Three hours each afternoon,’ said Mevrouw Beeksma, ‘and I pay two gulden an hour.’

  Abigail did sums—six gulden a day for six days, that would be thirty-six gulden. She needed more than that, but perhaps she could sell something.

  ‘Yes,’ said Abigail.

  She was slow that first day. The ladies of the village who came for their groceries had to help her with their change and point out just what they wanted, but Abigail, who considered the job as a gift from heaven, didn’t make the same mistake twice. By the fourth afternoon she was managing very well and Mevrouw Beeksma pronounced herself satisfied. ‘Another week,’ she told Abigail, ‘and my daughter will be home.’ She smiled and nodded and strode out into the windy street to catch the bus.