Tulips for Augusta

by Betty Neels

  It was pleasant to be home again, even if it were only for a couple of days. Charles had met her at Liverpool Street and had driven her down to Dorset in the Morris; its slightly elderly ways put her in mind of the effortless power and comfort of the Rolls-Royce, but she refused to allow herself the luxury of thinking about it or its owner. It had been an episode, nothing more. She told herself, for the hundredth time, that she didn’t care if she never saw him again.

  She made but the barest mention of him to her family; indeed, the portrait she painted of him was such as to leave them with the impression that he was middle-aged, dull, and nothing much to look at, even though she praised him highly as a doctor. In any case there was so much to talk about, it was unnecessary to do more than touch upon him from time to time. She went back to St Jude’s, well satisfied that she had buried him so successfully in the back of her mind, that she would never need to think of him again. It was therefore disturbing to find an enormous cellophane-wrapped bouquet of tulips lying on her bed when she got back to hospital. They were a rusty bronze, with long delicate stems and leaves. She opened the envelope tucked in among them and read.

  ‘A subtle way of apologising for calling you carroty. These are called Bronze Queen.’ It was signed, rather coldly, she thought, C. van Lindemann. She arranged them, in a collection of borrowed jugs and vases, telling herself that he was merely doing what any other man might do in similar circumstances, although she conceded that he need not have been quite so lavish, and went down to her supper.

  She was back on Men’s Surgical in the morning after a hasty breakfast—hasty because she had quite forgotten to make up a clean cap the previous evening. The Sisters and staff nurses at St Jude’s still wore their old-fashioned starched and goffered caps, of which they were immensely proud, despite the precious time they took to pleat and pin; they wore strings too—small stiff bows under their chins, and they had to be made up as well. Wrestling with them long after she should have been in the dining room, Augusta told herself crossly that it was Constantijn’s fault for sending her the tulips to distract her thoughts. Their presence in her room had been the reason for much comment among her friends, and her temper had not been improved by one of them remarking at the table, as she swallowed tepid tea and bolted her buttered toast, that it was a good thing that she had such an attentive boy-friend, for Archie had been seen on several occasions with Mary Wilkes, Cas staff nurse. Mary, who had days off, wasn’t there to substantiate this claim, although there was a murmur of agreement from everyone else present, cut short by the usual last-minute rush to get on the wards.

  Most of the patients she had known had gone home, but there were still what Sister called the Hard Core—old Mr Reeves with diverticulitis, never quite well enough for operation; and the only time they had managed to get him up to the required standard of health to go to theatre, he had acquired a heavy cold and the anaesthetist had rejected him. Bill was still there too. He had been admitted as an acute peritonitis and had developed a paralytic ileus two or three days after his operation, and had been on a continuous stomach drainage and intravenous drip ever since—there could have been a further operation, but he was young and strong and wasn’t in the least depressed by the monotonous regular treatment he had needed. Now after almost five weeks, he was recovering. Old Tom was there too; he had had a nephrolithotomy done, the stony results of which he proudly displayed in a little glass bottle on his locker. He was an old man, with no family life that anyone could discover, and now that he had developed a secondary infection, it was probably certain that he would stay where he was. He seemed content enough, and the nurses did their best to pander to his small simple wants. He had become a kind of legend on the ward, so that new patients were told about him and took their turn in reading the paper to him and seeing that he always got a cup of tea when there was one going.

  The ward was full; but it always was, and Augusta was glad to be kept busy. She saw Archie within an hour or so of going on duty—they greeted each other with their usual friendliness, and over a lumbar puncture carried on a disjointed conversation, during which he told her without embarrassment that he had taken Mary Wilkes out on a number of occasions.

  ‘I know,’ said Augusta without rancour, ‘I was told—someone always tells, don’t they? Mary’s great fun, and I’m not in the least jealous, Archie, just in case you’re feeling guilty—though I’m sure you’re not.’

  They laughed together, and laughed again when he asked her if she would be prepared to go out with him when Mary wasn’t off duty.

  ‘No,’ said Augusta, roundly. ‘I wouldn’t be so mean— Mary’s much too nice. Anyway, I need all my free time so’s I can find myself a millionaire.’

  He had gone away in high good humour, and she hadn’t really minded, although she had been joking about the millionaire. For the moment, at any rate, she had no interest whatsoever in marrying anyone.

  The busy days slipped by, it seemed as though she had never been away and Alkmaar seemed part of a remote dream world. She busied herself writing letters to the great-aunts in her rather careless Dutch, and then, because it was May and warm and sunny, she played tennis; something she did quite well. She went swimming in the Serpentine too, which she did even better. She had a long weekend due to her in ten days’ time; she would go home and potter for four days, gardening and helping her father with the animals. She would lie about and do nothing too, and perhaps stroll around the country. The thought of it kept her happy, although the ten days seemed interminable. In the end, when she came off duty at five o’clock on the day before she had planned to go, she decided to travel down that evening because it had turned even warmer and the thought of sleeping in her own airy room at home was very tempting. She telephoned her mother, flung some things in an overnight bag, and caught the next train.

  It was still light when she got out at Sherborne. Her father was waiting for her with the Mondeo estate and she got into the car beside him with such a sigh of relief that he asked her what was wrong.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ she protested, ‘only it’s so nice to be home again. London’s awful—I mean the London I see. The parks are marvellous; I’ve been swimming, but there’s never enough time to just lie about.’

  She gazed appreciatively at the little town as they passed through it. It was, outwardly at least, asleep in the early summer twilight, and once they had turned off the main road there was nothing—no cars, no buses, no people pushing and jostling. She said on an impulse:

  ‘I think I must get another job.’

  Her father turned the car in through the open gateway. ‘Restless, Roly?’ He gave her a quick glance. ‘That’s not like you.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I’ve not settled down after my holiday, I suppose.’

  She got out of the car and ran into the house and her mother took one look at her shadowed face and said, ‘Hullo, darling. Supper, then bed—you’re tired. You shall sleep round the clock.’

  But Augusta awoke by seven the next morning, partly from habit and partly because she had been roused by the country sounds—birds, dogs barking, a sick horse whinnying in one of the loose boxes, and Bottom braying a morning greeting against the steady monotony of the cuckoos. The sun was pouring into her room too; she lay and watched it contentedly, then got up and went downstairs and joined everyone else for breakfast, for it was far too lovely a day to stay in bed. Presently she went back upstairs and put on slacks and a cotton shirt and tied her hair back with a green ribbon, then went to help with the chores, done without haste and made pleasant by the gentle gossip she and her mother enjoyed as they made beds and Hoovered and dusted. Mrs Crisp, the daily treasure, called them after a while, and they sat comfortably round the kitchen table, drinking the tea she had made because she could not abide coffee, and discussing the jumble sale which was to take place the next day. It was a yearly event of some importance locally—everyone went, everyone took something and bought something, so that it was a tremendous success fina
ncially, and an excellent opportunity to meet one’s friends and have a chat. It was to be opened by some famous Army man, said her mother—his name had slipped her memory, but he had promised months previously. Something to do with the British Legion, she added, as though that fact made everything clear.

  There wasn’t anything to do after lunch; Mrs Crisp washed up and went home. Mrs Brown settled in a chair in the garden with what she told her daughter was an interesting novel; obviously a mistake, for within ten minutes she was quietly and soundly asleep. Her father and Charles had gone over to a neighbouring farm to perform a minor operation on a horse. Augusta read the paper, took some carrots to Bottom, and then, leaving the dogs with her sleeping parent, strolled off.

  It was really very warm; she left the lane presently and struck off across the fields towards the woods skirting the nearby hills. Once in their shade, she slowed her stroll to an amble, roaming where fancy took her, and stopping to peer at anything which caught her fancy as she went. It was a pity that her thoughts, unbidden, kept returning to her stay in Alkmaar, and naturally enough, to Constantijn van Lindemann. She had really done her best to forget him, but without much success, which seemed strange when she realised that Archie Dukes had already faded into a pleasant nothing…a memory she didn’t even bother to stir up, whereas Constantijn’s image she was unable to throw out—and it wasn’t as if the image was an altogether pleasing one. He had been downright rude; he had poked fun at her on several occasions—and he didn’t like her hair. She picked up a lock and examined it in the sunbeams between the trees. He was right, of course, it was carroty. It was a pity that it didn’t curl. She wandered on, pondering the possibility of tinting it—or going blonde.

  While she had stopped to consider this knotty problem she became aware of a noise. It was faint; an animal or a child—she wasn’t sure which. She kept very still trying to decide its direction, and when she heard it for the second time, she knew that it came from the old disused quarry on her left. She had just passed the battered sign warning anyone from going any nearer. The sound came again and this time she was certain that it was a child crying. The noise became even clearer as she approached the edge of the quarry, which should have been fenced off, but in parts wasn’t. She was terrified of heights; Augusta swallowed carefully, took a breath, closed her eyes, then opened them again and looked over its edge. Below, a long way down, she saw shudderingly, was a child lying on the ground. There was a dog too—a labrador, or some similar breed, lying close and mounting guard. With an effort, Augusta tore her eyes from the depths below her and looked around seeking the least difficult way down. To her left there was a heap of smallish flints, piled against the side of the quarry, but not quite reaching its rim, but she thought she might be able to reach them. She worked round the edge until she stood directly above them, then lowered herself carefully over the edge; it took her minutes to scramble to the top of the heap, for her fright made her clumsy. When she did at last get there, she sat for a few seconds with her eyes closed before beginning to wriggle painfully down to the bottom.

  The child was still crying. Augusta, tingling painfully from the flints, made her way over the rough boulders which strewed the floor of the quarry, and knelt down beside him. The dog whined, but didn’t move. She said ‘Good dog’ automatically and turned her attention to the child. He was small—four or five perhaps; his arm hung awkwardly beside him and he had several cuts on his face and head. He was pale too—probably slightly concussed, although he was conscious for the moment at least. She said cheerfully:

  ‘Hullo, love. Have you been here a long time?’ He gulped a yes. ‘And you fell?’ He muttered yes again.

  ‘What luck you had your dog with you. What’s his name?’

  ‘Rex.’

  Augusta thought she recognised him then. ‘Buller’s Farm?’ she hazarded, and was rewarded by a nod. It was in a way bad news, for the Bullers had six small children who roamed the countryside at will—probably Mrs Buller wouldn’t notice that this particular offspring was missing until teatime. She would have to do something about his arm too. It looked like a fractured clavicle, which wasn’t too bad provided there was nothing else broken. She began to feel his arms and legs very gently; they seemed whole—he even consented to move his legs and his one sound arm; if she could make a sling… She thought, rather wildly, that a white cotton petticoat would have been just the thing—she could have torn it into strips, like the heroines in TV Westerns. Instead, she took off her blouse and after a good deal of wrenching and tugging, tore a strip off the bottom. This made the blouse so short that it really wasn’t decent any more; not that it mattered, for there was no one to see, although, as things stood, she wouldn’t have minded if there had been.

  She held the small arm firmly and turned the boy over the better to get at it, and he cried a great deal while she rolled her hanky into a ball and pushed it into his armpit, then carefully eased the arm across his bony chest and fastened the rather unsatisfactory sling. The dog made things difficult too, under the impression that she was up to some mischief; she could hardly blame the beast for tearing the seat of her pants in the mistaken belief that he was helping his small companion. It didn’t matter anyway, her slacks had been ruined by the flints on the way down. She laid the boy flat again, in case he had concussion, and searched around until she found a tuft of coarse grass which she dragged from the unyielding ground and put under his head. She would have liked water to bathe his cuts, but this was out of the question. She eyed the dog, wondering if he could be persuaded to go home—someone seeing him alone might possibly come in search of the child—if they knew where he was… But the dog refused to budge. He wasn’t a young dog anyway. She doubted if he would be able to climb up the quarry without an encouraging companion, and that certainly not without the boy.

  Which put her in mind of her own plight. The child was small but still too heavy for her even if she could carry him up the impossible side, besides she would hurt his arm dreadfully. She told him in a cheerful voice that she was going to look for a way up, and set out to explore, but it was a waste of time. She didn’t think she could get herself out, let alone carry a child and urge a dog as well. They would have to wait until someone came by. She told the boy this, aware that the chance of someone passing was so remote as to be laughable. Only she didn’t feel like laughing because she was by now getting scared.

  The child seemed easier after a little while, and presently closed his eyes, although she wasn’t sure if he was asleep or unconscious. She would have to risk disturbing him and try shouting. Her voice echoed and re-echoed round the quarry, bringing no result other than the disturbing of some indignant wood pigeons high above their heads. They had been sitting almost an hour and she was getting desperate as well as hoarse, for she had been shouting at regular intervals. It was only a little after half past four and warm and airless in the quarry. She was sitting at the boy’s head, screening him from the sun, and the dog, forgetful of his harsh treatment of her slacks, had wedged himself as close as possible to them both. She put an arm around his shoulders and asked to no purpose, but because it gave a little comfort, ‘Oh, Rex, what are we going to do?’

  The boy was still very quiet, though his pulse and colour were good, probably he was exhausted with fright and was sleeping it off…and a good thing too, it would be bad enough when he wakened. Augusta took a deep breath and shouted once more, and when a voice called ‘Hullo there!’ she didn’t believe it. All the same, she tried again, adding hopefully, ‘In the quarry,’ in a voice which cracked with excitement and relief.

  She was totally unprepared for Constantijn’s appearance above her. He stood nonchalantly on the very edge, looking down at them. She was too far away to see his expression, but she had no doubt that it was amused, for she seemed to amuse him a good deal, and now surely more than ever.

  He asked, ‘What in the name of heaven are you doing down there?’ his voice casual and, as she had known, faintly amused. Her al
most hysterical relief at seeing him was swallowed in rage. She called back with quivering asperity, ‘Having a picnic, of course…’ and then, in case he were to believe it, ‘Don’t go—please don’t go. The boy’s hurt, and I don’t know how to get us out. I’m not very good at climbing.’

  She heard his rumbling laugh as he came down to her, moving fast and with an apparent carelessness which kept her heart in her mouth. But her fears for him were groundless—he fetched up beside her, a little dusty about the shoes, but otherwise unruffled. His unhurried voice had an edge to it, though. ‘I had no intention of going away, though I doubt if you’ll believe that. What happened?’

  It was annoying that her own voice sounded so small and scared.

  ‘Oh, no—I—I heard you laughing.’

  He was already on his knees by the child, but he looked up as she spoke.

  ‘I laughed because we meet again in this most unlikely of spots.’

  He turned his attention to the child again and spoke without looking at her. ‘Stop being so scared and tell me about the child.’

  She told him, and when she had finished, he said, ‘You did very well. He’s probably concussed, but not badly, I think, and beyond that clavicle I can’t feel any broken bones, but we must get him to hospital. I’ll go first—I think if I sling him over my shoulder so’—he suited the action to the words—’ that gives me a free hand for the dog, though I fancy he’ll manage. You follow behind me—it’s not as bad as it looks.’

  He gave her a sharp glance as he spoke and asked, ‘How did you get down?’

  ‘I slid down that heap of flints.’ She stood silent, frowning, expecting him to laugh. He didn’t even smile, nor did he speak, only stared until he said merely, ‘Come on.’ and that abruptly as he turned his back and began to make his way to the selfsame heap.

  It was all right to begin with—she fixed her eyes resolutely upon his feet, planting hers as nearly as possible in the same places. She was sick with fright, but now was hardly the time to tell him that she had a terror of heights. They were perhaps a third of the way up when by some perverse chance, she looked down. The floor of the quarry seemed miles below her; it swam and see-sawed and its steep sides melted and slid around her so that she was no longer sure if her feet were planted firmly or not. She closed her eyes, then opened them again and tried to drag them away from the heaving ground just as the stone she was clinging to slipped from her hand. She watched it roll faster and faster, down to the bottom, while she sought frantically for something solid to cling to once more. She wanted desperately to scream, even to utter a cry for help, but she decided against it; the doctor couldn’t stop now—not with the child slung across his shoulders and the dog to urge on; besides, he would be almost at the top.