Tulips for Augusta

by Betty Neels

  She had promised to go out with Mary and Archie and the new CO that evening; not because she particularly wanted to, but to do Mary a good turn. Now she wished she had never said that she would go; it was going to be difficult to concentrate on Archie when all the time her thoughts would be of Constantijn, and heaven knows they were muddled enough, tearing around inside her head like squirrels in a cage. It was a relief when one of her friends banged on her bedroom door and begged her to make up a foursome for tennis until teatime. It was when the four of them were strolling off the tennis court, rather hot and breathless, that the wooden gate leading to the path across the Nurses’ Home grounds, was flung open and Constantijn, very much at ease, strolled towards them. He exchanged greetings with charming politeness, took Augusta firmly by the arm, and with some easy excuse which she was too surprised to hear, walked her rapidly away. When they were a little distance from the others he stopped, and still with a hand on her arm, turned her round to face him. ‘You know,’ he said mildly, ‘I came prepared to deal quite severely with you, but now, seeing you like this with that carroty hair all over the place and that ridiculous short skirt, I find I can’t—it would be like bawling out Johanna.’

  Augusta fidgeted uneasily, not looking at him, and then overcome by curiosity, asked, ‘Why should you want to bawl me out?’

  He said, quite ill-tempered, ‘What’s all this about some fairy-tale lecture? Whoever heard of any self-respecting honorary lecturing on a Sunday?’ She didn’t answer at once and he gave her a little shake—a gentle one. ‘Well, was there a lecture?’

  She steeled herself to meet his eye. ‘No—and if you want to know why I came back I’ll tell you now it’s none of your business.’

  His voice was silky. ‘My dear girl, don’t anticipate me—why should I try to find out what I already know?’

  She reddened under his gaze, angry and bewildered and caught off her guard. She snapped, ‘Have you come to bait me? and how did you get in anyway?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve influence,’ he explained airily. His face suddenly became kind, just as it had been in the quarry. ‘My dear Augusta Brown—’ He smiled at her with tenderness so that her heart, which was already behaving in a most irregular fashion, stopped altogether and then began its beating afresh with a sudden fierce rush to shake her.

  ‘Have dinner with me this evening?’

  She wanted to say yes. For a brief second she thought of the delight of being in his company for a few hours. She shook her head. ‘I can’t—I’m going out…’ He interrupted, ‘With Archie?’

  She nodded reluctantly, tempted to tell him about it, but when she took a quick peep at his face and saw that he didn’t look in the least disappointed at her answer, she said nothing at all but stood, with his hand still on her arm, while he said cheerfully, ‘Then I won’t keep you, Augusta.’ His hand dropped from her arm and she felt all at once bereft and lonely. The others had gone on; they started to walk side by side towards the gate, Augusta mulling over several questions she longed to ask and at last choosing the one least likely to be misconstrued, inquired:

  ‘Are you busy?’ then wished she hadn’t spoken, for it couldn’t have sounded sillier. He stood still, his hands in his pockets, jangling the loose change in them in an irritating manner. He appeared to be considering her question. He said slowly, ‘Busy?—busy working or having fun—you don’t say. At the moment I’m having fun, dear girl, my godfather’s practice isn’t so demanding that I can’t have a day off occasionally. And you? Are you busy? Smoothing brows and pillows and learning how to be a good Ward Sister when you get the chance?’ He was laughing a little, but his words sounded sourly in her ears, for that would be her ultimate future—she couldn’t visualise wanting to marry anyone but him. She had a lightning glimpse of herself in ten years’ time, her carroty hair a little dull, and she herself a little dull too, running a ward with the efficiency of someone who had no other interest in life. Without her knowing it, the soft curves of her mouth turned down and Constantijn said, ‘Don’t look at ghosts that aren’t there, Augusta Brown. Enjoy your evening.’ Which left her nothing further to say except a muttered goodbye before she walked away rather fast in the direction of the Nurses’ Home.

  The evening for the other three was highly successful, though hardly for Augusta, who laughed and talked to hide a misery which actually hurt while she thought of all the things she could have said, and hadn’t, to Constantijn. She was listening to Archie theorising about some peculiar case he had admitted that day when she remembered that she had never thanked Constantijn for the fairing and the pincushion, and the consternation upon her face showed itself so strongly that Archie stopped in the middle of a sentence and begged her not to take the patient’s condition too much to heart.

  Before she went to bed that night, she wrote a stiff little note to Constantijn thanking him for his gifts and addressed it care of Dr Soames, for she had no idea where he was; probably back in Alkmaar by now, she decided as she composed herself for the sleep which eluded her for a great part of the night.

  There was a bad multiple car crash in the following morning. The ward filled up at a moment’s notice with patients whose injuries needed the constant care which did not allow of any other thoughts than those concerned with the job in hand. Augusta, who had stayed on duty to help with the rush, got to her room after nine o’clock, too tired to do more than bath, drink the tea Mary had made for her, and fall into bed to sleep dreamlessly until she was called the next morning. The days which followed were almost as bad, for there were nurses on holiday and a senior student nurse off sick. Augusta welcomed the hard work and extra time on duty, for there was no time to think on duty, and when she was free she was too weary to be bothered. But at the end of three or four days, the ward staff was full strength again, with patients improved or transferred to Intensive Care: she was able to drink her coffee with Sister in the mornings once more and go off duty on time.

  She had an unexpected weekend off too, for Sister had asked her to change with her, and had offered her a half-day to add on to it to make up for the off duty she had missed. It meant that she would be able to go home on Thursday evening and stay until Tuesday morning as she wouldn’t have to go on duty until after midday dinner. She had heard from her mother that Constantijn had gone and come back and was returning to Holland within a couple of days, so that she would be able to go home without fear of meeting him—a situation which her common sense told her was most satisfactory but which her heart deplored despite the fact that she had decided that she wouldn’t willingly see him again. She waited a day, trying to decide whether to go home or not, and made up her mind finally to telephone her mother in the evening. But her mother telephoned first during tea, and Augusta, called to the telephone, asked anxiously through a mouthful of bread and butter, ‘Mother, are you all right? Is something the matter?’

  Her parent’s voice, sounding very cheerful, hastened to reassure her. ‘Roly, you can’t possibly change your weekend, can you?’ her mother wanted to know.

  ‘That’s funny,’ said Augusta, ‘I was going to phone you this evening. I’m free until Tuesday midday, starting tomorrow evening…I’m coming home.’

  ‘No, darling,’ said her mother briskly, ‘you’re not. You’re coming over to Alkmaar with me—it’s all arranged. The aunts want to see me and it’s such a good opportunity, and I said if you could get off you would come too.’

  Augusta became aware of a peculiar sensation, rather like being in a dream; an interested spectator who was powerless to alter the sequence of the events taking place. She asked, a little breathless, ‘Mother, what have you been up to?’

  Her mother sounded shocked. ‘Darling Roly, up to? What do you mean? I was telling that nice Brigadier of yours about the aunts—he and Dr Soames came to tea and ate almost all of one of my cakes…where was I? Oh, yes—and Constantijn came along to fetch them—he finished the cake—and said he was going over to Holland and why didn’t I go with him, and he m
ade it all so easy—tickets and things, dear, then he suggested that you might like to come too and I knew you would, so I accepted on your behalf provided you could get off, and you can. Isn’t it lovely, Roly?’

  Augusta began, ‘Mother…’ but got no further because her mother was already telling her at what time to be ready the next evening and to be sure and bring her passport. ‘And don’t worry if you haven’t any money, darling—your father has given me plenty.’

  ‘And how do we get back?’ asked Augusta.

  ‘Didn’t I say? Constantijn has to come back early in the week—he says any day will suit him. I’ll give him a ring now and tell him that everything is arranged. ‘Bye, darling.’ Her mother hung up before she could reply, and she went back to her chilling tea, looking thoughtful. Life, it seemed, was nothing but a series of coincidences—only her wishful thinking could possibly make anything else of it and that was because she was in love with Constantijn. After all, what was more natural than for him to go over to Holland for a weekend? It was his home and his work was there; and what could be more natural than that he should offer her mother a seat in his car when he knew she would like to go to Alkmaar? She poured away her undrinkable tea and refilled it from the pot, then bit into a bun before embarking on answering the questions being shot at her from her companions at the tea-table. When she had finished, one of the girls who had been on the tennis court when Constantijn had come to see her said, ‘Gussie, what a chance for you!’

  ‘Doing what?’ Augusta wanted to know, and was greeted with a gale of laughter and an offer from several of the young ladies lolling round the table, to take her place. ‘What will you wear?’ asked a voice, and triggered off an earnest discussion which wasn’t satisfactorily concluded by the time they went back on the wards, and when she got off duty that evening her room was quickly filled with the same young ladies, offering advice, the loan of various garments, and picking over her wardrobe with an interest worthy of a mother getting a child off to school for the first time.

  She was putting the last few odds and ends into a small case when Winnie, the elderly maid who, rumour had it, had been looking after the nurses in the Home since Queen Mary had opened it, knocked on the door and told her to be quick, do, because there was a posh gent in the hall waiting for her.

  ‘He’s not posh, he’s a doctor,’ said Augusta, peevish because her hair hadn’t gone as she had intended and she wasn’t sure if the new trouser suit was really quite her after all. It was too late to do anything about it now, however. She gave Winnie a half finished box of chocolates, said, ‘Here, Winnie—I’ve left the soft centres for you, be a darling and make my bed,’ and skipped downstairs.

  Constantijn was making himself agreeable to the warden, an elderly Teutonic lady with a Wagnerian manner and a heart of gold concealed beneath a massive bosom. She looked up as Augusta crossed the hall and said in an English she had never quite mastered, ‘She is here—you will now go away and be content.’ She beamed at Augusta and nodded delightedly, as though she had waved some sort of a wand and created some wonderful situation to make them all happy. ‘You are pleasant in the trousers, Staff Nurse Brown.’ Augusta went pink, avoided Constantijn’s eye and said, ‘Oh, Valky!’ and then rather haughtily to the doctor, ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’ She looked at him and found him smiling.

  ‘My dear Augusta, even if you had, I should find it well worth while, for you are indeed pleasant in the trousers.’ He took her case from her, spoke briefly and pleasantly to the warden in her own language, and shepherded Augusta through the door. He paused on the step. ‘Why Valky?’ he asked mildly.

  Augusta felt pleasure at his company stealing over her; it was always the same; she felt so completely at ease with him, as though she had known him for ever and ever. ‘She’s German,’ she explained. ‘You know—the Valkyrie,’ she went on with a fine disregard for the clarity of her explanation, ‘Brunnhilde and all that, and no one could pronounce her name, and with a bosom like that, so she’s called Valky.’

  He laughed. ‘Of course. I only have to be with you for a few minutes, Roly darling, and the world becomes the most amusing place.’ She flashed him a bright green glance and he added, ‘No, not you—I never laugh at you.’

  ‘Why do you call me Roly?’ she demanded.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t you want to know why I call you darling?’ he murmured. Augusta said ‘No’ with a certain breathlessness and went down the steps and across the pavement to where the Rolls was waiting with her mother in it, smiling at her from the back seat.

  Obedient to the pressure of Constantijn’s hand on her arm, she got into the front of the car, received a maternal kiss on one cheek, assured her parent that she had her passport safe in her handbag and turned to meet Constantijn’s amused eyes as he got in beside her.

  ‘How very fortunate that you should be free this weekend, Augusta—we’re going by Harwich, by the way.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Shall we decide about a meal later, Mrs Brown? We don’t want to cut it too fine; we can always eat on board.’

  He let in the clutch and slipped into the stream of traffic. It was slow going until they were clear of the city, but once they met the A12 they made short work of the miles, for there were long stretches where the needle spun to seventy and stayed there. Augusta watched the country rush past while her mother and Constantijn, apparently unnoticing of her silence, carried on a gentle conversation which she found very soothing, so much so that she went to sleep and didn’t waken until they were running into Colchester.

  ‘There must be something about me which induces sleep,’ Constantijn murmured as she sat up, feeling guilty. She said, stammering a little:

  ‘I’m so sorry—I suppose I was tired.’ She looked back at her mother, who smiled and said, ‘Poor old Roly—it’s my fault for rushing you like this,’ and Constantijn said just as kindly, ‘You’ve wakened at just the right moment. We’re going to stop at the George for dinner—we’ve made very good time, and there are only nineteen miles to go.’

  The hotel was old; she and her mother wandered into its courtyard while he parked the car, and admired the vine before going off together with a promise to meet him in the bar in five minutes. Which gave Augusta no time at all to ask her mother any questions.

  They dined lightheartedly off oysters, steak chasseur and Crême Waflen, a delicate concoction of strawberries and cream laced with brandy and encased in a light-as-air sponge, and washed these delights down with a vintage claret, the effect of which, combined with the brandy in the pudding and the dry Martini she had had before dinner, was such as to convince Augusta that as there was nothing she could do about the situation she found herself in, she might as well enjoy herself.

  Her nap had refreshed her, so much so, that when later on in the evening they were on board and on the point of departure, her mother suggested she might like an early night, she declined. They were sharing a rather splendid cabin with beds instead of bunks; she had inspected it earlier and asked her mother a little uneasily if it wasn’t rather expensive, to which her mother replied that she hadn’t the least idea—Constantijn had kindly arranged everything and doubtless her father would settle with him. Now, watching her mother’s back disappearing cabinwards, Augusta said awkwardly, ‘Our cabin is much nicer than we usually have—I suppose there weren’t any others left?’ She wasn’t looking at him and didn’t see him smile. ‘I suppose there weren’t,’ he agreed mildly. ‘Shall we walk round the deck, or do you like to stand and watch the last of England?’

  She chose the latter. They stood side by side, watching Harwich growing dim and small in the not quite dark of the summer evening, and when there was no more to be seen, they strolled around the deck until she decided to go to bed. He wished her goodnight in a detached, friendly fashion which she found rather damping, he might have been a good-natured cousin or even a brother.

  They breakfasted, rather grandly, at the Hotel des Indes in The Hague because Constantij
n assured them that he was quite unable to drive on an empty stomach. They spoke, by tacit consent, in Dutch, and Augusta, being careful of verbs and tenses, envied her mother her easy flow of that language; probably that was why they had become such good friends.

  They were in Alkmaar shortly after ten o’clock, and Augusta, more aware of Constantijn than she cared to admit, heaved a small unconscious sigh as he allowed the big car to whisper to a halt before her aunts’ house. He didn’t move or speak for a moment and she studied his hands lying idle on the wheel—large, kindly hands, and gentle too. He said quietly, ‘Well—the end of our journey, and I for one am sorry.’ He gave her a quick glance and caught her looking at him, so that she said inadequately, ‘Yes—I’m sorry too.’

  There were a great many things she would have liked to say; she stared at him instead so that he said, still very quiet, ‘Your eyes have a great deal more to say than that pretty mouth of yours, Augusta Brown.’ He smiled and she caught her breath and turned her head sharply away as her mother said, ‘You’ll come in, Constantijn, won’t you? When I telephoned Tante Marijna she said that I was to be sure and see that you did, even if only for a minute.’

  The aunts were in the little room at the end of the passage, just as they had been when Augusta had visited them so short a time before. They were sitting at the table in the same chairs, wearing, apparently, the self-same clothes. Tante Marijna looked a little more fragile perhaps, but her voice was resolute enough as she and Tante Emma greeted them. Maartje, bustling in with coffee and Jan Hagel biscuits, confided to the doctor sotto voce that everything was going well. ‘Indeed it is,’ said Tante Marijna, whose hearing was sharper than many women of half her age—an asset which she didn’t scruple to use when it suited her. ‘All the same, Constantijn, I should be glad if you will give me an examination.’