Heaven Is Gentle

by Betty Neels

  Bed making, she thought, and seeing that the men were warmly clad and weren’t too hot and did their breathing exercises, and all the other small, necessary chores. He was right, of course. ‘Well, would you like a hot drink? Have you time?’

  He had picked up Cat and was stroking her small, large-eared head.

  ‘That would be nice, thank you.’

  ‘Well, sit down. There’s still a little warmth in the ashes—the kettle won’t take long.’

  She left him to go into the kitchen and make tea, and presently came back with a tray and a tin of biscuits beside. When she had poured him a cup and given Cat a saucer of milk she took a sip from her own cup and asked: ‘Hell be all right now?’

  ‘Kok? I think it unlikely that he will have another attack in the immediate future, if he does we must try him with Prednisolone—we don’t want status asthmaticus, do we? Tranquillisers may help. We’ll try for a day or so and I’ll talk to him—if I can convince him that his stay here, away from everyone, will contribute to the lessening of his attacks, we might manage to control them to a certain extent.’

  ‘Inject him, as it were, with an anti-emotion.’

  His dark eyes snapped. ‘You understand. I have tried it once or twice in Holland with success and Professor Wyllie has done the same thing over here. This is the field of psychology, of course, but we both feel strongly that the family doctor or a specialist with whom the patient is familiar is more suited to such work.’

  ‘Have you a practice?’

  He hesitated slightly. ‘Yes—in Nijmegen.’ He got up, towering over her in the small room. ‘I must go back to Kok.’ His voice, which had been warmly friendly, had become indifferent again; he was all of a sudden anxious to be gone. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  His glance raked her and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and she knew why. Anyone looking less like a hospital Sister would be hard to find. The guernsey was on its last legs, her slacks were stuffed into the Wellingtons and her hair, escaped from its hastily tied ribbon, hung curly and untidy, around her face. She said with tremendous dignity:

  ‘Don’t mention it, sir. Thank you for coming over.’ She ushered him to the door, wished him a brisk good night and shut the door smartly behind him. As she cleared away the tea tray and filled her hot water bottle, she told Cat exactly what she thought of him. ‘And if he wants to snub me whenever I open my mouth,’ she explained to the listening animal, ‘then he shan’t have the chance!’

  As from that very day, she decided, huddling into bed and shivering a little, she would give him no opportunity to talk. No more cups of tea and certainly no more light chat about his work in Holland. She would say ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and keep out of his way. As she drifted off into sleep she realized that she was sorry about this, but she was far too tired to go into her feelings more deeply.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SHE was up at her usual time in the morning, and after attending to Cat’s small wants, went over to the hut. It was early still, and she had quite forgotten her resolution to keep out of Professor van Duyl’s way; it was something of a shock to find him still there, sitting by Kok’s bed. He had been writing, for there were a number of closely written sheets scattered round his chair, but now he was sitting doing nothing, his dark features rendered darker still by reason of the stubble on his chin and the deep lines of tiredness running between his handsome nose and mouth. That his thoughts were far away was evident; perhaps with the girl he was going to marry. Eliza frowned as she thought it—she was allowing her mind to dwell too much on him and his affairs. She wished him a good morning in a cool voice and offered to make him a cup of tea, which he refused with a curtness which verged upon rudeness.

  ‘Let him sleep,’ he told her, nodding towards Kok. ‘If he wakes before I get back, give him a light breakfast. I shall return before you go with the men for the morning exercise.’

  And he did, freshly shaved, the tired lines miraculously gone, and as immaculate as though he had enjoyed a good night’s sleep and all the time in the world in which to dress. She wondered how he did it—and presumably he had had his breakfast too.

  Beyond telling him that she had left coffee warming on the hot plate in the day room, she said nothing. Mr Kok was still sleeping quietly, the men were ready to go out; Eliza put on her cape and boots and went with them.

  She helped Mrs MacRae again that afternoon; after all, there was a great deal to do, more than one person could manage, though once they had turned the house out thoroughly, a daily clean through, which Mrs MacRae would be able to manage on her own, would suffice. She followed the stalwart little woman upstairs once more and into a bedroom, as dusty as the first one had been but considerably tidier, only on a small table drawn up under a window there was a hotchpotch of papers, closely written notes, and open books. Professor van Duyl’s room, Eliza guessed, and had the guess confirmed by the sight of a framed photograph of a young woman, placed, she couldn’t help but notice, where it could be seen from every corner of the room. She had no chance to look at it immediately, but later, when Mrs MacRae had gone downstairs with the rugs, leaving her to get on with the polishing, she took the photograph to the window so that she might study it. Professor Wyllie had been right; here was a very handsome young woman, with classical features and wearing the air of one who would never allow anyone or anything to upset her calm. Insipid, nonetheless decided Eliza, despite the fact that she had the appearance of a person who was always right and took care to tell you so.

  She didn’t know what made her look over her shoulder. The Professor was standing in the doorway watching her, his face sombre with some emotion she had no time to guess at. She turned round to face him, still clutching the photograph, her face pink, and she found that when she came to speak that she had lost most of her breath.

  ‘You don’t mind?… You must think me very inquisitive… She’s so very good-looking.’

  He glared down his splendid nose. ‘Since you have taken upon yourself the work of a housemaid as well as that of nurse, and have access to my room, it would appear useless for me to mind.’

  She fidgeted under the chilly voice and the even chillier look; surely there was no need to be so scathing? She decided to ignore it. ‘But she is very good-looking,’ she persisted. ‘Is she your fiancée?’

  She thought he wasn’t going to answer. ‘Yes. Tell me, Sister Proudfoot, have you no prospects of marriage?’

  It seemed a funny way of putting it, and the tone of his voice suggested that she must be lacking in something or other. She said quite sharply: ‘Of course I have—but I’ve never met a man I wanted to marry.’

  A lie, she realized that even as she uttered it. Of course she had met him; he was here, staring down at her through the glasses he had seen fit to put on, fiercely frowning at her through them and behaving as though he couldn’t stand the sight of her. She felt bewildered at the suddenness of her discovery and looked back at him, her pretty mouth a little open.

  ‘You stare, Sister.’ His voice had an edge to it; it caused her to close it with a snap and pulled her tumbling wits together. It seemed to her extraordinary that he hadn’t seen…that he could be unaware of the strength of the feelings bottled up inside her and screaming to give utterance… She must look the same as usual; the thought was capped by his: ‘You are as dirty and untidy as you were yesterday. Must you really do this work? You ask for someone to clean the house and then you do most of it yourself?’

  At least her thoughts were diverted. She explained carefully about there being too much work for Mrs MacRae, and added: ‘Once we’ve done it all thoroughly, she’ll be able to manage nicely on her own. And I don’t mind.’

  He smiled, a thin, half-sneering smile which made her wince. ‘That is beside the point. You were not asked to do housework; if you choose to do it, that is entirely your own affair and certainly not my business.’

  He turned on his heel and walked away, and although she saw him later at supper, he
had nothing to say to her.

  The days slid past until they made a week. Eliza had the routine nicely organised now; she knew the men and their small fads and fancies, she knew, instinctively, when any one of them was verging on an attack. With the first look of apprehension and the first wheeze, she pounced with the ephedrine or the isoprenaline, summoned one of the professors, and had the sufferer nicely propped up in a chair by the time someone arrived, ready to be talked out of further wheezes, and if that were not possible, ready for whatever treatment was ordered. The men had come to trust her as well as like her, and seeing how they had improved and become relaxed under the strict régime in which they lived, she spent more time with them than was strictly required of her.

  By the end of the week, too, the house cleaning had been finished; she was no longer needed, Mrs MacRae told her, adding thanks for the help she had received, but she still came each day and had a cup of tea with Eliza in the cottage, not talking much, but pleased to be there. And Cat had fattened up nicely, fed by the entire community; she found that she had time to herself now—an hour or two each afternoon, and once or twice Professor Wyllie had come down to the hut after tea and sent her off duty, declaring that if he needed her he could get her quickly enough. She spent pleasant hours by the fire, with Cat and her kittens at her feet, writing letters and reading, and one evening, because she had felt like it, she had changed into a high-necked jersey dress in a pleasing shade of brown, and taken pains with her hair and face; it had been gratifying to feel the little stir it had created amongst the rest of the staff, only Professor van Duyl had looked at her as though she had no right to be there. And about him, she had come to terms with herself; he didn’t like her and he was going to marry another girl; these two facts alone made it amply clear that even if she had set out to engage his interest, she would have had no chance, and the alternative was clear; to go on as she was going now for another three weeks or so, and then, after that, to forget him. It was a little difficult to keep to this resolve, but she felt that she was doing rather well; she was certainly learning to keep out of his way, and unless he was in the hut, that wasn’t too difficult, and in the hut they were both on the job and things were different.

  The weather was beginning to change; the rain had given way to light frost and occasional clear skies, but the wind seemed to increase each day. Eliza sat in her cottage, listening to it whistling and sighing, and wondered what it would be like if it should blow a gale, and well into the second week the rain returned and combining with the wind, made it impossible for the men to go out, so that other forms of exercise had to be devised—mild drill, deep breathing and steady marching round the cleared day room took up an hour or more of each morning, with Mr Grimshaw acting as instructor and Eliza keeping a close eye on pulses and respirations. It made a nice change.

  It was after two days of this weather that she wakened in the night to hear the rain pelting down, and when she went outside in the morning, it was to find a water-logged path and pools of water in all the hollows. It rained again during the morning, a steady downpour from a black sky which turned with frightening suddenness to a torrential downpour. Eliza, mindful of her patients’ aptitude to wheeze if they became worried or anxious, settled them round the table with a Monopoly board, pulled the curtains against the disturbing world outside, and went to join them. It was almost dinner time for the men; presumably someone would telephone from the house and tell her what to do about it, for it was certainly no weather in which to go out.

  Professor van Duyl didn’t share her views, however. He appeared not five minutes later, in oilskins and a sou’wester, his feet in Wellingtons, all of which he discarded, together with a couple of large cans.

  ‘Stew,’ he explained laconically, ‘potatoes in the other one.’ He went back to the oilskins and fished around in one of its pockets, to produce two cardboard cartons. ‘Eggs—Fred is sure you can make omelettes.’

  He carried the whole lot to the other end of the room where the hot plate was and without another word went to take her place at the table while Eliza put the cans to heat and went in search of a bowl and a frying pan, thanking heaven silently that omelettes were something she was rather good at.

  They laid the table between them presently, and when the Professor gave himself a plate, she filled it with stew before taking some for herself and sitting down to eat it quickly so that she might get started on the omelettes. It was a laborious business, what with only having a small bowl and a fork to do the beating, but she managed well enough, with the men laughing and joking and assuring her that she was a marvellous cook, and when they had all finished, she carried everything out to the sink beside the office and did the washing up with more helpers than she really needed. Only the Professor didn’t come near her; he went into the office, and she could hear him talking on the telephone in his own language and longed to know who it was.

  The rain ceased abruptly and he went away to fetch Mrs MacRae, warning her to walk carefully when she went over to the cottage, a walk she hardly relished, but the men were comfortably tucked up for the afternoon and there was nothing for her to do; she put on her cape and boots and went outside, where she found it still raining although the sky had become lighter and it seemed to her that the wind had gathered strength. The path to the cottage was water-logged and outside the front door it was trickling slowly down the hill, but inside it was warm and dry. It was nice to find the fire alight and Cat’s dinner—the tastiest bits from the kitchen—left on the table. She fed her, changed into slacks and a sweater and turned on her small radio. Gales, said a voice, and heavy rain and more gales; those living in certain areas should beware of flooding. She poked the fire to a greater warmth, kicked off her shoes and toasted her feet as she started on a letter home. She had written half of it when she became aware of Cat’s strange behaviour; she had got out of her box and was carrying a kitten off to the bedroom. Presently she came back and took the second one too, and Eliza, intrigued, got up quietly and followed her. All three of them were in the centre of the bed and Cat was making anxious noises.

  ‘Well, whatever’s the matter with you?’ enquired Eliza. ‘Surely it’s warm enough by the fire? And you can’t be hungry; you’ve only just had your dinner.’

  But Cat was looking anxious, so Eliza went back to her chair—but on the way something stopped her. There was water seeping in under the door—just a gentle ooze, spreading lazily, so that it lapped first the door mat and then crept round its edges to inch its way over the brick floor towards the rush matting which covered the greater part of it. Eliza went to the door and had a look, taking the precaution of putting on her boots first, which was a good thing; the path outside was no longer a path but a small, swift-running river, channelling its way through the rough ground on its way downhill. As she stared, another surge of water washed under the door; no wonder Cat had removed herself and her kittens so prudently.

  ‘You might have told me!’ cried Eliza, whipping the doormat out of the way, rolling back the matting and starting to move the furniture away from that end of the room. The water was coming in steadily now and she stood uncertainly for a few moments, watching it. But standing and looking at it wouldn’t help and it might not get any worse; she could at least get rid of what she’d got. She fetched the large old-fashioned broom from the kitchen and opened the door again, defiantly sweeping the water out as fast as it came in. She was still engaged in this unrewarding task when Professor van Duyl arrived, wading down the path, a broad plank of wood over one shoulder. He brushed past her, put the plank down and started to take off his oilskins.

  ‘Beastly weather,’ he observed mildly, a remark which set her off laughing, so that she stopped work with the broom and the water she had swept out came creeping in again.

  ‘What’s that for?’ she asked, nodding at the board.

  ‘To stop the water coming in, of course. But you’ll need to get all this out of the place first.’

  She handed him the b
room. ‘You’re bigger than I am—you sweep, I’ll start mopping up.’

  A look of surprise swept over his face, followed by amusement.

  ‘You can use a broom, I suppose?’ she wanted to know. She put it into his hand, and not stopping to see whether he could or not, went back into the kitchen to find a bucket and floor-cloth.

  The little room looked a mess and it was hard to know where to begin, but at least her companion was making headway against the flood. He shot the worst of it through the door, flung down the broom and rammed the plank across the door, put on his gear once more and went outside to stand in the water, patiently wedging stones against it to hold it firm.

  Eliza picked up the broom and put it tidily away, then got down on her knees. The bricks were covered in a thin film of mud with puddles in the crevices, and it was a dirty job; she mopped and squeezed and changed the filthy water, and presently, his job done outside, the Professor joined her. He was a little awkward at it to begin with, but before long he was going as fast as she was. They wrung the last muddy drops from their cloths and she said kindly: ‘You’re quite good at it—you must have had a very sensible mother.’

  He blinked rapidly. ‘Er—yes, though I can’t remember…’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose you can,’ she interrupted impatiently. ‘What I mean is, she brought you up to be handy about the house—boys should be able to make themselves useful.’

  He said yes meekly and offered to empty the bucket while she boiled the kettle. ‘For the floor will have to be scrubbed before the mat goes back,’ she explained, ‘but you can have some hot water first and wash. There’s hot water in the shower, but it’s difficult to get at unless you don’t mind getting wet all over.’

  He said nothing to this, only waited until she had filled her bucket with hot soapy water, then took it from her and went back into the sitting room, where he patiently mopped the floor dry as she scrubbed it. With two of them it didn’t take long. They left it to dry out and went back to the kitchen, where they cleared away the mess and washed at the kitchen sink. ‘Where’s Cat?’ asked the Professor suddenly.