Heaven Is Gentle

by Betty Neels

  She stood over Professor Wyllie while he ate his lunch, got him out of bed with care, sat him in a large, high-backed chair and made his bed for him, all the while talking gently about nothing much so that he wouldn’t sit and think about himself. She was on the point of getting him back into bed again when the door opened and Christian and a youngish man whom she took to be Doctor Trent came in, both to become immediately absorbed in their older colleague. It was ten minutes or more before they had concluded their examination, greatly hindered by their patient’s forcefully expressed opinions.

  ‘You’re on the mend, sir,’ pronounced Christian, ‘but you must rest for several days—Sister Proudfoot will see to that.’

  ‘She’s a tartar,’ muttered Professor Wyllie, and chuckled at her, standing like a statue at the foot of his bed. All three gentlemen looked at her, Doctor Trent in open admiration, her patient with an air of mischief, and Professor van Duyl with no expression on his handsome face at all.

  She looked back at them, her eyebrows slightly raised. ‘Shall I come back presently, sir?’ she asked.

  The old man chuckled again. ‘Not much of you,’ he commented weakly, ‘but what there is is good sound stuff. You stay here, girl, and give us a chance to stare at you; we don’t often get the chance of seeing such a pretty girl.’

  Eliza accepted this speech with composure. ‘You’ve been out of bed a great deal longer than half an hour,’ she pointed out, and proceeded to pop him back into bed, helped by Doctor Trent.

  Professor van Duyl didn’t lift a finger, merely enquired: ‘He ate his lunch, Sister?’

  ‘Every crumb.’ Perhaps it was something in her voice which made him look sharply at her. ‘Your own lunch— I had entirely overlooked it—you’ve had none.’

  She agreed with him, feeling suddenly hollow. ‘But don’t worry,’ she begged him, ‘Mrs. Moore gave me a cup of coffee when I went down for the tray.’

  ‘You’ll go now, please. I shall remain here until you return—is half an hour sufficient? I am very sorry; I had a number of calls to make to Holland…’

  She forgave him with a smile. Estelle, of course, whether he loved her or not. Presumably he would go and see her the moment he got back home. She ran downstairs, her head full of unhappy little pictures of the two of them meeting once more, and perhaps she had been mistaken after all and Estelle wasn’t in the least like her photograph. Perhaps, just for Christian, she would come alive and warm and loving, perhaps she herself had allowed her imagination to run away with her because she had so wanted him to fall in love with her—and he hadn’t.

  She ate a hurried meal with Mrs Moore fussing round her, then went back on duty to find the doctors ready to leave. Doctor Trent wished her goodbye in a friendly fashion and said he would be back again in the morning and that she was to call him if she was worried. Christian wished her goodbye too, so casually that she barely murmured in reply, not realizing that this really was goodbye, for when she went down to get Professor Wyllie his tea, it was to hear he and Hub had gone and Cat and her kittens with them. Mrs Moore, a little curious, gave her a note from Hub, regretting not having seen her to wish her goodbye and promising that he would take good care of Cat and her offspring. Eliza read it twice as though there might be something in it she had missed, then took the tray upstairs, feeling lost.

  She went through the rest of the day like a well-trained automaton, not believing that Christian could have gone away like that with no more than a careless word. It was a good thing that as the hours passed, her patient gathered strength and became quite irascible, making peppery remarks which she knew he didn’t mean and requiring a good deal of soothing before she could settle him for the night and give him his sleeping pill, sitting prudently by his bed until she was quite sure that he was sound asleep, before going to her own room, where, unlike her patient, she didn’t sleep a wink.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ELIZA had given the Professor his breakfast the next morning, and had her own, when she decided to take a quick walk around the garden before going back to her patient. Snuggled into her cape, she went out of the front door and round the side of the house to the sizeable garden at the back, stopping to peep in the garage as she passed it. The Fiat was there; she stood and stared at it in amazement, then hurried back to the kitchen. ‘Mrs Moore,’ she asked, ‘do you know how my car got here?’

  ‘Why, bless you, Sister, Professor van Duyl asked Hub to go for it yesterday—didn’t he tell you?’ She shook her head. ‘Forgetful, that’s what he is, forgot your nice hot lunch too, didn’t he? Shocking, I call it. If he wasn’t such a nice sort of man and so clever with it, I’d be real vexed—sitting in that study, he was, for hours yesterday, ringing up Holland in that funny language of his.’

  Estelle again. Eliza thanked Mrs Moore and went back to Professor Wyllie—she might be very pretty, even a little helpless looking, but she had plenty of sound common sense; she banished Christian from her thoughts, a difficult task made easier by her patient, who, as the day proceeded, became increasingly testy. A good sign, said Doctor Trent, commenting favourably on his condition. He was to be kept at rest for a few more days, he decided, and left Eliza to the difficult job of keeping the irritable old gentleman happy. They played chess each day, a game at which she was barely passable, whereas her companion was very good indeed. But this in a way was most satisfactory, because it led to him giving her lessons, which passed the time nicely and kept him quiet, and in a few days, when he was allowed to go downstairs, Eliza cunningly offered to help him with his correspondence, which kept them both well occupied for hours on end. He had insisted, on the very first day after Christian’s departure, on having the telephone plugged in by the bedside and had used it incessantly, but never as far as she knew, in order to talk to him. But he was a bad patient, and once she was out of the room there was no knowing what he did, but even though he was so trying she liked him; he had a ready sense of fun even when he wasn’t feeling too well, and a mind which she envied.

  They talked a good deal together, and because a restful atmosphere was so essential to him, she paid a rare visit to the village shop and purchased a traycloth and embroidery silks. She knew of no one who used such a thing, but that didn’t matter. She sat with him, her pretty head bent over the fine stitches, and led him to talk of this and that, and when he became tired or bored, put her work away and got out the chessboard, or suggested in a no-nonsense voice that he needed a nap, and if she found her days dull, she gave no sign.

  Soon, she supposed, she would be plunged back into the busy life of the hospital wards again and then she would be able to forget the last month for good. She grew a little quiet and thinner too, and when she telephoned her mother to explain where she was, that lady, her sharp maternal ears tuned in to every inflection of her children’s voices, wanted to know what was wrong, so that Eliza had to invent a sudden cold and a lack of days off in order to lull her mother’s unease.

  As the Professor got better she was able to go out for longer walks, leaving the faithful Miss Trim with instructions as to what to do in an emergency, but an emergency didn’t occur. Professor Wyllie continued to improve, and at the end of a week, Eliza came upon him and Doctor Trent with their heads together, deep in conversation, and the looks they cast at her were so guilty that she had no hesitation in demanding what they were cooking up between them.

  ‘A little holiday,’ explained her patient in a wheedling tone, and: ‘It would do him good,’ added Doctor Trent.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘We, dear girl. Doctor Trent and—er—other advice we have sought insist that you should accompany me. Quite a short trip and just what I need to revive my interest in things. Christian van Duyl is preparing an article about our findings and would like my help. We could stay very quietly at his home.’ His blue eyes studied her, as innocent as a child’s. ‘You could drive me in your funny little car.’

  She had resolutely not thought of Christian for a whole week a
nd it had half killed her; it was unfair that after all her efforts to forget him, he should be pushed pell-mell back into her life once more.

  ‘It sounds just the thing for you,’ she agreed, carefully noncommittal, ‘but I think I must go back to St Anne’s.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been away for more than five weeks.’

  ‘You told me yourself that you had a splendid staff nurse—they can manage quite well without you for another week or so.’ He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘I’m very upset, girl, and it’s most unkind of you—now I can’t go.’

  ‘Another nurse?’ she suggested, knowing that she had already lost the fight.

  ‘No. You or no one. Go back to your precious ward and leave me here to moulder away…’

  Eliza exchanged a glance with Doctor Trent, whose eyes implored her silently. ‘I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,’ she said at length, ‘but since you ask me so nicely, I see I have no choice.’

  He ignored her mild sarcasm. ‘Dear girl,’ he beamed at her, ‘what a treasure you are! I promise you that I’ll be an exemplary patient, your word shall be law and I’ll not wheeze once.’

  She laughed then. ‘I’ll hold you to that, Professor, only do you feel up to arranging things with St Anne’s, or do you want me to do something about it?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ interposed Doctor Trent. ‘I’ll see to the details—would you like our salary paid before you go? What arrangements are usual?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t think it’s usual at all for hospital staff to be lent out, but I would like some money before I go. May I leave it to you, Doctor Trent?’

  ‘Clothes?’ asked Professor Wyllie unexpectedly.

  ‘Well, yes—I’ve almost nothing with me, could I whip up to London and get a few things?’

  Doctor Trent was once more helpful. ‘Why not? If you could manage to get there and back tomorrow afternoon—directly after lunch, perhaps? I’ve a day off and will be delighted to spend the afternoon here—we’re due for another game of chess, anyway.’

  It was as though fate, having played her a dirty trick, was bent on compensating her for it, though she doubted whether the delight of seeing Christian again would balance the misery of parting from him and forgetting him for a second time.

  She drove herself up to London the following afternoon, her thoughts in such a muddle of excitement and nervousness that it was with difficulty that she forced herself to think about clothes. Nothing much, she decided; it was still cold and wet and she didn’t suppose she would go out a great deal. She packed a couple of woollen dresses and changed into a tweed suit that she had only just bought, and exchanged her topcoat for the one hanging in the wardrobe. It was a nice mixture of peat brown and green, with a green lining which matched the suit, and Eliza searched her drawers until she found a handful of woollies which would go with this outfit; she almost decided to take the mohair skirt and cashmere top, but decided against it; it was quite unlikely that she would go out in the evening and the two dresses would do for any small social occasion.

  When she had finished there was still time for her to go to Men’s Medical and see Mary for a few minutes before a brief, businesslike interview with Miss Smythe, who seemed quite undisturbed at the prospect of her continued absence. ‘Another week or two won’t matter, Sister,’ she said comfortably. ‘Doctor Trent telephoned me yesterday concerning your extended stay with Professor Wyllie; as far as the hospital is concerned it’s perfectly in order, and I have your cheque here; he wished me to arrange that for you. Perhaps you will let me know how things go on. The Professor is far too important a person in the medical world not to command any small service which we may be able to give him.’

  She smiled complacently, just as though, thought Eliza peevishly, she was the one rendering the service. She drove back to the Professor’s house a little put out, feeling in some inexplicable way that she was being pushed around by unseen forces. ‘I’m nothing but a pawn,’ she told herself as she parked the Fiat and went indoors, then found her ill-humour evaporating because her patient was so glad to see her back again and Mrs Moore had prepared a delicious tea for her. She had it in the sitting room while the two men finished their game, and as she munched her way through Mrs Moore’s scones she speculated about Christian; for now that she was to meet him again there was no point in not thinking about him.

  Supposing that when she got to his home, she found—as she suspected she might—that Estelle was quite unsuitable for him, should she do something about it? Would she be justified? Christian might not like her, but he was—had been—attracted to her; he might, just might be glad to see her again, after all. She finished the scones, polished off a slice of cherry cake and bore the tray back to the kitchen, her mind in a fine muddle, her confusion considerably increased by the delight she felt at seeing him again.

  They left four days later with Professor Wyllie packed in snugly beside her, hedged about with all the safeguards necessary for the journey. They were to travel to Harwich and go aboard the night ferry; the efficient Miss Trim had dealt with everything, and now, released from her overwhelming ability and Mrs Moore’s excited chatter, they were as happy as two children setting out on a treat, although Eliza, still a prey to her mixed feelings, wasn’t sure if the trip would turn out to be a treat or a trial. Time would tell, she told herself, taking refuge in clichés, and did her best to enter into her companions’s high spirits.

  They had a surprisingly smooth crossing and the Professor at least slept the night through, and if he noticed that Eliza was rather hollow-eyed when they met for an early breakfast, he said nothing, only chatted interestingly about Holland. ‘You’ll like the country around Nijmegen,’ he told her, ‘wooded here and there and far more character to it than the rest of the country. Christian lives outside the city—it’s on the German border, you know, but his home is on the Dutch side and very rural.’

  She tried to speak casually. ‘What is the village called?’

  ‘Well, there isn’t a village, just a hamlet. The nearest village is Horssen and that’s no size at all. But with a car, of course, it’s an easy matter to get to Nijmegen in ten minutes or so.’

  ‘Isn’t that inconvenient for his practice?’

  Her companion blinked rapidly behind his spectacles. ‘Shouldn’t think so; he’s got a car, you know.’ For some reason he laughed and didn’t tell her why.

  It was an easy drive from the Hoek once she had negotiated the nightmare of Rotterdam and come out safely on to the E96 on the other side. She found the motorway dull enough, and her companion agreed with her, pointing out that the real Holland lay in the small towns and villages they bypassed on their hundred-mile journey, but when they stopped for coffee, two miles on the further side of Gorinchem, they found a small café close to the River Waal, and sat watching the long barges making their slow way up and down its busy waters. The little houses around them were peaceful under the winter sky and across the water there were windmills turning.

  They went on again presently, back to the motorway, until they crossed the river at Tiel and took a more peaceful road. ‘For there is no need to go all the way into Nijmegen,’ explained Professor Wyllie. ‘We can get to Christian’s home from this end—keep on this road as far as Druten and I’ll tell you where to go when we’re there—it’s through the place, the first turning on your right.’

  The country was pretty now, even in winter, with the river coming into view every now and then and wooded land between the fields. Eliza drove through Druten and obedient to her companion’s direction, turned off the road into a country lane bordered by grassland at first, then gradually becoming screened with shrubs and trees.

  ‘Next turning on your left,’ counselled the Professor. ‘Look for two pillars with creatures on top of them.’

  A strange sort of road, thought Eliza, as she nosed the little car between the two tall red brick columns, and caught a glimpse of dragon-like creatures crowning their
tops as they went past. ‘How far?’ she wanted to know. ‘It’s a narrow road…’

  Her companion grunted as she took a bend a little too fast, bringing into a view a large and splendid house.

  ‘Oh, a research centre,’ she declared. ‘I suppose Professor van Duyl has his headquarters here.’

  ‘You might say that, I suppose. Stop at the front door, girl.’

  There was a sweep of steps to climb—slowly, because of the Professor’s wheezing, so that by the time they had reached the imposing door it had been opened—by Hub.

  He greeted them in his usual manner, but he looked different; at Inverpolly he had been used to wearing what most of the men wore, a thick sweater and corduroy or tweed slacks, but now he was nattily attired in a black jacket, pinstripe trousers, very white linen and a bow tie. He took the Professor’s outstretched hand and shook it and when Eliza proffered hers, shook that too, bowing just a little as he did so. Probably a Dutch custom, thought Eliza. ‘I had no idea that you worked here too,’ she observed with interest, but beyond smiling and nodding he said nothing but ushered them into the lobby and from thence into the hall.

  It was vast and lofty, with a magnificent staircase leading to a half landing and then winging away on either side to a remote upstairs. There were tapestries on the walls and the furniture, Eliza observed, was very grand. A showplace, owned by some hard-up member of the Dutch aristocracy and rented to the medical profession, although it looked like a stately home. At any moment, she felt sure, a door would open and a guide would appear and start to intone the beauties of her surroundings. And indeed a door did open, but not to admit a guide; it was Christian who crossed the expanse of marble floor with the assured air of the polite host. Anyone would think that he owned the place, she thought, watching him. He looked handsomer than ever and was, as usual, faultlessly turned out. She was suddenly glad that she was wearing the new tweed outfit and the Rayne’s shoes she hadn’t been able to afford…