by Betty Neels
‘Er—I’m sure you are. I’ll fetch the coffee.’
She watched him go to the kitchen. He was quite something, even though she reminded herself that she didn’t care for that type—self-assured, too good-looking by far and with a nasty temper to boot. And he had this peculiar habit of turning up unexpectedly and for no reason at all—and why on earth should he have gone to the trouble of buying supper and cooking it for her? She wasn’t the only one who had been overworked that day. Presently, when they had had their coffee, she would find that out, but now she contented herself with: ‘Are you a physician?’
He put two lumps of sugar into her mug and four into his own. ‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t work here—in England?’ she persisted.
He sat back, crossed one long leg over the other and contemplated his shoes. ‘You’re very inquisitive,’ he observed mildly.
‘I am not,’ said Araminta hotly. ‘You invited yourself to supper, just like that, and—and you came the other evening, just as though we were lifelong friends, and you expect me to entertain you without knowing the first thing…you might be anyone!’
He put down his mug. ‘So I might, I hadn’t thought of that. I can assure you that I lead a more or less blameless life, that Sir Donald knows me very well indeed, and that I have no intention of harming you in any way.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I have always favoured big dark girls with black eyes…’
Araminta snorted. ‘I am not in the least interested in your tastes or habits,’ she assured him untruthfully. ‘And now would you mind very much if you go? You’ve been very kind, giving me this nice supper, and I’m most grateful,’ then she added with disarming honesty: ‘I don’t think I like you.’
He disconcerted her by throwing back his head and laughing so loudly that she cried urgently: ‘Oh, shush—do think of the neighbours!’ She fetched his coat and offered it to him. ‘Good night, and thank you again,’ she said politely and stood while he slung the coat round his shoulders, which made him seem more enormous than he already was. At the door she asked: ‘Why did you come?’
‘I wanted to see you again.’
‘You said that last time.’
He swooped suddenly and kissed her hard. ‘I daresay I shall say it next time, too,’ he assured her, and added blandly: ‘I would have washed up…’
He had gone, up the area steps and into the dark street, without saying goodnight or goodbye. Araminta stood where she was, staring out into the night, her pretty tired face the picture of astonishment. Presently she went inside and cleared away the remains of their supper and washed the dishes. She did it very carelessly, breaking a mug and two plates, while she urged her tired brain to reflect upon the evening. But she gave up very soon and went to bed; she really was too weary to think straight, the morning would give her more sense. The thought that she might see the doctor again sneaked into the back of her mind and wiped everything else out of it, although she told herself that she couldn’t bear him at any price—she would make that quite clear to him the next time they met.
CHAPTER THREE
A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP worked wonders. Araminta rose at her usual hour, got her breakfast, tidied her small home and walked briskly to St Katherine’s. It was a chilly, grey day and the streets looked drearier than usual, but she didn’t notice that. She was wondering, in the light of early morning, how on earth she had allowed herself to be conned into inviting Doctor van Sibbelt to supper. Thinking about it, she was pretty sure that she hadn’t. He had invited himself—and he had behaved very strangely; she had been kissed before, but somehow this time she had felt disturbed by it, and that was strange in itself, because she didn’t like him. She would take great care to treat him with polite aloofness when next they met.
She entered the Accident Room, carrying on a mythical conversation with him in which he came off very much the worse for wear, and was brought up short by the line of people already in the waiting area. Of course, they would be some of the victims of yesterday’s bomb, come for a check-up. A good number of them had been sent to their own doctors for after-care, but there had been several doubtful ones who had been asked to return. Doctor van Sibbelt’s handsome features faded at once and stayed that way until she went to her dinner, leaving Sylvia to cope with the few patients who were receiving attention.
Most of her friends were there, consuming their meal with the businesslike speed of those who never have the chance to linger over their food, but they managed to get a good deal of talking done at the same time. Araminta was plied with questions and the conditions of the various patients she had dispatched to the wards the day before were discussed at some length. They were consuming their stewed fruit and custard when someone asked: ‘Who was that man with Sir Donald? I saw them coming out of theatre. Didn’t you say Sir was with you, Araminta?’
Araminta, her mouth full, nodded.
‘And the man with him?’
She nodded again and managed: ‘He’s a doctor.’
‘He’s a smasher.’ It was the same girl who spoke, one of the junior sisters on Men’s Surgical, a pert, pretty girl whom nobody liked very much. ‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Yes,’ said Araminta, ‘I asked him if he was going to cut down and he said he’d have a try with a needle first.’
There was a little burst of laughter. ‘Do you mean to tell me that he didn’t ask you out?’ asked the pert girl suspiciously.
‘No,’ said Araminta, and added quenchingly: ‘It was hardly the time or the place, was it?’
Her questioner subsided and they got up from the table in twos and threes and went along to the sitting room in the Home for the last precious ten minutes, to drink their tea in peace before going back to their various jobs.
‘I can’t stand that girl!’ Pamela Carr exclaimed as she and Araminta walked through the maze of passages to the main wing of the hospital, ‘and just my wretched luck to be relieving on Men’s Surgical while Sister West’s on holiday—the creature seems to think that she knows the lot; its “Sister Carr, do this, Sister Carr, do that”.’ She sniffed. ‘She tints her hair.’
Araminta chuckled. ‘I thought she did. I didn’t like her either, but cheer up, Pam, think of her face when she discovers that you’ve been offered Sister West’s job when she retires after Christmas. The boot’ll be on the other foot then.’
Pam sighed. ‘It seems a long way off—ever so many things could happen…’
‘Such as what?’ Araminta pushed the Accident Room door open. ‘You could meet a millionaire who falls for you on sight and carries you off to some gorgeous mansion…’
Her companion laughed. ‘I’d like to see it happen! It sounds more like you.’
‘I’m not the type. ‘Bye for now.’
The afternoon dragged a little. The hospital had been taken off take-in for a couple of days, so that all the emergencies could go to neighbouring hospitals, leaving St Katherine’s time to get back into its stride. Araminta had the time now to sit at her desk and make out the off duty for the month ahead, write the nurses’ reports, harangue the laundry, the dispensary and the Admissions Office by telephone, and go on a careful inspection of her department. This was something she did regularly, for although she was on excellent terms with her staff, she allowed no slackness. She returned to her desk well satisfied; the place was pristine, she had had time to chat to each member of her staff, arranging for them to take the off duty they had missed, say a few words in the kitchen to Betsy, and go along to X-Ray to iron out one or two awkward situations which had cropped up. It was almost time for her to go to tea, but she decided against it; Dolly could go off duty an hour earlier instead. One of the student nurses had already gone, leaving herself and the junior nurse alone until Sylvia took over at five o’clock. Araminta went to find Dolly and then poked her head round the kitchen door once to ask Betsy to let her have a pot of tea when she had a minute to spare. Well satisfied that she had done her best to make everyone happy, she went along to the end
bay where a junior houseman was painstakingly reducing a dislocated shoulder. He had done it very well, she noted, only now he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. She applied the bandage for him, her unassuming manner leading him to believe that he had allowed her to do it out of the kindness of his heart because she needed the practice.
The little corner shop was still open when she went off duty, so she bought a loaf and a tin of beans and a pound of apples and went home, where, over her simple meal, she found herself wishing that the Dutch doctor was there too, bad temper and all, offering her something tasty from Harrods.
It was several days later that she overheard Sir Donald telling James that Doctor van Sibbelt was back in his own country. It was a pity that they walked away just then and she was unable to hear any more. It was fortunate, though, that that very evening she had agreed to go to the cinema with James. They had time for a cup of coffee before the film started and she led the conversation carefully round to Doctor van Sibbelt, ‘What part of Holland does he come from?’ she wanted to know in an off-hand way.
‘No idea. I don’t really know what he does—something in medicine, of course. He comes over here quite a bit, so I hear. His English is pretty good, isn’t it?’
‘I—yes, I suppose so…’
James rambled on. ‘He’s rather a splendid-looking chap, I thought—made a great impression on the girls…’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Not bad, seeing that he’s reaching for forty.’ The way he said it made it sound like eighty, and Araminta said sharply: ‘That’s not even middle-aged,’ and then hurried on because James had given her a mildly enquiring look: ‘Ought we to be going? I’d hate to miss any of the film.’
And that was the last of Doctor van Sibbelt. Or so she told herself.
She went home the following weekend, driving herself in the Mini. It was a splendid morning, although there was a nip in the air which warned her that winter wasn’t so very far away. She left early, before the morning traffic piled up, so that she was out of London and on to the M4 while the roads were still fairly quiet. She drove fast, stopping briefly for coffee before turning off the motorway to go across country to Bridgewater. She was a good driver, but if she went through Bristol she would be held up for hours and she knew the quieter country roads very well. At Bridgewater she took the Minehead road and slowed down to enjoy the scenery, and Dunster, when she reached it, was delightfully quiet. She entered the little town on a sigh of pleasure, past the Luttrell Arms and the smalls shops lining the broad main street, with a glimpse of the castle at the end of it, and then past the church and into a narrow lane where the houses, although small, were well kept. At the end of the row, standing a little apart, was her home, just the same as all the others but with a small garden before it. Araminta pulled the Mini into the side of the road and jumped out, running up the path like a small girl to fling herself into Aunt Martha’s arms and then embrace her father. And there was Toby to hug too, an elderly nondescript cat who had walked in one day years ago and had been a close member of the household ever since. He sat on her lap, purring, while she drank the coffee her aunt insisted she needed before they had their lunch, and presently she went upstairs to her small, rather dark, room, with its shelves full of china ornaments and the bits and pieces she had collected since she was a very small girl, and its narrow bed with its faded eiderdown. She tidied herself slowly, savouring the quiet and the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Aunt Martha might look like a straightlaced dowager, but she was a dream of a cook.
It was after lunch, when they had washed up and were sitting round the fire, her aunt with her knitting, her father with his pipe and a massive book at his elbow and Araminta sitting between them with Toby in her lap once more, that the name of Doctor van Sibbelt cropped up. They had been talking about their holiday and it was Aunt Martha who remarked on his charm of manner as she went on to say: ‘And did he go to see you, child? I gave him your address; he seemed anxious to let you know about that little girl-Mary Rose.’
‘Oh, yes—he called one evening.’ Araminta had her voice casual.
‘Very thoughtful of him—a kind, considerate man,’ pronounced her aunt. ‘You agreed with me, William?’
Mr Shaw nodded. ‘A first-class sailor, too.’ He smiled at his daughter, and as they both expected her to contribute her share of his praises, she said: ‘Yes, well… As a matter of fact, he’s a doctor. I daresay you know. He lives in Holland—he went back…’
She hadn’t meant to mention that fact. Now they would ask any number of questions, bless them. But she need not have worried, for her father exclaimed: ‘Good heavens, that reminds me, I had a long letter from your cousin Thomas this very morning. My elder sister’s boy, if you remember, my dear. He’s been married some years now and he must be ten years or more older than you—more,’ he paused to think. ‘I can’t quite remember in which year he was born…’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ interrupted Aunt Martha firmly. ‘Tell her about the letter.’
‘Ah, yes. He went into the Civil Service and has been living for several years in Amsterdam—something to do with the Common Market. There’s a boy, he must be about ten years old.’ He paused again, this time to re-light his pipe while his listeners waited with outward patience. ‘Thelma, his wife—perhaps you remember her?—is very ill; leukaemia, and it seems she can’t live long, poor girl. Thomas asks if you would go over to Amsterdam and look after her and run the house. It would be a question of a month or so—even weeks. Thelma doesn’t speak the language very well and doesn’t want anyone in the house. Thomas thought of you.’ He looked at Araminta over his spectacles. ‘I daresay he doesn’t know that you have a very good job; after all, we don’t correspond very much. I daresay you don’t remember him at all…’
‘Oh, yes I do, Father. Not very tall and going a little bald and he was pompous—poor little man.’ She returned her father’s look steadily. ‘You’d like me to go, wouldn’t you, Father?’
He smiled. ‘His mother was my favourite sister and we were very close, though I can’t say I ever took to Thomas. I leave it to you, my dear, but it would be very nice if you could get leave from the hospital. He doesn’t mention paying you and I suppose if you could get leave it would be unpaid? There is such an arrangement?’
‘I think so, but I’m not sure for how long I could go. If I got a couple of weeks, would that help? Just long enough for Thomas to make some other arrangement? If Thelma is very ill she might have to go into hospital, or if she’s able, be brought back to England.’
‘Now that’s an idea,’ agreed Aunt Martha, ‘and perhaps if you were there with her, you could persuade her. Does she really have to go into hospital?’
‘When she becomes very ill, yes, although she could get worse suddenly before she could be moved. I don’t know anything about it, but if she’s fit enough and the doctors there would agree to it, I could bring her back—has she got any family?’
‘None,’ said her father, ‘more’s the pity.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Well, they’ve been there three years or more and of course he goes to a Dutch school—probably Thomas wouldn’t want to take him away.’
Araminta was aware that she was being looked at intently. Her father and her aunt were both sweeties, but they still lived in a different age. They had made sacrifices in their youth; probably done a great many things they hadn’t wanted to do because it had been their duty, and they couldn’t conceive of anyone doing other than that. Probably, she thought wryly, they thought that she wouldn’t mind jeopardizing her job—her future, even, in order to do her duty by the family. Any minute now they would remind her that blood was thicker than water. She said quietly: ‘I’ll go and see about it when I get back—will that be time enough? I’m sure something could be arranged.’
She was rewarded by their relieved smiles.
The weekend went far too quickly. Araminta went to church on Sunday morning and then stood about in the churchyard, t
alking to the people she had known all her life, and in the afternoon, her elderly relations nicely settled by the fire, she put on an old tweed coat, tied a scarf over her hair and walked briskly through the village and down to the water. The weather was still clear and sunny, Wales seemed very close with only the Bristol Channel between them. She walked along the rough sand, kicking up the stones, her hands in her pockets, and thought about going to Holland. It would be fun to see another country; true, she had been to France several times, but Holland seemed more foreign, probably because she knew very little about it—not that she would get much time to herself to explore, she thought gloomily; running Thomas’s house, looking after Thelma and keeping an eye on the boy would surely keep her fully occupied.
She turned for home and found herself wondering whereabouts Doctor van Sibbelt lived—Holland was such a very small country, they might bump into each other. She stopped to throw stones into the water, frowning. She seemed to remember reading somewhere that Holland was very densely populated, which made their chance of meeting amongst the teeming millions even less likely.
She went to the office when she got back on Tuesday morning. The Accident Room was busy, but not so busy that Staff Nurse Getty couldn’t manage very well for half an hour; besides, since the bomb, she had been sent two extra nurses. Miss Best, the Principal Nursing Officer, heard her out without interruption and then sat frowning down at the papers before her. At length she said: ‘Well, Sister Shaw, I won’t deny that your request comes at a very awkward time—just when we need every nurse we have, and you are invaluable to us, you know, but I don’t see how I can refuse you. I suggest that you have three weeks unpaid leave and if circumstances allow you will return within that time, and if for any reason you are unable to do so, then we must review the situation. When do you wish to go?’
Araminta thought. ‘I have to write to my cousin and find out when he wants me—imagine that will take a day or so. If I am prepared to go in three days’time—just in case he telephones—and go on working until I hear for certain. Would that do?’