by Betty Neels
Miss Best nodded a majestic head. ‘That seems a sensible idea,’ she agreed. ‘You will of course return as soon as possible, Sister Shaw?’
‘Yes, of course, Miss Best—only supposing my cousin’s wife should need me longer than the three weeks—I mean, for a much longer period?’
Miss Best eyed her morosely across the desk. ‘Then I shall have no choice but to fill your post—you see, I cannot afford to hold it open, much though I should regret having to replace you, my dear.’ She added bracingly: ‘But I trust that this won’t occur, and if it should, I shall do my utmost to help you, you may depend on that.’ Her severe face broke into a smile. ‘Let us look on the bright side and hope that you will return very shortly.’
And that was all very well, thought Araminta confusedly, but it might not be the bright side for Thelma. She made a suitable reply and went back to the Accident Room, which, in her absence, had become a hive of industry, so that it was impossible to tell anyone that she would be going away very shortly. She wrote to her father during her delayed dinner time, and wrote to Thomas too, thinking as she did so that she wasn’t going to enjoy his company very much, but if Thelma was very ill, she wouldn’t have much time to spend with him. Besides, there was the boy whose name she had forgotten to ask. She sighed as she stuck on the stamps. She might have made her father and Aunt Martha happy, and possibly Thomas, but she certainly hadn’t followed her own inclinations. She went back to her work, and when there was a breathing space, told Dolly and Mrs Pink, who promptly offered to increase her hours of duty while she was away—a kind gesture, seeing that she had a husband and two children to look after as well as doing her work as a staff nurse at the hospital.
She received a pompously worded telegram two days later, urging her to leave for Amsterdam at the earliest moment, and the following morning, with the good wishes of her friends ringing in her ears, she was on her way. She had decided to fly to Holland, though it would have been nicer to have taken the Mini, but the chance to get out on her own would be slight and it would have been a waste of money and effort. Besides, it was only for a week or two, sooner than that perhaps, if she could persuade the doctors to let Thelma return to England.
She followed the other passengers off the KLM plane at Schiphol and hoped that there would be someone to meet her. There wasn’t, so she stood around for a little while until it became evident that Thomas hadn’t been able to get to the airport, and in all fairness to him, she hadn’t asked to be met, merely said at what time she would arrive, so she went outside and got on a bus, in which she was whisked to the city in a very short space of time, and found herself outside the KLM offices where she got herself a taxi, showed Thomas’s address to the driver, and then sat back to enjoy the ride. For the first ten minutes or so she gazed enchanted from the taxi window, trying to look at everything at once—the tall, gabled houses, the bustling streets, and the glimpses of steel grey water as they crossed the canals. But presently they turned away from the city’s heart, driving now through narrow streets lined with blocks of modern flats, red brick and functional. Araminta hoped fervently that Thomas didn’t live in one of them, and breathed a sigh of relief when the street merged into a wide thoroughfare with a broad canal running alongside it, and the other taken up by more flats—but they weren’t as high as the previous ones, and they had wide windows filled with flowers and handsome entrances as well as grass lawns between the blocks, laid out with trees and shrubs which, even at the end of autumn, looked pleasant enough. Perhaps Thomas and his family lived in one of these.
It seemed that he did; the taxi-driver slithered to a halt before the entrance to a block half way down the street, got out, carried her case into the hall for her, waited patiently while she found the right money, and bade her a cheerful goodbye. She felt a little lost without him; she quite understood that Thomas might not have been able to meet her at Schiphol, but surely he could have been on the look-out for her arrival? She stood looking around her. The hall was square with a staircase in one corner and two lifts, side by side, and it was very quiet. For all she knew the building might have been empty. She went over to the lifts and tried, with no success at all, to decipher the notices beside them, and muttering crossly because she couldn’t understand a word of them, got into one and pressed the button for the third floor. Thomas’s number was one hundred and thirty-five, and she had to start somewhere. The third floor landing looked very like the entrance hall and was just as silent; the flat numbers went no higher than one hundred. Araminta got back into the lift again and pressed the button to the fifth floor, and this time she was lucky; the flat was at the end of a long corridor, well carpeted and very clean. When she rang the bell, the door was opened by a small boy who stared at her for a long moment and then said in an accusing way: ‘You’re Araminta—we’ve been expecting you.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that it didn’t look much like it to her, but she smiled instead, wishing she knew his name, and contented herself with a cheerful ‘Hullo.’
‘Father’s waiting for you in his study,’ the boy told her. ‘He’s stayed home until you got here.’
She bit back the words teetering on her tongue. It would never do to start off on the wrong foot; probably Thomas was beside himself with worry and anxiety. But when she was ushered into a small dark room facing the front door, to find Thomas sitting behind a desk much too large for him and looking incredibly pompous, she was inclined to change her mind about that. He didn’t look anxious about anything, only annoyed and impatient. And his greeting was hardly what she had expected, for he pushed aside some papers before him and without bothering to get out of his chair, said: ‘Bertram saw your taxi arrive. If I had had the time to write to you, I should have told you to take the bus, it would have cost far less—as it is, you’ve taken a good deal longer than I should have thought necessary.’
Araminta chose a chair and sat down. She said in a calm, cool voice which hid her rage very well indeed: ‘It seems that you’ve changed your mind, Thomas. From your telegram I gathered that you wanted me to come and help Thelma—probably you’ve made other plans and no longer wish me to stay with you.’
He looked so astonished and dismayed that she almost laughed. ‘Why should you say that?’ he demanded.
‘You don’t appear to be at all pleased to see me. You knew what time I was arriving at the airport, but I hardly expected you to meet me there. I thought you would be looking after Thelma—and really, the least you could have done, when Bertram saw my taxi arriving, was to have come down and met me. Instead of which you sit there as though you were interviewing a new maid—perhaps it’s living in Holland,’ she added reflectively.
Thomas looked as though he would choke; his face went a rich plum colour and he gobbled. He got up from his chair and came round the desk, a short, stout man, not even middle-aged. But he was, she decided judicially, a man who had never been anything else…’I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly. ‘I have a great deal of work on my mind—an important job, you understand; extra time on committees, and so on…’
‘And Thelma?’ prompted Araminta.
‘Naturally, although I fancy that she takes advantage of her sickly disposition. I’m aware that she’s ill, but she’s still a young woman—to resign herself to the life of an invalid seems to me to be quite unnecessary.’
‘Well…!’ Araminta breathed deeply, biting off the words she had been about to utter and contenting herself with a fervent: ‘I’m glad I came.’
She was misunderstood, for Thomas said graciously: ‘Amsterdam is a splendid city in which to live, and as you see, I have an excellent flat. And I own a Mercedes.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘I venture to think that my work is by no means unimportant here.’
‘Where’s Thelma?’ asked Araminta, her patience at such a low ebb that she very nearly reached and thumped her cousin.
‘She’s probably in the bedroom.’
‘Then since I’m here—at your request, Th
omas—to do what I can for her, I’ll go and meet her.’
He preceded her to the door. ‘Splendid—now that you’re here, Cousin Araminta, I shall leave for my office.’
She paused outside the door. ‘You come home to lunch?’
‘No—Thelma usually gets herself a little something.’
‘And Bertram?’
‘He has a midday snack with the children of a colleague of mine, and returns home about four o’clock.’
‘And you? When do you get back?’
He smiled thinly. ‘Dear me, what an inquisition I usually return about six o’clock—I have various people to meet…’
She cut him short mercilessly. ‘And who cooks the evening meal and does the shopping for it?’
‘Thelma is quite able…and there’s a woman who comes in to clean—she’ll shop if she’s asked.’
Araminta gave him such a ferocious look that he took a step backwards and then hastily opened a door in the hall, saying as he did so: ‘Here’s Cousin Araminta, my dear. I’ll leave you to renew your acquaintance and go to the office, I’ve already missed several hours’ work,’ he sounded accusing. ‘I’ll take Bertram with me and drop him off at school, it’s very nearly time for his midday break.’
He had gone before Araminta could say anything more, closing the door behind him, and leaving her to cross the large, expensively furnished room to the chair by one of the windows where Thelma sat.
During her years in hospital Araminta had learned to school her pretty features into a smiling calmness, however horrifying or shocking the sights she had met with. She was glad of that now, for Thelma shocked her. She hadn’t seen her for more than ten years, it was true, but this white-faced, thin woman, sitting so tiredly, wasn’t anything like the Thelma she had known. She bent and kissed her gently, saying cheerfully: ‘Heavens, what ages since we last met, and what a great deal we have to talk about. Look, I’m going to put my things in my room and make us a drink.’
Thelma smiled then. ‘You didn’t mind me not coming to meet you? I get tired, you know, it’s this anaemia, I suppose. Thomas said he would see to everything—he’s shown you your room, I expect?’ She paused and added hesitantly: ‘He was angry when the doctor said I ought to have someone to help me around the house and be with me when I go out—I’m afraid to go alone, you see—so silly, but sometimes I feel faint. Wasn’t it lucky that Thomas remembered that you were a nurse? I was so glad when I heard that you were coming—I’m a great expense, you see; he said if you didn’t come I should have to manage, for he couldn’t afford to pay anyone.’
Araminta went on smiling while she boiled with rage. Her cousin’s meanness made her feel sick, and that he should actually be a member of the family made her feel even sicker. She managed a cheerful reply and went in search of her room—small and overfurnished with the same expensive modern furniture—and then went to inspect the kitchen, where she made a large pot of tea, buttered some toast, and carried the tray back to the bedroom. Tomorrow, she promised herself, things would be different.
Over their tea, Thelma began to talk. She got tired and breathless doing it, but it was obviously such a relief that Araminta didn’t interrupt her. She had this anaemia, she explained, and she had gone to the hospital once or twice, besides having a very good doctor who gave her pills, only despite these she felt so tired, and then Thomas was so easily annoyed. ‘He thinks there’s no need for me to go to the hospital, the last twice he rang up and cancelled the appointment—you see, he has so little time to take me. He has a car, but he needs it for the office, and besides that he’s on several committees and goes out a good deal in the evenings.’ She added wistfully: ‘I should like to go out sometimes—with Bertram, you know, he’s getting a big boy and I sometimes think…’ She paused. ‘Thomas has no time…’
Araminta sniffed delicately. Thomas, in her opinion, was just about the worst husband in the world. ‘When do you go to the hospital for your next check-up?’ she wanted to know.
‘In four days’time—Thomas asked them to put it off for two weeks. I can’t manage to go there by myself, you see, and it wasn’t convenient for him to take me. He told them that I was quite well. You see, he’d just remembered you and hoped you would be here to take me.’ Thelma’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m such a nuisance,’ she whispered.
‘Oh, no, you’re not,’ declared Araminta vigorously. ‘What’s more, you’re going to feel better in no time at all—I don’t think you’ve been eating enough for a start, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t take a short walk every day—the doctor won’t know you when he sees you at the hospital.’
And that was true enough, for sadly, unless she was very much mistaken, Thelma was very ill indeed.
She tackled Thomas about it that evening. She had spent the rest of the day helping Thelma to dress and then sit her comfortably in the living room while she took stock of the kitchen once more. Apparently she was expected to get an evening meal ready as well as cut sandwiches for Bertram, who came back from school famished. He wasn’t a nice boy, she decided, for a ten-year-old he was far too precocious. She had told him off roundly for coming in with muddy boots and sent him to take them off and put on slippers and wash his hands besides, and his surprise had been quite ludicrous. Evidently he had been doing more or less what he liked around the place, and he treated his mother with an offhand casualness which annoyed her very much.
After they had all had tea together, Araminta had suggested that he got on with his homework, and very much at a loss as to how to treat her, he had done so meekly enough, leaving her free to prepare a meal for the evening and resume conversation with Thelma.
Thomas had come home about six o’clock, greeted his wife with a brief peck on her cheek, nodded to Araminta, remarking that she had probably had an enjoyable day, and retired to his study, whence she followed him without delay. Determined to keep her temper at all costs, she said urgently: ‘Thomas, you do realize that Thelma is very ill?’
He fussed with the papers on his desk and muttered: ‘I’m a very busy man—some other time…’
‘Now,’ said Araminta, ‘and don’t talk a lot of rot about being busy, because you’re not. And while I’m here I’ll make one or two things clear. I came because you sent for me urgently, not to be an unpaid house-keeper while you sit behind that desk doing nothing, but to look after Thelma, who heaven knows needs all the care she can get. I’d imagined that you would be beside yourself with worry about her,’ she went on, ‘but you’re not. But that’s not my business, though it is my business to see that she gets good food, proper rest, and gentle exercise, which means that you’ll have to hire a taxi every afternoon to take us to the nearest park and back again. And she needs things to make her feel better, even if she isn’t—champagne, and not just half a bottle, but each day—flowers in her room, anything she fancies to eat…’
He was plum coloured again. ‘My dear Cousin Araminta, the expense!’
Her voice trembled with her effort to keep it matter-of-fact. ‘You’ve got me for nothing, think what you’re saving on a nurse’s fees, besides,’ she added soberly, ‘it won’t be for long, you know.’
She turned for the door and paused there. ‘And another thing, why did you cancel her appointment at the hospital? Don’t you know it’s vital that she should be seen regularly?’
He didn’t look at her. ‘It’s difficult for me to get enough time—she wasn’t ill, only tired and a bit pale.’
‘I suppose you told the doctor that she was doing fine.’
‘I said she was feeling much better…’
‘Pah!’ snapped Araminta, and went out, leaving the door open. There was a great deal she longed to say, but there was Thelma to think of.
She lay awake that night, wondering if she had been too hasty in her judgement of Thomas. She had been tired and uncertain of what she would find and intolerant because of it—she would apologise in the morning. She slept fitfully on the thought.
&nb
sp; She was roused just before six o’clock by Thomas. Thelma had been sick after a bad night, and perhaps Araminta would go and freshen her up. ‘I need my sleep,’ he explained grumpily. ‘I shall go to the spare room—don’t call me until eight o’clock.’
Araminta, looking like a sleepy angel, gave him a non-angelic look. ‘I shan’t call you at all,’ she assured him coldly, ‘and don’t expect me to get your breakfast, either—it’s Thelma I’m looking after.’ She sailed past him, her beautiful little nose lifted, and went into Thelma’s room and closed the door.
She was as good as her word. She attended to her patient’s wants, stayed with her until she fell into exhausted sleep, and then went back to her own room and dozed until the banging of the front door roused her. Thomas had gone, taking Bertram with him and leaving chaos in the kitchen. Despite that, she and Thelma spent a pleasant day together, and Araminta, who could cook quite nicely when she had a mind to, was delighted to see the invalid eat at least some of the dainty lunch she had prepared, and in the afternoon, nicely rested, Thelma, warmly wrapped against the wintry wind, and with Araminta’s arm to support her, went for a short taxi ride and an even shorter walk in the neighbouring park before returning home to tea and toast before Bertram got home. Araminta was pleased to see that he wiped his boots carefully as he came in, although his manner towards his mother left a lot to be desired.
Thomas was, if possible, even more pompous than before when he got home. Araminta ignored this, however, merely asking him if he had remembered to bring the champagne and reminding him that he owed her the taxi fare from their afternoon’s outing. He paid up with ill grace and muttered something about the champagne which she didn’t quite hear. ‘I can always telephone an order for it and have the bill sent here,’ said Araminta sweetly.