by Betty Neels
She made haste to reassure him. ‘Not gin rummy—it was canasta, and we played round the kitchen table—just for half an hour,’ she added helpfully. ‘You see, I’m learning Dutch.’
His fine mouth curved into a sneer. ‘Indeed? I cannot think why.’
Caroline said in her quiet hesitant voice: ‘Well, it’s something to do, you know. I’m quite well, you see.’
His voice was silky and his voice cold. ‘Miss Tripp, you have disrupted my household—when one considers that I have done my best to help you and I find your behaviour intolerable.’
She stared back at him, her lip caught between her teeth, because it was beginning to tremble. After a long moment she said: ‘I’m sorry, Professor.’
He turned on his heel. ‘I’m glad to hear it—I hope you will mend your ways.’
He went into his study without another word and she went to her room, where she sat on her bed to review the situation. The Professor was going out to dinner that evening, she had heard Noakes say so—to one of his grand friends, she supposed, where the girls knew better than to play the piano in the servants’ room and said things to make him smile instead of frown. Oh well…she got up and went across to the tallboy where her few possessions were housed and laid them on the bed, fetched her duffle bag from the cupboard and began to pack. She did it neatly and unhurriedly. There was plenty of time; she would eat her supper alone presently, as she always did, and when everyone had gone to the kitchen for their own meal, she would slip away. She would have to leave a letter. She frowned a long while over its composition, but at length it was done, neatly written and sealed into an envelope. She would have to leave it somewhere where Noakes wouldn’t find it at once. The Professor’s study would be the best place, he always went straight there when he came home, shutting himself away in his own learned lonely world—for he was lonely, Caroline was sure of that.
She finished her packing and went down to her supper which this evening had been set in the dining room, a richly sombre place. She felt quite lost sitting at the great oval table surrounded by all the massive furniture, but she made a good meal, partly to please Noakes and partly because she wasn’t sure when she would have the next one. And Noakes was uneasy, although the Professor, he assured her, hadn’t been in the least angry—indeed, he had hardly mentioned the matter. Noakes hoped—they all hoped—that tomorrow she would play for them again, but first he would ascertain if the Professor objected to her visiting the servants’ sitting-room.
Caroline made some cheerful reply, finished her meal, mentioned that she would go to bed early and went upstairs. When she crept down half an hour later there was no sound. Everyone was in the kitchens by now and she wouldn’t be missed, probably not until the morning, or at least until the Professor came home, and that would be late. She had put on her anorak, counted her money carefully and carried her bag downstairs before going to the study and putting the letter on the Professor’s desk. She paused in the doorway for a last look; his desk was an orderly clutter of papers and books and his chair was pushed to one side as though he had got up in a hurry. She sighed deeply, closed the door gently, picked up the duffle bag and went to the door. Her leg was aching a little and she had bandaged it firmly because as far as she knew she would have to walk quite a distance before she could get a bus—the nearest village wasn’t too far away, she had found that out from Juffrouw Kropp. If there wasn’t a bus she would have to thumb a lift.
She put out a reluctant hand and opened the door. It was heavy, but it swung back on well-oiled hinges, revealing the Professor, key in hand, about to open it from outside. Caro, taken completely by surprise, stood with her mouth open, gaping at him. He, on the other hand, evinced no surprise, nor did he speak, merely took her duffle bag from her, put a large hand on her chest and pushed her very gently back into the house, and then just as gently shut the door behind him. Only then did he ask: ‘And where were you going, Caroline?’
‘Home—well, the hospital, actually.’ He had never called her Caroline before—no one called her that, but it sounded rather nice.
‘Why?’ He stood blocking her path, the duffle bag on the floor beside him.
It seemed silly to have to explain something to him which he already knew all about. ‘I’ve upset your household: I can quite see that I’ve been a perfect nuisance to you. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me—and your kindness—but I’m quite able to go back now and… Well, thank you again.’
His harsh laugh made her jump. Quite forgetting to be meek, she said severely: ‘And there’s no need to laugh when someone thanks you!’
‘It strikes me as ironic that you should express gratitude for something you haven’t had. I cannot remember being kind to you—I merely did what any other person would have done in similar circumstances, and with the minimum of trouble to myself. If I had been a poor man with a wife and children to care for and had offered you help and shelter at the cost of my and their comfort, that would have been quite a different kettle of fish. As it is, I must confess that I have frequently forgotten that you were in the house.’
Caro didn’t speak. A kind of despair had rendered her dumb; her head was full of a mixed bag of thoughts, most of them miserable.
He put out a hand and touched her cheek awkwardly. ‘Have you been lonely?’
Living in a bedsitter had taught her not to be lonely. She shook her head, still feeling the touch of his finger.
‘And you will be glad to get back—to your flat and your friends. I doubt if you will be allowed to work for a little while.’
She had found her voice at last. It came out in a defiant mutter: ‘I shall be awfully glad to get back.’
The gentleness had gone out of his voice; it sounded cold and distant again, just as though he didn’t care what she did. ‘Yes—I see. But be good enough to wait until the morning. I will arrange a passage for you on the night ferry tomorrow and Noakes shall drive you to the Hoek and see you on board.’
Caroline said stiffly: ‘Thank you.’
‘You have sufficient money?’
She nodded dumbly.
‘Then go to bed.’ His eye had caught her bandaged leg. ‘Your leg is worse?’
‘No. I—I put a crepe bandage on it because I thought I might have to walk for a bit.’
He stared at her without expression, then: ‘Come to the study and I will take a look and if necessary rebandage it.’
He prodded and poked with gentle fingers, dressed it lightly and said: ‘That should see you safely to Oliver’s—get it looked at as soon as you can. It will do better without a dressing.’ He held the study door open and offered a hand. ‘Goodbye, Caroline.’
His hand was cool and firm and she didn’t want to let it go.
‘Goodbye, Professor. I shall always be grateful to you—and I’m sorry that I—I disturbed your peace and quiet.’
Just for a moment she thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.
CHAPTER THREE
CARO ARRIVED BACK at Meadow Road during the morning and the moment she opened the door of number twenty-six, Mrs Hodge bounced out of her basement flat, avid for a good gossip.
‘Your friends came,’ she said without preamble, ‘said you had a bad cut leg and concussion; nasty thing concussion; you could ’ave died.’ She eyed Caro’s leg with relish and then looked disappointed, and Caro said almost apologetically:
‘I don’t need a bandage any more. Thank you for looking after Waterloo, Mrs Hodge.’
‘No trouble.’ Mrs Hodge, a woman who throve on other people’s troubles, felt her sympathy had been wasted. ‘Your rent’s due on Monday.’
Caro edged past her with the duffle bag. ‘Yes, I know, Mrs Hodge. I’ll just see to Waterloo and unpack and then go back to the hospital and see when I’m to go back.’
She went up the stairs and unlocked the door at the back of the landing. Not one of Mrs Hodge’s best rooms, but it was quieter because it overlooked back yards and there was a
tiny balcony which was nice for Waterloo.
He came to meet her now and she picked him up and laid him on her shoulder while he purred in her ear, delighted to have her back. Caroline sat down on the divan which did duty as a bed at night and looked around her.
The room was small and rather dark and seemed even more so after the Professor’s spacious home; she had done the best she could with pretty curtains and cushions and a patchwork cover for the divan, but nothing could quite disguise the cheap furniture or the sink in one corner with the tiny gas cooker beside it. Caro, not given to being sorry for herself, felt a lump in her throat; it was all such a cruel contrast… She missed them all, the Professor, even though he didn’t like her, Noakes and Marta, Juffrouw Kropp… She had been utterly spoilt, waited on hand and foot, and she, who had never been spoilt, had loved it. Right up until the moment she had gone on board, too, with Noakes seeing to her bag and getting her magazines to read and having a word with someone or other so that she had a super cabin to herself and a delicious meal before she had gone to bed. She had tried to pay him, but he had said very firmly that the Professor would deal with that later. Caroline had hoped that although he had said goodbye to her, she would have seen the Professor again before she left, but he had left the house after breakfast and wasn’t back when she went away, with the entire staff gathered at the door to see her off.
She roused herself, gave Waterloo a saucer of milk and put on the kettle; a cup of tea would cheer her up and when she had drunk it she would unpack, dust and tidy her room and go round to Oliver’s, and on the way back she would buy a few flowers to brighten up the place.
In the office at Oliver’s, standing in front of Miss Veron’s desk, she was astonished to hear from that lady that the Professor had written a letter about her, suggesting in the politest manner possible that she should have a few days’ sick leave before she resumed work on the wards.
‘A good idea, Staff Nurse,’ said Miss Veron kindly. ‘I expect you would like to go home or visit friends—suppose you report for duty in five days’ time? You’ll go back to Women’s Surgical, of course. I’m sure Sister will be glad to see you.’
Caro thanked her and walked slowly back through the busy streets to Meadow Road, stopping on the way to do some shopping and indulge in the extravagance of a bunch of flowers. She would have been glad to have gone straight back to work, for she had no family and although she had a number of friends, to invite herself to go and stay with them was something she had never even dreamed of. So she spent the next four days giving her room an extra clean, reading the books she fetched from the library and talking to Waterloo. She hadn’t let anyone at the hospital know that she was back; they would have been round like a flash with offers to go to the cinema, invitations to go out to a meal—morning coffee. But most of them had boyfriends or family and she shrank from being pitied; only a few of her closest friends knew that she had no family and that she hated to talk about it. Actually she need not have worried about being pitied, for she turned a bright face to the world; those who didn’t know her well considered her a self-sufficient girl bent on a career, and her close friends took care never to mention it.
She went back on duty on the fifth morning, but she didn’t see her friends until the coffee break when they all met in the canteen. The precious fifteen minutes was spent in answering questions; Clare, Stacey and Miriam were all there, wanting to know how she had got on, whether her leg was quite better, whether she had enjoyed herself, whether the Professor had entertained her…
‘Well, not to say entertain,’ observed Caro. ‘He was very kind to me and saw to my leg and took me to be X-rayed at the hospital in Leeuwarden. I—I kept out of his way as much as I could—I mean, he is an important man, Noakes says, and had very little leisure.’
‘I could go for him,’ said Stacey. ‘A bit old, perhaps, but very elegant and a man of the world, if you know what I mean, if only he’d come out from his books and lectures. He must have been crossed in love!’
Caro didn’t say anything. She wasn’t going to tell them about his wife; it was all a long time ago and besides, it had been a confidence on Noakes’ part. She shuddered, imagining the Professor’s cold rage if he ever discovered that she knew about his past unhappiness, and Miriam, noticing it, asked: ‘What’s worrying you, Caro? Is the ward busy?’
Caro was glad to change the subject and talked about something which lasted them until it was time to return to their wards.
Women’s Surgical was busy all right; what with Sir Eustace Jenkins’ round, a twice-weekly event which was stage-managed as carefully as any royal procession; yesterday’s operations cases still attached to drips and tubes and underwater pumps and needing constant care and attention, and over and above these, the normal ward routine of dressings and escorting to X-Ray, Physiotherapy and the usual thundering round looking for notes and Path. Lab. forms which somehow always got mislaid on round days. Caro, hovering at Sister’s elbow, ready to interpret that lady’s raised eyebrow, shake of the head, or lifted finger and smooth her path to the best of her ability, was quite glad when it was dinner time. She left Sister to serve the puddings and went down to the first meal, queuing for her portion of steamed cod, mashed potato, and butter beans, and devouring it with the rest of her friends at speed so that there would be time to go over to the home and make a pot of tea.
She had more tea presently in Sister’s office, having been bidden there to be told that Sister would be going on holiday in a week’s time and Caro would be taking over the ward. ‘Just for two weeks,’ Sister Pringle smiled a little. ‘Good practice for you, Caro—you’re in the running for my job. I’m leaving to get married in a few months’ time and they’re keen to get someone who’s likely to stay for a few years. After all, I’ve been here for eight years—they wanted me to stay on, but I’ve had enough of being a career girl. I’ll make way for you.’
Caro, not sure if this was a compliment or an admission that she was unlikely to get married, thanked her superior nicely and hoped that she would be adequate while left in charge.
‘Well, I can’t see why not—Sir Eustace likes you and you have a nice way with the student nurses. There are some heavy cases coming in, though, and it’ll be take-in week…’
Caro bowed her head obediently over the notes Sister had before her. She wouldn’t mind being busy, if she kept her thoughts occupied sufficiently she didn’t have time to think about the Professor—a bad habit she had got into, and one which she must conquer even if only for her own peace of mind.
But she continued to think about him a great deal, picturing him alone in that great house, leading a hermit’s life. It was a pity, she told Waterloo that evening as she cooked their supper, that he couldn’t find some beautiful girl, exactly suited to him, and fall in love with her and get married. No sooner had she thought that than she left the sausages in the pan to fry themselves to a crisp because following hard on its heels was the second thought—that there was nothing in the world she would like more than to be that girl. Only she wasn’t beautiful and she certainly wasn’t suited to him; she had annoyed him excessively and he must have been delighted to see the back of her.
She sat down on the divan with Waterloo tucked under one arm. On the other hand, if she were given the chance, she would make him happy because that, she knew all at once, was what she wanted to do more than anything else in the world. She gave a watery chuckle. A more ill-suited pair than herself and the Professor would be hard to find, and why, oh, why had she fallen in love with him? Why couldn’t it have been someone she might have stood a faint chance of attracting: someone insignificant and uninteresting and used to living on not much money, just sufficiently ambitious to wish to buy his own semi-detached in a suburb and keep his job, recognising in her a kindred spirit.
Only she wasn’t a kindred spirit. She hated her narrow life, she wanted to be free; she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do, but certainly it wasn’t to be tied to a man who didn’t look hig
her than a safe job.
She went on sitting there, oblivious of the sausages and Waterloo’s voice reminding her about his supper, lost in a happy daydream where she was beautiful, well dressed and the apple of the Professor’s eye. A changed Professor, of course, enjoying the pleasure of life as well as his work, discussing his day with her, planning it so that he could see as much of her as possible—wanting to be with her every minute of his leisure. She would play to him on that beautiful piano in his grand drawing-room, in a pink organza dress, and when he came into his house each evening she would meet him in the hall with their beautiful children around her. It was all absurd and impossible and very real in her mind’s eye: if it hadn’t been for the smell of burning sausages it might have gone on for hours. As it was, she came back to reality, removed the charred bits from the pan, opened a can of beans, fed Waterloo and made tea before going round to the local library to change her books. She came back with Fodor’s Guide to the Netherlands and then spent the evening reading about Friesland, with the Professor’s handsome severe features superimposed on every page.
Sister departed a week later, thankfully handing over the ward keys to Caroline with the heartfelt wish that she would be able to manage. ‘Not that you’re not capable,’ said Sister, ‘but it’s take-in tomorrow.’ She added happily: ‘We shall be on Majorca—and in swimsuits—can you imagine it? In November, too.’
But there was no time to be envious of Sister Pringle. Take-in weeks were always busy, and this particular one was worse than usual. Several young women were admitted with black eyes, broken noses, cracked bones and severe contusions after taking part in a demonstration march about something or other and falling foul of a rival faction on the way. These had been followed by two victims of a gas explosion in one of the small terraced houses close to the hospital, and no sooner were they settled in their beds than an old lady who had fallen over in the street and cut her head was admitted for observation. Caro found her hands full and they remained like that for most of the week. She sighed with relief when she went off duty on the seventh day. After midnight they would have comparative peace on the ward; she would catch up with the paperwork, see to the off-duty and have time to chat to each of the patients as she took round the post—and the nurses should be able to catch up on their off-duty. She rose from her bed at the beginning of the second week of Sister’s absence in the pleasant expectation of an uneventful week.