by Betty Neels
He stared down at her without expression, and said in the same cool voice, ‘You’d better get some sleep, hadn’t you? Goodnight.’
He turned on his heel and went quietly down the passage to the front of the house, where his own room was, leaving her to go back to bed, to lie awake. He had wanted to be friends; Maggy wondered what had happened to change him; she went to sleep at last, still puzzling about it.
The weather was glorious when she set out the next morning, and she wore the new dress. There was the possibility of rain—there always was in Holland—so at the last minute she tucked the scarf she had worn when she had had tea with Paul into her handbag. The wind could be worse than the rain.
She spent the morning walking about the Singels, wishing she could see inside the lovely old houses which lined them, and then did some shopping for presents and had a leisurely lunch at the Formosa again. By the time she had paid a visit to Rembrandt’s house and had a second trip around the canals, it was almost teatime. She strolled up the Kalverstraat once more, enjoying the shops. It was quite by chance that she came upon the small church, tucked away between two doorways; its own door stood open, and Maggy went in. It wasn’t until she was inside that she realised that it was that enemy of her Calvinist forebears—a Popish church—but it was old and tranquil; she didn’t think that the dominie at home would mind her being there.
She wandered around, looking at the windows and plaques, and then sat quietly, soothed by its peace and quiet, and thinking about England. She imagined herself back on the ward again, and was even able to convince herself that she would enjoy working hard once more. She would write to Matron when she got back to the Rapenburg, and within a week she would be back at St Ethelburga’s, her visit to Holland a fast-fading dream. She stared at the beautiful altar through tears, fiercely wiped away. ‘Fool,’ she whispered, ‘greeting like a bairn; ye need yer tea, lass.’ She caught the gentle eye of Mary, poised beside her in her niche. ‘I shouldn’t be here, but there’s no harm in telling ye.’ She studied the calm sweet face. ‘I should have liked fine to be his wife and raised his bairns.’ She blew her nose, powdered it and smiled at the little statue. And Mary smiled back, or so it seemed, so that Maggy left the church quite comforted.
She had tea in the Bijenkorf—it was crowded and noisy and gave her no chance to think; she felt better after it, and crossed the Damrak to skirt the Dam Square and walk down Nieuwendijk with plenty of time for her train.
She was surprised to find Madame Riveau waiting for her; she hadn’t really expected her to take the trouble to meet her again. She looked just as frightened as before, but this time there was another look in the beady black eyes which Maggy couldn’t understand. She stopped, listening with half-comprehending ears to the woman’s torrent of words.
‘I hoped you’d come, Sister. I haven’t been well, but I had to do the shopping today, and I hoped that I should see you, so I waited, and now I feel faint.’ She put a hand to her head. Certainly her face was white.
Maggy said with real sympathy, ‘I’m sorry ye’re not well. Why don’t ye go home to rest? It was nice to see you again.’ She moved away from her companion, who caught hold of her arm.
‘Sister, don’t go! I feel dreadful: I live close by—please help me to my home, it’s but two minutes’ walk.’
Maggy hesitated. Madame Riveau did indeed look ghastly; she had time enough if she walked quickly—she didn’t want to go with the woman, but in common humanity she couldn’t leave her. The woman leaned heavily on her arm as they turned down the little alley; there was barely room for two to walk abreast. At the end of it they crossed a dreary little square and turned into a cul-de-sac lined on one side by a row of hideous little houses, fallen into dreadful decay, and facing a windowless length of grimy brick shed. Maggy hadn’t seen anything so unlike Holland since she had arrived there. Halfway along the row, Madame Riveau stopped at what was surely the most dilapidated house of them all. The door stood half open, but the dirty windows, shrouded by even dirtier curtains, were shut. She leaned with her full weight against Maggy and said in a faint whining voice,
‘Please come inside for a moment and help me to chair—and if I could have a little water…’
Maggy looked around. There was no one about, and she couldn’t leave Madame Riveau to fend for herself; she would have to go in. She pushed the door wide open, and with her companion clinging to one arm, went inside.
The little house was horrid inside; small and dark and meanly furnished. It smelled of dirt and damp washing and badly cooked meals, and, Maggy suspected, a lack of decent sanitation. Madame Riveau, still clutching her arm, drew her into what appeared to be the living room, and Maggy’s nostrils flared at the increasing strength of the smells. She gently disengaged herself, sat the woman down on a chair and turned to the disgraceful sink, where she found a cup. She cleaned it as best she could, filled it with water and gave Madame Riveau one or two sips. To Maggy’s kindly and professional eye, she looked really ill—she looked at her watch; if she left now she would be able to catch her train. On the other hand, it would be nothing short of callous to leave Madame Riveau alone. She stared at the silent figure on the chair, and then gazed with distaste around the room and made up her mind. She would make Madame Riveau comfortable and then go and telephone a doctor; by then either her husband or son might have returned, and she need not leave her alone.
Bed seemed the best thing. Maggy rotated slowly, looking for a staircase and failing to find one—the narrow passage led only to a cluttered little room with a sink and tap in one corner. It smelled of mice, and Maggy retreated to the living room to investigate the doors in its walls. The first one was a cupboard, but the double doors beside the stove revealed a large alcove with a bed built into it like a bunk—Maggy had seen something very like it that morning in a museum, only that one had been spotlessly clean, with gaily painted walls and bedlinen to shame the whitest snow… She pulled back the blankets with a tentative hand and wrinkled her nose and looked over her shoulder at Madame Riveau. ‘Sheets?’ she asked without much hope, and obeyed the feeble nod towards an old chest pushed against the wall. There were sheets inside, and pillowcases, even a nightgown of sorts, all of a uniform dingy grey, but better than nothing.
Maggy stripped and made up the bed, eased Madame Riveau out of her clothes and into the nightgown, and helped her into the comparative comfort of the stuffy little alcove, then looked once more at her watch. It had all taken much longer than she had expected. She had not only missed her train, she had missed the next one as well. As soon as one of the men came home—and that must surely be soon—they would have to telephone Leiden as well as the doctor. It wasn’t very likely that she would be missed, at least, not for an hour or so.
She picked up the pile of discarded sheets, smiled reassuringly at Madame Riveau and went to the kitchen, where, being of a practical turn of mind, she set about finding a kettle, filling it and setting it on the gas ring to boil before setting out on a tour of inspection. The cupboard held a variety of food, all of it quite unsuitable for Madame Riveau’s stomach. However, there was a bottle of milk which looked fresh. Maggy uttered a cry of triumph and looked round for something to boil it in. The saucepan she found, even after she had scoured it, fell far short of her standards of cleanliness, but it would have to do. She warmed some milk and took a little of it back to the bed. Madame Riveau drank it with an eagerness which made Maggy wonder when she had last had any, and asked for more.
‘No,’ said Maggy, ‘for I don’t know what’s wrong with you.’ She leaned down and tucked her in with a swift gentleness. ‘Go to sleep. I’ll stay until someone comes home.’
She collected a pile of dirty cups and plates on the table and went back to the kitchen; she might as well wash up while she was waiting. There was an apron hanging behind the door. She put it on, thinking ruefully that her new dress no longer looked new… She left the clean crocks to drain and eyed the furniture. There was another kettle of
water on the boil; it would be a pity to sit and do nothing while she was waiting. The back door opened on to a small yard, damp and dark and sour-smelling. Maggy dumped the meagre furniture into it and set to with a will. Half an hour later, a bit grubby and dishevelled, she stood back and gave a satisfied nod. The kitchen was by no means spotless, but at least she could look at it now without feeling sick. She washed her hands and went to look at Madame Riveau, who, secure in her cupboard, had fallen asleep. She looked no better, indeed, her face was as grey as the sheets, but her pulse was stronger. Maggy opened the front door quietly and looked up and down the alley. There was no one to be seen and nothing to be heard except the subdued hum of the city all around her. She knocked at the doors on either side of her with no result, and then, rather desperately, tried each door in the row. The last three were boarded up anyway, ready for demolition, and there didn’t seem to be anyone in any of the other houses. She went back indoors and found Madame Riveau awake. She fixed Maggy with a lustreless eye and muttered, ‘Don’t go.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ said Maggy cheerfully, and when the woman’s eyes had closed again, looked at her watch. She would be very late getting back to Leiden; she wondered if they had noticed her absence yet, and if they would be annoyed. They had a right to be—she was after all, Mevrouw Doelsma’s nurse. Dr Doelsma would probably be icily, politely disapproving; yet what else could she do? She decided not to think about it; needless worry wouldn’t help. With a gentle stealth and an economy of movement unexpected in so large a young woman, she started to put the odds and ends of furniture outside the front door, to attack them presently with renewed energy and a great deal of hot soapy water. Satisfied at length, she left them to dry and went back inside and started on the buffet. She had almost finished when both men arrived together. They stood in the doorway, staring at her, suspicious and unfriendly.
‘Why are you here?’ Monsieur Riveau asked surlily.
Maggy decided that it would take too long to explain in her slow-thinking French. ‘Your wife’s ill. Will you fetch a doctor quickly?’
He stood, not heeding her at all, looking across the room at his wife.
Maggy gave an impatient snort. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘hurry!’ and was surprised when he turned and started walking rapidly away. Before the younger man had a chance to speak she turned to him.
‘Will you get me another bucket of hot water, please, and then take the table outside.’
He muttered something and scowled at her to send a shiver down her back, but did as he was bid, and after watching her from the doorway for a minute he went into the kitchen. Maggy hitched the apron more securely around her waist and set to work on the floor. It was almost finished when she heard footsteps. There must have been a doctor living close by, or perhaps there was a hospital nearby. She wrung out the cloth, and with it in her hand, and still on her knees, turned round to see who Monsieur Riveau had brought with him.
He was, of course, the last man she had expected to see. It was a pity that just the sight of him should take her breath so that her voice, when she found it, was unsteady. Nevertheless, she contrived to say in her usual practical way,
‘I’m so glad to see you, though I can’t think how you came to be here.’
She smiled with relief and a delight she had forgotten to conceal, then saw that he had no intention of smiling back. His face was full of a thunderous anger which he hadn’t troubled to conceal. He stood in the doorway staring at her, so that she was all at once very aware of the deplorable apron and the wisps of hair which had come loose. She put up an instinctive hand to tidy them away, then caught sight of its grubbiness and put it quickly behind her back.
He said with icy silkiness, ‘It is only too obvious that you can’t think. In your zeal—to—er—springclean this deplorable house, you appear to have overlooked that fact that you had a train to catch—and a patient expecting you back round about six o’clock.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It is now almost half past seven.’
Maggy dropped the cloth still in her hand into the bucket beside her, and wiped her grimy hand on the grimy apron. Her heart was beating unpleasantly fast, but she kept her voice calm.
‘I didn’t overlook anything,’ she said quietly. ‘I met Madame Riveau and she was ill and asked me to help her home. I couldn’t leave her, so I started to tidy up a little.’ She stopped, flushing, while he looked at the bucket of filthy water with raised eyebrows and a half smile which seemed to make nonsense of her words. Maggy felt rage bubble within her, and said in a shaking voice,
‘If you think that I was neglectful of your mother, then I am sorry, though I must point out to you that your opinion could have no effect upon my actions as a nurse when I’m needed.’
It was disconcerting when he laughed at this neat speech. He was being hateful! She fixed her eyes on a level with his chin and said, ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to look at Madame Riveau.’ She took off the apron and tossed it on to the buffet, trying not to see the spots of dirty water on the new dress. Paul shouldered his way past her without a word and bent his length to look at the ill woman, and she, forgetful of their quarrelling, made haste to help him. He was quick and gentle and when he spoke his voice was calmly reassuringly, so that Madame Riveau answered his questions willingly. When he at length straightened up, he turned at once to the door.
‘I’m going to ring the hospital and get an ambulance. She’ll probably perforate—so the quicker they look at her the better.’ He paused, and looked over his shoulder. ‘If you have finished your scrubbing by the time I come back, I can give you a lift to Leiden.’
Maggy didn’t answer. She would have to go back with him, anyway; it would be quicker. She handed the bucket to Monsieur Riveau with a request for more water; she might as well finish the floor.
She was ready and waiting when she heard the ambulance arrive and stop at the top of the alley. She had scrubbed her hands and arms clean and dried them on the hem of her slip and had tidied her hair; the dress would have to wait until she got back. Paul came in with the ambulance men and she just had time to shake her patient’s hand before she was carried away on the stretcher.
Paul stood at the door while she was being stowed away, talking to the Riveau men, and presently they too got into the ambulance. Neither of them had spoken to Maggy; she hadn’t expected them to, anyway, and turned away to tidy the bed and lock the back door and turn off the gas. Paul followed her into the little kitchen, and stood watching her hang the apron on the door.
‘What about the front door key?’ she asked.
‘I have it—it goes under a stone in the guttering. Are you ready?’ She turned, to find him staring at her. ‘That’s a pretty dress,’ he said equably.
Maggy took a long shuddering breath. ‘Are you being beastly?’ she asked in a hollow voice. ‘It’s new and this is the first time I’ve worn it, and now it’s filthy and not pretty at all.’
She turned her back. She thought that she would probably burst into tears at any moment; the desire to do so was overwhelming. So she clamped her nice white teeth together and swallowed down the sobs crowding into her throat. She was succeeding very nicely when he said mildly,
‘I’m not being—what was it?—beastly. You must surely know that a potato sack would look—nice—on you.’
Maggy gave a noisy gulp; his voice had sounded gentle and kind.
‘Now you’ve made me cry!’ she wailed, and burst into tears after all. Paul turned her round to face him and she made no effort to resist him. ‘In that case, have my shoulder to cry on,’ he said soothingly. His arm clamped her close while she sniffed and sobbed. She could feel his hand stroking the awful bird’s nest of her hair, and presently it calmed her.
‘Why were you so angry?’ she asked in a watery voice, muffled by the cloth of his jacket.
Paul caught her by the shoulders, so that he could look intently into her damp, blotchy face.
‘Is that why you are crying?’
S
omething in his voice made her heart beat faster. She blinked her puffy lids and stared steadily back at him.
‘I’m sorry I was silly—it was because my dress was spoilt.’ It was, after all, partly true.
He went on looking at her, and she fidgeted uneasily until he said, ‘Of course,’ in a dry voice, and went on, ‘Here, take my handkerchief.’
He took a hand from her shoulder to search for one, and then stood, still holding her firmly while she dried her tears.
‘We were all rather worried when you didn’t arrive home—you see, you are always so punctual—and anything might have happened to you. I came into Amsterdam in case you…’ he paused, ‘no matter. I remembered that you had said that you might see Madame Riveau again, and I felt sure, from what you had said, that you had met her in the Nieuwendijk, so I left the car near the station and walked down on the chance of seeing you. I found Monsieur Riveau instead—I imagine that he shared my doubtful pleasure in renewing our acquaintance.’
Maggy was folding the handkerchief into a neat, sodden square. She said in a small resolute voice, ‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused a bother; I didn’t mean to, you know.’ She gave the handkerchief a final pat and looked gravely at Paul. ‘But I should do the same again…’
He took the handkerchief from her and stowed it in a pocket.
‘Yes, I know you would; and you would be quite right, Maggy.’ He bent his head and kissed her on the mouth, then stood back and said with a little smile, ‘You’d better do something to that hair before we go, or people will think I’ve been ill-treating you!’
Maggy was glad of something to do. The kiss hadn’t meant anything—not for Paul; but it had to her. She turned away and got a comb from her bag, then went into the little front room and did the best she could with her hair. It annoyed her that her hands were shaking so that the pins kept falling out again. She powdered her nose and lip-sticked her mouth and felt better. She didn’t look too bad in the miserable light of the gas jet. She turned it out and went back to the kitchen and said in a matter-of-fact voice,