The Little Dragon

by Betty Neels

  ‘And you get time enough as it is,’ she declared angrily, ‘always out with that Doctor van der Giessen—I wonder what you get up to.’

  Constantia didn’t trust herself to answer. She went down to the kitchen and fetched her patient’s tea. She was expected to have hers at the same time with Mrs Dowling, but she had no intention of doing that. She arranged the tea tray just so and made for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ demanded Mrs Dowling.

  ‘While you have your tea I will be in my room,’ said Constantia coolly. ‘I’m entitled to some free time each day, and I haven’t had it yet.’

  Safe in her room she sat down to think. Mrs Dowling was quite impossible; tomorrow she would see Doctor Sperling and tell him that he would have to get another nurse. She would hate leaving Delft—she didn’t allow herself to dwell on that, but she had had quite enough of her patient, who really wanted some poor meek doormat upon which to wipe her ill humour, not a trained nurse whose patience had now worn itself threadbare.

  Presently she went downstairs again, removed the tray and went back to write up the diabetic chart. She had just finished it when Mrs Dowling snapped: ‘I want something I can enjoy for my supper—send Nel out for a lobster. I fancy that—with a cream sauce.’

  ‘The shops will be shutting,’ Constantia pointed out, ‘and although I daresay we could substitute the lobster, the cream sauce is out…too many calories.’

  Mrs Dowling eyed her with dislike. ‘I’ll have profiteroles afterwards,’ she stated, ‘smothered in chocolate sauce and cream.’

  Constantia put her pretty head on one side and surveyed her companion. ‘You didn’t much enjoy all the fuss the other day when you ate those chocolates; I’m afraid you might feel quite uncomfortable if you indulged yourself.’

  Mrs Dowling threw a book at her. ‘You stupid girl, always preaching at me! I’ll do what I like—I always have done and I don’t see why I shouldn’t continue to do so. You can pack your bags and go, Nurse. You have never understood my case and you never will—I need sympathetic treatment, someone to cosset me…’

  ‘You need a slave,’ said Constantia, ‘and yes, I’ll go, but first I must ask you to telephone Doctor Sperling and tell him that you’ve dismissed me.’

  ‘I’ll let him know later—it’s of no importance.’

  ‘It is.’ Constantia was being very polite. ‘If you would telephone now? Or I will—I wouldn’t wish to be blamed for anything that might go wrong.’

  ‘Pooh,’ observed her erstwhile patient. ‘You can’t frighten me. Telephone him and get out.’

  Doctor Sperling sounded resigned. ‘I’m sure it was through no fault of your own, Nurse,’ he told her a shade pompously. ‘I shall of course have to replace you.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Constantia. ‘There are thousands of diabetics walking round managing very well with no nurse for miles.’

  ‘Mrs Dowling is a private patient,’ he pointed out, ‘and suffers a good deal from nerves.’

  ‘I know just how she feels,’ agreed Constantia.

  She packed in a few minutes; when you moved from case to case with perhaps only a day between, you learned to travel with necessities and nothing else. Mrs Dowling was lying back on her chaise-longue when she went downstairs; she had her handbag open and was fumbling around inside.

  ‘Here’s your money,’ she said, and flung the notes on to the floor.

  Constantia was a prudent girl; she had had to be, fending for herself, but now prudence had no chance against the splendid rage that bubbled up inside her. Nothing would have made her pick up the notes and put them in her purse. She said: ‘Goodbye, Mrs Dowling,’ in an icy little voice and went out of the house.

  Her case was heavy and the nearest taxi rank was at the other end of the Markt. She crossed the bridge and started along Langendijk. She had forgotten that there was some sort of fair on; the streets were choked with people coming and going from the fair-ground and she made slow progress, hampered with her luggage—besides, she was deep in thought. She would have liked to have seen Jeroen van der Giessen before she went away, but it would be his surgery hour, and besides, what would she say to him? She would have to write him a letter…

  She walked slowly on, oblivious of her surroundings, and thinking about it later she couldn’t be quite sure when it was that she realised that she no longer had her handbag. Its straps still dangled neatly from her shoulder, but the bag itself was gone, and a quick search around her yielded nothing. She stood against a shop window, swallowing panic. All her money, her passport, her cheque book, had gone…

  She didn’t know where the police station was and when she asked a passer-by he only smiled and shook his head. She tried again, a woman this time, but she used the word station instead of bureau and the woman broke into a long explanation about trains; she paused after a minute, realising that Constantia didn’t understand a word, smiled, shrugged her shoulders and walked on with a cheerful admonition in her own language.

  Constantia picked up her case. She would go into a shop and ask; surely someone would understand, it was just her bad luck that she should have picked on two people who didn’t…

  Her case was taken quite gently out of her hand and Jeroen van der Giessen said matter-of-factly: ‘You shouldn’t be carrying that heavy case. And why are you carrying it?’

  Constantia gulped and drew the breath that she had lost, but she didn’t speak; she wasn’t going to cry, and she would if she said a word just then. She stared up at him, her grey eyes wide, holding back tears.

  After a few moments he said: ‘Don’t cry, my dear.’ He had seen the cut straps still dangling from her shoulder. ‘Have you any idea who or when?’

  She found her voice, high and a little squeaky. ‘No, I discovered it about five minutes ago. I was going to the police station, but the two people I asked to show me the way didn’t understand me.’

  He tucked an arm into hers and she felt much better. ‘We’ll go there now and you can tell me what’s happened as we go. I gather Mrs Dowling no longer requires your services?’

  Constantia was rapidly recovering her calm. ‘She sacked me after tea; she said she wanted someone who understood her and cosseted her.’ She managed a chuckle which ended in a small sniff. ‘I don’t think I’m much good as a private nurse.’ The hard-won calm cracked a little. ‘All my money was in my handbag, and my passport and…’

  He was walking her rapidly through the crowded streets. ‘All of which can be replaced,’ he pointed out placidly. ‘Where were you going?’

  ‘Well, back to England—where else?’

  He didn’t answer her but turned down a narrow side-street. ‘Here we are. You don’t by any chance know the number of your passport?’

  She looked at him guiltily. ‘It was written down in my pocketbook—it was in my bag.’

  His smile was amused and very kind. ‘Never mind. In you go and leave the talking to me.’

  The police were kind to her and as helpful as it was possible to be. They told her, via the doctor who did the translating, that there was little hope of getting her money back, but that her passport might just possibly be thrown away. In the meantime they would notify the British Consul at The Hague.

  ‘How much money was there?’ asked the doctor.

  Constantia did rapid sums in her head. ‘Just over five hundred gulden, most of it in my notecase. Actually there’s another week’s money, but Mrs Dowling threw it at me, so I left it on the floor.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ll have to go back for it now.’

  ‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ observed the doctor strongly. ‘Have you any other money at all?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve some money in my bank in England.’ She glanced up at him and saw that she hadn’t said enough. ‘About one hundred and seventy pounds.’

  A muscle twitched at the corner of the doctor’s mouth, but he said nothing and she went on defensively: ‘It ought to be a lot more than that, but I— I used it for something important.’ He didn’t answer that either.
‘If you would be so kind as to lend me the fare back to England…’ and then stopped, appalled at the thought that perhaps he hadn’t got loose money lying around and now he would have to refuse or make things difficult for himself. She went on breathlessly: ‘No, I’ll go back to Mrs Dowling. It’s two hundred and fifty gulden—that’s a lot of money—I must have been mad.’

  ‘I said “No” just now,’ remarked the doctor placidly, ‘and I meant that. I have a much better idea. You shall come back with me; I’ve been wishing for someone to look after the children for quite some time.’

  Constantia looked round her. They were in a small room at the police station and the two police constables and the inspector there were all watching them. She turned back to the doctor and said severely, ‘You’ve just thought of that, and it’s very kind…’

  He smiled very faintly. ‘No, I’ve not just thought of it—on the contrary, I’ve been thinking of nothing else for some days. And I’m not being kind—a motherly soul to keep an eye on those three children has become a necessity.’ He contrived to look hard-done-by as he added in a wheedling tone, ‘Just for a few weeks—it would be very convenient for us all, and if your passport is found it can be returned to you at once—and the money, for that matter.’ He paused. ‘And if you still want to go straight back to England then I won’t stand in your way.’

  Constantia listened to this speech with surprise, relief and a strong feeling of annoyance at being considered motherly. Indeed, it rankled her so much that she felt forced to point out to him, with some asperity, that she had never thought of herself as being motherly and she doubted if she would, whereupon he observed in what she thought to be a very unfair manner: ‘Well, of course, three children are a handful—I couldn’t blame you for refusing.’

  ‘I am perfectly capable of managing three children,’ she pointed out with something of a snap. ‘I merely wished to make it clear that—that I’m not…’

  ‘Motherly? I know. In that case I’ll rephrase my offer. What about a small creature with brown hair and grey eyes and, I suspect, the stamina of a team of horses, joining my household?’

  Perhaps being likened to a horse wasn’t as bad as being described as motherly, and he had called her small. ‘You’re very kind,’ said Constantia, ‘and it would be a great help to me.’

  ‘And to me—us. Just a minute while I talk to these men.’

  They talked for some minutes and she had no idea what about, but she really didn’t mind very much; she felt safe again. For the moment she had nothing to worry about; when her passport was found, if it ever would be, she would decide about going home again to England. After all, she might not fit into the doctor’s life at all; the children might not like her.

  A little surge of excitement turned Constantia’s cheeks pink. It would be very nice to be one of a family, even if only for a little while. The doctor finished what he had to say, and she met his look with such a cheerful smile that he said: ‘Good, you’ve recovered. Shall we go? The police will let you know the moment they hear anything, but they don’t hold out much hope.’

  And Constantia, rather to her surprise, discovered that she didn’t really mind if they were hopeful or not.

  The children were nowhere to be seen when the doctor ushered her into his house, although she could hear their voices, very faint, and the dogs barking.

  ‘In the nursery upstairs,’ explained the doctor, ‘having a free-for-all before bed. Shall we go up?’

  He put her case down and took her coat, tossing it with his on to a chair. A bad habit, Constantia considered; she would see that he hung his coat—and hers—up in a closet in future. Her eyes went round the noble proportions of the hall. There would be a cupboard somewhere—there were any number of doors, but she had no time to look, for he was urging her up the staircase. She stopped halfway to ask, ‘Haven’t you got an evening surgery?’

  ‘Not on Mondays—I’ve some visits to make, though. I’ll tell the children and Elisabeth can show you your room. If you could cope with their supper and bedtime, I’d be grateful.’

  The children were flatteringly glad to see her and if Constantia had any doubts as to their acceptance of her, she need not have had them; they were transparently glad, and the doctor having bidden them a hasty ‘Tot ziens,’ the entire party bore her down to the floor below to show her her room, shouting goodnights to their uncle as he went. Not that he went at once; first of all he took himself off to the kitchen where he spent quite a few minutes, and emerged at the end of that time looking pleased with himself, to pick up his coat and leave the house, his bag in his hand.

  Constantia was struck dumb by the splendour of her room. It was not so very large, but exquisitely furnished with a golden mahogany bed covered with a rose silk spread, with the same soft colour draping the high narrow window. The carpet was silver grey and the little upholstered chair, placed so invitingly by the marble fireplace, was of grey velvet. The dressing table was mahogany too, with a triple mirror upon it, and the bedside cabinets held two charming porcelain figures holding aloft pink-shaded lamps.

  She stared round her, her pretty mouth a little open. ‘Is this really for me?’ she asked Paul. ‘There’s not some mistake? I mean, it’s ready for a guest—the bed’s made up…’

  ‘Oom Jeroen told us this was the room. It’s a visitor’s room—there are several, but this one is the prettiest.’

  Elisabeth tugged at her hand. ‘Here is the bathroom,’ she said importantly, and opened a door by the bed, disclosing a beautifully appointed pink-tiled apartment, ‘and here is a cupboard for your clotheses.’

  ‘Clothes,’ corrected Constantia. ‘What super English you all speak, to be sure—you’ll have to teach me to speak Dutch. Now I’ll get my case and then see about your suppers, shall I?’ She beamed round at the three small faces. ‘I am so pleased to be with you.’

  ‘Us also,’ declared Paul, ‘most pleased.’

  They all surged out of the room again, the dogs crowding close on their heels, and found Constantia’s case outside the door. She supposed that the doctor had brought it upstairs before he left the house and would have picked it up and carried it back into the room, but Paul said at once: ‘Girls do not carry things. I will do it, Miss…’ He paused to look at her. ‘What are we to call you, please?’

  ‘Constantia, my dears, and thank you, Paul. Shall we go to the kitchen now?’

  The kitchen was so clean and tidy that it seemed as though someone must have just left it exactly so. Elisabeth, holding Constantia’s hand, looked round the vast place and declared: ‘Rietje is not here,’ and was instantly told to be quiet by her brothers.

  ‘You have forgotten,’ Pieter told her severely, ‘that Rietje has gone home for the day, but you are only a little girl and cannot be expected to say things right.’

  Elisabeth looked tearful. ‘Rietje…’ she began mulishly, so that Constantia said hastily: ‘Are you going to show me what you have for your suppers? It would be such a help to me if you would, Elisabeth.’

  The little girl bustled importantly over to the Aga and the two boys, without being asked, began to lay the table. There was soup on the stove that smelt delicious, so that Constantia wrinkled her nose, savouring it. She dished it up, sat the children round the table, cut the bread and butter and sat with them while they ate. They had good manners, answering her questions readily and helping her to clear the table when they had finished.

  ‘What about the dogs?’ she asked, stacking the plates at the enormous double sink.

  ‘We feed them now,’ explained Paul, ‘and Elisabeth feeds Butch the cat.’

  So Constantia washed up while the children saw to the animals, and presently they all went upstairs again to the nursery. There was still a few minutes before bedtime; Constantia, happier than she had been for a very long time, sat down on the floor with the three of them around her and the dogs worming their way in where they could, and rendered a shortened version of Robin Hood before whisking Elisabet
h off to bath and bed with a firm admonishment to the boys to do the same.

  She had just succeeded in getting them all safely tucked up for the night when the doctor returned. He had come in very quietly and Constantia hadn’t heard him mount the stairs. She was being half strangled by Elisabeth’s embrace when he said from the door:

  ‘Decidedly motherly, I should have said. I see that you have coped excellently.’ He strolled into the room and sat down on his niece’s bed. ‘I expect you would like to go and unpack and so forth while I say goodnight to the children. Shall we meet in the sitting room in about ten minutes’ time?’

  Ten minutes to repair the ravages of three small children would be welcome. Constantia went off to her beautiful room and sat down before the dressing table, not attempting to unpack. She had the feeling that if she were still wanted, she would stay in this lovely house for as long as she well could. Presently, after a very perfunctory tidying of herself, she went downstairs.

  The doctor wasn’t in the sitting room, so she sat down to wait for him, happily unaware that both boys were out of their beds and in their sister’s room, squashed up on her bed with their uncle, while the dogs jostled for the best place on the rug.

  ‘Listen carefully, my dears,’ Doctor van der Giessen was saying. ‘We are going to continue with our little conspiracy…’

  Constantia was curled up in one of the big chairs by the open hearth when he came into the sitting room. He looked unhurried, placid, and wore the friendly air of an old family friend or a member of the family—if she had had one. Perhaps that was why she liked him so much, she thought fleetingly as he settled himself in the great winged chair opposite her own.

  He sat for a few moments saying nothing at all, and she sat quiet too. He would be tired after his day; probably he wanted to mull over his cases. The doctor was mulling, but not about any of his patients, but presently he said: ‘What a fortunate thing that I should have met you this evening. You cannot imagine how relieved I am.’