Saturday's Child

by Neels, Betty

  ‘I find it impossible to talk to you, but there is something I must make clear. I have been deeply appreciative of your work for me—you are an excellent nurse, I can think of no one I would rather have to care for anyone I—loved. I should like you to remember that, Abigail.’ He halted the car at the traffic lights. ‘There is another thing I must say. My behaviour may have taken you by surprise—indeed, I am surprised at myself. I haven’t been—sentimental for years. I intend to forget it and I hope that you will too.’

  They had arrived at the Centrale Station. Before he could do anything, Abigail got out of the car, beckoned a porter, opened the car’s door, hauled out her case, gave it to the man and then thrust her head through the window. She spoke in a voice thick with tears, and a little wildly.

  ‘What a lot of fuss you make about nothing—nothing, do you understand?’ and marched away without looking at him once.

  London looked bleak and grey when she arrived the following morning. She got up early and went along to the restaurant and made an early breakfast; she wasn’t hungry, but it was cheaper than having it on the train.

  She took a bus from Liverpool Street to the agency and sat down thankfully in the waiting room. There weren’t many other people there—the two girls who went in ahead of her came out looking so cheerful that she took it as a good omen when her own turn came. The stern woman hadn’t changed in the least, unless it was to look rather more stern. She gave Abigail a sharp glance, said ‘Good morning, Miss Trent,’ and handed her a bill. ‘I understand that after the case you accepted from us you worked independently in Amsterdam.’

  Abigail, a little overcome by so much efficiency, said a polite good morning and that yes, she had, and took a look at the bill. It wasn’t much, Mrs Morgan had only lasted three weeks, but seven pounds and fifty pence would just about take all the money she had. With commendable calm she asked, ‘Is there a letter for me? Mrs Morgan—my patient—said she would forward my fare...but she forgot.’

  The severe woman smiled thinly. ‘Yes, I have a letter for you here.’ She opened a drawer and handed Abigail an envelope and waited while she opened it. The cheque was inside. ‘Perhaps you would like us to put it through the bank for you?’ she enquired. ‘Oh, please,’ said Abigail thankfully. All at once the woman looked quite human. She paid the commission at once and stuffed what was over into her purse; it was amazing how much better she felt. She still had only enough to live on for a week, but a lot could happen in that time.

  ‘Have you a case for me straight away?’ she asked. The woman shook her head. Tm not sure, but I think not/ she got up and thumbed through the filing cabinet. ‘There are several nurses wanted urgently for mental—you’re not trained for that?’

  ‘No, only general.’

  ‘A pity. It’s most unusual for us not to have a number of cases waiting.’ She resumed her seat and picked up her pen. ‘Come in again tomorrow morning, Miss Trent,’ she advised, ‘there will probably be something.’ Her gaze swept over Abigail. ‘You don’t mind where you go?’

  Abigail thought of Bolly. ‘London or somewhere not too far away,’ she said slowly, and added a polite good morning as she went out.

  She went to the Golden Egg again because her case was heavy, and ordered a cup of coffee. She could of course apply for a job in hospital—her own training school would take her back, she supposed, but then what about Bolly? It was impossible, after seeing his happiness in Amsterdam, to condemn him to some back room again; besides, if she went back into hospital she wouldn’t be paid for a month and how was she to manage in the meantime? She brooded over her coffee and then went out into the street once more. She had to find somewhere to sleep for the night—one night, she told herself bravely, there would be a job for her in the morning. She found a small hotel not too far away and left her case in her room, then spent the rest of the day looking in shop windows and eating as economically as she could at Woolworth’s cafeteria.

  She was early the next morning and the first to go in. She could hardly believe her luck when she was asked if she would go to Virginia Water as a companion nurse to a widowed lady who was, most regrettably, suffering from delirium tremens. It would involve some night work, but there was daily help for the rough; the pay was twelve pounds a week, all found. It sounded ghastly, and Abigail had her mouth open to say an emphatic no when the woman behind the desk got in first with the news that there was nothing else at present and she was under the impression that Abigail wanted work as soon as possible. ‘You can always give it up after two weeks,’ she told Abigail. ‘If you leave before that time, I’m afraid we take you off our books.’

  Abigail thought rapidly. It would certainly be an awful job, and very underpaid, but it would be a roof over her head. On the other hand, something much better might turn up in a day or two and she would miss it.

  The woman at the desk tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk. She asked sharply: ‘Well?’

  Abigail started to get up. She ignored the other woman’s frown and began ‘I...’ but was interrupted by the telephone.

  She stood patiently while her companion lifted the receiver and stated who she was. After a minute she took the receiver from her ear. Her voice was frigid. ‘This call is for you, Miss Trent. Most irregular, I cannot think what made you give this number.’

  ‘But I haven’t! I don’t know who would want to... ‘Bolly? the professor? Hardly. She took the receiver and said worriedly, ‘Hullo.’

  The professor—and speaking as though they were on the ward, together by a patient’s bed while she listened to his instructions. ‘Abigail? How fortunate that you should be there. You have no case yet?’

  She shook her head, just as though he were there to see, and then said faintly: ‘No.’

  ‘Good. I want you for someone special—my niece, in Spain with her parents.’

  ‘Your niece?’

  ‘My niece—kindly don’t interrupt me. Two weeks ago she swallowed three coins, pesetas. She was X-rayed and my sister was assured that nature would take its course. Unfortunately this has proved to have been too hopeful a view. She is now vomiting and dehydrated, and an operation is necessary. My sister refuses to have anyone touch Nina but myself. I intend going to Spain and bringing her back with me to hospital here. I should like you to come with me. You would be expected to remain in hospital with her until she is fit enough for her father to come and fetch her back. You will be paid expenses and your usual fees.’

  The silence between them was profound until Abigail heard him explode with: ‘My God, I haven’t paid you!’

  She said, ‘No,’ and waited, listening to the rush of her heartbeats; she was so happy at that moment that she would gladly have agreed to work for nothing.

  His voice again; unhurried, concise. ‘Abigail, you will go to Coutts’ Bank,’ he gave her the address, ‘and ask for Mr Cross. Take your passport with you. He will pay your expenses for the journey and the salary which I owe you. It is Wednesday—there is a Swedish Lloyd ship sailing for Bilbao at six o’clock this evening from Southampton, you will have plenty of time to catch it. I will arrange to have your ticket ready for you. I will meet you when you dock in Spain, Is there anything else you wish to know?’

  There was a great deal; she remembered that she hadn’t agreed to go. Of course she would, but it would have been nice if he hadn’t taken it for granted that she would come running.

  ‘Abigail?’

  ‘Yes, Professor.’

  ‘Will you do this for me? Nina is very dear to me—she must have only the best—you remember what I said?’

  High praise indeed and, she supposed, better than nothing.

  ‘You have no other case?’ he asked again.

  ‘No—that is, I was just going to accept one, but I hadn’t actually said that I would.’ She looked across at the severe woman, silently fuming behind her desk, and watched her close the folder containing the widow with delirium tremens. She said, ‘I’ll be glad to help,’ and heard hi
m sigh.

  His voice sounded very clearly. ‘Abigail? I’m sorry—about your salary. I should have remembered—I was worried. Why didn’t you ask me?’

  She didn’t answer but asked instead, ‘Would you do something for me, please?’ She heard his grunt and took it for yes. Tell Bollinger.’

  ‘I have already done so—it was he who furnished me with the address of the agency. I will see you on Friday morning about seven o’clock.’

  He rang off with a brief goodbye which she had no time to answer and she looked across at the severe woman, who looked positively grim. ‘The idea,’ said that lady, ‘you have been on that telephone for more than five minutes! Heaven knows how many calls...’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Abigail, finding it impossible to feel anything else for the poor creature, condemned no doubt to spend the rest of her days at a dreary desk instead of going off to Spain to meet the only person in the world who really mattered. ‘They’ll ring again,’ said Abigil kindly.

  ‘I take it that you have accepted a post not connected with this agency?’

  ‘Yes—I worked for a Professor van Wijkelen in Amsterdam— there is a case in Spain which he has asked me to take.’

  The older woman stared at her. ‘At least you’re a sensible girl,’ she offered. She meant plain, both she and Abigail knew it, but there was no point in being rude.

  Abigail smiled, not minding in the least, and bade the woman good morning, then skipped out of the agency, still smiling. She went back to the hotel, told the desk clerk that she wouldn’t want her room for another night and went upstairs to review her wardrobe. She had left her trunk at Bolly’s lodgings, so presumably it was still there. She repacked her case; she would go and forage through her clothes, leave the pink dress in the trunk and then go to the bank. During the bus ride she occupied herself trying to guess what the professor would have done if she hadn’t been at the agency when he had telephoned. Presumably he would have gone on telephoning at intervals throughout the day. She wondered, too, how long it would take him to go to wherever it was they were to meet in Spain. Bilbao was in the north, she knew that, he would drive through France and return that way. She hoped the little girl wasn’t too ill, and became engrossed in trying to remember the treatment for such cases. As far as she knew they could be serious but not fatal; once the coins were removed the child should recover rapidly. She wondered why the mother didn’t take the child to Amsterdam herself—after all, the professor was a busy man and it was quite a journey. She got off the bus pondering, and rang the bell of the shabby little house where Bollinger had lived.

  Her trunk had been stored in a cupboard-like room, too small to take a bed. She sorted out what she wanted to take with her, packed the pink dress away in the trunk, gave the brown velvet to the daughter of the house, and left again. It was ten past twelve when she reached the bank, by now beset with the fear that no one there would know anything about her and what on earth was she to do if they didn’t?

  She was wrong—she had only to mention her name to the imposing messenger at the door to be whisked into an enormous room, occupied by a small, bewhiskered man who leaped to his feet as she was ushered in and offered her a chair. He gave only a cursory glance at her passport and embarked at once upon the matter in hand. ‘Professor van Wijketen is an old and valued client of ours,’ he said by way of opening, ‘we are only too glad to oblige him in any way.’ He rang a bell and a clerk slid in, laid a folder before him and slid out again.

  ‘We have arranged for you to collect your ticket at the Southampton Docks office,’ he began. Take a taxi from the station, Miss Trent, the driver will know where to take you. Here is your train ticket from Waterloo, and I have been asked by Professor van Wijkelen to remind you to take tea on the journey. Here also are the expenses for your journey and the salary due to you. If you would be so kind as to check the amount?’

  Abigail, a little overawed by such smooth, effortless efficiency, did as he asked. There seemed to be much too much money. She said so and the bewhiskered gentleman smiled kindly at her. ‘No, no, dear young lady—your salary, money in lieu of days off and spending money for your journey. There are bound to be a few comforts you will require on the journey.’

  Champagne with my early morning tea, for instance, thought Abigail, feeling lightheaded. The professor must have extravagant girl-friends if that was the amount he found necessary for a two-day journey. She frowned, uneasy about the girl-friends. She put the money carefully into her handbag, promising herself to keep strict account of what she spent and to return the surplus when she met the professor, wished her new-found friend goodbye and was ushered out with grave courtesy.

  She spent the next two hours shopping. Over a slightly extravagant lunch she made a list of diings she needed and then made a beeline for Marks and Spencers. She had prudently left her case at Waterloo Station; now she wandered uncluttered from one counter to the next, making her choice. She settled finally for a pleated tweed skirt in a warm brown and oatmeal with a matching brown sweater and a gay little neck scarf. She bought a plain wool dress too, a soft blue, nicely cut and easily packed, as well as some undies. Lastly she bought an overnight bag with a wide zippered mouth so that she would be able to get at things easily while they travelled. She went back to Waterloo then, had a cup of tea, fetched her case and joined the queue for the train. It wasn’t until she was handing her ticket to the collector at the barrier that she noticed it was for the first class.

  It was pleasant to travel in such comfort and when the steward came along and asked her if she would like tea, mindful of the professor’s instructions, she said yes. She had barely finished it when the train was at Southampton. It was in the taxi that she realised that she knew very little about the journey and still less about her destination. The professor hadn’t bothered to tell her where they were going or how long they would stay, nor indeed, if her memory served her right, had he told her anything other than the bare bones of the case. But at the ticket office she found that she had underestimated him, for with her ticket was a long envelope addressed to herself. Abigail put it into her handbag and once inside her cabin, sat down on the bed to read it.

  It was, naturally enough, typed and signed by Mr Cross and obviously made up from the professor’s instructions. She was not to stint money upon her enjoyment during the short sea journey, it was stated. She would be met at Santurce at half past seven on Friday morning and she would be good enough to leave the ship at this hour, go through the Customs and contact the professor, who would be waiting for her. If by any chance he was not there, she was to go to the waiting room and remain there until he was. Their destination was his sister’s house, situated some kilometres from Baquio, a small seaside resort half an hour’s run from Bilbao. Probably they would stay the night there, but it might be necessary to leave before this; it depended on the child’s condition. The return journey would take two days, if all went well. She was wished a pleasant journey.

  She read the message through twice, then folded it neatly and returned it to her handbag. Presently, when she had unpacked, she would find a map and find out exactly where she was going. In the meantime she explored her cabin, a large and airy one on the promenade deck with its own tiny, shower, and most adequately furnished. Even if she had been a fussy girl, which she was not, she would have had a job to find any fault in it. She put away her few things and went along to find out about table reservations, then wandered about the ship. It seemed half empty, which in mid-February was to be expected, but the restaurant, when she went along for dinner, seemed comfortably full. She shared a table with a young married couple and a man of about her own age, on his way out to Guernica where, he informed her, he had something to do with the tourist trade. And when she mentioned, almost apologetically, that she had never heard of that city, he spent the rest of the meal describing it to her, and a host of other, smaller towns besides, and when they adjourned to the bar for their coffee he obligingly found a map and explained e
xactly where she was going. It seemed natural enough to dance for a little while after that and they parted on excellent terms, with an agreement to meet before breakfast and walk the decks. All the same, it was of the professor Abigail thought as she got ready for bed.

  The sun was shining the next morning and although the sea looked cold and the ship was rolling a little, the idea of exercise was inviting. Her companion of the evening before was waiting for her, and they walked briskly, arm-in-arm, pausing every now and then to view the vast, empty sea around them before going down to breakfast. They spent the rest of the morning lounging about on the comfortable promenade deck, reading and talking and playing the fruit machines. Abigail wasn’t quite sure if she wasn’t wasting the professor’s money on them, although he had told her to have anything she wanted; when she won a minor jackpot, her relief was profound.

  They went to the cinema after lunch and Abigail watched the film without seeing it because the professor’s handsome, remote, ill-tempered face was printed indelibly beneath her eyelids. And the evening, although pleasant, went on for ever. She retired to her cabin as early as she decently could and hardly slept for excitement.

  There were quite a number of people at breakfast, for some of the passengers were to spend the day ashore. She ate little, one eye on the clock, and presently, accompanied by the young man in the tourist trade, she wanted along the deck for the last time, bade her companion goodbye and went down the gangway, paused briefly in the Customs shed and walked out of the door at its end, the porter with her cases hard on her heels. The professor appeared with such suddenness that she was strongly put in mind of a genie in a bottle. He said briefly, ‘Good morning, Abigail,’ tipped the porter, took her case, whisked her into the Rolls and got in beside her. ‘You had a good journey, I hope?’ His voice was cool and its chill swallowed up the warmth of her excitement at seeing him again.