by Betty Neels
The old lady nodded, muttered, ‘Ja, ja, hulp!’, and drew Phoebe inside. In the small overfurnished, spotlessly clean front room was another old lady, lying on the floor, her eyes closed. Phoebe lost no time in taking her pulse, which was far too weak for her peace of mind, just as the pale old face was far too white, and her breathing was so shallow that there was almost no movement of the old-fashioned black bodice. She was unconscious, but Phoebe was sure it wasn’t a coronary, not even a black-out, but the old lady was ill, without a doubt. She selected a beautifully embroidered satin cushion from an assortment on the stiff settee and placed it beneath the old lady’s head, then mimed the need for a blanket, reflecting that ignorance of the Dutch language was putting her at a most appalling disadvantage. The blanket was fetched, she tucked her patient up carefully, took her pulse again, peered under the closed eyelids and then once more played her desperate charade to convince her companion that she would have to go for help. This, naturally enough, took time, but once she had made herself understood, Phoebe wasted no time. She shot through the front door and began to run in the general direction of the St Bonifacius hospital. Lucius van Someren would be doing his round, she was quite certain of that, for whatever else he forgot, he didn’t forget his patients. She could explain to him quickly, far more quickly than trying to find a policeman, or for that matter, any passer-by—and there were none at that moment—and wasting time making herself understood.
She got there quicker than she had hoped, because she chanced her luck, taking what looked like a short cut down a narrow alley and arriving almost in the hospital yard. She didn’t stop to wonder what everyone would think as she belted up the stairs and into the ward. She hardly noticed the surprised faces or the children’s quickened interest, only Lucius’ calm face and his quiet: ‘You want me, Phoebe?’
She nodded, out of breath. ‘There’s an old lady,’ she began, and prayed that he wouldn’t waste time asking questions, ‘in a little house in the Breegsteeg,’ she knew her pronunciation was awful, but she was past caring. ‘She’s ill—unconscious. I don’t think it’s a coronary —there wasn’t anyone, only another old lady, and I didn’t know where to get help, so I came to you.’ She looked at his grave, kind face and if she hadn’t been so taken up with her errand, might have noticed the expression which passed over it. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt the round.’
He asked no questions at all, but said something to Doctor Lagemaat who was with him and then: ‘We’d better go and have a look, hadn’t we?’ and was off down the stairs, with Phoebe, still blown, trying to keep up with him.
In the car she repeated her apology, because to drag a consultant from his ward round—and now she came to think about it, there had been a crowd of students there, so it had been a teaching round—was hardly the thing. She added matter-of-factly: ‘I’m sorry if you’re annoyed … it’s not knowing the language.’
He made a sound which could have been a laugh as he inched the Jaguar through the busy streets with no sign of impatience while she, with something of an effort, held her hands quiet in her lap, thanking heaven that the journey was so short.
The old lady was at the door, looking more bewildered than ever; Doctor van Someren paused briefly to speak to her and went inside, Phoebe close behind him, crowding into the small room. Presently, when he had made his examination, he said: ‘You were right, it isn’t a coronary—her skin’s dry, she’s very pale, not grey, just pale, and look at this.’ He nodded at the bony arm he was holding. ‘Malnutrition, general debility and anaemia, I should suppose, but I’ll leave that for the medical side to confirm. Let’s get her to hospital.’
Phoebe’s lovely eyes asked a silent question.
‘Yes, she’ll get better—good food, rest, ferri. sulph …’
‘And the other lady, what’s to happen to her?’
He smiled fleetingly. ‘Her younger sister, a mere eighty-two. We’ll take her along with us and get the social workers busy.’
‘Why are they alone? Where’s everyone? Why haven’t they enough money to …’
His smile widened. He said patiently: ‘Not so fast! They’re alone because everyone living in the steeg has gone on an outing, but our patient didn’t feel up to it, so they stayed behind—presumably she collapsed.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, let’s get them to St Jacobus.’
They went in the car, Phoebe supporting the unconscious patient on the back seat, her sister, in her respectable, old-fashioned black coat and hat, sitting in front. Phoebe listened to her dry old voice, talking continuously now that relief had loosened her tongue and the doctor’s calm tones had quietened her fright. She couldn’t understand a word of what was being said, but she was quite confident that he would arrange everything to everyone’s satisfaction. He certainly had instant attention at the hospital; with a brief direction that she was to stay in the waiting room with the old lady, he disappeared with the stretcher, a houseman, a couple of porters and a rather fierce-looking Sister. He didn’t come back for twenty minutes, and Phoebe, looking up from her efforts to comfort her weeping companion, said, faintly accusing: ‘She needs a nice cup of tea …’
‘Coffee,’ he corrected her. ‘We’ll all have some, but first I must explain everything to her.’ He took a chair and sat down by the old lady and began to talk to her. He sounded reassuring, and presently the old lady wiped her eyes, smiled a little and allowed him to help her to her feet. ‘Now we’ll go home,’ he told Phoebe, ‘and have that coffee and then take her back. She’s to come and see her sister this afternoon—I’ve got someone to fetch her and take her back.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you’re dying of curiosity—I’ll explain it all to you later.’
She bristled. ‘There’s no need to put yourself out,’ she said haughtily. Really, he was a most irritating man! Why had she ever rushed to him for help and dragged him away from his round and been so sure that he wouldn’t be annoyed at the interruption? Vague notions about this floated at the back of her mind, but it was hardly the time to indulge in introspective thoughts. She got into the car with the old lady beside her, and was driven to the doctor’s house.
It wasn’t yet twelve o’clock. The hateful Maureen had told her that she spent her mornings in typing letters for the doctor, making appointments, filing correspondence and other secretarial duties. She had made it sound very important and Phoebe, despite herself, had been impressed, so that when the doctor opened the door and ushered them inside, she expected to hear the steady tap-tap of a typewriter, or failing that, the utter hush surrounding someone concentrating upon desk work. She heard neither—gales of laughter, the discordant thunder of a lesser-known pop group belting out a number on a record player, and the unmistakable clink of glasses were the sounds which assailed her astonished ears. But if she was astonished, her host was thunderstruck. His mouth thinned ominously, and it struck her suddenly that probably he had a shocking temper which he seldom allowed anyone to see. They weren’t to see it now; after the barest pause, he led them to the sitting room, begged them to make themselves comfortable, pulled the bell rope with restrained violence and walked to the window to stare out into the street.
It was the housekeeper who answered it and Phoebe, who rather liked her, felt sorry for the surprise and discomfiture she was obviously experiencing. But her master ignored this, merely asking her to bring coffee, adding something else which Phoebe couldn’t understand. Then he went and sat by the old lady and made gentle conversation.
But not for long; the door was opened presently and Maureen, rather pale, stood in the doorway, whereupon he got to his feet, saying in English: ‘Ah, yes, Maureen—an explanation is due to me, I fancy—perhaps you will give it to me now.’ He looked briefly at Phoebe. ‘You will excuse me? And be good enough to pour the coffee when it comes.’
His voice, which he had neither raised nor quickened, was steely. Phoebe, feeling meanly delighted at Maureen’s discomfiture, murmured suitably as she watched them leave the room together, then turned her attentio
n to the old lady, who, unaware of any undercurrents, was smiling quite happily and, Phoebe very much feared, was about to embark upon an unintelligible conversation with her.
The coffee came. She attended to her companion’s wants, poured herself a cup and listened to the sounds on the other side of the door—subdued voices, feet, a giggle quickly suppressed, and then utter silence. The visitors had gone. Somewhere in the house, behind one of the handsome doors, Doctor van Someren was with Maureen. Phoebe would dearly have loved to have been in a position to peer through the keyhole, or even eavesdrop … She gathered her straying thoughts together, appalled at the depths to which she had sunk. She had been well brought up; such actions were despicable, she reminded herself, and applied herself to the pouring of second cups, then as the doctor came into the room, filled a cup for him too, and because his mouth was set so very grimly and no one spoke, she began a one-sided conversation to which neither of her companions replied. She was aware that she sounded chatty, but they couldn’t sit there for ever, saying nothing.
‘A lovely day,’ she ventured, having exhausted the excellence of the coffee. ‘How early summer is this year,’ and then losing patience, she snapped: ‘It’s a pity I can’t speak Dutch, for then at least this lady here would understand me and make some sort of a civil answer.’
The doctor smiled then. ‘Poor Phoebe! You have my deepest admiration. Here you are, longing, no doubt, to indulge your curiosity and forcing yourself to discuss the weather. It must be agony for you.’ His blue eyes studied her reflectively. ‘We’re going to take Juffrouw Leen here home.’
Having said which he addressed himself to his other guest, who got to her feet, looking quite cheerful, and accompanied him to the door.
Outside Phoebe said stiffly: ‘Well, I’ll be getting along—thanks for the coffee.’
‘You will come with us Phoebe—please.’
She got into the car again, telling herself that she was weak to do so, and when they arrived at the old lady’s house, went inside, helped her off with her hat and coat and then waited patiently while Juffrouw Leen, possessing herself of the doctor’s hand, began a long and voluble speech—thanking him, she supposed. Presently it was her own turn, but unlike the doctor, who had doubtless said something graceful, she was unable to do anything but smile. But Juffrouw Leen didn’t seem to mind. She saw them off at the door, smiling and waving and quite happy again. Phoebe turned in her seat for a final farewell as they turned the corner of the steeg and Doctor van Someren said: ‘The round will be finished. You’re in time for your midday meal before you go on duty?’
‘Yes, thank you. If you like to drop me off …’
He took no notice. Perhaps he hadn’t heard, for he went on: ‘Juffrouw Leen will be all right—a social worker will call each day to make sure she can manage and someone is lined up to take her to and from the hospital.’
‘Her sister—will she do?’
‘I think so—the right diet, rest, care, and someone to keep an eye on them when she’s back home.’ He glanced at her and smiled. ‘I’m afraid your off duty has been sadly curtailed.’
‘It didn’t matter—I was only pottering.’
He drew up before St Bonifacius. ‘You enjoy that?’
She nodded. ‘Very much—in a few days I shall go further afield. I want to see all I can.’
He didn’t answer but got out and opened the car door and went inside with her, bade her a brief goodbye and went up the stairs to the ward, and Phoebe, because there was nothing better to do, went down to the dining room and ate her dinner.
She was off duty again the next morning and she went along to see the old lady. There was someone with her—the district nurse, who had a smattering of English so that Phoebe was able to discover that the patient was doing quite well and that Juffrouw Leen was in good hands while her sister was in hospital. She stayed a while and had a cup of coffee with them, bade them a cheerful goodbye and made her way to the shops. She was coming out of Reynders, a piece of genuine blue Delftware tucked under her arm, when she came face to face with Maureen Felman, and before she could make up her mind whether to say a casual hallo and walk on, or stop and say a few polite words, Maureen had stopped, obviously intent on passing the time of day.
‘Hullo,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve been hearing all about you and your Nightingale act—I must say you don’t look much like a do-gooder. Didn’t you find it all a dead bore? Not that you’d be likely to say so.’
Phoebe eyed her thoughtfully. Here, she thought, was the enemy, although she wasn’t quite sure why—and declaring war too.
‘If I found it a dead bore,’ she replied gently, ‘I certainly wouldn’t say so, but I didn’t—I’m sure you would have done the same.’
Maureen smiled brilliantly. ‘Not me—there are far too many old souls around as it is. I like life to be gay.’ She stared at Phoebe and Phoebe looked back limpidly. ‘You guessed that yesterday, I suppose.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Lucius never comes home before twelve o’clock—never—and yesterday, of all days … and you with him, all prunes and prisms! I could have managed him beautifully if you hadn’t been there, looking as though butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. I was only having a few friends in for a drink—God knows life’s dreary enough in that house.’
‘You’re rather rude,’ Phoebe’s voice had a decided edge to it, ‘and I hardly know why, and what you choose to do while the doctor’s away from home is really no concern of mine.’ She smiled with charm. ‘I dare say you’re still feeling a bit scared—it must have been a nasty shock for you.’ She allowed the smile to linger and watched Maureen’s face tighten with ill temper. ‘I must be going—it was interesting meeting you.’
She nodded and walked away briskly, thinking what a ghastly creature Maureen was and why, on the face of things, did the doctor put up with her. The thought that he might possibly be in love with her crossed her mind as it had done several times already, only now it refused to be dismissed. It remained, well damped down, for the rest of the day, affording her a good deal of disquiet.
It faded a little under the pressure of work during the next few days and even when she saw Doctor van Someren, it was always in the company of Mies Witsma or the other nurses, and their talk was entirely of the patients. It was the evening before her day off before she found herself alone with him; Zuster Witsma had gone to her supper, the ward was in the chaotic state which preceded the children’s bedtime. Phoebe, with another nurse, was urging the more active and reluctant of her small patients to start undressing, supervising the washing of faces, the tidying of beds, the comforting of those who were feeling sorry for themselves and engaging, in her own peculiar, sparse Dutch, those who wished to talk in idle conversation. She had, naturally enough, become a little untidy during the carrying out of these tasks—her lovely hair was coming down, her nose shone, her apron was soaked with most of a glass of lemonade which a recalcitrant small boy had flung at her. Her pleasure at seeing him, therefore, was tinged with fears about her appearance, by no means allayed as he sauntered towards her, eyeing her with amusement.
‘Fun and games?’ he wanted to know gently.
‘Bedtime,’ she informed him succinctly. ‘We don’t reckon to look glamorous at this time of day. We’re lucky if we get to supper in one piece.’ She thrust in a hairpin with an impatient hand. ‘Did you want to see someone?’
‘You.’
She sternly curbed the tide of pleasure rising beneath her grubby apron. ‘Oh? Well, it’s not very easy, you can see that, can’t you? And there are only two of us. Is it something you could say while I finish getting Piet into his pyjamas?’ She was struck by a sudden and unpleasant thought. ‘Do you want to tell me off about something?’
His eyes narrowed with laughter. ‘I—tell you off? Why should I want to do that? By all means do whatever you need to do to Piet. You have a day off tomorrow, I believe. Paul has a holiday from school; I thought we might all go to the beach and swim—you do swim?’
She nodded, starry-eyed. ‘Nothing spectacular, but I can keep myself from drowning. I’d love to come, but will Paul—that is, won’t it spoil his day if I’m there?’
He looked surprised. ‘I don’t imagine so. Besides, you two girls can be company for each other if Paul and I want to go off together.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Phoebe faintly. The idea of spending a day in Maureen’s company didn’t please her at all; on the other hand, she might find out more about her—and the doctor, and besides, this time Paul might be more friendly. She stared ahead of her, her sapphire eyes seeing nothing—her swimsuits were both rather dishy, and there was that nice towelling beach smock she hadn’t intended to buy and had.
‘You’re not listening,’ said Doctor van Someren, and Phoebe jumped guiltily.
‘I beg your pardon—I was just … What did you say?’
‘Ten o’clock, outside the entrance, and mind you’re ready.’ His voice changed and became businesslike, a little remote. ‘And now I should like to take another look at that admission—Johanna—she’s in the end ward, I take it.’
There wasn’t much of the evening left by the time Phoebe had had supper. She washed her hair and changed her mind half a dozen times over what she should wear in the morning and then, too restless to go to bed, wrote a long letter home, touching lightly on the episode in Juffrouw Leen’s house and not mentioning at all that she was to spend the day with Doctor van Someren on the morrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
DOCTOR VAN SOMEREN wasted no time in getting to Noordwijk-aan-Zee, and a good thing too, thought Phoebe, for when she had arrived at the hospital entrance at exactly ten o’clock it was to find the doctor at the wheel of the Jaguar with Paul beside him and Maureen, looking a perfect vision in a scarlet and white beach outfit which immediately made Phoebe feel dowdy. Sustaining a polite conversation with her companion on the back seat, even for so short a time, hardly improved her frame of mind. By the time they had arrived, parked the car in the grounds of the Hotel Rembrandt overlooking the sea, and had strolled to the beach, she was beginning to wish that she hadn’t come—a wish which weakened under the spell of warm sunlight, a wide blue sky, a wide beach stretching away on either side of her and the inviting sea. They more than offset the doctor’s coolly casual manner, Paul’s bright stare and Maureen’s sugary manner.