by Betty Neels
She started walking back to the house, telling herself with a certain amount of force that one never knew what lay around the corner.
CHAPTER SIX
AS it happened, it was Doctor Pontier round the corner. He was waiting for Phoebe at Schipol, and she, who had passed the flight in an indulging of impossible daydreams in which Lucius had come to meet her with every sign of delight, had difficulty in schooling her face into an expression of pleased surprise at the sight of his registrar.
He took her case and walked her out to where his car stood waiting.
‘The boss asked van Loon to pick you up,’ he explained, ‘but I tossed him for it.’ He laughed and Phoebe, of necessity, laughed with him.
‘What about the ward round?’ she asked.
‘Jan will stand in for me. I told the boss—he said it didn’t matter to him who fetched you as long as someone did.’
She was aware of ruffled feelings. It was rather like being a parcel which had to be collected; so much for her half-formed plans and hopes! She had allowed herself to drift from one delightful dream to the next during the last couple of days, and a lot of good they were doing her—a little realism would be a good thing. She turned to her companion and said cheerfully: ‘Well, it’s jolly nice to see you. I was just a bit worried about getting to Delft, though I’m sure it’s easy enough—but this is much nicer. I wonder when I’m expected on duty?’
He got into the car and started the engine. ‘I rather think this afternoon—there’s a staff nurse off sick, nothing much, but she could be cooking up something. Mies will be glad to see you.’
Nice to be wanted, thought Phoebe, nice to fill a niche, even a humble one. Even nicer if Lucius wanted her back too. She resolutely put him out of her mind and entertained Doctor Pontier with some of the lighter aspects of Sybil’s wedding.
She didn’t see Lucius until the evening, when after a heavy afternoon’s work, he came quietly on to the ward, Mies and Arie with him. She had already seen these two, of course, but there had been little time to say much, only Mies had found time to apologise for asking Phoebe to go straight on duty. She smiled at Phoebe as they came down the ward now, but it was Doctor van Someren who spoke, and his impersonal friendliness chilled the warmth she felt at seeing him again.
‘Nurse Brook, we are more than glad to see you back again. I hope you had a pleasant time at your sister’s wedding? You were fortunate to have such splendid weather.’
She murmured something unintelligible to this rather prosy remark, but as he wasn’t listening she might just as well have said nothing at all. ‘Wil,’ he went on immediately, ‘I’m not too happy about the child. We changed the dosage, didn’t we? But the chest infection doesn’t respond we had better try something else.’ He turned to Arie Lagemaat and switched to Dutch, and Phoebe, called by one of the children, went to attend to his small wants. When she had finished, Lucius had gone.
She met Paul the next day. The weather had changed with ferocious suddenness to a grey sky, a fine continuous rain and a high wind, but Phoebe, restless and disappointed at Lucius’s lack of interest in her return, decided to go out. There was still a great deal of Delft to see; she hadn’t visited the Tetar van Elven Museum yet; she dragged on a raincoat and tied a scarf over her hair without bothering overmuch as to her appearance, and started out. She had hours of time, for she had got up early after a night of wakefulness, and she wasn’t on until two o’clock.
She lingered in the museum, drinking the coffee she was offered when she had toured its treasures, and then, because there was no sign of the rain abating, started off once more, walking a little aimlessly, until she remembered that she hadn’t had more than a hurried peep at the Oude Delft canal; she would walk its length and fill in the time until she was due back on duty. She was halfway along the street bordering it, when the urge to explore one of the narrow lanes branching from it sent her down the nearest, dim and cobbled and on this wet day, dreary. She had reached the right-angled bend near its end when she heard the running feet behind her. They sounded urgent and Phoebe stopped, glancing to right and left of her, conscious that her heart was beating faster. Probably it was someone taking a short cut in a hurry. But it was Paul, tearing round the corner and stopping short within a foot of her. She managed a calm ‘Hullo, Paul,’ and waited for him to speak.
When he did, she could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘I saw you,’ he told her, ‘and I wondered if you wanted someone to show you the city.’
She was taken aback. ‘That’s nice of you, Paul—I’ve just been to the museum in the Koornmarkt and I’ve an hour to spare still. I wasn’t really going anywhere—and shouldn’t you be going home?’
He looked away from her. ‘No, I—I came out of school early this morning. I could show you some really old houses, near here.’ He sounded eager. ‘They’re mediaeval and not used any more.’
Phoebe hesitated. She had time to spare, it was true, and this was the first occasion upon which Paul had shown any real signs of wanting to be friends. She said quickly: ‘All right—where do we go first?’
For a boy of his age, he knew his home city well. They went up one steeg and down the next while he pointed out the interesting points of the buildings surrounding them. At length Phoebe glanced at her watch.
‘Heavens,’ she exclaimed, ‘a quarter of an hour left! I must go.’
‘One more,’ he begged. ‘There’s a warehouse along here, by the canal.’ He led the way through a narrow alley to a cobbled street, a canal on one side, narrow houses, grey and anonymous with age, on the other. They were deserted, forlorn in the rain which pattered into the dark, sluggish water of the canal.
Phoebe shivered. ‘My goodness—this all looks a bit gloomy! Surely there’s nothing …’
But Paul had crossed to one of the warehouses and pushed its door open. ‘It’s empty,’ he told her. ‘I’ve been inside lots of times. The room on the top floor is marvellous—you should just see it.’
Phoebe glanced up at the steep gable above their heads. It looked a long way away. ‘I don’t think I want to,’ she said. ‘I’ll take your word for it.’
She knew she had said the wrong thing the moment she finished speaking; he gave her a look of scorn and said: ‘Chicken! I didn’t know you were frightened.’
‘I’m not frightened,’ she protested vigorously, ‘only I don’t see the point of climbing all those stairs …’
Paul turned away, his shoulders hunched. He said coldly: ‘You keep saying you want us to be friends, but you don’t really.’
‘Is that what you want? Just to prove my friendship—to climb some stairs and look at a room?’ she asked robustly. ‘OK, five minutes, then.’
He went inside first and although it sounded empty and hollow, there was nothing unpleasant about the old house. He led the way rapidly up the creaking stairs to the first floor and then up successively narrow staircases to the landings above, until on the third landing there was only a narrow twisting staircase in the wall, its steps worn and uneven. Paul went first to open the small door at the top—a heavy door, Phoebe could see, with great bolts top and bottom. She went past the boy into the dimness beyond and found an empty room; it smelled musty and close and because the shutter was barred across the window on the outside, it was darker than it need have been. She rotated slowly, staring round her. ‘Why,’ she cried, ‘there’s nothing here …’ and turned her head sharply and too late at the sound of the door shutting. Paul had gone; she listened to the bolts being shot with a kind of stunned surprise, but only for a moment. She ran over to the door and rapped on it.
‘Paul—I know you’re having a joke, but I really haven’t time. Will you open the door? I shall have to run all the way to the hospital!’
His young voice sounded thin through the thick wood. ‘It’s not a joke—Maureen says you’re a scheming woman, out to catch Papa—well, you can’t now. You didn’t think I could be clever, did you? I knew if I waited I’d catch you!’
Before she could draw astonished breath to reply to this speech, he had gone down the stairs. She could hear his feet, echoing hollowly as he went further and further away. When she heard the bang of the street door she gave up calling after him and leaned against the door, trying to think of a way out. The door was fast enough, and far too thick to yield to a hairpin, even if she knew how to use it—besides, there were the bolts, they would surely need a crowbar. The shuttered window wasn’t any good either. Phoebe tried shouting through it, but the glass was thick and set in small leaded panes. She peered at her watch and made out that it was already time for her to be on duty and cheered up a little; very soon someone would wonder where she was, but her heart sank when she remembered that she had told no one where she was going. All she could hope for was that Paul would relent and come back for her, or take fright and tell Lucius—or even Maureen—but would Maureen take the trouble to come and let her out? She thought not. It would have to be Paul, and no doubt when he got home and started to think about it, he would return. Having settled this to her satisfaction, she looked round for somewhere to sit. There was nowhere but the floor, so she took off her raincoat, folded it carefully and sat upon that, her head against the wall. Every ten minutes or so she got up and went to the window and shouted, for surely at some time during the day someone would pass along the street below. She told herself vigorously that of course they would and ignored the fact she and Paul hadn’t met a soul …
The time passed slowly. Phoebe occupied it by reciting such Dutch words as she had managed to learn, going over the various procedures Lucius favoured for his patients and by writing, in her head, an amusing letter home. Only presently it wasn’t amusing; she was hungry and the dry air of the ill-ventilated room had made her thirsty. Besides, the complete stillness of the old house had become something tangible. Supposing it was used by tramps at night, or hippies? After all, Paul had known of it, so others would too … supposing someone came, how was she going to make them understand how she came to be there, locked in? It was a thought she decided not to pursue. She might as well relax and have a nap, she told herself firmly; it was broad daylight, and even if no one knew where to look for her, the police were very good at finding people, so she had absolutely no reason to panic. Probably at this very moment Paul was telling Lucius what he had done. She eased herself on the raincoat, her pretty brow wrinkled. Supposing he didn’t—supposing he told Maureen, who appeared to have a strong influence on him, and she decided that they would do nothing about it? After all, it was her ill-chosen words that had put the idea into the boy’s head.
Phoebe got up; it was time to shout again. She would, she promised herself, have a heart-to-heart talk with Maureen.
A little hoarse, she settled down again, rehearsing what she would say, and dozed off in the middle of it.
At the hospital, Zuster Witsma had at first been unperturbed at Phoebe’s absence. She had gone straight on duty the day before without a word of complaint; probably she had fallen asleep over a book. But when half an hour had passed and there was still no sign of her, she sent over to the Home, only to discover that Phoebe was not to be found and that the hall porter, who had seen her go out that morning, was quite sure she hadn’t returned. It seemed a good idea to consult the Directrice, and that good lady was on the ward, conferring with Mies, when Lucius walked on to the ward to collect some papers. The sight of him induced both ladies to tell him about it and the Directrice concluded: ‘I find it strange, Doctor van Someren, that Nurse Brook should not return—she is not a young, silly girl even if she is ignorant of our language. I cannot imagine her allowing that to stand in the way of her telephoning or sending a message.’ She added firmly: ‘I shall try the other hospitals.’
The doctor had said nothing at all—indeed, he appeared so abstracted in his manner that she wondered if he had heard her, but apparently he had, for after a pause he said: ‘Yes, do that, Directrice, but please do nothing more until you hear from me. I have an idea—probably I am wide of the mark, but somehow I think not. You will excuse me.’
For a man of such calm and deliberation, his speed as he drove through the Delft streets to his home was excessive. He wasted no time in entering his house either and strode through it to the sitting room where he found Maureen and Paul. The boy had a free afternoon from school; at lunchtime Maureen had assured the doctor that she would take advantage of it and give Paul a lesson in English reading. However, as he entered Paul was sprawled on the floor, playing half-heartedly with a model car, and his governess was stretched out on one of the sofas, deep in a glossy magazine. The doctor frowned as she started up, but when he spoke it was with abrupt courtesy.
‘Maureen, I wish to talk to Paul—you will excuse us,’ and as she went out of the room he turned to his adopted son.
Paul had got to his feet. He had gone a little white and he looked decidedly guilty—frightened, even. The doctor sighed. His fantastic idea was likely to prove correct, but he had to be sure. With no sign of anger he said:
‘Paul, Phoebe hasn’t returned to the hospital, and she’s more than two hours overdue. I have a hunch that you know where she is. You were scared about something at lunch, weren’t you? and you ate nothing to speak of, and when I mentioned that she was back at work you looked—er—shall we say guilty?’ He strolled across the room and stood looking out of the window, his back to the little boy. ‘I’m right, am I not?’
Paul scuffed his sandals, his eyes on the carpet, and muttered something.
‘Yes—well, you shall tell me about it later, but now I want to know where she is.’
He had turned round to face Paul, who shot him a quick look. Something in the doctor’s calm voice made him answer immediately.
Lucius left his house without a word. Within seconds he was in his car again, taking short cuts to the old warehouses by the canal. He was still driving much too fast and his face was without expression.
Phoebe had awakened from her brief nap un-refreshed and with a feeling that the room had become smaller, stuffier and very hot while she had slept. She also felt frightened, a sensation she quelled as best she could by going to the window and shouting once again through the shutters; at least it was something to do. She had barely seated herself once more before she was on her feet. There was someone in the house, she had heard the door bang below and now the faint sound of footsteps upon the stairs. She opened her mouth to call out, then almost choked herself with the effort to hold her tongue; if it were someone who knew her, they would surely call to her.
Whoever it was, was coming very fast. She faced the door, scarcely breathing as the bolts were shot back with some force and Lucius walked in. The breath she had been holding escaped in a small sound like a whispered scream mixed in with a sigh of relief. The desire to rush at him and fling herself in his arms was overwhelming, but she suppressed it firmly—and a good thing too, for he looked quite unworried, leaning against the door in a casual fashion, as though he were quite in the habit of releasing those foolish enough to get themselves locked up in deserted warehouses, and thought nothing of it. Her relief was swamped by a splendid rage, so that when he said: ‘Hullo, Phoebe—sorry about this,’ in a placid voice, her temper was exacerbated so that had there been anything handy to throw at him, she would certainly have thrown it.
Deprived of this method of relieving her pent-up feelings, she said crossly: ‘Pray don’t mention it, it was hardly your fault.’ She looked at him with glittering blue eyes. ‘I had a nice sleep,’ she informed him, and burst into tears.
His arms were comforting and his shoulder reassuring. Phoebe muttered into the fine cloth of his jacket: ‘You could have called out—I-I thought you were a t-tramp or a h-hippy!’
A smile, sternly suppressed, trembled on the doctor’s lips although his voice was warmly comforting. ‘My poor girl, you must have been terrified. What would you have done?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ she sobbed.
He spoke softly into
her hair. ‘I find that hard to believe. You are a woman in a thousand, you would have handled the situation very well, I have no doubt, and probably had them showing you the nearest way to the hospital within minutes.’
She laughed then, and presently, her tears dried, she drew away from him. ‘How did you know where I was?’
‘Paul told me.’
She glanced at him warily and saw that he was watching her closely. It was most unlikely that the little boy would have told him what he had said to her. She said lightly: ‘Aren’t little boys awful with their pranks? Don’t be hard on him, will you? He was joking—I expect he got scared and didn’t know what to do.’
Lucius took a long time to answer. ‘Possibly, but even a boy as young as Paul would know that he only had to come back here and let you out.’
She didn’t meet his eye. ‘Yes—well, thank you very much for coming. I’m afraid I’ve taken up your precious time.’
‘There are things more precious.’ He had gone to try the shutters and spoke over his shoulder.
‘I’ll go back to St Bonifacius at once, I’m hours late.’
‘You’ll come back with me to my house and have a meal. They were managing very well on the ward, they can continue to do so for another hour.’
Phoebe was shaking out her raincoat. ‘I’d rather go back—that is, if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind. Besides, Paul is at home, he will want to apologise to you.’
She was flustered and furious with herself for being so—she, who had the reputation of keeping her cool at all times. ‘Some other time—it surely doesn’t matter …’
‘Am I to infer that you have some reason for not wishing to meet Paul?’ His voice was silky.
‘Of course not. Whatever reason should there be?’ She put on her raincoat and he crossed the room to help her, turning her round to button it as though she were a little girl.
‘A nice cup of tea?’ he suggested. ‘I know I need one—I had no idea that I could feel so anxious.’