Saturday's Child. Бетти Нилс

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СКАЧАТЬ because there was a lot of nursing to do and the professor had regained consciousness and wished to be far too active. But presently, after an injection, he dropped off into a refreshing sleep and Abigail was free to bring her charts up to date, snatch a cup of coffee and then sit quietly between the regular intervals of checking one thing and another. It was, she mused, a splendid opportunity to think quietly about the future, but perhaps she was too tired, for when she tried to do so, she seemed unable to clear her mind. She gave up presently, and spent the rest of the night idly thumbing through her dictionary, hunting for words which, even when she found them, she was unable to pronounce.

      The professor came again at seven o’clock. Abigail, with the help of another nurse, had made her patient’s bed and sat him up against his pillows; she had washed him too and combed his fringe of hair and his whiskers and dressed him in his own pyjamas. He looked very old and very ill, but she had no doubt at all that he was going to pull through, for he had a good deal of spirit. She was drawing up an injection to give him when Professor van Wijkelen arrived; he looked as though he had slept the clock round, and now, freshly shaved and immaculately dressed, he sauntered in for all the world as though he were in the habit of paying his visits at such an early hour. His good morning to her was brief; so brief that it seemed pointless, but she answered him nicely, smiling from a tired face that had no colour at all, unhappily aware that there was nothing about her appearance to make him look at her a second time.

      He didn’t say much to his patient but motioned her to give the injection, walked over to the window and sat down at the table there and began to study the papers she had laid ready for him. He had given her fresh instructions and was on the point of leaving when he remarked:

      ‘You look as though you could do with a good sleep, Nurse.’

      ‘Of course she needs a good sleep,’ Professor de Wit’s voice was testy even though it was weak. ‘Just because you choose to work yourself to death doesn’t mean that everyone else should do the same.’

      ‘I have no intention of working anyone to death. Nurse is doing a job like anyone else and she has a tongue in her head. If she cannot carry out her duties, she has only to say so.’

      He didn’t look at her but flung ‘I shall look in later,’ over his shoulder as he went.

      ‘Such a pity that …’ began her patient, and fell asleep instantly just as Abigail was hopeful of hearing why something was a great pity—something to do with Professor van Wijkelen, she felt sure.

      The next few days were busy ones. Her patient continued to improve, but there was a great deal of nursing care needed and Abigail was a conscientious nurse. She took her daily walk because she knew that she needed the exercise in the fresh air, despite its rawness and the bitter wind which never ceased to blow, but her days off she saved up; she would take them when the case was finished. There had, as yet, been no talk of sending Professor de Wit home although it had been made clear to her that she was to accompany him. They would be in hospital another week at least—two probably; if it hadn’t been for the niggling worry about Bollinger, she would have been happier than she had been for a long time. She had made some friends in the hospital by now and she was battling on with her Dutch, helped a great deal by her patient, who now that he was feeling better spent a fair proportion of his waking hours correcting her accent and grammar.

      It was the day after the drip came down for the last time and the old man had walked a few steps on her arm that Professor van Wijkelen had come to see him and on his way out again had said in his usual austere way:

      ‘Nurse, if you are free tomorrow afternoon, I wish you to come with me—there is someone who wants to meet you.’

      ‘Who?’ asked Abigail, who liked to know where she was.

      ‘Shall we say you must wait and see?’ he enquired silkily, and then suddenly, as though he sensed that she was about to refuse, he smiled with such charm that she would have agreed to anything he wished. ‘Please,’ said the professor.

      She nodded, knowing that when he looked at her like that she wanted nothing more than to please him. She was thoughtful after he had gone and Professor de Wit said nothing, although she had expected him to. When she saw that he didn’t intend to discuss it with her, she launched into an argument on the subjunctive in the Dutch language, concentrating fiercely upon her companion’s learned comments, because Professor van Wijkelen was taking up much too much of her attention these days.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE PROFESSOR WAS waiting for her when she reached the hospital forecourt the following afternoon. He greeted her with unsmiling courtesy as he opened the car door for her to get in, and because he so obviously didn’t want to talk, she remained silent as he took the car through the gates and into the narrow streets beyond.

      ‘You don’t want to know where I am taking you?’ he enquired blandly.

      ‘Yes, of course I do, but I daresay you wouldn’t choose to tell me, so I shan’t ask.’ Abigail spoke matter-of-factly and without rancour.

      ‘We are going to my house.’

      That startled her. ‘What ever for?’

      ‘There is somebody you should meet—it seemed the best place.’

      ‘Oh, I see.’ She didn’t see at all and she was longing to ask him who it was and didn’t because he would be expecting it.

      ‘Very wise of you,’ he commented silkily, answering her unspoken thought. ‘I’ve no intention of telling you. How do you find Professor de Wit?’

      She obligingly followed his lead. ‘Determined to get well as soon as possible.’

      ‘Yes—I have every hope that he will. The operation wasn’t quite straightforward.’ He launched into details and then said to surprise her:

      ‘He likes you, Nurse Trent. I hope that you will be prepared to go home with him for a few days?’

      ‘Certainly,’ said Abigail. There was nothing she would like better, for a variety of reasons, which for the moment at least, she didn’t intend to look into too deeply. She looked about her. They were travelling along the Herengracht, beautiful and picturesque with its old houses on either side of the tree-lined canal. Some way down its length the professor turned the car into a short arm of the canal—a little cul-de-sac, spanned by a narrow footbridge half way down its length. Houses lined the cobbled streets on either side of the water and across its far end, and trees, even in their winter bareness, crowded thickly along its banks.

      The Rolls slid sedately along its length and came to a halt outside one of the houses at the end, facing the canal. It was a very old house, with double steps leading to a great door and another, smaller door tucked away under those same steps. The windows were high and narrow and climbed up the front of the house. The higher they climbed the smaller they became, until they terminated in one very large one, heavily shuttered under the steep gable of the house. There was a tremendous hook above it, because that was the only way to get anything in or out of the houses’ top floors.

      It was peaceful in the small backwater, away from the traffic, with only the wind sighing around the steeple roofs. Abigail got out and looked around her while the professor opened his house door, and then at his bidding went inside.

      It was all she had expected and hoped for, with its black and white tiled floor, its plasterwork ceiling and plain white walls, upon which were hung a host of paintings, and its carved staircase rising from one side.

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