Pineapple Girl. Бетти Нилс

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      ‘It sounds lovely,’ said Eloise, and meant it, for she was a simple girl with simple tastes; she had disliked London even while admitting its charm and she had done her best to overcome that dislike because as far as she could see she would have to stay there for the rest of her working days if she wanted a good job in a good hospital. She observed suddenly, thinking her thoughts aloud, ‘A lot of English nurses work over here, don’t they?’

      ‘Indeed they do.’ Mijnheer Pringle was scrutinising the bill with such intensity that she had the uncomfortable feeling that he might not have enough money to pay it. ‘Perhaps you like the idea, Eloise?’ he asked her kindly, counting out notes with care.

      ‘Well, it might be fun, but there’s my mother—she really wants to go back to Eddlescombe, you know.’

      Mevrouw Pringle gathered up her handbag and gloves. ‘Well, things do happen,’ she remarked vaguely. ‘I’m ready whenever you are.’

      It was still afternoon when they reached Groningen and Eloise looked round her eagerly, craning her neck to see everything at once and quite failing to do so; she was left with a delightful hotchpotch of tall, narrow houses, canals, bridges, a great many cyclists and even more people hurrying to and fro, darting into the streets and disappearing round tantalising corners.

      ‘You shall come whenever you wish,’ Mevrouw Pringle promised. ‘I don’t care for towns much—I like to sit about at home, being lazy.’ She spoke so convincingly that Eloise almost believed her.

      Mijnheer Pringle had been quite right about the roads. They were narrow, made of brick, and wandered through the wide landscape, perched as it were upon the numerous dykes. And the villages were indeed small, each a neat handful of houses encircling a church, a caf and a shop, and lying around and beyond the villages she could see the farms, large and solid with great barns at their backs, their fields dotted with black and white cows. Looking around her, she began to wonder just where the Pringles’ house might be, and had her answer almost immediately when they passed through a village much like the rest and then turned between high gateposts into a short drive bisecting the grounds of a house. It looked a little like a farmhouse, only there was no barn built on to its back, although there were plenty of outbuildings to one side of it. Its front door was plain and solid with an ornate wrought iron transom above it and the windows were old-fashioned and sashed, two each side of the door and five in the row above. There were flower beds, well laid out, and shrubs and trees carefully sited; it looked peaceful and homely and exactly what Eloise had hoped for. When Mevrouw Pringle said eagerly: ‘Here we are—I do hope you’ll like it here, Eloise,’ she replied that yes, she would, quite sincerely.

      Inside was like outside; the rooms lofty and light, furnished with large comfortable chairs and solid tables and cupboards. The carpets were thick underfoot and the curtains were equally thick velvet, fringed and draped, not quite to Eloise’s own taste but nonetheless very pleasing. But she had very little time to examine her surroundings; her patient was tired now and made no demur when her husband suggested that perhaps an hour’s rest would be just the thing. They all went upstairs, Mijnheer Pringle explaining as they went that Juffrouw Blot, the housekeeper, would be along with a tray of tea just as soon as his wife was on her bed. ‘We guessed that you would be tired, my dear, and you can have a good gossip with her later on, when you’re rested.’

      Alone with Mevrouw Pringle, Eloise quietly took charge, changed the dressing deftly, took off her patient’s dress and tucked her under her quilt.

      ‘Your room, Eloise,’ protested Mevrouw Pringle. ‘There’s been no time to show you…here’s Juffrouw Blot with my tea, she can take you…and ask Cor for anything.’

      Eloise made soothing little sounds while she tidied the room, was introduced to the housekeeper, a stoutly built middle-aged woman who smiled and nodded and talked to her for all the world as though she could understand every word, and then followed her obediently across the wide landing to the room which was to be hers.

      It was a pleasant apartment, lofty like all the other rooms in the house, and comfortably furnished with good taste if without much imagination. Eloise unpacked her bag, tidied her hair and did her face, peeped in at Mrs Pringle to make sure that she really was asleep and went downstairs.

      Mijnheer Pringle was lying in wait for her. ‘She’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Such a long journey, but she would insist…it is good of you to come…’ He looked away for a moment. ‘Her doctor will be coming this evening—our friend too. He will talk to you and explain…’

      ‘Explain what, Mijnheer Pringle?’ She knew the answer already, though.

      ‘Well—Debby has had this operation, you will have been told about that, of course. What you weren’t told is that she is going to die very soon—weeks, perhaps less. She doesn’t know that; they told her six months or more, got her on her feet and allowed her home because that was what she wanted…’ He sighed, one of the saddest sounds Eloise had heard for a long time. ‘She’s to do exactly what she wants,’ he went on, ‘because nothing can make any difference now. I hope that if she needs you and your holiday is finished, there will be some way of keeping you here. She has taken a fancy to you, you know—she has always been fond of your mother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m determined that she shall be as happy as possible for these last few weeks.’

      Eloise swallowed the lump in her own throat. ‘Of course, and if she wants me to stay, I think it could be arranged; you would have to contact the hospital, of course—her doctor could help there. And if there’s anything I can do to help, will you let me know?’

      He nodded. ‘Thank you. Shall we go and have tea? It’s been taken into the sitting room.’

      There was no milk with the tea, drunk from small cups which held only a few mouthfuls. Eloise, dying of thirst, was debating whether to ask for a third cup and run the risk of being considered greedy when Juffrouw Blot opened the door, said something to Mijnheer Pringle and flattened herself to allow a visitor to enter the room. The man who had sent her the basket of fruit; her firm little chin dropped and her eyes rounded in surprise—a surprise which he didn’t appear to share, for his: ‘Ah, the pineapple girl,’ was casual to say the least as he crossed the room to shake Mijnheer Pringle’s hand.

      ‘You know each other?’ queried that gentleman.

      ‘No,’ said his visitor cheerfully. ‘That is to say, no one has introduced us, although we have met.’

      Mijnheer Pringle looked puzzled, but he was a stickler for good manners. ‘Eloise, this is Doctor van Zeilst, our very good friend. Timon, this is Miss Eloise Bennett who has kindly consented to spend her holidays with Deborah.’

      ‘I know.’ The doctor grinned at her. ‘News travels fast in hospitals, doesn’t it?’

      ‘Apparently.’ She looked at him coldly, quite put out because he had shown no pleasure at meeting her again. ‘I believe I have to thank you for your gift of fruit.’

      ‘Healthy stuff, fruit.’ He nodded carelessly and turned to Mijnheer Pringle. ‘How is Deborah?’ and then: ‘No, I’d better ask Nurse that.’

      He looked across the room, smiling faintly, but for all that she sensed that she was now the nurse giving a report to the doctor. She complied with commendable conciseness, adding: ‘I know little about Mevrouw Pringle’s stay at the nursing home, only what she has told me herself—I’ve had no instructions…’ Her voice held faint reproach.

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