Saturday's Child. Betty Neels

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      Abigail had said that probably she would, provided she could find someone who could speak English. She had gone to lunch with Mr and Mrs Goldberg after that, and they had asked her a great many questions about her patient and seemed, she thought, a little relieved that dear Clara was to leave them for a day or two. Without someone in constant attendance, she must have put quite a strain on their good-natured hospitality.

      Mrs Goldberg had asked her kindly if she had everything she needed and to be sure and say if she hadn’t and then told her to hurry out while she had the chance. And Abigail had, wrapped in her well-cut but not new tweed coat against the damp cold winds of Amsterdam. She hadn’t been able to do much in two hours, but at least she knew where she would go when next she was free; the complexity of grachten, tree-lined, their steely waters overlooked by the tall, quaintly shaped houses on either side of them, needed time to explore. There was no point in looking at the shops, not until she had some money to spend, but there was enough to see without spending more than the price of a tram fare.

      The knock on the bedroom door had taken them both by surprise. Mr and Mrs Goldberg were both out, neither Abigail nor her patient had heard the maid go to the front door. She came in now and said in her basic English, ‘A person for the Zuster.’

      Abigail put down the paper, which she was a little tired of anyway, saying: ‘Oh, that will be instructions from the hospital as to when we’re to go, I expect. I’ll go and see about it, shall I?’ and followed the maid out of the room. The visitor was in the sitting room. Abigail opened the door and went in and came to a standstill when she saw the professor standing before the window, staring out.

      ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she declared, quite forgetful of her manners because of her surprise, and was affronted when he answered irritably:

      ‘And pray why should it not be I, Nurse? Doctor Vincent has been called out unexpectedly and finds himself unable to call, and I had to come this way.’

      ‘Oh, you don’t have to explain,’ Abigail said kindly, and went on in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘You’ll want to see Mrs Morgan.’

      ‘No, Nurse, I do not. I wish merely to inform you that there will be a bed in the private wing tomorrow afternoon. Be good enough to bring your patient to the hospital at three o’clock. An ambulance will fetch you—you will need to bring with you sufficient for three days, four perhaps. Be good enough to see that Mrs Morgan fasts from midday tomorrow so that no time is wasted.’

      He spoke shortly and she wondered if and why he was annoyed, perhaps because he had had to undertake Doctor Vincent’s errand, although surely he had a sufficiency of helpers to see to such mundane things as beds … He looked very arrogant and ill-humoured standing there, staring at her. She said briskly, ‘Very well, sir—and now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my patient.’

      He looked faintly surprised, although he didn’t bother to reply. Only as she started for the door did he ask, ‘What is your name?’

      She barely paused. ‘Trent, sir.’

      He said impatiently, ‘I am aware of that—we met yesterday, if you care to remember. What else besides Trent?’

      It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him to mind his own business, but she wasn’t given to unkindness and perhaps he had some very good reason for looking so irritable all the time. ‘Abigail,’ she offered, and watched for his smile; most people smiled when they discovered her name; it was old-fashioned and quaint. But he didn’t smile.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I was born on a Saturday,’ she began, a little worried because he wasn’t English and might not understand. ‘And Abigail …’ She paused. ‘It’s rather a silly reason and I don’t suppose you would know …’

      He looked more annoyed than ever, his thick almost colourless brows drawn together in a straight line above a nose which to her appeared disdainful.

      ‘You should suppose nothing. I am sufficiently acquainted with your English verses—Saturday’s child has to work for her living, eh? and Abigail was a term used some hundreds of years ago to denote a serving woman, was it not?’

      ‘How clever of you,’ said Abigail warmly, and was rewarded with another frown.

      ‘And were your parents so sure that you would be forced to work for your living that they gave you this name?’

      She said tight-lipped, because the conversation was becoming painful:

      ‘It was a joke between them. You will excuse me now, sir?’

      She left him standing there and went back to her patient, who, on being told who the visitor was, showed her displeasure at not receiving a visit, although she brightened again when Abigail pointed out that she would see a good deal of him in hospital once she was settled in there. They spent the rest of the day quite happily, with Abigail opening and shutting cupboards and drawers in order to display various garments to her patient, who, however ill she felt, intended to look as glamorous as possible during her stay in hospital. It was much later, when Abigail had packed a few things for herself that, cosily dressing-gowned, she sat down before her dressing-table to brush her hair for the night. She brushed it steadily for some time, deep in thought, and she wasn’t thinking about herself, or her patient or Bollinger, but of Professor van Wijkelen. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen, also the most bad-tempered, but there had to be a reason for the look of dislike which he had given her when they had met—as though he had come prepared to dislike her, thought Abigail. She finished plaiting the rich thickness of her mousy hair and stared at her face in the mirror. Plain she might be, but in an inoffensive manner—her teeth didn’t stick out, she didn’t squint, her nose was completely unassuming; there was, in fact, nothing to cause offence. Yet he had stared at her as though she had mortally offended him. She put the brush away and padded over to the bed, thinking that she would very much like to get to know him better, not because he was so good-looking; he looked interesting as well, and for some reason she was unable to explain she found herself making excuses for his abrupt manner, even his dislike of her. She got into bed wondering sleepily what he was doing at that moment—the idea that he was a happily married man dispelled sleep for a few minutes until she decided that he didn’t look married. She slept on that surprisingly happy thought.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE HOSPITAL WAS hidden away behind the thickly clustered old houses and narrow lanes of the city. It was itself old, although once inside, Abigail saw that like so many of the older hospitals in England, it had a modernised interior despite the long bleak corridors and small dark passages and bare enclosed yards which so many of its windows looked out upon. Mrs Morgan’s room was on the third floor, in the private wing, and although small, it was well furnished and the view from its window of the city around was a splendid one. Abigail got her patient safely into bed, tucked in the small lace-covered pillows Mrs Morgan had decided she couldn’t manage without, changed her quilted dressing-gown for a highly becoming bedjacket, rearranged her hair, found her the novel she was reading, unpacked her case and after leaving the bell within reach of her, went to find the Ward Sister.

      Zuster van Rijn was elderly, round, cosy and grey-haired, with a lovely smile and a command of the English language which Abigail found quite remarkable. They sat together in the little office, drinking the coffee which one of the nurses had brought them, while Zuster van Rijn read her patient’s notes and charts and finally observed:

      ‘She does not seem too bad. Professor van Wijkelen never operates unless it is necessary—he СКАЧАТЬ