Saturday's Child Page 7

  ‘Colossus.’And she, forgetting to be wary of him, chortled: ‘Oh, how apt—Julius Caesar, isn’t it? Something about petty men walking under his huge legs,’ she added admiringly. ‘How very clever of you.’

  She smiled at him and encountered a look of such fierce derision that she got to her feet and said instantly, ‘I don’t think I’ll stay for tea, if you don’t mind.’

  The look had gone. ‘I must beg your pardon for the second time this afternoon,’ he smiled unexpectedly and she felt her heart tumble. ‘Please stay, Abigail.’

  She would never understand him; it was like going along a winding road wondering what would be around the next corner. She sat down in one of the chairs and asked in a voice which forgave him, ‘What will you call the kitten?’ She pulled Colossus’s ear and heard the dog sigh with pleasure, and at that moment Bollinger came in with the tea-tray and the professor said:

  ‘We want a name for the kitten, Bollinger. Any ideas?’

  Bollinger put the tray down by Abigail, smiled at her and then frowned in thought. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘she’s an orphan, isn’t she? So she’ll be Annie.’

  He looked at them hopefully. ‘Little Orphan Annie,’ he explained, and beamed at the professor when he declared: ‘A splendid name for her, Bollinger. Annie it shall be. When she’s a little more herself, Colossus shall go down to the kitchen and make friends.’

  ‘She’s having a nap,’ continued Bollinger, ‘I haven’t moved her, so snug she lies. I’ll feed her presently.’

  ‘Every two hours—milk, Bollinger, and not too much of it.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ said Bollinger comfortably. Til say bye-bye for now, Miss Abby.’ He sounded wistful and she was quick to hear it.

  ‘I’ll meet you for coffee—tomorrow, Bolly, and you can tell me about Annie.’

  The professor’s voice was blandly polite. ‘May I suggest that you come here? I shall be away for a couple of days and I think it would be as well if you kept an eye on Annie until I return.’

  ‘Now that’s an idea,’ said Bollinger enthusiastically. ‘No reason why you shouldn’t, is there, Miss Abby?’

  Abigail said that no, there wasn’t, in a rather prim voice which concealed sudden delight. She wanted to come to this old house again; she could think of nothing nicer than living in it for ever and ever. She lifted the teapot and almost dropped it again, struck by the knowledge that the house meant nothing at all without the professor in it—bad temper, frowns, sneers and all. Somewhere behind that forbidding manner must be the man she had fallen in love with—once or twice he had allowed himself to be glimpsed and she dearly wished that he would allow it again. She had no illusions about herself; the professor was as likely to fall in love with her as the moon would turn to cheese, although miracles did happen... She handed him his tea and poured some for herself, asking in a matter-of-fact voice whether Colossus found city life a little trying.

  ‘No—not really. He has a good walk each morning and another some time in the evening and he goes with me to Friesland, where I have another home. He can exercise there to his heart’s content’

  ‘Friesland,’ wondered Abigail, ‘isn’t that a long way?’

  ‘No, a hundred and thirty odd kilometres. An hour and a half’s driving—less.’

  ‘Is that where Bollinger went?’

  ‘Yes—there is quite a large garden there. He enjoyed himself enormously.’

  He handed Abigail a dish of little cakes and she took one and bit into it. It tasted as delicious as it looked. ‘Yes, he loves gardening, but I expect you know that. He has green fingers.’

  ‘Green...? What does that mean?’

  ‘He can grow things and they grow for him because he understands them.’

  The professor sipped his tea. ‘How interesting. I shall look forward to a beautiful garden this spring.’

  Abigail put down her cup and saucer—delicate, paper thin and transparent with a white and purple pattern; she would make a note of them and ask Professor de Wit about them later on—the teapot too; silver and very plain with a rounded lid. ‘I think I’d better go,’ she said politely, while she longed to stay, but her companion, while making pleasant enough conversation, had shown no great delight in her company, nor did he press her to stay. He got up as she did and went with her into the hall. There were red tulips, dozens of them on the chest today, she noticed. They were half way to the front door when the professor stopped.

  ‘One moment, Miss Trent—your scarf. You made a bed for the kitten, did you not?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not cold and it’s a short walk.’

  He ignored this and turned on his heel and went to a pillow cupboard at the back of the hall and came back with a silk square. This will do.’ He unbuttoned her coat, tied the scarf round her neck and buttoned the coat up again, and when she murmured her thanks made no reply, but went ahead of her to the door and flung it open on to the snow outside. The Rolls was by the steps.

  ‘Jan will take you back. Goodbye, Miss Trent.’ As she went down the steps she thought indignantly that he sounded relieved that she was going, and possibly he was, but he might have had the decency to pretend—and he had lent her his scarf, but then he would have lent a scarf to anyone in an emergency. She refused to tease herself any more and began a determined conversation with Jan, which lasted until they reached the hospital entrance. She had spent two happy afternoons at the house on the gracht, playing with a slowly recovering Annie and listening to Bollinger’s cheerful talk. She had been able to give him some more money too, which he had refused to take until she had pointed out that the quicker she paid her debt to him the quicker she could make a fresh start.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do about it, Bolly,’ she told him, ‘so don’t argue. Besides, I’m to be a week at Professor de Wit’s house and I’ve got my fare back to England and some money besides.’ She didn’t mention that she had heard nothing from Mrs Morgan—she could always go to the agency and ask what to do about it. The prospect of going back to England depressed her, but she was too level-headed to allow it to dominate her thoughts. She had told Bolly that when she knew for certain when she was leaving, she would let him know and he could either come with her or follow when it was convenient. As far as she could make out, he and the professor had a very easy-going agreement between them, and Bolly had said that the man whose work he was doing wouldn’t be well for a few weeks yet; he might stay until he was and that would give her time to find another job, this time where she could live out and get a small home together for them both.

  The transfer of her patient went without a hitch. Professor de Wit’s house was much smaller than his friend’s but just as old. It had no garden though, just a few square feet of paving stones and a high wall, but the rooms were delightful. His bedroom was on the first floor and hers next to it, because, as he pointed out to her, after his stay in hospital he was a little nervous of being quite by himself. His housekeeper, Juffrouw Valk, seemed to Abigail to be a sensible and kind woman and perfectly able to look after the professor once she had been told about his diet and what he might and might not do. She spoke no English, which, Professor de Wit pointed out with some glee, was splendid for Abigail’s Dutch. And so it was; by the end of the afternoon Abigail had managed to communicate quite a lot to Juffrouw Valk, who smiled and nodded and encouraged her and went to a great deal of trouble to have things just so.

  Abigail and her patient ate their dinner together in the small dining room at the back of the house after she had spent some time in the kitchen showing the older woman what Professor de Wit might eat and how much, and immediately the simple meal was finished, she helped him climb the stairs and got him to bed, for he was tired and happy and exhausted. She had settled him nicely in his bed and was getting his spectacles and newspaper for him when Professor van Wijkelen arrived. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, looking larger than ever, and, Abigail was quick to perceive, very out of humour. Or perhaps it was o
nly herself who caused that expression on his face, for it cleared as he went over to sit by his patient’s bed, and after a minute, seeing that she wasn’t needed, she slipped away, downstairs to the kitchen, to help Juffrouw Valk with the washing up and improve her Dutch at the same time. She was forced to go back upstairs very soon, though, because the professor called to her briskly from the head of the narrow little staircase. She followed him into his patient’s bedroom and stood, very neat in her uniform, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  ‘We have been discussing you, Miss Trent. Professor de Wit agrees with me that another week of your excellent nursing and he will be able to dispense with your services— with regret, I must add.’

  He sounded not in the least regretful himself. Abigail fastened her eyes on the glowing silk of his tie and remembered, for no reason at all, that once, quite by accident, he had called her Abigail.

  ‘This suits me very well, however,’ went on the professor, ‘for I have another patient in need of your care for a week or so. A Scotswoman who lives in one of the houses in the Begijnhof—you have probably been there?’

  Abigail nodded. It was peaceful and beautiful and the little houses couldn’t have changed much since they had been built centuries before. ‘A week should suffice,1 went on the professor smoothly, ‘a short delay for you, I know, Nurse, but you would be doing her. a great kindness—she is a charming person.’

  He smiled at her, and even as she heard her own voice saying that yes, she was quite prepared to take another case for him, she was chiding herself for being a fool. Now that he had got what he wanted he would doubtless be as morose and irritable as before; it was an ever-recurring pattern which she weakly never attempted to alter. She only had to say no. She peeped at him—he wasn’t smiling now and she saw that he looked very tired, so that his hair looked more grey than it really was and the lines of his face were etched more deeply. He looked up and his eyes held hers for a brief moment and the smile on her lips froze before their coldness. She looked away quickly and he turned back to Professor de Wit, and presently got up to go. It hardly seemed the right moment to give him back his scarf, but she went and fetched it all the same and handed it to him with a word of thanks, remembering how gentle his hands had been when he had tied it round her neck. He took it carelessly now and stuffed it in a pocket. Abigail went downstairs with him and let him out into the coldness of the winter evening. He didn’t reply to her sober good night.

  ‘I shall miss you, Abby,’ declared her patient when she went back upstairs, ‘but Dominic is quite right, I shan’t really need you. I’ve surprised even him, I believe. But I’m glad you will still be in Amsterdam. You must come and see me when you can.’

  ‘I should like that, though I shall only be here for another week after I leave you, shan’t I? I must write to the agency in London and see if they have another job for me.’ She smiled at him. ‘Otherwise I might have to wait a few days for a case and I should prefer to go straight to a patient.’

  ‘What—no days off, Abby?’

  ‘Yes—that is, no, I can’t.. .don’t let’s talk about me, it’s so dull.’

  ‘Dull? My dear Abby, you are the last person I should describe as dull. Tell me, how is that ridiculous kitten you wished on Dominic?’

  They spent the rest of the evening talking about nothing in particular and when she had finally tucked the old man up for the night she went to her own room and got ready for bed too. It was marvellous, she told her reflection in the little shield-back mirror on the dressing-table, that she had another patient to go to, and marvellous, said her heart, that she would see the professor for a further week. ‘And a lot of good that may do’ you,’ she admonished her mirrored face, ‘for he only speaks to you when he’s got something unpleasant to say or when he wants something.’ Her face reflected sadness; she made a derisive face at it and got into bed and lay awake, thinking about Dominic van Wijkelen. He had looked so very tired that evening, and although the house on the gracht was a beautiful home and his housekeeper everything she should be, it surely wasn’t quite the same as going home to a wife and children. Even if he were tired to death, he would open the great front door and find them waiting for him. It would be lonely in that house.. .a tear slid beneath her lids and she blinked it away. ‘At least he’s got Annie,’ she reminded herself, and went to sleep on that ridiculous thought.

  The week went pleasantly by. Professor de Wit, now that he was home again, began to take up the thread of his life once more; he was still weak, but he managed the stairs on his own now and spent an hour or more each day working on the book he was writing—a lengthy treatise on biochemistry, which Abigail strove to understand, when, carried away by some theory or other, he would talk at great length about the fascinations of cell life. And his friends came; learned gentlemen who spoke kindly to her and drank a great deal of coffee while her patient sipped his milk.

  Juffrouw Valk had proved a treasure; not only had she obtained extra help in die house, she had proved a quick and willing learner when it came to Abigail explaining her patient’s diet and what he might and might not do. She wrote it all down in laborious Dutch too so that Juffrouw Valk couldn’t forget, and that lady, far from laughing at Abigail’s efforts, praised her kindly and tactfully pointed out the mistakes. Abigail could see that she would be leaving Professor de Wit in excellent hands.

  Professor van Wijkelen came daily, sometimes briefly, sometimes to stay long enough to play chess with his old friend, and each time he came he brought news of Annie and Bollinger—both, it seemed, in the best of health and firm friends. On one of his visits he suggested that she should go to see them and when she replied quietly that she had been that very afternoon he answered dryly, ‘Ah, yes—while I was away from home on operating day, as you very well know.’

  The afternoon before she was due to leave Professor de Wit’s house, she walked round to see Bollinger once more and enquire after Annie. Despite the professor’s words, she had formed the habit of ringing the bell of the little door under the steps, with the vague, half-formed idea that if the professor were home she could, if she wished, beat a hasty retreat. But he was out that afternoon, she had a cup of tea with Bollinger, admired Annie, who had turned from the miserable little waif she had been into a plump, enchanting kitten, and petted Colossus, who chose to have tea with them, taking up a good deal of room before the fire. He stretched out now with Annie balanced on his paws while she tidied away her whiskers after the saucer of milk Bollinger had given her.

  ‘So you’re off again, Miss Abby,’ he commented, and Abigail detected the satisfaction in his voice. ‘The boss says it’s a Scotch lady this time—very nice too, specially as his gardener ain’t going so fast as he might with his bunions.’ He sighed happily. ‘‘No hurry,’ he tells me, ‘you’re far too useful a man to go before you need.’’ He added proudly, ‘I help Jan with the cars—cleaning ‘em, you know.’

  Abigail hadn’t seen him so happy for a long time, not since her father had been alive and Bolly had seen to the garden and driven and serviced their old-fashioned, solid car, and between whiles made himself useful in the house. She wondered how he would like London again; even if she was very lucky and got a job where she could live out, it would have to be a furnished flat, and a small one at that. She said now, her nice voice urgent:

  ‘Bolly, when I go back to London, don’t come with me, not if there’s still a job for you here. Stay on a little while, until I can get a home for us.’

  ‘And who’s going to look after you?’ he demanded fiercely.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Belly. I’ll get a job where I can live in for a couple of weeks, that’ll give me a chance to look round.’

  It sounded easier than it would actually be, but it lulled the old man into a sense of security; he needed very little persuasion to do as she asked and she knew that secretly he was happy to be staying.

  When she got up to go she said, ‘I don’t know exactly when I’ll be here again, Bolly.
I’ll have to see how the new patient is, but I’ll come as soon as I can.’

  ‘Right, Miss Abby. The boss’ll tell me how you go on, he always does.’

  Abigail, on her way out, stopped. ‘Does he? Does he really? I shouldn’t have thought...’ She walked on again, having uttered these rather obscure remarks, said her goodbyes and went back to her patient.

  The professor came early that evening. They had barely finished their simple dinner when he was announced by Juffrouw Valk, who in the same breath offered coffee and perhaps, if the professor was a hungry man, a little something to eat. He declined the little something but accepted the coffee, which Abigail poured for him, listening with a sympathetic ear to his patient’s gentle complaints about not being allowed to drink that beverage. Abigail offered him his milk with such a motherly air, explaining how good it was for him, that he chuckled and said:

  ‘Abby, I find I do a great many things I don’t care about, as a consequence of your persuasive ways. I can see that in due course you will wheedle your husband and children most shamefully into doing exactly what you want.’

  Abigail laughed at his little joke and hoped that it didn’t sound hollow. She saw no prospect of marriage, and even if she did, she only wanted to marry the professor, sitting beside her now, drinking his coffee and taking no notice of her at all. She got to her feet.

  ‘I expect you would like to talk, and there are several things I have to do.’ ‘Stay where you are,’ the professor’s voice was a little sharp and when she looked at him in surprise he added: ‘Please.’