The Little Dragon

And as if to emphasise that opinion, Mrs Dowling was worse than ever the next morning. Her breakfast was uneatable; Constantia had hurt her when she had given her injection; an old friend who was a cornerstone of her bridge table had gone to England and left her with a choice of most inferior substitutes. And the wrong newspaper had been delivered.

Constantia, busy charting insulin doses and sugar levels, was told to leave what she was doing and fetch the correct one, ‘and at the same time you might as well go into that needlework shop in Gerritstraat and see if that embroidery silk I ordered has arrived.’ She added crossly: ‘And go now.’

Constantia went, glad to escape and glad to have the opportunity of telephoning Doctor Sperling to let him know that Mrs Dowling’s tests were all over the place again. Either she was hopelessly unstabilised, which in view of the doctor’s treatment was absurd, or she was eating something she shouldn’t be.

There was a telephone in the hotel close by, so she left a message with the doctor’s secretary and went on her way to the newsagent. She had collected the newspaper and the embroidery silk and was on her way back through the shopping precinct when Doctor van der Giessen came out of the same door as he had done before.

‘Playing truant?’ he wanted to know.

She laughed. ‘No; changing the newspaper and fetching something Mrs Dowling ordered.’

He fell into step beside her. ‘Why can’t she do these things for herself?’ he enquired mildly.

‘Well—I’m not sure…’ She hesitated. ‘Is it all right if I tell you something, or isn’t it ethical?’

He smiled down at her. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter—Doctor Sperling and I have known each other for quite some time. What seems to be the matter?’

‘I left a message with Doctor Sperling’s secretary. Mrs Dowling isn’t stabilising and she ought to be.’

‘Ah—the odd hunk of cheese or bar of chocolate?’ he commented placidly. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised—a few days in hospital would see to that. I expect Doctor Sperling will have that at the back of his mind.’ They were crossing the bridge and weren’t hurrying in the sunshine. ‘The children want to know when you’re coming to tea again.’

‘Oh, do they? How sweet of them.’

‘On your next half day, perhaps?’

‘I’d like that very much—about four o’clock? It will be Wednesday.’

‘I’ve a surgery until three-thirty, come then—if no one answers the door walk in and make yourself at home.’

‘I could get the tea if you wouldn’t mind me going to the kitchen,’ Constantia offered.

‘Splendid.’ They had come to a halt in front of the hotel again.

‘I must go,’ she said regretfully.

‘Tot ziens, then.’

She watched him disappear down a small street in the direction of Oude Delft and then went slowly on her way. Life was really rather pleasant, she decided as she waited for Nel to open the door.

It wasn’t quite as pleasant as she went into Mrs Dowling’s room.

‘There you are!’ Her patient’s harsh voice was pitched high with impatience; she scarcely glanced up from manicuring her nails. ‘You’ve been a long time.’

‘Not quite half an hour,’ said Constantia quietly. She put the newspaper and the silk on a table with the little pile of change, which Mrs Dowling leaned over and counted carefully before telling Constantia to give her her handbag. ‘Did you meet someone?’ she demanded.

‘Doctor van der Giessen.’

Mrs Dowling closed her handbag with a snap. ‘Him?’ Her lip curled in a sneer. ‘Sweet on him, are you? I told you that he was as poor as a church mouse—so rumour says—and likely to stay that way, with three children to look after. More fool he!’

Constantia was collecting the odds and ends Mrs Dowling had shed around the room. The remark ruffled her patience and her temper, but she had no intention of letting her patient see that. ‘Probably he prefers children to money,’ she commented lightly, ‘some people do.’

Mrs Dowling shot her a peevish look. ‘That’s ridiculous, and you’re being impertinent, Nurse.’

Constantia let that pass. ‘Would you like cheese or ham with your salad?’ she wanted to know.

‘Neither. You can think up something else; that’s what I pay you for, isn’t it? I’m tired of this dreary diet. I’m sure Doctor Sperling has exaggerated the whole business—I’ll have escalope of veal with a cream sauce.’

‘Followed by a diabetic coma,’ Constantia added silently while she observed out loud, ‘I’m afraid a diet is necessary, Mrs Dowling. Once you’re stabilised Doctor Sperling will allow you more variety. I’ll go and see about your lunch and then give you your injection.’

She was almost at the door when Mrs Dowling called after her in her penetrating voice: ‘Are you going to ask for time off to meet your doctor? I daresay he could afford a cup of coffee somewhere.’

Constantia fought and conquered a desire to throw something at her patient and went out of the room without saying a word, although she muttered nastily to herself on her way to the kitchen.

Wednesday came; Constantia bounced out of bed, observed that it was a lovely morning, even if cold still, and set about dealing with her patient’s wants. It was almost lunchtime when the doorbell rang and a visitor was shown in by Nel—a young man with rather vapid good looks, who embraced Mrs Dowling with every appearance of delight and addressed her as Vera.

‘My nephew, Willy Caxton—passing through Delft and lunching with us,’ explained Mrs Dowling briefly. She nodded at Constantia. ‘My nurse.’

They exchanged a cool greeting because Constantia was smarting under the assumption that she had no name and he obviously didn’t consider it worth his while to ask. ‘Give Mr Caxton a drink,’ decreed Mrs Dowling, ‘and then go and see about lunch. Nel should have it ready.’

It was almost one o’clock. Constantia, hurrying a Nel who didn’t want to be hurried, found herself fretting and fuming that she wouldn’t be able to escape for her half day. Luckily she wasn’t expected until half past three…

It was during lunch that Mrs Dowling told Constantia that she was to escort her nephew to as many of the local places of interest as could be squashed into a couple of hours.

‘It’s my half day, Mrs Dowling, and I’ve already made other arrangements.’

‘Nonsense, what arrangements could you possibly have?’ Her employer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Going out with your doctor, I suppose? Well, he’ll just have to wait, won’t he? Mr Caxton will be leaving at four o’clock, you can have the rest of the day to yourself.’

Constantia was on the point of refusing point blank; it was Willy’s rather plaintive request to agree to his aunt’s wishes which melted her too-soft heart. He was so obviously anxious to get away as soon as possible. ‘Until half past three?’ she conceded, and went to get her outdoor things.

He was hard going; not in the least interested in the town or its lovely buildings. Indeed, he confided in Constantia, if it wasn’t that Aunt Vera had left him a tidy little sum in her will, he wouldn’t bother to come and see her at all. Constantia liked him even less for saying that; his good looks were skin-deep and she had the strong impression that the only thing that mattered to him was himself and his own doings. She rushed him from one church to the next, pointed out some of the more beautiful buildings, knowing that he wasn’t in the least interested, and wanted to know, with some asperity, if he wouldn’t like to cut short his sightseeing. It was already well past half past three—she would never get to Doctor van der Giessen’s house in time now.

They were standing on the edge of the Markt where he had parked his car, while she urged him to get in and drive away as nicely as she could without actually giving him a push, when Doctor van der Giessen’s battered Fiat drove slowly by. He saw them but he didn’t stop, only gave her an expressionless look which held no hint of an invitation to tea.

It was a pity that Willy Caxton chose that moment to catch her by the hand and look earnestly into her face. He was only begging her to assure his aunt that he had had a delightful afternoon and to refrain from mentioning that he was leaving before he was supposed to, but she could hardly stop the doctor’s car to tell him that.

She gave Willy only half her attention as she watched the Fiat rush round a corner and out of sight. She wouldn’t dare to go to tea now; she had wasted almost half an hour getting the wretched Willy to go, and probably the doctor thought that she had stood his tea party up for the pleasures of Willy’s tiresome company.

Her half day was spoiled; she waved Willy a thankful goodbye and wandered away, wondering if she should telephone the doctor’s house or even go there. But in the face of that bland look she had received from the car she didn’t dare. She would write a little note. She had tea in the little tea shop by the market, composing it in her head while she did so. She went for a long walk afterwards, eating her supper in a snack bar and then walking again. The half day she had so looked forward to had been a washout.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS the following afternoon as she was returning from her few hours off duty that Constantia encountered Elisabeth. The child was crying, and so upset that Constantia had to remind her who she was before she would stop sobbing to say:

‘We’ve lost Prince—Pieter and Paul are looking for him too—we aren’t supposed to be out, but we left the garden door open when we got home and he ran out. We didn’t find out at first, and when we went to look for him he’d gone.’ She burst into fresh sobs and Constantia stooped to wipe the woebegone little face and say comfortingly: ‘He can’t be far, poppet, and he knows his way home, doesn’t he?’

‘We’ve only had him a week or two—Oom Jeroen found him in a ditch and brought him home to live with us.’ The little girl raised her tear-stained face to hers and Constantia said cheerfully, ‘Look, darling, you go home—carefully, mind, and I’ll start looking for Prince. Will you do that and wait until I come? Promise?’

The moppet nodded and Constantia took her across the narrow street and saw her safely on her way before starting her search for the little dog. She found him within ten minutes, lying in a gutter of one of the side streets she had been methodically combing. He was lying very still, but when she ran to him he wagged his ridiculous tail. There was a spot of blood on his nose and a long wound along his ribs, but his eyes were bright.

‘I’ll have you home in a brace of shakes,’ Constantia promised him, ‘but I’m going to have to hurt you, my boy, so grit your teeth.’

She scooped him up into her arms in one gentle movement and although he bared the teeth she had urged him to grit, he didn’t bite her, only whimpered.

The doctor’s house was close by; just at the bottom of the lane and then round the corner and across the canal. She walked as quickly as she dared, telling Prince to be a good boy as she went. There was no one to be seen, but once in Oude Delft she sighted Pieter and Paul hurrying along, going away from her. Her shrill whistle turned their heads and they came running back to fetch up beside her, their anxious eyes on Prince.

‘He’s hurt,’ she told them in a reassuring voice, ‘but I don’t think it’s too bad. Pieter, run on and open the door, we’ll take him straight to the kitchen. And get a blanket or something to put on the table.’

Elisabeth was at the door when Constantia reached it and broke at once into a babble of Dutch, tears still streaming down her small cheeks. ‘Now, now,’ said Constantia, ‘don’t cry, poppet—get me a towel and a bowl and some water from the tap—they’ll all be in the kitchen. Paul, where’s your uncle?’

‘He had to go out to a case in one of the villages. Is Prince very ill, Miss Morley?’

‘Call me Constantia, dear. I don’t know. We must clean him up gently, and your uncle will have a look when he gets here.’ She had reached the kitchen by now and had laid Prince down on the folded blanket. He wagged his tail as she slipped his collar off and began, very gingerly, to clean up the wound in his side. It was ugly enough but not, she thought, dangerously so, but there could be other injuries. The children stood round in a hushed circle, scarcely breathing, so intent on what she was doing that none of them heard the doctor’s quiet approach. The moment they did however, they all began to explain at once.

‘One at a time,’ he said calmly, and as Constantia stood back, bent over Prince. Paul’s tale was interrupted a dozen times by the others and by the time he had finished, his uncle had examined the dog, taking no notice of its lifted lip, talking to it quietly as he poked and prodded with large, gentle fingers.

‘A couple of ribs,’ he pronounced, ‘and a nasty cut here—there’s another one on his muzzle. I’ll get the vet and we’ll have him all right in no time.’

Constantia heard the sighs of relief from the children, unaware that she had sighed too. She felt a warm tongue on her hand and looked down to find Sheba and Solly standing beside her, and said: ‘Oh, they’re here too.’

The doctor turned to look at her, then: ‘They were with me,’ he told her. ‘Thank you for finding Prince and bringing him home—we’re all very grateful.’ His voice was pleasant, but he didn’t smile and she found herself stammering a little: ‘I do hope he’s not badly hurt—I’m glad that I…’

He had turned away to bend over Prince again and none of the children answered her, indeed they didn’t look up, either. Constantia waited a moment and then went quietly from the kitchen and across the hall to the still open front door, shutting it silently behind her, and reflected as she did so that she was shutting herself out, but that the doctor had, metaphorically speaking, already done that.

She went quickly down Oude Delft and up a side street into the Wijnhaven and so presently to Mrs Dowling’s house. She would be late, but there was nothing to be done about that now.

Mrs Dowling was in a mood. ‘You’re late. Why?’

Constantia took time to answer her. ‘Only a few minutes, Mrs Dowling, and I was half an hour late going off duty.’

‘Impertinence!’ Her patient gobbled with bad temper. ‘But it’s just as well you’re back. I’ve eaten some chocolates. I sent Nel out for some—delicious ones with soft caramel centres.’ She nodded carelessly towards a box lying on the floor beside her chaise-lounge. ‘They’re there.’

‘How long ago did you eat them?’ asked Constantia calmly.

Mrs Dowling shrugged. ‘My dear nurse, how should I know? An hour—half an hour.’

‘Then we shall have to wait a little while and see how you feel, Mrs Dowling.’

Her patient sat up with no trace of her usual languid movements. ‘I may go into a coma.’

‘Quite likely, but I shall be watching for the first symptoms and we can prevent that happening. In the meantime, I’ll ring Doctor Sperling.’

The doctor wasn’t home. The voice at the other end of the telephone repeated: ‘Niet thuis,’ several times, and Constantia sighed as she went back to her patient. She wasn’t quite sure that Mrs Dowling was telling the truth; she was a devious woman and spoilt. She was bored too, and boredom caused people to do strange things. All the same she played safe, setting out syringe, glucose and insulin ready for immediate use, and then spent the next ten minutes coaxing Mrs Dowling to provide her with a specimen.

Constantia hadn’t been a Ward Sister for nothing; her patient was overbearing and intent on making life hard for those around her, but she was her patient, and personal feelings didn’t come into it. All the same, it took all her patience and tact to get what she wanted, but it was worth the effort. Mrs Dowling was loaded with sugar.

Constantia, tidying the room, took the opportunity to peep into the chocolate box; it was half empty. She picked it up without comment and put it away in a cupboard, all the while talking pleasantly about nothing much while her mind was busy working out calories and units of insulin. Mrs Dowling was sulking now and frightened, which had the effect of making her even more unpleasant than usual.

Neither of them heard the doorbell. Nel opened the door with something of a flourish and ushered in Doctor van der Giessen. His good evening was nicely professional and he added: ‘Doctor Sperling’s wife telephoned me; he asked me to cover for him if he shouldn’t be available. What’s the trouble?’ He addressed himself to Constantia, and although his manner was pleasant enough she could sense his reserve.

‘Mrs Dowling has eaten some chocolates. I don’t know exactly how many—about three or four ounces, I should suppose. There’s an orange reaction and ketones—I thought that Doctor Sperling should be told.’

‘Quite right, Nurse. Pulse? Nausea, vomiting?’

‘Nausea, nothing else.’

‘In that case, perhaps I might take a look at your tongue, Mrs Dowling?’

He examined her carefully, cheerfully ignoring her peevish demands for Doctor Sperling, and when he had finished he wrote up her chart and handed it to Constantia. ‘That should take care of everything, I fancy. Give the insulin straight away, will you? And a further dose after two hours, according to the sugar level.’ He went to his bag and took out a syringe and a small glass tube which Constantia took from him. Mrs Dowling moaned and cried and he soothed her like a small child as he took the blood he needed for a blood sugar test, assured her that she would be quite all right in no time at all, and prepared to leave.

‘You can’t leave me, I’m in danger,’ declared Mrs Dowling.

‘Not any more, Mrs Dowling, and Nurse Morley knows exactly what to do.’

‘I insist on you staying!’

‘I’m taking evening surgery,’ he explained mildly. ‘If you were in the least danger, I would remain. If Nurse Morley is worried she can contact me at once.’ He said good evening in a calm unhurried manner and went to the door, saying to Constantia as he went: ‘Let me know the result of the tests as you do them, will you? Supper as I suggest on the chart—the insulin is adjusted. Doctor Sperling won’t be back until very late, but I’ll give him the facts.’

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