Heaven is Gentle

But first she turned round to have a look; he was standing quite close with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a pair of spectacles perched on his splendid nose; his dark eyes looked even darker because of them.

She sat, saying nothing, and jumped again when he said: ‘You are very small and—er—slight, Sister.’ He made it sound as though it were a regrettable error on her part.

She didn’t turn round this time. ‘Oh, so that’s why you don’t like me.’

He made an exasperated sound. ‘My dear good girl, I have no personal feelings about you; just as long as you do your job properly while you are here.’

Eliza tossed her pretty head. ‘You really are…’ She spoke in a hissing whisper so that the nice old man behind the desk shouldn’t be disturbed, but he chose that moment to open his eyes, and although he smiled at her with evident pleasure, she thought how tired he looked. She was on the point of saying so, with a recommendation to go to bed early that evening, but he spoke first.

‘Christian, you have the notes sorted out? Good. We’ll deal with those presently.’ He got up. ‘Now, Eliza, if you will come with us.’

He led the way from the room with Eliza behind him and Professor van Duyl shadowing her from behind. They went first to a small, rather poky room where Mr Peters was busy with his pills and phials.

‘Each patient has his own box,’ he told Eliza, ‘clearly marked. Syringes and needles here,’ he indicated two deep enamel trays, ‘injection tray here—for emergency, you understand. Kidney dishes and so on along this shelf. I’ll have them all marked by this evening. I’m on the telephone and you can reach me whenever you want. If I’m not here, young Grimshaw will help you.’

He nodded towards a pleasant-faced young man crammed in a corner, checking stock, and he and Eliza exchanged a smile and a ‘Hi’, before she was led away to what must, at one time, have been the drawing room of the house. It had several tables and desks in it now and a small switchboard. ‘Harry,’ said Professor Wyllie, waving a friendly hand, ‘sees to the telephone—house and outside line. Bert here does the typing and reports and so on and sees to the post.’ He crossed the room and opened another door. ‘And this is Doctor Berrevoets, our Path Lab man—does the microscopic work, works out trial injections and all that. He’s Dutch, of course.’

Unmistakably so, with a face like a Rembrandt painting, all crags and lines, with pale blue eyes and fringe of grey hair encircling a large head. He made some friendly remark to Eliza, and his English, although fluent, was decidedly foreign. She thought him rather nice, but they didn’t stay long with him, but went back the way they had come while Professor Wyllie explained that they all slept in the house and that should she ever need help of any kind, any one of them would be only too glad to assist her. He flung open another door as he spoke. ‘The kitchen,’ he was vague again; obviously it was a department which had no interest for him at all. Hub was there, pressing a pair of trousers on the corner of the kitchen table, and another man with a cheerful face was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. Eliza smiled at Hub, whom she already regarded as an old friend, and walked over to the sink.

‘Did you cook lunch?’ she wanted to know.

He had a rich Norfolk accent as well as a cheerful face. ‘I did, miss—was it to your liking?’

‘Super. Are you a Cordon Bleu or something like that?’

He grinned. ‘No such luck, miss, but I’m glad you liked it.’

Outside in the dusty hall again, Professor van Duyl said blandly: ‘Well, now that you have the staff eating out of your hand, Sister, we might settle to work.’

She didn’t even bother to answer this unkind observation. ‘Who does the housework?’ she enquired, and was pleased to see the uncertainty on their learned faces. ‘Who washes up and makes the beds and dusts and runs the place?’

They looked at each other and Professor van Duyl said seriously: ‘You see that size has nothing to do with it, after all. Motherly, we said, did we not?’

His elderly colleague reminded him wickedly, ‘No looks, and not young.’

Eliza listened composedly. ‘So I’m not what you expected? But excepting for my size, I am, you know. I can be motherly when necessary and I—I’m not young.’ She swallowed bravely. ‘You are both quite well aware that I am getting on for twenty-nine.’

Professor Wyllie took her hand and patted it. ‘My dear child, we are two rude, middle-aged men who should know better. You will suit us admirably, of that I am quite sure.’

He trotted away down the hall, taking her with him. ‘Now, as a concession to you, we will have a cup of tea before visiting the patients.’

Hub must have known about the tea, for he appeared a moment later with a tray of tea things. ‘Only biscuits this afternoon,’ he apologised in his quaint but fluent English, ‘but Fred will make scones for you tomorrow, miss.’

Eliza thanked him and poured the tea, and looking up, caught Professor van Duyl’s eyes staring blackly at her; they gleamed with inimical amusement and for some reason she felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t added his own apologies to those of his elder colleague.

The Nissen hut was quite close to the house, hidden behind a thick, overgrown hedge of laurel. It looked dreary enough from the outside, but once through its door she saw how mistaken she had been, for it had been divided into ten cubicles, with a common sitting room at the end, and near the door, shower rooms, and opposite those a small office, which it appeared was for her use. She would be there, explained Professor van Duyl, from eight in the morning until one o’clock, take her free time until half past four and then return on duty until eight in the evening.

‘The hours will be elastic, of course,’ he told her smoothly, ‘it may not be necessary for you to remain for such long periods as these and we hope that there will be no need for you to be called at night.’

She looked away from him. What had she taken on, in heaven’s name? And not a word about days off—she would want to know about that, but now hardly seemed to be the time to ask.

She met the patients next; they were sitting round in the common room reading and playing cards and talking, and although they all wore the rather anxious expression anyone with asthma develops over the years, they were remarkably cheerful. She was introduced to them one by one, filing their names away in her sharp, well-trained mind while she glanced around her, taking in the undoubted comfort of the room. Warm curtains here, too and a log fire in the hearth, TV in one corner and well stocked bookshelves and comfortable chairs arranged on the wooden floor with its scattering of bright rugs.

‘Any improvements you can suggest?’ asked Professor Wyllie in a perfunctory tone, obviously not expecting an answer.

‘Yes,’ she said instantly. ‘Someone—there must be a local woman—to come and clean each day. I could write my name in the dust on the stairs,’ she added severely. ‘The Nissen hut’s all right, I suppose the patients do the simple chores so that you can exclude any allergies.’

Both gentlemen were looking at her with attention tinged with respect.

‘Quite right,’ it was the Dutchman who answered her. ‘They aren’t to come into the house. For a certain period each day they will take exercise out of doors, under supervision, and naturally they will be subjected to normal house conditions.’ He smiled with a charm which made her blink. ‘I am afraid that we have been so engrossed in getting our scheme under way for our ten cases that we rather overlooked other things. I’ll see if Hub can find someone to come up and clean as you suggest.’ He added politely: ‘Do you wish for domestic help in the cottage?’

Eliza gave him a scornful look. ‘Heavens, no—it won’t take me more than half an hour each day.’

As they went back to the study she reflected that it might be rather fun after all, but she was allowed no leisure for her own thoughts, but plunged into the details of the carefully drawn up timetable.

As the time slid by, Eliza saw that she was going to be busier than she had first supposed. Only ten patients, it was true, and those all up and able to look after themselves, but if one or more of them had an attack, he would need nursing; besides that, each one of them had to be checked meticulously, TPR taken twice a day, observed, charted, exercised and fed the correct diet. There would be exercises too, and a walk each day. She asked intelligent questions of Professor van Duyl and quite forgot that she didn’t like him in the deepening interest she felt for the scheme. It was later, when the last case had been assessed, discussed and tidily put away in its folder, that Professor Wyllie said:

‘There’s me, you know. They did tell you?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I’m not much use if I start an attack, I can tell you—you’ll have to act sharpish if it gets too bad. Got a nasty left ventricular failure that doesn’t stand up too well…’

She answered him with quiet confidence. ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll keep a sharp eye on you. Do you carry anything around with you or do I have to fetch it from Doctor Peters?’

‘Got it with me, Eliza—waistcoat pocket; usually manage to get at it myself before it gets too bad.’

‘You’re not part of the experiment?’ she asked.

‘Lord, no. Couldn’t be bothered—besides, I’m a bit past such things.’ He laughed quite cheerfully although his blue eyes were wistful.

‘Come, come,’ she said in the half-wheedling, half-bracing tones she might have used towards one of her own patients, quite forgetting that this nice old man was an important and learned member of his profession and not merely someone who needed his morale boosted. ‘That’s no way to talk, and you a doctor, too.’

‘Motherly,’ murmured Professor van Duyl, and she detected the faint trace of a sneer in his voice. ‘Is there anything else you wish to know, Sister?’

He was dismissing her and she resented it, but she got to her feet.

‘Not at present, thanks. I should like to go back to my office—if I may?’ She didn’t look at him but at Professor Wyllie, who dismissed her with a wave of his hand and ‘Dinner at eight o’clock, Eliza.’

The rest of the day she spent with the patients, getting to know them, and when their supper was brought over from the house she served it, just as she would have done if she had been on her own ward at St Anne’s. It was almost eight o’clock by the time she got back to the cottage, to find that someone had been in to mend the fire and turn on the table lamp. She tidied herself perfunctorily because she was getting tired, and huddled in her cloak once more, picked up her torch and went up to the house.

The dining room seemed full of men with glasses in their hands. They stopped talking when she went in and stared as Professor van Duyl crossed the room towards her. She eyed him warily, expecting some nasty remark about being late, but she couldn’t have been more mistaken; he was the perfect host. She was given a glass of sherry, established beside him, and presently found herself surrounded by most of the men in the room. She had already met them all that afternoon, but there were three missing, someone told her; Harry, the telephonist, who was on duty, Hub and Fred the cook. They would, they assured her, take it in turns to man the switchboard each evening, and what did she think of the local scenery and did she know that there wasn’t a shop for miles around, and how long had she been a nurse?

She answered them all readily enough, but presently excused herself and made her way over to the fireplace, where Professor Wyllie was sitting in a large chair, talking to Doctor Peters, who smiled at Eliza nicely as he strolled away. She perched herself on a stool in front of the old man.

‘I wanted to tell you that I think I’m going to like this job very much. I spent an hour or so in the hut—what a nice lot of men they are, and so keen to cooperate. It’s all rather different from Men’s Medical, though. I hope I’ll do.’ She looked at him a little anxiously.

‘Of course you’ll do, girl—couldn’t have chosen better myself.’

Her lovely eyes widened. ‘But I thought it was you…’

He chuckled. ‘Let me explain.’ And he did. ‘So you see, Christian was a little taken aback when you arrived. He was so certain that Eliza Proudfoot would live up to her name—a worthy woman with no looks worth mentioning and—er—mature.’

‘Motherly, buxom and tough,’ murmured Eliza.

‘Exactly. And instead of that he opens the door on to a fairy creature who looks incapable of rolling a bandage.’

‘Is that why he doesn’t like me?’

The innocent blue eyes became even more so. ‘Does he not? He hasn’t said so; indeed, he agreed with me that you will suit us admirably—a nice sharp mind and the intelligence to use it, and not afraid to speak out.’ He chuckled gently, then went on seriously. ‘I must explain that Christian is engaged to be married to a very…’ he hesitated, ‘high-minded girl—never puts a foot wrong, the perfect wife, I should imagine, and very good-looking if you like her kind of looks.’ He glanced at her. ‘That’s why he chose you, you see. We had a list of names; yours was the only…’ he paused again. ‘Well, girl, it’s a plain sort of name isn’t it? but if you will forgive me for saying so, it hardly matches your delightful person. It was a shock to him.’

‘Well, that’s all right,’ Eliza declared in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘He was a shock to me and I don’t like him either, though of course I’ll work for him just as though I did.’

‘Honest girl.’ He got to his feet. ‘Now, let us eat our dinner and you shall tell me all the latest news about St Anne’s.’

Dinner was a gay affair because she sat beside Professor Wyllie and Professor van Duyl was at the other end, at the foot of the table. Although she tried not to, every now and then she glanced at him and caught his eyes upon her in an unfriendly stare, his dark face unsmiling. It spurred her on to make special efforts to amuse her companions at table, and by the time they were drinking their coffee, the laughter around her was evident of her success. But she didn’t allow this pleasant state of affairs to swamp her common sense; at exactly the right moment she bade everyone a quiet good night and beat an unassuming retreat. But not a solitary one; Professor van Duyl got to the door—despite the fact that he had been at the other end of the room—a fraction of a second ahead of her, and not only opened it but accompanied her through it. She paused just long enough to catch up her cloak and torch from a chair.

‘Thank you, sir,’ her voice was pleasantly friendly, if cool, ‘I have a torch with me. Good night.’

He took it from her, gently, and opened the house door. It was pitch dark outside and cold, and she felt thankful that it wasn’t raining, for her cap, a muslin trifle, lavishly frilled, would have been ruined. As they turned the corner of the house she slowed her pace. ‘I’m going over to the hut to say good night,’ she informed him. ‘I said that I would.’

He made no answer, merely changed his direction, and when they reached the hut, opened the door for her and followed her inside.

The men were glad to see her; they were, to her surprise, glad to see her companion too. He seemed a different man all at once—almost, one might say, the life and soul of the party, and his manner towards herself changed too; he was careful to let them all see that she was now a member of the team, to be relied upon, trusted and treated with respect; she was grateful to him for that. It struck her then that whether she liked him or not, she was going to enjoy working for him.

They stayed for half an hour while Eliza made sure that they were all comfortable for the night; that they understood what they were to do if any one of them started to wheeze. ‘I’ll be over before I go to breakfast in the morning,’ she assured them. ‘Good night, everyone.’

They left the hut followed by a chorus of good nights and walked in silence to the cottage, and Professor van Duyl unlocked the door for her.

‘Someone came in while I was away and made up the fire,’ she told him. ‘It was kind of them.’

‘Hub—I asked him to. I have a key which I keep in my possession, and I hope that you will do the same.’

‘Of course. Good night, Professor.’ The little lamp on the coffee table cast a rosy glow over her, so that she looked prettier than ever.

He said austerely, ‘And you will be good enough to lock your door when you are in the cottage, Miss Proudfoot.’

‘Well, of course I shall—at night time, at any rate.’

‘During the day also.’

‘But that’s a bit silly!’ She watched his mouth thin with annoyance.

‘Miss Proudfoot, I am seldom silly. You will do as you are told.’

‘Oh, pooh!’ she exclaimed crossly, and without saying good night, went into the cottage and shut the door. She had been in the room perhaps fifteen seconds when she heard the faint tapping on the back window of the sitting room. A branch, she told herself firmly, then remembered that when she had looked out of the window during the afternoon, there had been no tree within tapping distance. It came again, urgent and persistent. She ran to the door and flung it open, and in a voice a little shrill with fright, called: ‘Oh, please come back! There’s something—someone…’

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