Saturday's Child

Abigail said that yes, she was. ‘What have they in mind?’ she wanted to know. ‘A gastrostomy? Surely if it’s a bad ulcer they’ll have to do an end-to-end anastimosis.’

Dr Vincent eyed her warily. ‘I think, Nurse, that we must leave such things for Professor van Wijkelen to decide.’

With a name like that, Abigail thought flippantly, a man ought to be able to decide anything. He would have a beard and begin all his remarks with -er. She would probably dislike him. Dr Vincent was speaking again, so she listened carefully to his instructions and forgot about the professor.

He came that evening, an hour or so after her patient had had another glass of milk and water with its attendant powder, and Abigail herself had had a short break for her own tea. Mr and Mrs Goldberg were out, and it had been brought to her on a tray in the sitting room. It had been pleasant to sit down for a little while on her own, while she had it, and then have the time to tidy herself, powder her ordinary nose and put on more lipstick. The results weren’t very encouraging, she considered, looking in the bedroom mirror. She had gone back to her patient’s room and taken her temperature and pulse, and sat her up more comfortably against her pillows, and was on a chair in her stockinged feet, reaching for a vase of flowers which someone had placed out of reach, and which, for some reason, Mrs Morgan had taken exception to, when there was a knock on the door and Doctor Vincent came in. The man who came in with him eclipsed him completely. He was a giant of a man, with a large frame which radiated energy despite the extreme leisureliness of his movements. He was handsome too, with pale hair, thickly silvered at the temples, a high-bridged nose and a well-shaped, determined mouth. His expression was one of cold ill-humour, and when he glanced up at her, still poised ridiculously on the chair, Abigail saw that his eyes were blue. It struck her with something of a shock that they were regarding her with dislike.

She got down off the chair, the flowers clutched in one hand, hastily put them down on one of the little tables which cluttered the room, crammed her feet into her shoes and reached the bedside at the same time as the two men. Doctor Vincent introduced the professor, adding a corollary of his talents, and Mrs Morgan, suddenly interested, shook hands. ‘And our nurse,’ went on Doctor Vincent, ‘arrived from England today and is already, I see, attending to the patient’s comfort. Miss Trent, this is Professor van Wijkelen, of whom I spoke.’

She held out her hand and he shook it perfunctorily and said nothing, only looked at her again with the same cold dislike, before sitting on the side of Mrs Morgan’s bed and saying, ‘Now, Mrs Morgan, will you tell me all your troubles, and perhaps Doctor Vincent and I can help you to get well again.’

His voice was charming, deep and quiet and compelling, and Mrs Morgan was nothing loath. Her recital, with various deflections concerning her own personal courage in the face of grave illness, her fears for the loss of her good looks and the fact that she had been twice widowed, took a long time. The professor sat quietly, not interrupting her at all, his eyes upon her face while she talked. He seemed completely absorbed and so, to his credit, did Doctor Vincent, who, Abigail guessed, must have heard the tale at least once already. She herself stood quietly by the bed, a well-trained mouse of a girl, her eyes, too, on her patient, although she would very much have preferred to fix them upon the professor.

Mrs Morgan finished at length and the professor said, ‘Quite, Mrs Morgan,’ and went on to ask her several questions. Finally, when he was satisfied with the answers, he turned to Abigail and asked her to prepare Mrs Morgan for his examination. He asked courteously in a voice of ice; Abigail wondered what had happened to sour him and take all the warmth from his voice as she bent to the task of getting Mrs Morgan modestly uncovered while the two men retired to the window and muttered together in their own language.

‘He’s ducky,’ whispered Mrs Morgan, and then sharply, ‘Don’t disarrange my hair, honey!’

She lay back, looking, to speak the truth, gorgeous. Abigail, obedient to her patient’s wish, had been careful of the hair; she had also arranged her patient’s wispy trifle of a bedjacket to its greatest advantage. Now she stood back and said briskly, ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ and watched while the professor conducted his examination. He prodded and poked gently with his large, square hands while he gazed in an abstracted fashion at the wall before him. At length, when he had finished and Abigail had rearranged Mrs Morgan, he said: ‘I think that there will be no need for an operation, but to be quite sure there are several tests which it will be necessary to do, and I am afraid that they must be done in hospital.’ He paused to allow Mrs Morgan to pull a pretty little face and exclaim:

‘Oh, no, Professor—I was so utterly miserable when I was there just a week ago, that’s why I engaged Nurse Trent here.’

‘In that case, may I suggest that you take her with you to hospital? She can attend you during the day and I am sure that we shall be able to find an English-speaking nurse for night duty. I should suppose that three or four days should be sufficient, then you can return here to await the result of the tests. If they are satisfactory, a week or so should suffice to see you on your feet again and well enough to return home.’

‘If you say so, Professor,’ Mrs Morgan’s voice was just sufficiently plaintive, ‘though I’m sure I don’t know how I shall get on in that hospital of yours. Still, as you say, if I take Nurse with me, I daresay I’ll be able to bear a few days.’

She smiled at him after this somewhat frank speech, but he didn’t smile in return, merely inclined his head gravely and offered his hand.

‘You’ll come and see me again, Professor?’ Mrs Morgan was still smiling. ‘I sure feel better already, you’ve a most reassuring way with you.’

If the professor was flattered by this remark he gave no sign. ‘Thank you, Mrs Morgan. I think that there is no necessity to see you again until you enter hospital. I will arrange that as soon as possible and you will of course see me there.’

‘I look forward to that—and be sure that I have a private room. I’m so sensitive, I can’t bear the sights and sounds of hospital, Professor.’

He walked to the door and then turned to face her with Doctor Vincent beside him. ‘I feel sure that Doctor Vincent will arrange everything to your liking, Mrs Morgan, and you will have your nurse to shield you from the—er—sights and sounds you so much dread.’ His smile was fleeting and reluctant, a concession to good manners, and it didn’t last long enough to include Abigail. He nodded curtly to her as he went away.

Surprisingly, he came the following day, late in the afternoon when Abigail had returned from her few hours off and was sitting with her patient, reading the New York Herald Tribune to her. She read very nicely in her quiet voice, sitting upright in a truly hideous reproduction Morris chair. She had enjoyed her afternoon off, and wished that her patient lived in one of the old houses beside the canals, because she would have dearly loved to see inside one of them. The flat in the Apollolaan was comfortable to the point of luxury, but all the same, she wouldn’t have liked to live in it for ever, but the brick houses with their gabled roofs reflected in the still waters of the grachten—they were a different matter; it would be wonderful to live in their serene fastness.

The morning had been successful too; Mrs Morgan seemed to like her, for she had chatted animatedly while Abigail performed the daily nursing chores, talking at great length about Professor van Wijkelen. ‘A darling man, Nurse,’ she mused. ‘I must find out more about him—such good looks and such elegance.’ She smiled playfully at Abigail. ‘Now mind, dear, and tell me anything you should hear about him. You’re bound to find out something in the hospital, aren’t you?’

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 is far too good for that, but she must have the tests which have been ordered—she can have the X-ray this afternoon and the blood test—tomorrow the test meal—just something milky this evening for her diet. You’re to stay with her, the professor tells me.’

‘Yes, Mrs Morgan is a little nervous.’

Zuster van Rijn smiled faintly. ‘Yes,’ her voice was dry. ‘There’s a room ready for you in the Nurses’ Home—would you like to go there now? There is nothing to do for Mrs Morgan for half an hour and one of the nurses can answer the bell. I will tell Zuster de Wit to go over with you.’

Abigail went back to her patient, to explain and collect her bag, and then followed the nurse down one flight of stairs, over a covered bridge, spanning what looked like a narrow lane of warehouses, and so into the Nurses’ Home. Zuster de Wit hurried her along a long passage and then a short one to stop half way down it.

‘Here,’ she said, and smiled as she flung open a door in a row of doors. The room was comfortable although a little dark, for its window overlooked another part of the hospital, but the curtains were gay and it was warm and cheerful. Abigail smiled in return and said, ‘How nice. Thank you,’ and Zuster de Wit smiled again, said ‘Dag’ and hurried away. Obviously she had been told to waste no time. Abigail, listening to her rapidly disappearing feet, hoped that she would be able to find her own way back to the ward again as she began to unpack her things. She had bought only a modicum of clothes—mostly uniform and her thick winter coat and a skirt and sweater, boots and the knitted beret and scarf she had made for herself during the weeks she had nursed her mother. It took only a few minutes to put these away and another minute or so to powder her nose and tuck her hair more tidily under her cap. It was almost four o’clock, as she shut the door she wondered about tea—perhaps they didn’t have it; there were several things she would have to find out before the day was over. She went back over the bridge and found her way to her patient’s room, to find her asleep.

Working in an Amsterdam hospital was almost exactly the same as working in her own London hospital; she had discovered this fact by the end of the day. Once she had become used to addressing even the most junior nurses as ‘Zuster’ and discovered that she was expected to say ‘Als t’U blift’ to anyone she gave something to, and ‘Dank U wel’ each time she was given something, be it instructions—mostly in sign language—or a thermometer or a holder for the potted plant someone had sent her patient, she felt a little less worried about the problem of language. She had had to go without her tea, of course—they had had it at three o’clock, but she went down to supper with the other nurses at half past six; a substantial meal of pea soup, pork with a variety of vegetables, followed by what Abigail took to be custard and as much coffee as she could drink.

She went back to the office to give her report and then returned to sit with Mrs Morgan who was feeling a little apprehensive about the test meal. At half past eight, just before the night nurse was due on duty, a house doctor came to see the new patient and a few minutes later Doctor Vincent. He listened patiently to her small complainings, soothed her nicely, recommended her to do as Abigail told her, and went away again, and presently when the night nurse came and Abigail had given her a report too, she went herself, over the bridge to the Nurses’ Home and to her room.

She hadn’t been in it for more than a minute when there was a knock on the door and the same nurses she had seen at supper took her off to their sitting room to watch TV which, although she was tired, Abigail found rather fun because Paul Temple was on and it was amusing to watch it for a second time and listen to the dubbed voices talking what to her was nonsense. For so the Dutch language seemed to her; she had been unable to make head or tail of it—a few words and phrases, it was true, she had been quick enough to pick up, but for the most part she had had to fall back on basic English and signs, all taken in very good part by the other nurses. It had been a great relief to find that the night nurse spoke English quite well; enough to understand the report and discuss Mrs Morgan’s condition with Abigail, and what was more important, Mrs Morgan seemed disposed to like her.

After Paul Temple she was carried off once more, this time to one of the nurses’ rooms to drink coffee before finally going to her own room. She slept soundly and got up the next morning feeling happier than she had done for some time; it was on her way down to breakfast that she realised that the uplift to her spirits was largely due to the fact that she would most probably see the professor during the course of the day.

Her hope was to be gratified; he passed her on the corridor as she made her way to her patient’s room after breakfast. She saw him coming towards her down its length and watched with faint amusement as the scurrying nurses got out of his way. When he drew level with her she wished him a cheerful good morning and in reply received a cold look of dislike and faint surprise, as though he were not in the habit of being wished a good day. Her disappointment was so sharp that she took refuge in ill temper too and muttered out loud as she sped along, ‘Oh, well, be like that!’

She found her patient in good spirits; she had slept well, the night nurse had understood her and she had understood the night nurse, and the Ryle’s tube had been passed and the test meal almost finished. The night nurse, giving the report to Abigail in the privacy of the nurses’ station further down the corridor, confided in her correct, sparse English that she herself had enjoyed a quiet night and had got a great deal of knitting done. She produced the garment in question—a pullover of vast proportions and of an overpowering canary yellow. They had their heads together over the intricacies of its pattern when the professor said from behind them:

‘If I might have the attention of you two ladies—provided you can spare the time?’ he added nastily.

The Dutch girl whipped round in much the same fashion as a thief caught in the act of robbing a safe, but Abigail, made of sterner stuff and unconscious of wrongdoing, merely folded the pullover tidily and said: ‘Certainly, sir,’ which simple remark seemed to annoy him very much, for he glared at her quite savagely.

‘You are both on duty, I take it?’ he asked.

‘No, me,’ said Abigail ungrammatically in her pleasant voice. ‘We’ve just discussed the report and Night Nurse is going off duty.’

‘When I need to be reminded of the nurses’ routine in hospital, I shall say so, Nurse Trent.’

She gave him a kindly, thoughtful look, her previous temper quite forgotten. Probably he was one of those unfortunate people who were always ill-tempered in the early morning. She found that she was prepared, more anxious to make excuses for him.

‘I didn’t intend to annoy you, sir,’ she pointed out to him reasonably, and was rewarded with a sour look and a compression of his well-shaped mouth.

‘The test meal,’ he snapped, ‘when is it complete?’

She looked at her watch. ‘The last specimen is due to be withdrawn in fifteen minutes’ time, sir.’

‘If the patient doesn’t tire of waiting for your return and pull the Ryle’s tube out for herself.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Abigail seriously, ‘she’d never do that—you see, I explained how important it was for her to do exactly as you wish. She has a great opinion of you.’

Just for a moment she thought that he was going to laugh, but she must have been mistaken, for all he said was, ‘I want Mrs Morgan in theatre at noon precisely for gastroscopy. The anaesthetist will be along to write her up. See that she is ready, Nurse Trent.’

He turned to the night nurse, who had been silent all this while, and spoke to her with cold courtesy in his own language. She smiled at him uncertainly, looked at Abigail and flew off down the corridor, leaving behind her the strong impression that she was delighted to be free of their company. Abigail picked up the report book and prepared to go too, but was stopped by the professor’s voice, very silky.

‘A moment, Nurse Trent. I am interested to know what it was you said in the corridor just now.’

She wished she could have looked wide-eyed and innocent, or been so pretty that he really wouldn’t want an answer to his question. She would have to tell him, and probably, as he seemed to dislike her so much already, he would say that he wanted another nurse to work for him and she would have to go back to England. Did one get paid in such circumstances? she wondered, and was startled when he asked, ‘What are you thinking about? I assure you it is of no use you inventing some excuse.’