very good, but we’ve still got two more to see to.’ She was apologetic because it was almost nine o’clock, but he made no sign of having heard her, only stood looking down on the child, comfortable and sleepy now, and presently he went away.
He came each night, conveying without words that his visits were simply because he liked the children and not because he had doubts as to his nurses’ ability. And in the small hours of the night—her third night on, when Andrew, the ten-year-old in the corner bed, died, he was there again, with his registrar and Night Sister. But Phoebe noticed none of them, doing what she had to do with a heavy heart, and later, when there was no more to be done, going into the kitchen on some excuse or other because if she didn’t shed some of the tears her throat would burst. She neither saw nor heard Doctor van Someren; it was his apologetic little cough which caused her to spin round to face him. She said wildly: ‘You see, I’ll be no good for your scheme—I can’t bear it when this happens—he was so little.’
She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes to blot the tears, and despite them, her lovely face was quite undimmed.
The doctor said nothing for a moment, but crossed to the table, ladled tea into the pot, lifted the boiling water from the gas ring and made the tea. ‘On the contrary, you will be very good, because you feel deeply about it.’ He looked at her and in a voice suddenly harsh, asked: ‘And how do you suppose I feel?’
She sniffled, ‘Awful. I’m sorry.’ She began to gather mugs on to a tray. ‘I mean I’m sorry because I’m being a fool, and I’m sorry for you too, because this happens despite all you do.’
He took the tray from her. ‘You are kind, Miss Brook, but the boot is on the other foot—soon we shall win our battle, you know.’ He kicked open the door. ‘And now dry your eyes and have a cup of your English tea—I should warn you that in Holland our tea is not as you make it, but our coffee is genuine coffee, which is more than I can say for the abomination I am offered here.’ He smiled at her and she found herself smiling back at him; he really was nice—absentminded, perhaps, a little pedantic and, she fancied, old-fashioned in his views, but definitely nice.
But the sadder side of her work was seldom in the ascendant—there was a good deal of fun with the children too, and the nurses, under Sister Jones’ rules, were a happy crowd. And over and above that, Doctor van Someren’s enthusiasm spilled itself over the lot of them, so that very soon Phoebe found herself looking forward to going to Holland, where, so Sister Jones told her, his work was having a steady success—no spectacular results, just a slow, sure improvement in his little patients. She found herself wishing that she, in her small way, would be able to help him to attain his goal.
There was a party on the ward—a farewell party for Doctor van Someren—on her last night on duty. She got up an hour or so earlier than usual and went along to help with the peeling of oranges, the dishing out of ice-cream and the wiping of sticky hands. It was noisy and cheerful and it would have been even greater fun if various important people to do with the hospital hadn’t been there too, to take up the guest of honour’s time and attention. All the same, he found the time to wish each child goodbye and then crossed the ward to thank Phoebe for her help and to hope that the children would settle.
‘They will give you a little trouble, perhaps,’ he hazarded, ‘and strictly speaking it is not good for them, but they must have their fun, don’t you agree, Miss Brook?’
She nodded understandingly, aware as he was that during the early part of the night there would be a great deal of chatter and requests for drinks of water, and little tempers as well as tears, but they would sleep eventually and they had loved every minute of it. She looked around her, reflecting how strange it was that a few paper hats and balloons could create a party for a child.
He turned away. ‘I shall see you here at seven o’clock in the evening, on the day after tomorrow,’ he reminded her, and before she could ask how they were to go to Holland, he had gone, large and quiet, and very quickly.
She spent two busy days at home; there was a great deal she would have liked to discuss with Sybil, but somehow Aunt Martha always seemed to be with them, and beyond a few safe commonplaces about her work, she could say very little. Only when they had gone to bed, Sybil had come along to her room and sat on the bed and demanded to know if everything was all right.
Phoebe nodded. ‘I think so—you were quite right, Doctor van Someren is absentminded, but only sometimes. He’s a splendid doctor though. I expected him to be older —he seems older than he really is, I think, but only when he’s worried. I like the work …’
Sybil interrupted her happily. ‘There, didn’t I say that it was a good thing when you agreed to go instead of me? And I bet you’re far better at it than I should ever be. How are you going to Holland?’
‘I don’t know—I’ve been told to go to the hospital tomorrow evening at seven o’clock, that’s all. What clothes shall I take?’
It was well after midnight before this knotty problem was solved to their entire satisfaction. Phoebe, remembering the doctor’s gentle remark that he hoped that she wouldn’t have too much luggage, decided to take one case, a small overnight bag and her handbag—a stout leather one capable of holding everything she was likely to need en route. The overnight bag she stuffed with night things, and as many undies as she could cram into it, and the case she packed under Sybil’s critical eye with uncrushable cotton dresses, sandals, two colourful swimsuits, a sleeveless jersey dress in a pleasing shade of blue, a very simple dress in strawberry pink silk and, as a concession to a kindly fate, a pastel patterned party dress which could be rolled into a ball if necessary and still look perfection itself.
This task done, she felt free to wish her sister good night and go to bed herself. Not that she slept for several hours; her mind was too full of her job, and woven in and out of her more prosaic thoughts was the ever-recurring reflection that she was pleased that she would be seeing a good deal more of Doctor van Someren during the next few weeks.
The morning was taken up with last-minute chores and a discussion about the wedding, coupled With a strong reminder from Aunt Martha to make very sure that she returned home for it. She was thinking how best to settle this matter when her taxi drew up outside the hospital entrance and she stepped out. There was no one about. Through the glass doors she could see the head porter’s back as he trod ponderously in the direction of the covered way at the back of the hall—perhaps she should go after him and find out … She actually had her hand on the door when Doctor van Someren said from behind her:
‘Good evening, Miss Brook. You are rested, I hope? If you would come with me?’
It annoyed her that she felt flustered. She wished him a good evening in her turn in a rather cool voice and followed him to the hospital car park.
They stopped beside a claret-coloured Jaguar XJ 12 and she tried to conceal her surprise, but her tongue was too quick for her. ‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed, ‘is this your?’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes—you didn’t tell me that you disliked travelling by car. It is the simplest way …’
‘Oh, I don’t—I love it. Only she’s so splendid and she took my breath I didn’t expect … And I’m sure it’s the simplest way, only I don’t know which way that is.’
He put down her case and bag the better to give her his full attention. ‘Did I not tell you how we should be travelling?’
She shook her head.
‘Dear me —you must forgive me. By car, of course. We shall load it on to the Harwich boat
