Mrs Cowdrie beside him. Sister Payne paused, stifling an urge to gallop briskly in the opposite direction; it was all very well for Dr van der Linden; he would in all probability take himself off home to a couple of hours’ sleep and a tasty breakfast cooked by a loving wife…
She greeted him pleasantly and Mrs Cowdrie with sympathy; she was a much younger woman than she had expected, fair and fluffy and nicely made-up and dressed with care. Surely, thought Sister Payne, she wouldn’t have stopped to do her face and dress so carefully, knowing that her husband had just been dragged back from death’s door, and even now, for that matter, had a foot still inside it?
Mrs Cowdrie was summing her up, too: a handsome girl, tall and with a splendid figure, her dark hair a little untidy. Her large brown eyes had shadows beneath them from tiredness and her straight nose shone; all the same, she had a serene beauty which Mrs Cowdrie would never achieve.
Dr van der Linden watched her from under hooded lids, his face without expression. He said blandly, ‘Ah, Sister, would you be kind enough to give Mrs Cowdrie a cup of tea and arrange for a taxi to take her home presently? I have explained that she may remain here if she wishes, but she would prefer to go home.’
There were still fifteen minutes before she needed to start the morning round; Sister Payne murmured suitably and led Mrs Cowdrie away to sit in the office and drink her tea, but only after that lady had taken a fulsome farewell of Dr van der Linden.
‘I really must go back home,’ she explained to Sister Payne. ‘I sleep very badly, you know, and this has upset me. I shall spend the day in bed.’
‘Your husband is very ill…’ began Louise carefully. ‘There is a rest room here, if you care to stay?’
‘Well, there is nothing I can do, is there? I have to think of my own health, Sister. Do you suppose that he will recover?’
Louise hid shock behind a calm face. ‘I really don’t know, Mrs Cowdrie. That is for Dr van der Linden to tell you.’
Mrs Cowdrie put down her cup and saucer. ‘He’s quite something, isn’t he? I’ll be off, thanks for the tea.’ She looked round the office. ‘Is this where you spend your nights? I suppose you knit or read to pass the time?’
She was quite serious; Sister Payne said quietly, ‘I do have things to do…’ She telephoned for a taxi and escorted the lady to the hospital entrance, then turned her steps in the direction of the men’s medical ward, to start her round. The intensive care unit first… Mr Cowdrie had a good chance of recovery, she considered. She frowned; Mrs Cowdrie had taken his sudden illness very coolly—what wife worth her salt would worry about her lack of sleep at such a time, let alone go back home until her husband had been declared safely out of danger? She met Dr van der Linden at the door, on his way out, and he paused to speak to her. They had known each other for some time now, and maintained a pleasant, rather cool relationship, each respecting the other without showing interest. They might, on occasion, hold a brief conversation about the weather or some similar impersonal topic, and at the hospital ball he would dance with her once, something he was obliged to do in common courtesy, but for the most part their talk was strictly professional, concerning the patients.
‘Mr Cowdrie should do, Sister. I’ve left instructions with Staff Nurse. Let me know if you’re not happy with anything.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You will be handing over within another hour or so?’
He nodded unsmilingly, and walked rapidly away, doubtless to his bed, thought Louise enviously, and then reflected that, unlike her, he had a ward round in a few hours’ time, whereas, once the house was quiet, she would be able to sleep.
She was a little late going off duty, since she had to give a lengthy report to the day sister on intensive care. The March morning, although bright, was chilly; she paused at the entrance to shiver. The streets around the hospital were already teeming with traffic and the buses would be full.
The big door swung open behind her and Dr van der Linden came to a halt beside her. ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he said pleasantly.
‘Kind of you, sir, but I can get a bus…’
‘Yes, I know.’ He touched her arm. ‘The car is over here.’
A Jaguar XJS, sleekly elegant and powerful. He ushered her into the front seat and got in beside her. ‘Fourteen, Bick Street, Hoxton, isn’t it?’
She wondered how he knew, but said nothing, only, ‘You must be going out of your way.’ And, when he didn’t reply, ‘This is very kind of you.’
Bick Street was almost in Islington; she supposed one would call it shabby genteel, with its facing rows of small villas, brick built and ugly and with mod cons which had been mod at the turn of the century. Dr van der Linden drew up soundlessly before number fourteen, and its front door was flung open to allow three people and a dog to emerge. A girl, small and fair and pretty, a schoolgirl, fair, too, but a good deal taller and not as pretty, though still worth a second glance, and a schoolboy with sandy hair and glasses on his nose. The dog stayed with him, behind the girls; it was a smooth-coated type with a plumy tail and very large pointed ears.
There were no gardens before the houses; they crossed the pavement and peered at Louise through the car windows. The doctor obligingly opened the window and said, ‘Good morning.’
Louise said, ‘My sisters, Zoë and Christine, and my brother, Michael, and Dusty.’
They chorused their how do you dos, and Dusty barked a brief greeting.
‘Dr van der Linden kindly gave me a lift.’ Louise spoke briefly, and made to get out. Dr van der Linden got out, too, and opened her door.
‘A pleasure, Sister Payne,’ he said formally, then got in again and drove away with a vague wave of the hand.
The little group went into the house. ‘I say, Louise, do you work for him? Aren’t you lucky?’ It was Zoë who spoke. ‘And I spend my days at that dreary old typing school.’
Louise was in the hall, taking off her coat. ‘Well, dear, it’s only for another week or two, then you can get a smashing job with a film producer or stockbroker or something.’ She followed the others into the kitchen. ‘I don’t work for him—he’s a consultant. I only see him if he comes in for something urgent.’
‘All the same, he drove you home…’
‘Well, we met at the door.’ Louise spoke absent-mindedly, turning over the few letters the postman had brought. ‘Chris—Mike, are you ready for school? Away with you, my dears—see you at teatime. Have a good day.’
Alone with Zoë, she sat down at the kitchen table. She was too tired to eat much, but Zoë made fresh toast and another pot of tea, and sat with her for a while until it was time for her to leave the house, too.
‘I’m back early this afternoon,’ she said as she got her coat, ‘so leave everything, Louise. You look as though you need a good sleep.’
Alone, Louise finished her toast, poured another cup of tea and opened her letters. Presently she would wash her dishes—the others had already done theirs—let Dusty out into the strip of garden behind the house, have a bath and go to bed. For two years now, ever since their mother’s death, when she had taken over the reins of the household, they had kept to a routine which on the whole worked very well. The three younger children kept the house tidy, made their beds and laid tables and washed up, and, on her nights off duty each
