so.’
‘Very sensible,’ agreed Sarah pleasantly. ‘Would you like me to read to you now?’
‘Yes. Jane Eyre, over there on that table by the window. My daughter-in-law has been reading it to me, and it’s almost finished. I’ll have Pride and Prejudice next, not that there will be time to read it to the end.’
Sarah had fetched the book and opened it at the marker.
‘Do you know how old I am?’
‘Yes, Mevrouw Nauta, ninety.’
‘The Nautas live long lives, but of course we none of us can go on forever.’
‘I don’t suppose that would be very pleasant,’ agreed Sarah, and she began to read. She had a pleasant, very clear voice, and she read steadily until she glanced up and saw that the old lady was asleep. She put the marker back in the book and walked over to the window and looked out. The garden was quite beautiful and it was very quiet—after the noise and bustle of London it was bliss. But she doubted if she would have much opportunity to enjoy it. It seemed to her that she was expected to spend her days and nights with the old lady, with only the briefest of respites when it was convenient. But this gloomy outlook was quite wrong. Just before four o’clock, while the old lady still slept, Mevrouw Nauta came back.
‘There has been little time to talk,’ she observed. ‘You must be thinking that we intended leaving you here for the rest of the day. I always have my tea up here, so you will be free for an hour at least. Then, if you will come back until just before eight o’clock, while you have dinner my mother-in-law’s maid will make her ready for the night—that takes about an hour. It is then that I must ask you to take over until Mevrouw Nauta goes to sleep; she likes to be read to, and she loves to talk although it exhausts her. If she falls asleep around midnight, then she will not wake before six o’clock or later, but if she has a bad night then I am afraid I must ask you to sleep in the dressing-room…’ She looked rather anxiously at Sarah. ‘I think that Radolf didn’t make all this quite clear to you? I thought not. During the day someone will relieve you for an hour or two so that you may feel free to do as you like. There is a pool in the garden if you like to swim and books in the library, and the village is close by. Of course, if her condition worsens, you may have to stay with her for longer periods. We shall do our best to make it up to you later. Now, do go and have your tea—you will find it in the drawing-room—and then take a stroll round the garden. There will still be time for you to change for the evening before you come back here.’
Thank heaven for the dove-grey, thought Sarah, agreeing pleasantly to everything her companion had said.
She had her tea with the master of the house, who put himself out to be pleasant. ‘You know Radolf?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ said Sarah, ‘not really. I see him from time to time, that’s all. I think he might not recognise me away from my desk at the hospital.’
Her host looked vaguely surprised and began to talk about the weather, a safe subject, and presently he offered to show her round the garden. It was much larger than she had thought; if she could spend an hour each day wandering in it she would be quite happy. She admired the flower-beds and, had she but known it, delighted her companion by showing a knowledge of the shrubs and trees around them.
‘You have a garden?’
‘No, I live in the East End of London, but my home is—was—in the country and we had rather a nice garden there; not as large as this one, but very pretty.’
She went to her room, showered and changed into the grey dress, and then went back to the old lady. She was as cross as two sticks, and Mevrouw Nauta junior looked harassed and lost no time in making off, leaving Sarah to pacify her elderly companion as best she could.
‘Shall I read to you?’ she asked hastily. ‘Or shall we talk?’
‘We will talk, young woman—at least, I shall talk and you will listen.’
So Sarah sat down by the bed and listened to the old lady talking of her earlier life. Every now and then she dropped off into a light doze, to wake refreshed and talk of her youth in a breathy voice, sometimes so faint that Sarah could hardly hear it.
After dinner, taken in the magnificent dining-room, sitting between the Nautas at a table glistening with silver and crystal, Sarah went back again, a little tired by now, and listened to the thin old voice until the old lady slept. It was almost midnight and the house was quiet; she arranged the bell where it could be reached should Mevrouw Nauta senior wake and want her, and went to her room, undressed and got into bed, rather worried at the idea of leaving the old lady alone, but reassured by the bell on the bedside table. Her own bed was blissfully warm and comfortable, and she slept within minutes.
* * *
WITHIN THE NEXT two or three days she achieved some kind of a flexible routine, although this depended very much on Mevrouw Nauta’s state of health. That she was going downhill was obvious, despite the cheerful doctor who visited her each day. She had no appetite, and Sarah spent a good deal of time coaxing her to eat the dainty little dishes which the cook sent up. It was halfway through the week when Sarah, listening to her companion’s half-whispered ramblings, discovered that she had been something of a pianist in her younger days. ‘Girls don’t play the pianoforte these days,’ grumbled old Mevrouw Nauta.
‘Well, I do,’ said Sarah. ‘Or at least, I did.’ A remark which bore unexpected consequences, for when Sarah got back from her tea that afternoon there was a piano installed in one corner of the room.
‘The schoolroom is on this floor,’ explained the younger lady, ‘and my mother-in-law told me that you played. It seemed a good idea to have the piano moved in here.’
So Sarah spent the evening and the succeeding days playing the tunes the old lady fancied, a state of affairs which pleased them both.
At the end of the week, Sarah began to feel that she had been there forever. St Cyprian’s seemed of another world and, despite her erratic hours and lack of much free time, she was happy. The Nautas were kind to her and so were the servants; she couldn’t understand them, of course, nor they her, apart from Hans. But he beamed goodwill, and they saw that there were flowers in her room and trays of tea the moment she had any spare time to herself. She even began to think that the old lady was improving—a mistake, as it turned out, for that very evening her peevishness made it impossible to settle her for the night. She declared that she had no intention of sleeping and that Sarah was to stay with her. ‘And that’s what you’re paid for,’ she pointed out waspishly.
‘Of course I’ll stay with you, but if you don’t mind I’ll go and have a shower and get into a dressing-gown first. Give me ten minutes,’ begged Sarah, and whisked herself off to her room. It was still early; as she passed the head of the staircase she could hear voices downstairs, and Hans crossed the hall below. She was back with the old lady presently, cosily wrapped in the dressing-gown over her nightie, hopeful that in a little while Mevrouw Nauta might go to sleep and she could go to bed herself in the dressing-room.
The old lady had other ideas—Sarah played the piano with her foot on the soft pedal until after midnight, and then, obeying the ill-tempered old voice, started on chapter three of Pride and Prejudice. The clock was striking one o’clock when she was told to put the book down and play the piano again. ‘And don’t start on any of your lullabies,’ said the irascible old lady, ‘for I won’t be soothed, I intend to stay awake all night.’ So Sarah, thundering her way through some of Brahms’ more dramatic works, her foot well
