and crossed the room soundlessly. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ he wanted to know, bending his vast person to reach Sarah’s ear.
Sarah stopped in mid-bar, and swung round to face him. She had gone pale with fright and her voice was a furious squeak. ‘How dare you frighten me? And you should watch your language, Professor.’
He stood towering over her, studying her small person wrapped cosily in her sensible woolly dressing-gown. Her hair, which she had plaited ready for bed if she was lucky enough to get to it, had come loose and hung in a shining mass almost to her waist, and her eyes were heavy with sleep.
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I think I was surprised—it was hardly what I expected.’
She was very conscious of his hand. ‘Your grandmother is having a bad night, and she wanted me to play for her. Why are you here?’ She caught her breath. ‘I’m sorry, it’s your home, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘To say goodbye,’ he said softly. ‘It will be only a few more days now.’ He turned his head and looked across to the bed, his face suddenly relaxed and smiling. Sarah looked too—old Mevrouw Nauta was awake.
The Professor crossed the room and sat down on the side of the bed. He took his grandmother’s hand in his and bent to kiss her cheek, and then began a cheerful conversation in his own language. Presently he turned his head. ‘Go to bed, Sarah,’ and, as she started towards the dressing-room, ‘No, not there, your own room. I’m going to stay and talk to my grandmother. I’m not in the least tired. There is coffee in the kitchen—do you know where that is? Have a drink and go to bed; you will be called in the morning.’
She made a feeble protest, but she was tired and tomorrow would be another long day. She had her coffee, had a quick shower, got into bed and was asleep within seconds.
When she woke up the Professor was sitting on the edge of her bed, balancing a small tray with two mugs on it. She shot up in bed, peering at him through a curtain of hair. ‘Mevrouw Nauta—she’s worse? I must get up—’
‘Presently. Drink your tea first. She is no worse. There’s no one up yet—it’s not yet six o’clock, but she has a fancy for a little music. I told her she would have to wait just a few minutes while I fetched you from your bed.’
Sarah gulped her tea. The Professor looked weary and he needed a shave. ‘You must go to bed,’ she told him in a no-nonsense voice. ‘I’ll get dressed.’
‘Come as you are. Put on your dressing-gown and slippers and play anything she fancies—she is on the edge of sleep, and you will have time to dress and breakfast shortly.’ He got off the bed, fetched her dressing-gown from a chair and picked up the tray. ‘Don’t waste time,’ he begged her.
So she pattered along to the old lady’s room, bade her good morning and sat down at the piano.
‘Schubert,’ ordered her companion in a wispy voice, ‘and then Delius. When is my supper coming?’
‘Very soon,’ said Sarah in her quiet voice. ‘I’ll play until it does, shall I?’
Ten minutes later the Professor came again, this time bearing another tray with a small jug and glass. He had found time to shave and change into a sweater and slacks, and he no longer looked tired. Sarah wondered how he did it. She allowed her fingers to wander through Rosamunde while her thoughts wandered too. It had been a strange night; she had never known one like it, and most likely never would again. When she got back to the hospital, sitting at her desk soberly ticking off names, and remembered this night, she felt sure she wouldn’t believe it. She tossed her hair back impatiently and felt the Professor’s hands gathering it into a cascade and plaiting it. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Not so distracting.’ He gave a little laugh and went back to sit by the bed…
Half an hour later the old lady was asleep and he got to his feet. ‘She will sleep soundly for a couple of hours at least. Get dressed and have your breakfast, and we’ll see how things are.’
‘You should go to bed,’ she reminded him, closing the piano thankfully.
‘Your concern on my behalf flatters me but is quite unnecessary, Sarah. Go and dress.’
Once or twice during that strange night she had caught herself almost liking him—now she wasn’t so sure. She went ahead of him with something of a flounce and didn’t answer.
The day turned out to be almost as strange as the night had been. The old lady was becoming confused—she refused to believe that it was morning and presently, with the blinds drawn, fell into a restless sleep. Sarah sat quietly, watching the small figure in the bed. People came and went: the Nautas, the Professor, and then Nel with coffee for Sarah. She had just finished it when the Professor returned.
‘Go and take a turn in the garden,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be here, so don’t argue—when my grandmother wakes again you’ll have your hands full.’
Which turned out to be very true. Old Mevrouw Nauta, refreshed by her sleep, demanded supper once again, dismissed her grandson and insisted on more music. Sarah played for some time, and would have stopped for a while but she was urged to continue, so that it was well after lunchtime when the Professor came once more into the room. ‘Off with you,’ he told Sarah. ‘Lunch is ready for you.’
She said quickly, ‘I can’t—Mevrouw Nauta has just told me to go on playing.’
‘She will have to put up with me.’ He scooped her off the stool and took her place, and much to her surprise began to play Debussy. He took no notice of her, and his grandmother had her eyes closed; she went downstairs and ate her lunch and then, urged by Mevrouw Nauta junior, took a walk in the garden. When she went back, the Professor and his grandmother were talking softly together and he had her hand in his. He got up presently and went away with nothing but a casual nod.
The following two days and nights followed the same erratic pattern so that Sarah hardly knew what time of day it was, but old Mevrouw Nauta was quieter now, content to lie and listen to Sarah playing and from time to time reading out loud. Sarah had company for a good deal of the time: Mevrouw sat quietly in a corner of the room, knitting or embroidering, and her husband wandered in and out to sit by the bed and listen to his mother, rambling a little now but still chatty and occasionally querulous.
It was the Professor who shared the long hours of the night with Sarah and the old lady, sitting relaxed by the bed while Sarah played or read aloud or sat thankfully silent while he and his grandmother talked. He made the old lady laugh, a weak chuckle which Sarah found pathetic, and he brought her flowers, delicate little nosegays which Sarah arranged in vases around the room. Always he behaved as though his grandmother were well, ignoring her confusion, discussing the new flower-beds in the garden that his father was having dug, just as though she would be there to see them when they were planted, coaxing her to eat and sometimes drawing Sarah into their conversation, slipping back into English, never at a loss for the cheerful talk the old lady enjoyed.
It was four o’clock in the morning of the third day when the old lady closed her eyes and didn’t wake again. Sarah had been reading to her while the Professor lounged in a chair by the bed, his eyes on his grandmother. Something made her look up, and she faltered and stopped and then closed the book. She drew a sharp breath, and wishing not to intrude, whispered, ‘Oh, she…what do you want me to do?’
He picked up the small hand on the coverlet and kissed it. ‘Nothing, Sarah. My mother and father came this evening
