aunts had given her a home and loved her according to their lights, only their love was tempered with selfishness and a determination to keep her with them at all costs. She remembered the various occasions when she had expressed a wish to holiday abroad; they had never raised any objections but one or other of them had fallen ill with something they had referred to as nerves, and each time she had given up her travels and stayed at home to keep the invalid company, fetch and carry and generally pander to that lady’s whims. She had been aware that she was being conned, but her kind heart and her sense of obligation wouldn’t allow her to say so.
She greeted them now, and whisked herself away and presently went downstairs armed with Clare’s letter. Her aunts read it in turn and agreed that, of course, she must go. Looking after a cousin wasn’t the same as gallivanting around foreign parts and, as none of them had ever lost their old-fashioned ideas about childbirth—a conglomeration of baby clothes, feeling faint, putting one’s feet up and not mentioning the subject because it wasn’t quite nice, eating for two and needing the companionship of another woman—they saw that Fran’s duty lay in joining her cousin at once. She was, after all, their dear brother’s daughter and Fran, they felt sure, was aware where her duty lay.
Fran agreed, careful not to be too eager, and in answer to Aunt Janet’s question said that she thought that Matron would allow her to have two weeks, starting on the following Sunday. ‘I’d better phone Clare, hadn’t I?’ she suggested and went to do that, to come back presently to say that Karel would meet her on Sunday evening at Schiphol.
‘Sunday?’ asked Aunt Kate sharply.
‘Well, dear, he’s free then, otherwise I’d have to find my own way…’
The conversation at supper was wholly given up to her journey. She said very little, allowing the aunts to discuss and plan and tell her what clothes to take; she had no intention of taking any of their advice but to disagree would be of no use. She helped Winnie clear the supper things presently, laid her breakfast tray ready on the kitchen table, wished her aunts good night and went up to bed. It was too soon to pack, but she went through her wardrobe carefully, deciding what she would take with her. Clare was only a few years older than she was and, contrary to her aunts’ supposition, the last person on earth to lie with her feet up; a few pretty dresses would be essential.
There was no time to think about her holiday the next day. Getting Mr Owen away to Bristol was a careful undertaking and necessitated sending Jenny with him. Mrs Owen had arrived, breathless with anxiety and haste, and had had to be given tea and a gentle talk, so that the morning’s routine started a good hour late, and that without Jenny to share the chores. Then, of course, there was a new patient coming into Mr Owen’s bed and Miss Prosser was making difficulties, something she always did when they were busier than usual. It wasn’t until Fran got home at last that she allowed her thoughts to dwell on the delights ahead. She was listening to Aunt Janet’s advice about her journey and thinking her own thoughts when the image of Dr van Rijgen popped into her head, and with it a vague but surprising thought that she might not see him again for a long time. Not that I want to, she admonished herself hastily, horrid man that he is, with his nasty sarcastic tongue, and then thought, I wonder where he lives?
Surprisingly he came again at the end of the week, on his way back to Holland, to examine with Dr Beecham one of her patients who, recently returned from the tropics, was showing the first likely symptoms of kala-azar, or so Dr Stokes thought. To be on the safe side, Fran had put her in the single ward and had nursed her in strict isolation, so that they were all gowned and masked before they went to see the patient. Dr van Rijgen, being tied into a gown a good deal too small for his vast person, stared at Fran over his mask. ‘Let us hope your praiseworthy precautions will prove unnecessary, Sister,’ he said. She caught the faint sneer in his voice and blushed behind her own mask. She had, after all, only done what Dr Stokes had ordered; he had spoken as though she had panicked into doing something unnecessary.
Which, after a lengthy examination, proved to be just that. Acute malarial infection, pronounced Dr van Rijgen. ‘Which I think can be dealt with quite satisfactorily here. It is merely a question of taking a blood sample to discover which drug is the most suitable. I think we might safely give a dose of chloroquinine phosphate and sulphate…’ He held out a hand for the chart Fran was holding and began to write, talking to Dr Stokes at the same time. ‘You were right to take precautions, Peter, one can never be too careful.’ A remark which Fran considered to be just the kind of thing he would delight in; buttering up Dr Stokes after sneering at her for doing exactly the same thing.
He had the effrontery to look at her and smile, too, as he said it. She gave him a stony stare and led the way to the office where she dispensed coffee to the three of them and ignored him. It was as they were about to leave that Dr van Rijgen asked, ‘Who takes over from you when you go on holiday, Sister?’
‘My staff nurse, Jenny Topps.’
‘I believe you start your leave on Sunday?’
‘Yes,’ and, after a pause, ‘sir’.
He looked at her from under his lids. ‘A pleasant time to go on holiday. Somewhere nice I hope?’
‘Yes.’
It was vexing when Dr Beecham chimed in with, ‘Well, the girl can’t say anything else, can she, seeing that she is going to your country, Litrik?’
‘Indeed! Let us hope the weather remains fine for you, Sister. Good morning.’
When they had gone she sat and fumed at her desk for a few minutes. He had been nastier than usual and she hoped that she would never see him again. She got up and when she’d done her desk went in search of Jenny; it was almost time for the patients’ dinners and the two diabetic ladies would need their insulin. There were several patients whom Dr Beecham wanted put on four-hourly charts, too. She became absorbed in the ward’s routine and, for the time at least, forgot Dr van Rijgen.
There was a day left before she was to go on holiday; it was fully taken up with handing over to Jenny and, when she went off duty that evening, packing.
Her head stuffed with sound advice from her aunts, just as though she were on her way to darkest Africa, she took the early morning bus to Bristol where she caught a train to London, got on the underground to Heathrow and presented herself at the weighing-in counter with half an hour to spare. There was time for a cup of coffee before her flight was called and she sat drinking it and looking around her. A small, neat girl, wearing a short-sleeved cotton dress, sparkling fresh, high-heeled sandals, and carrying a sensible shoulder bag. She attracted quite a few appreciative glances from passers-by, together with their opinion that she was the kind of traveller who arrived looking as band-box fresh as when she had set out.
They were right; she arrived at Schiphol without a hair out of place, to be met by Karel and driven to Bloemendaal, a charming suburb of Haarlem where he and Clare had a flat. It wasn’t a lengthy trip but they had plenty to talk about: the baby, of course, his job—he was an accountant in one of the big bulb growers’ offices—Clare’s cleverness in learning Dutch, the pleasant life they led…
The flat was in a leafy road, quiet and pleasant, within walking distance of the dunes and woods. They lived on the third floor and Clare was waiting at their door as the lift stopped. She was a pretty girl, a little older than Fran, and she flung her arms round her now, delighted to see her. The pair of them led her into the flat, both talking at once, sitting her down between them in the comfortable living room, plying her with questions. After the aunts’ staid and sober conversation, they were a delight to Fran.
Presently Clare bore her off to her room where she unpacked and tidied herself and then joined them for tea and a lively discussion as to how she might
