agreed without further thought. But her idea wasn’t put to the test; the smile vanished, leaving him looking more impatient than ever.
‘Give me the address of the person who is to receive the money,’ he suggested, ‘and I will see that it reaches him—or her.’
‘Him,’ said Abigail, and would have liked to tell him about Bolly, but quite obviously her companion was anxious to be gone. She handed him the envelope with the letter inside and the forty pounds hastily pushed in with it. She had forgotten about the agency fee, but he hadn’t.
‘Twelve and a half per cent?’ he wanted to know.
He really was in a hurry. ‘I’ll—I’ll take it out of my pay next week. You’re sure …?’
He interrupted without apology, ‘Stop fussing, Miss Trent.’ He stuffed the envelope into a pocket with a nonchalance, Abigail thought vexedly, of a man who found forty pounds chicken feed, wished her a curt goodbye and walked away. She began to walk back to the flat, her head bent against the sneering wind, telling herself that the reason she felt so happy was because Bolly would have the money by the following evening, or at the very least, the morning after.
The professor came to see Mrs Morgan three days later. He paid his visit while Abigail was out for her afternoon walk and left no message for her at all. It wasn’t until the evening previous to Mrs Morgan’s departure that he came again. Abigail was packing her patient’s clothes, surrounded by tissue paper, orderly piles of undies, innumerable hats and an assortment of suitcases. Evidently Mrs Morgan never worried about excess baggage. That lady was reclining on the couch, directing operations; she looked very well and remarkably attractive, which was more than Abigail felt, for her head ached and her usually neat hair was a little untidy, nor had she had the time to do anything to her face for some time, and over and above these annoyances she was worried about Bolly; she had had a cheerful letter from him, thanking her for the money, but she sensed that he was hiding something from her. She was thinking about it now and frowning—she was still frowning when there was a knock on the door and Doctor Vincent and the professor walked in. They both wished her a good evening and she flushed a little under the professor’s brief, unfriendly glance, very conscious that she wasn’t looking her modest best. They stayed perhaps ten minutes, made their farewells and started for the door. But this time Professor van Wijkelen made a detour and came to a halt by her and her pile of luggage.
‘I understand that you will be taking Mrs Morgan to Schiphol tomorrow morning. You will be fetched from there and taken straight to the hospital. Perhaps you can arrange to have your luggage with you.’ His eyes strayed over the ordered chaos around them. ‘I trust you have a good deal less than this.’
‘One case,’ Abigail told him briefly, and he nodded. ‘I will leave a message for you at the hospital tomorrow,’ he stated. ‘Good evening, Nurse.’
He had gone before she could thank him for posting her letter.
Mrs Morgan was actually bidding Abigail goodbye at Schiphol when she interrupted herself to exclaim, ‘There, I knew there was something, honey! I’ve clean forgot to give you your money.’ She made to open her unwieldy bag, but it was too late; a smiling official indicated the passenger conveyor belt which would take her one stage nearer the plane. ‘I’ll post it to you,’ she called, waved and smiled and nodded, and was borne swiftly away; so easy for her to say it, thought Abigail a little forlornly, but where would she send the money to? Mrs Morgan knew that she was going to another job, but she hadn’t asked for any details and Abigail hadn’t volunteered any. Perhaps she would send the money to the agency. If so, would the severe woman who had interviewed her send it on, or would she keep it and expect Abigail to call for it? And what about the rest of her fare—she hadn’t had it yet.
She stood pondering, pushed to and fro by the hurrying people around her. She had been silly; she should have asked for her salary and her fare sooner. But she hadn’t liked to, even though the money was rightly hers. And now she had landed herself with only a few pounds. Supposing the professor had changed his mind about employing her for his next patient? She had been rash enough to buy herself a pair of shoes the day before, and now she was left with less than her fare to England. She moved at last, back to the reception area to fetch her case. She had been foolish twice over; the professor had said that she would be fetched from the airport, but how was she to know who was looking for her? Supposing they couldn’t find her and she was left—supposing they forgot all about her, supposing … Her gloomy thoughts were cut short by the professor’s voice. She hadn’t seen him, but here he was beside her, taking her case from her as relief as well as delight flooded through her, although her quiet ‘Good morning, Professor,’ was uttered in her usual voice. She received an ill-tempered grunt in reply and a brief, ‘Come along, Nurse,’ as he made for the door.
She trotted beside him because otherwise she could never have kept up with him, and to lose him now would be unthinkable. There were a great many cars outside and she wondered which of them was his.
He stopped in front of a black Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, sleekly and unobtrusively perfect among the other cars, opened its doors, told her to get in with the cold courtesy she had come to believe was the only alternative to his ill-humour, and went to put her case in the boot. He didn’t speak when he got in beside her, and was still silent as he edged the car away from the crowded bustle of the airport and on to the main road. They were tearing along the motorway to the capital when she ventured helpfully:
‘I expect you came yourself so that you could save time telling me about the patient.’
She looked at him as she spoke and he turned to meet her gaze briefly. She wished that he would smile again, but he didn’t, although when he did speak she had the impression that somewhere, deep down inside him, he was laughing. Imagination, she told herself roundly; why should he laugh?
‘A doctor,’ he stated flatly. ‘Professor de Wit, seventy years old. He’s to have a gastroenterostomy—CA, of course, but everything’s in his favour, he’s got a sound heart and chest and a great desire to live. He is to have a room in the private wing and you will be working under Zuster van Rijn with whom you will arrange your off-duty, please.’
Having thus given her the bare bones of the case he fell silent once more, and Abigail, not knowing if he was occupied with the intricacies of the day’s operating list, forbore from disturbing him. It was only when he drew up in front of the hospital entrance and called to the porter to come and collect her case that she said:
‘Thank you for posting my letter. I heard from—that is, it arrived safely. I’m very grateful to you.’
He looked at her with quick annoyance. ‘There’s no need to say any more about it,’ he stated with such finality that she felt snubbed, so that she too was annoyed. ‘I shan’t,’ she told him crisply. ‘Obviously gratitude and thanks are wasted upon you, sir.’
She walked briskly into the hospital, not waiting to see what the porter was going to do about her case. She was half way across the width of the entrance hall when she was amazed to hear the professor laughing. It was a deep bellow and sounded perfectly genuine.
It was surprising to her how quickly she slipped back into the routine of hospital. She had been given the same room again and this time it was so much easier because she knew some of the nurses and they greeted her as an old friend. Zuster van Rijn seemed glad to see her again too; they were short-staffed on the surgical side, she told Abigail, and specialling could be awkward unless there were enough nurses.
‘Will you work as you did before,’ she asked, ‘and take an afternoon off? I know it’s not quite fair that you shouldn’t work shift hours as the other girls do, but that way I can spare
