Книга - The Moon for Lavinia

The Moon for Lavinia
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.An offer she couldn’t refuse…A nursing job in Holland was the only way Lavinia Hawkins could ensure a home and security for herself and her young sister Peta. Yet within weeks of arriving she was married to the devastating Professor Radmer ter Bavinck!Radmer had assured Lavinia that the marriage would be on a friendly basis only – he needed a kind stepmother for his daughter and a competent housekeeper to run his home. It seemed to be the ideal arrangement – for everyone except Lavinia!









“It’s like a dream,” she told him, “and everything has happened so quickly, it doesn’t seem real.”


He touched her cheek with a gentle finger. “It’s real, my dear.”

He spoke so softly that she exclaimed, “Oh, Radmer, are you sorry that…? Do you want to change your mind…? It would be all right, truly it would. I can’t think why you chose me in the first place.”

He took her hands in his, there in the empty corridor outside her room. “Don’t be a goose! I’m not sorry and I don’t want to change my mind, although, like you, I’m not quite sure why I chose you.”

He bent to kiss her and wished her good night and she slipped into her room…. It was silly to cry about nothing, and that was what she was doing. She told herself that over and over again before she at last fell asleep.




About the Author


Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.




The Moon for Lavinia

Betty Neels













www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE




CHAPTER ONE


IT WAS QUIET now that the day’s lists were over; the operating theatre, gleaming with near-sterile cleanliness and no longer lighted by its great shadowless lamp, looked a very different place from the hive of ordered activity it had been since early morning, for now the surgeons and anaesthetists had gone, as well as Theatre Sister and most of her staff; indeed, the department held but one occupant, a nurse sitting on a stool in front of one of the trolleys, sorting instruments with swift precision.

She was a small, neat person, a little plump, and with a face which was neither plain nor pretty, although when she laughed her hazel eyes widened and twinkled and her too large mouth curved charmingly. It was a pity that she laughed all too seldom, and now, deep in thought as she worked, she looked rather on the plain side and sad with it. She finished her task, tidied everything away neatly and began a final inspection of the theatre before she went off duty. It was a Sunday evening, and for some reason one staff nurse was considered sufficient to be on duty after six o’clock; presumably on the principle that it being a Sunday, people would be less prone to require emergency surgery, and for once this had been proved right; the evening hours, spent in doing the necessary chores had been too quiet, so that Lavinia Hawkins had had time to think, which was a pity, for she had nothing pleasant to think about.

She went along to take off her gown, threw it into the laundry bin, and then sat down again, this time on the only chair the changing room possessed. The June sun, still warm and bright, streamed in through the window, and she could hear, very faintly, the subdued hum of the London evening traffic, most of it returning from an outing to the sea. It would have been a perfect day for them, thought Lavinia without envy, although she wasn’t very happy herself; it was a good thing that she was going to Aunt Gwyneth’s in two days’ time and would have the chance to talk to Peta, her young sister—perhaps they would be able to plan something. Quite forgetful of the time, she took Peta’s letter from her pocket and read it once more.

Peta was dreadfully unhappy; when their mother had died, more than a year ago now, and Aunt Gwyneth had offered her a home, Lavinia had been grateful for her help. There was no money, the annuity her mother had lived upon died with her; her father had died a number of years earlier, and although she herself had been self-supporting and had even been able to help out with Peta’s school fees, her sister’s education had been at a stage when to make changes in it would have been nothing short of criminal. For one thing, Peta was clever and working for her O levels, and for another, Lavinia was only too well aware that a sound education for her sister was essential if she was to be self-supporting too, so that when her mother died Lavinia accepted her aunt’s offer with an eager gratitude which she had since come to regret.

It hadn’t worked out at all. Aunt Gwyneth was a widow and comfortably off, living in a large house on the outskirts of Cuckfield which was run by a highly efficient housekeeper, leaving her free to indulge her passion for bridge and committee meetings. Lavinia had honestly thought that she would be glad to have Peta to live with her; she had no children of her own and Peta was a darling, pretty and sweet-tempered and anxious to please. It was after she had been at Cuckfield for several months that Lavinia began to sense that something was wrong, but it had taken her a long time to persuade Peta to tell her what was amiss and when, at last, she had got her to talk about it it was to discover that it wasn’t just the natural unhappiness she felt at the loss of her mother—life wasn’t fun, she confided to Lavinia; her aunt had discovered that having a teenager in the house had its drawbacks. True, Peta was at school all day, but at the week-ends and during the holidays she was made to feel a nuisance, and whenever she suggested that she might spend a few days with Lavinia, there were always good reasons why she shouldn’t…

Lavinia, her arm round her sister’s slim shoulders, had frowned. ‘Darling, you should have told me,’ she had said. ‘I could have spoken to Aunt Gwyneth,’ but even as she uttered the words she had known that it wasn’t going to be as easy as all that. Peta was due to take her O levels in a week or two’s time, and the plan had been for her to stay on at school and try for her A levels in a couple of years. Even if Lavinia had had a flat of her own, which she hadn’t, it would still be difficult, for there would still be the question of where Peta should go to school and how would she ever afford the fees? ‘Look,’ she had advised, ‘could you hang on for another year or two, love—just until you’ve got those A levels? I’m to have Sister Drew’s job when she retires, and that’s less than a year now; I’ll save every penny I can and find a flat.’

And Peta had agreed. That had been barely a week ago, and now here was her letter, begging Lavinia to take her away from Aunt Gwyneth, promising incoherently to stay until the exam results were out, if only she would take her away… Lavinia folded the letter up once more and put it in her pocket. She had a headache from worrying about what was to be done, for whatever it was, it would have to be done quickly, and at the moment she had no ideas at all. She went down to supper, turning over in her mind a variety of ideas, none of which, unfortunately, stood up to close scrutiny.

Most of her friends were already in the canteen, queueing for baked beans on toast and cups of tea. They shared a table, making the beans last as long as possible while they discussed the day’s work. It was as they lingered over the last dregs of their tea that Shirley Thompson from Women’s Surgical declared herself to be completely fed up with that ward, its Sister, the patients, and indeed the whole hospital. ‘I’m sick of Jerrold’s,’ she declared. ‘I’m going to look for another job. I’ve got the Nursing Mirror in my room, let’s go and make a pot of tea and find me a new job.’

No one quite believed her; for one thing, she was going steady with one of the house surgeons; and for another, she made this same announcement every few months, but it was too soon for bed and there wasn’t much else to do; they trooped from the canteen and across to the Nurses’ Home, where they crowded into the Sisters’ lift, strictly forbidden, but no one was likely to see them on a Sunday evening, anyway, and besides, everyone did it and hoped not to be caught, and once on the top floor they disposed themselves around Shirley’s room, ready to drink more tea and give her their not very serious advice.

They were debating, in a lighthearted manner, the advantages of nursing an octogenarian recovering from a fractured femur in Belgravia, as opposed to a post as school nurse in a boarding establishment in Cumberland, when the Nursing Mirror came into Lavinia’s hands. She glanced through it idly and turning a page had her eye instantly caught by a large advertisement headed simply ‘Amsterdam’. She read it carelessly, and then, struck by a blindingly super idea, very carefully.

Registered nurses wanted, said the advertisement, with theatre experience and at a salary which was quite fabulous. Knowledge of Dutch was unnecessary; lessons could be arranged, and provided the applicant proved suitable and wished to remain for a period of not less than six months, outside accommodation would be found for her. Lavinia, never very good at her sums, got out her pen and did some basic arithmetic on the underside of her uniform skirt. Supposing, just supposing that the job was all it said it was, if she could get somewhere to live, Peta could live with her, for they could manage on that salary if they were careful. Of course, the plan was completely crazy; Peta’s education would come to a halt, but then, Lavinia feared, it would do that if Peta stayed at Cuckfield; her sister’s vehemence was clear enough in her letter, it would be awful if she were to run away… Lavinia shuddered just thinking about it—and wouldn’t it be better to have her sister under her eye and once she had settled down, devise some plan whereby she might finish her education? She calculated quickly; Peta was only a week or two under sixteen when she could leave school quite legitimately, so there would be no trouble there, and although she knew nothing about education in Holland there would surely be some way of completing her studies.

When the gathering broke up, she begged the journal from Shirley and before she went to bed that night, applied for the job.

She went down to Cuckfield two days later and found Peta alone in the house, waiting for her, and when she saw her sister’s face any doubts which she had been secretly harbouring about a plan which common sense told her was a little short of hare-brained were put at rest. Peta was dreadfully unhappy and Lavinia, ten years her senior, felt a motherly urge to set things right as quickly as possible.

Aunt Gwyneth was out and would be back for lunch, and, the housekeeper told Lavinia, Mrs Turner was looking forward to a nice chat before her niece went back that evening.

Lavinia sighed. The nice chats were really nothing but questions and answers—her aunt asked the questions; rather rude ones usually, and she answered them with a polite vagueness which invariably annoyed her elderly relation, for her aunt, while professing a fondness for Peta, had never liked her. Even as a small girl she had refused to be browbeaten by her father’s elder sister and her hectoring manner had left her quite unimpressed; it had never worried her father either, who had brushed it aside like a troublesome swarm of flies, but her mother, a gentle creature like Peta, had often wilted under her sister-in-law’s tongue. Lavinia, made of sterner stuff, had refused to be intimidated, and Aunt Gwyneth, annoyed at this, took her petty revenge by never inviting her to stay at her home, either for her holidays or her free days. She was too clever to do this openly, of course, but somehow, when holidays came round, the bedrooms were being decorated, or her aunt was going away herself or felt too poorly to have visitors, and as for her days off, invariably at teatime Lavinia would be asked which train she intended to catch and some reference would be made as to her eagerness to get back to Jerrold’s, in order, presumably, to plunge into a hectic round of gaiety with every doctor in the place.

This veiled assumption of her popularity with the men was something which amused Lavinia very much; her aunt knew well enough that she had no men friends; she got on very well with the doctors and students she worked with, but none of them had shown her any decided preference and she doubted if they ever would; she had no looks to speak of and a quiet manner which, while encouraging young men to confide in her, did nothing to catch their fancy.

They were sitting together in the sitting room having their morning coffee when Peta burst out: ‘Lavinia, I can’t stay here—I simply can’t! Aunt Gwyneth keeps telling me how good she’s been to me—and you, though I can’t think how—she makes me feel like a—a pauper. I know we haven’t any money, but she is our aunt and our only relation, and do you know what she said? That in a year or two, when I’ve finished school and am earning my living, you’ll have to leave your job in hospital and be her companion, because she’ll need someone by then and it’s only natural that you should be the one because she’s given me a home.’ She added unhappily: ‘Lavinia, what are we going to do?’

Lavinia refilled their coffee cups. ‘I’ll tell you, darling.’

She outlined her plan simply, making light of its obvious drawbacks, glad that Peta hadn’t spotted them in her excitement. ‘So you see, Peta, everything will be super, only you must promise to stay here and take your O levels and say nothing about our plan to anyone. I haven’t heard from these people yet, but I think I’ve got a good chance of getting a job. I’ll have to give a month’s notice at Jerrold’s—give me a couple of weeks to find my way about, and I’ll come for you. Could you stick it for just a little longer?’

Peta nodded. ‘Darling Lavinia, of course I can. You’re sure we can live on what you’ll earn in Amsterdam? I could get a job…’

‘Yes, love, I know, but I think we’ll be able to manage. I’d rather you went on with your studies—perhaps if you could learn Dutch, enough to help you get a job later on? UNO and all that,’ she added vaguely, and looked at the clock. ‘Aunt Gwyneth will be here very soon, let’s talk about something else so that we’re just as usual when she comes. Tell me about school.’

Their aunt found them poring over school books, arguing cheerfully about applied physics although Lavinia knew almost nothing about the subject. She got up to greet her aunt and received a chilly peck on her cheek while the lady studied her. ‘You must be twenty-six,’ she observed. ‘Such a pity you have no looks, Lavinia. How fortunate that you took up nursing as a career, although waiting until you were twenty-two seems to me to have been a needless waste of time—you could have been a ward Sister by now.’

Lavinia thought of several answers to this unfortunate remark, but none of them were very polite; they went in to lunch in a little flurry of polite and meaningless remarks.

Lunch was excellent; Aunt Gwyneth enjoyed her comforts and made sure that she had them, although she pointed out during dessert that her nieces were lucky girls indeed to enjoy the benefits of her generosity. Lavinia, still peevish about her aunt’s remark about her lack of looks, felt an urge to throw her trifle across the table at her. No wonder poor little Peta was fed up; anything would be better than putting up with the succession of snide remarks which tripped off her relation’s tongue. For once she answered with relief when she was asked at what time she was returning to hospital.

‘I daresay you have plans for the evening,’ said Aunt Gwyneth, ‘and I’m not so selfish as to delay you in any way. After tea, you say? That is admirable, for I have a small bridge party this evening, and Peta has a great deal of studying to do in preparation for her exams.’ Her two listeners expected her to add a rider to the effect that if it hadn’t been for her, there would have been no possibility of exams, but she contented herself with a smug smile.

So Lavinia went back after tea, not liking to leave Peta, but seeing no alternative, but at least she was heartened to see how much more cheerful her sister was. They parted under their aunt’s eye, so that all Lavinia could say was: ‘See you next week, Peta—if I may come down, Aunt?’ she added politely, and received a gracious nod of assent.

There was a letter for her on Monday morning, asking her to go for an interview, either that afternoon or on the following morning, and as luck would have it she had been given a split duty because Sister wanted the evening, and the morning’s list was too heavy for them both to be off duty at the same time. She changed into a plain coffee-coloured linen dress, coiled her long hair with care, made up her face, and caught a bus; only as she was going through the open door of the hotel where the interviews were to be held did she pause to think what she was doing, and by then it was too late. There were a dozen or more girls waiting, some of them younger than she, and most of them prettier; there was a possibility of her not getting a job after all; she hadn’t expected quite so many applicants.

She was brooding over this when her turn came, and she found herself on the other side of the door, invited to sit down by a middle-aged lady sitting at a table, and stared at by the two people on either side of her. A man, a large comfortable-looking man in his fifties, and another woman, young this time—not much older than herself and very fair with a wholesome out-of-doors look about her.

The lady in the middle opened the interview with a pleasant: ‘Miss Hawkins? We are pleased that you could come and see us. My name is Platsma—Mevrouw Platsma, and this is Juffrouw Smid and also Professor van Leek, who is the Medical Director of our hospital in Amsterdam. Miss Smid is the Sister-in-Charge of the theatre unit.’ She paused to smile. ‘What are your qualifications, Miss Hawkins?’

Lavinia gave them without trying to make more of them than they were.

‘And your reasons for wishing to work with us?’

She told them the truth, fined down to the facts and without enlarging upon Aunt Gwyneth. ‘I think I could live on the salary you offer and have my sister to live with me, something we both would like very much—I can’t do that here because I can’t afford a flat—I live in at Jerrold’s. I should like to live in Amsterdam too; I’ve never been out of England.’

‘You like your work?’

‘Very much.’

‘You are accustomed to scrub?’

‘Yes. There are four theatres in our unit, I work in General Surgery and take most of the cases when Sister is off duty.’

‘You have no objection to us referring to your superiors at the hospital?’

‘No, none at all. If I should be considered for the job, I should have to give a month’s notice.’

They all three smiled at her and Mevrouw Platsma said: ‘Thank you, Miss Hawkins, we will let you know at the earliest opportunity.’

She went back to Jerrold’s feeling uncertain; her qualifications were good, she would be given excellent references she felt sure, but then so might the other girls who had been there. She told herself sensibly to forget about it, something easily done, as it turned out, for there was an emergency perforation that evening, followed by a ruptured appendix. She went off duty too tired to do more than eat a sketchy supper, have a bath, and go to bed.

There was a letter by the first post in the morning. She had got the job. She did an excited little jig in the scrubbing-up room, begged permission to go to the office at once, and presented herself, rather breathless still, before the Principal Nursing Officer’s desk.

Miss Mint heard her out, expressed regret that she should want to leave, but added in the same breath that it was a splendid thing to broaden one’s mind when young and that should Lavinia wish to return to Jerrold’s at some future date, she could be sure of a post—if there was one vacant—at any time. She finished this encouraging speech by observing that probably she had some holidays due to her, in which case she should be able to leave sooner.

Lavinia becamed at her. ‘Oh, Miss Mint, I have—a week. I knew you would understand about me wanting to go somewhere where I could have Peta with me…I only hope I’ll make a success of it.’

Miss Mint smiled. ‘I can think of no reason why you shouldn’t,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Come and see me before you go, Staff Nurse. I shall of course supply references when they are required.’

Lavinia went through the rest of the day in a daze, doing her work with her usual efficiency while she thought about her new job. She spent a good deal of her lunch hour writing to accept the post, and only restrained herself by a great effort from writing to Peta too, but there was always the danger that their aunt would read the letter, and telephoning would be just as chancy; she should have thought of that sooner and arranged for her sister to telephone her on her way home from school. Now the news would have to wait until she paid her weekly visit on Saturday.

The days flashed by; she received particulars of her job, how she was to travel, and the day on which she was expected, as well as the gratifying news that her references were entirely satisfactory. She had a few pounds saved; the temptation to spend some of them on new clothes was very strong, so on her morning off she went along to Oxford Street.

It was a splendid day and the gay summer clothes in the shop windows exactly matched her mood; discarding all sensible ideas about practical rainwear, hard-wearing shoes and colours which wouldn’t show the dirt, she plunged recklessly, returning to the Nurses’ Home laden with parcels; new sandals—pretty pink ones to match the pink cotton dress and jacket she hadn’t been able to resist, a pale green linen skirt with a darling little linen blouse to go with it, and as well as these, a long cardigan which happily matched them both. There was a dress too, pale green silk jersey, and as a sop to her conscience, a raincoat, coffee-coloured and lightweight. She laid everything out on her bed and admired them and tried not to think of all the money she had spent, cheering herself with the thought that she still had something tucked away and enough besides to get her through the first month in Amsterdam before she would be paid. And when Peta joined her, she would buy her some pretty dresses too; Aunt Gwyneth’s ideas ran to the serviceable and dull for her niece; the two of them would scour Amsterdam for the sort of clothes girls of Peta’s age liked to wear.

Her sister was waiting for her when she got to Cuckfield on Saturday morning and so was their aunt. There was no chance to talk at all until after lunch, and then only for a few minutes while Aunt Gwyneth was telephoning. ‘It’s OK,’ said Lavinia softly. ‘I’ve got the job—I’m going two weeks today. I’ll tell Aunt when I come next week, but only that I’m going—nothing about you yet—and don’t say anything, love, whatever you do.’ She smiled at Peta. ‘Try not to look so happy, darling. Tell me about your exams—do you think you did well?’

She didn’t stay as long as usual; her aunt had a bridge date directly after tea and was anxious for her to be gone, and a tentative suggestion that she might take Peta out for the evening was met with a number of perfectly feasible reasons why she shouldn’t. That was the trouble with Aunt Gwyneth, thought Lavinia crossly, she never flatly refused anything, which made it very hard to argue with her. She wondered, as she went back to London, how her aunt would take the news of her new job.

She thought about it several times during the ensuing week, but theatre was busy and there really wasn’t much time to worry about anything else. Saturday, when it came, was another cloudless day. Lavinia, in a rather old cotton dress because she was starting on the business of packing her things, felt cheerful as she walked the short distance from the station to her aunt’s house. And her aunt seemed in a good mood too, so that without giving herself time to get nervous, Lavinia broke her news.

It was received with surprising calm. ‘Let us hope,’ said her aunt ponderously, ‘that this new venture will improve your status sufficiently for you to obtain a more senior post later on—it is the greatest pity that you did not take up nursing immediately you left school, for you must be a good deal older than the average staff nurse.’

Lavinia let this pass. It was partly true in any case, though it need not have been mentioned in such unkind terms. Everyone knew quite well why she had stayed at home when she had left school; her mother was alone and Peta was still a small girl, and over and above that, her mother hadn’t been strong. She said now, schooling her voice to politeness: ‘I don’t know about that, Aunt, but the change will be nice and the pay’s good.’

‘As long as you don’t squander it,’ replied Aunt Gwyneth tartly. ‘But it is a good opportunity for you to see something of the world, I suppose; the time will come when I shall need a companion, as you well know. Peta will be far too young and lively for me, and I shall expect you, Lavinia, to give up your nursing and look after me. It is the least you can do for me after the sacrifices I have made for you both.’

Lavinia forbore from commenting that she had had nothing done for her at all; even holidays and days off had been denied her, and though she was a fair-minded girl, the worthy stockings, edifying books and writing paper she had received so regularly at Christmas and birthdays could hardly be classed as sacrifices. And her aunt could quite well afford to pay for a companion; someone she could bully if she wanted to and who would be able to answer back without the chain of family ties to hold her back. She sighed with deep contentment, thinking of her new job, and her aunt mistaking her reason for sighing, remarked that she was, and always had been, an ungrateful girl.

Lavinia wasn’t going to see Peta again before she left England, although she had arranged to telephone her at a friend’s house before she went. She spent the week in making final arrangements, aided, and hindered too, by her many friends. They had a party for her on her last night, with one bottle of sherry between a dozen or more of them, a great many pots of tea and a miscellany of food. There was a great deal of laughing and talking too, and when someone suggested that Lavinia should find herself a husband while she was in Holland, a chorus of voices elaborated the idea. ‘Someone rich—good-looking—both—with an enormous house so that they could all come and stay…’ The party broke up in peals of laughter. Lavinia was very popular, but no one really believed that she was likely to find herself such a delightful future, and she believed it least of all.

She left the next morning, after a guarded telephone talk with Peta and a noisy send-off from her friends at Jerrold’s. She was to go by plane, and the novelty of that was sufficient to keep her interested until the flat coast of Holland appeared beneath them and drove home the fact that she had finally left her safe, rather dull life behind, and for one she didn’t know much about. They began to circle Schiphol airport, and she sat rigid. Supposing that after all no one spoke English? Dutch, someone had told her, was a fearful language until you got the hang of it. Supposing that there had been some mistake and when she arrived no one expected her? Supposing the theatre technique was different, even though they had said it wasn’t…? She followed the other passengers from the plane, went through Customs and boarded the bus waiting to take her to Amsterdam.

The drive was just long enough to give her time to pull herself together and even laugh a little at her silly ideas. It was a bit late to get cold feet now, anyway, and she had the sudden hopeful feeling that she was going to like her new job very much. She looked about her eagerly as the bus churned its way through the morning traffic in the narrow streets and at the terminal she did as she had been instructed: showed the hospital’s address to a hovering taxi-driver, and when he had loaded her luggage into his cab, got in beside it. The new life had begun.




CHAPTER TWO


THE HOSPITAL WAS on the fringe of the city’s centre; a large, old-fashioned building, patched here and there with modern additions which its three-hundred-year-old core had easily absorbed. It was tucked away behind the busy main streets, with narrow alleys, lined with tiny, slightly shabby houses, round three sides of it. On the fourth side there was a great covered gateway, left over from a bygone age, which was still wide enough to accommodate the comings and goings of ambulances and other motor traffic.

Lavinia paused to look about her as she got out of the taxi. The driver got out too and set her luggage on the pavement, said something she couldn’t understand, and then humped it up the steps of the hospital and left it in the vast porch. Only when he had done this did he tell her how much she needed to pay him. As she painstakingly sorted out the guldens he asked: ‘You are nurse?’ and when she nodded, refused the tip she offered him. London taxi drivers seldom took tips from a nurse either, sometimes they wouldn’t even accept a fare—perhaps it was a worldwide custom. She thanked him when he wished her good luck and waited until his broad friendly back had disappeared inside his cab before going through the big glass doors, feeling as though she had lost a friend.

But she need not have felt nervous; no sooner had she peered cautiously through the porter’s lodge window than he was there, asking her what she wanted, and when he discovered that she was the expected English nurse, he summoned another porter, gave him incomprehensible instructions, said, just as the taxi driver had said: ‘Good luck,’ and waved her into line behind her guide. She turned back at the last moment, remembering her luggage, and was reassured by his cheerful: ‘Baggage is OK.’

The porter was tall and thin and walked fast; Lavinia, almost trotting to keep up with him, had scant time in which to look around her. She had an impression of dark walls, a tiled floor and endless doors on either side of the passages they were traversing so rapidly. Presently they merged into a wider one which in its turn ended at a splendid arch-way opening on to a vestibule, full of doors. The porter knocked on one of these, opened it and stood on one side of it for her to enter.

The room was small, and seemed smaller because of the woman standing by the window, for she was very large—in her forties, perhaps, with a straight back, a billowing bosom and a long, strong-featured face. Her eyes were pale blue and her hair, drawn back severely from her face, was iron grey. When she smiled, Lavinia thought she was one of the nicest persons she had ever seen.

‘Miss Hawkins?’ Her voice was as nice as her smile. ‘We are glad to welcome you to St Jorus and we hope that you will be happy here.’ She nodded towards a small hard chair. ‘Will you sit, please?’

Lavinia sat, listening carefully while the Directrice outlined her duties, mentioned off-duty, touched lightly on uniforms, salary and the advisability of taking Dutch lessons and went on: ‘You will find that the medical staff speak English and also some of the nurses too—the domestic staff, they will not, but there will be someone to help you for a little while. You will soon pick up a few necessary words, I feel sure.’

She smiled confidently at Lavinia, who smiled back, not feeling confident at all. Certainly she would make a point of starting lessons as soon as possible; she hadn’t heard more than a few sentences of Dutch so far, but they had sounded like gibberish.

‘You wish to live out, I understand,’ went on the Directrice, ‘and that will be possible within a week or so, but first you must be quite certain that you want to remain with us, although we should not stand in your way if before then you should decide to return to England.’

‘I was thinking of staying for a year,’ ventured Lavinia, ‘but I’d rather not decide until I’ve been here a few days, but I do want to make a home for my young sister.’

Her companion looked curious but forbore from pressing for further information, instead she rang the bell on her desk and when a young woman in nurse’s uniform but without a cap answered it, she said kindly:

‘This is Juffrouw Fiske, my secretary. She will take you over to the Nurses’ Home and show you your room. You would like to unpack, and perhaps it would be as well if you went on duty directly after the midday meal. Theatre B, major surgery. There is a short list this afternoon and you will have a chance to find your feet.’

Lavinia thanked her and set off with Juffrouw Fiske through more passages and across a couple of small courtyards, enclosed by high grey walls until they finally came to a door set in one of the—the back door, she was told, to the Home. It gave directly on to a short passage with a door at its end opening on to a wide hall in which was a flight of stairs which they climbed.

‘There is a lift,’ explained her companion, ‘but you are on the first floor, therefore there is no need.’

She opened a door only a few yards from the head of the stairs and invited Lavinia to go in. It was a pleasant room, tolerably large and very well furnished, and what was more, her luggage was there as well as a pile of uniform on the bed.

‘We hope that everything fits,’ said Juffrouw Fiske. ‘You are small, are you not?’ She smiled widely. ‘We are quite often big girls. Someone will come and take you to your dinner at twelve o’clock, Miss Hawkins, and I hope that you will be happy with us.’

Nice people, decided Lavinia, busily unpacking. She had already decided that she was going to like the new job—she would like it even better when she had a home of her own and Peta with her. Of course, she still had to meet the people she was to work with, but if they were half as nice as those she had met already, she felt she need have no fears about getting on with them.

The uniform fitted very well. She perched the stiff little cap on top of her tidy topknot and sat down to wait for whoever was to fetch her.

It was a big, well-built girl, with ash blonde hair and a merry face. She shook hands with enthusiasm and said: ‘Neeltje Haagsma.’

For a moment Lavinia wondered if she was being asked how she did in Dutch, but the girl put her right at once. ‘My name—we shake hands and say our names when we meet—that is simple, is it not?’

Lavinia nodded. ‘Lavinia Hawkins. Do I call you juffrouw?’

Neeltje pealed with laughter. ‘No, no—you will call me Neeltje and I will call you Lavinia, only you must call the Hoofd Zuster, Zuster Smid.’

‘And the doctors?’ They were making for the stairs.

‘Doctor—easy, is it not? and chirurgen—surgeon, is it not?—you will call them Mister this or Mister that.’

Not so foreign after all, Lavinia concluded happily, and then was forced to change her mind when they entered an enormous room, packed with nurses sitting at large tables eating their dinner and all talking at the tops of their voices in Dutch.

But it wasn’t too bad after all. Neeltje sat her down, introduced her rapidly and left her to shake hands all round, while she went to get their meal; meat balls, a variety of vegetables and a great many potatoes. Lavinia, who was hungry, ate the lot, followed it with a bowl of custard, and then, over coffee, did her best to answer the questions being put to her. It was an agreeable surprise to find that most of her companions spoke such good English and were so friendly.

‘Are there any other English nurses here?’ she wanted to know.

Neeltje shook her head. ‘You are the first—there are to be more, but not for some weeks. And now we must go to our work.’

The hospital might be old, but the theatre block was magnificently modern. Lavinia, whisked along by her friendly companion, peered about her and wished that she could tell Peta all about it; she would have to write a letter as soon as possible. But soon, caught up in the familiar routine, she had no time to think about anything or anyone other than her work. It was, as the Directrice had told her, a short list, and the technique was almost exactly the same as it had been in her own hospital, although now and again she was reminded that it wasn’t quite the same—the murmur of voices, speaking a strange language, even though everyone there addressed her in English.

Before the list had started, Zuster Smid had introduced her to the surgeon who was taking the list, his registrar and his houseman, as well as the three nurses who were on duty. She had forgotten their names, which was awkward, but at least she knew what she was doing around theatre. Zuster Smid had watched her closely for quite a while and then had relaxed. Lavinia, while not much to look at, was competent at her job; it would take more than working in strange surroundings to make her less than that.

The afternoon came to an end, the theatre was readied once more for the morning’s work or any emergency which might be sent up during the night, and shepherded by the other girls, she went down to her supper and after that she was swept along to Neeltje’s room with half a dozen other girls, to drink coffee and gossip—she might have been back at Jerrold’s. She stifled a sudden pang of homesickness, telling herself that she was tired—as indeed she was, for no sooner had she put her head on her pillow than she was asleep.

It was on her third day, at the end of a busy morning’s list, that she was asked to go up to the next floor with a specimen for section. The Path. Lab. usually sent an assistant down to collect these, but this morning, for some reason, there was no one to send and Lavinia, not scrubbed, and nearest to take the receiver with the offending object to be investigated, slid out of the theatre with it, divested herself of her gown and over-shoes and made her way swiftly up the stairs outside the theatre unit.

The Path. Lab. was large—owing, she had been told, to the fact that Professor ter Bavinck, who was the head of it, was justly famed for his brilliant work. Other, smaller hospitals sent a constant stream of work and he was frequently invited to other countries in order to give his learned opinion on some pathological problem. Neeltje had related this in a reverent voice tinged with awe, and Lavinia had concluded that the professor was an object of veneration in the hospital; possibly he had a white beard.

She pushed open the heavy glass doors in front of her and found herself in a vast room, brightly lighted and full of equipment which she knew of, but never quite understood. There were a number of men sitting at their benches, far too busy to take any notice of her, so she walked past them to the end of the room where there was a door with the professor’s name on it; presumably this was where one went. But when she knocked, no one answered, so she turned her back on it and looked round the room.

One man drew her attention at once, and he was sitting with his back to her, looking through a microscope. It was the breadth of his shoulders which had caught her eye, and his pale as flax hair, heavily silvered. She wondered who he might be, but now wasn’t the time to indulge her interest.

She addressed the room in general in a quite loud voice. ‘Professor ter Bavinck? I’ve been sent from Theatre B with a specimen.’

The shoulders which had caught her eye gave an impatient shrug; without turning round a deep voice told her: ‘Put it down here, beside me, please, and then go away.’

Lavinia’s charming bosom swelled with indignation. What a way to talk, and who did he think he was, anyway? She advanced to his desk and laid the kidney dish silently at his elbow. ‘There you are, sir,’ she said with a decided snap, ‘and why on earth should you imagine I should want to stay?’

He lifted his head then to stare at her, and she found herself staring back at a remarkably handsome face; a high-bridged nose dominated it and the mouth beneath it was very firm, while the blue eyes studying her so intently were heavy-lidded and heavily browed. She was quite unprepared for his friendly smile and for the great size of him as he pushed back his chair and stood up, towering over her five feet four inches.

‘Ah, the English nurse—Miss Hawkins, is it not? In fact, I am sure,’ his smile was still friendly, ‘no nurse in the hospital would speak to me like that.’

Lavinia went a splendid pink and sought for something suitable to say to this. After a moment’s thought she decided that it was best to say nothing at all, so she closed her mouth firmly and met his eyes squarely. Perhaps she had been rude, but after all, he had asked for it. Her uneasy thoughts were interrupted by his voice, quite brisk now. ‘This specimen—a snap check, I presume—Mevrouw Vliet, the query mastectomy, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I’ll telephone down.’ He nodded at her in a kindly, uncle-ish way, said: ‘Run along,’ and turned away, the kidney dish on his hand. She heard him giving what she supposed to be instructions to one of his assistants as she went through the door.

She found herself thinking about him while they all waited for his report; the surgeon, his sterile gloved hands clasped before him, the rest of them ready to do exactly what he wanted when he said so. The message came very quickly. Lavinia wondered what the professor had thought when his sharp eyes had detected the cancer cells in the specimen, but possibly Mevrouw Vliet, lying unconscious on the table and happily unaware of what was happening, was just another case to him. He might not know—nor care—if she were young, old, pretty or plain, married or unmarried, and yet he had looked as though he might—given the right circumstances—be rather super.

It was much later, at supper time, that Neeltje wanted to know what she had thought of him.

‘Well,’ said Lavinia cautiously, ‘I hardly spoke to him—he just took the kidney dish and told me to go away.’

‘And that was all?’

‘He did remark that I was the English nurse. He’s…he’s rather large, isn’t he?’

‘From Friesland,’ explained Neeltje, who was from Friesland herself. ‘We are a big people. He is of course old.’

Lavinia paused in the conveyance of soup to her mouth. ‘Old?’ she frowned. ‘I didn’t think he looked old.’

‘He is past forty,’ said a small brown-haired girl from across the table. ‘Also he has been married; his daughter is fourteen.’

There were a dozen questions on Lavinia’s tongue, but it wasn’t really her business. All the same, she did want to know what had happened to his wife. The brown-haired girl must have read her thoughts, for she went on: ‘His wife died ten years ago, more than that perhaps, she was, how do you say? not a good wife. She was not liked, but the professor, now he is much liked, although he talks to no one, that is to say, he talks but he tells nothing, you understand? Perhaps he is unhappy, but he would not allow anyone to see that and never has he spoken of his wife.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he loved her, who knows? His daughter is very nice, her name is Sibendina.’

‘That’s pretty,’ said Lavinia, still thinking about the professor. ‘Is that a Friesian name?’

‘Yes, although it is unusual.’ Neeltje swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘Let us go to the sitting-room and watch the televisie.’

Lavinia met the professor two days later. She had been to her first Dutch lesson in her off duty, arranged for her by someone on the administrative staff and whom probably she would never meet but who had nonetheless given her careful instruction as to her ten-minute walk to reach her teacher’s flat. This lady turned out to be a retired schoolmistress with stern features and a command of the English language which quite deflated Lavinia. However, at the end of an hour, Juffrouw de Waal was kind enough to say that her pupil, provided she applied herself to her work, should prove to be a satisfactory pupil, worthy of her teaching powers.

Lavinia wandered back in the warmth of the summer afternoon, and with time on her hands, turned off the main street she had been instructed to follow, to stroll down a narrow alley lined with charming little houses. It opened on to a square, lined with trees and old, thin houses leaning against each other for support. They were three or four stories high, with a variety of roofs, and here and there they had been crowded out by much larger double-fronted town mansions, with steps leading up to their imposing doors. She inspected them all, liking their unassuming façades and trying to guess what they would be like on the other side of their sober fronts. Probably quite splendid and magnificently furnished; the curtains, from what she could see from the pavement, were lavishly draped and of brocade or velvet. She had completed her walk around three sides of the square when she was addressed from behind.

‘I hardly expected to find you here, Miss Hawkins—not lost, I hope?’

She turned round to confront Professor ter Bavinck. ‘No—at least…’ She paused to look around her; she wasn’t exactly lost, but now she had no idea which lane she had come from. ‘I’ve been for an English lesson,’ she explained defensively, ‘and I had some time to spare, and it looked so delightful…’ She gave another quick look around her. ‘I only have to walk along that little lane,’ she assured him.

He laughed gently. ‘No, not that one—the people who live in this square have their garages there and it’s a cul-de-sac. I’m going to the hospital, you had better come along with me.’

‘Oh, no—that is, it’s quite all right.’ She had answered very fast, anxious not to be a nuisance and at the same time aware that this large quiet man had a strange effect upon her.

‘You don’t like me, Miss Hawkins?’

She gave him a shocked look, and it was on the tip of her tongue to assure him that she was quite sure, if she allowed herself to think about it, that she liked him very much, but all she said was: ‘I don’t know you, Professor, do I? But I’ve no reason not to like you. I only said that because you might not want my company.’

‘Don’t beg the question; we both have our work to do there this afternoon, and that is surely a good enough reason to bear each other company.’ He didn’t wait to hear her answer. ‘We go this way.’

He started to walk back the way she had come, past the tall houses squeezed even narrower and taller by the great house in their centre—it took up at least half of that side of the square, and moreover there was a handsome Bentley convertible standing before its door.

Lavinia slowed down to look at it. ‘A Bentley!’ she exclaimed, rather superfluously. ‘I thought everybody who could afford to do so drove Mercedes on the continent. I wonder whose it is—it must take a good deal of cunning to get through that lane I walked down.’

‘This one’s wider,’ her companion remarked carelessly, and turned into a short, quite broad street leading away from the square. It ran into another main street she didn’t recognize, crowded with traffic, but beyond advising her to keep her eyes and ears open the professor had no conversation. True, when they had to cross the street, he took her arm and saw her safely to the other side, but with very much the tolerant air of someone giving a helping hand to an old lady or a small child. It was quite a relief when he plunged down a narrow passage between high brick walls which ended unexpectedly at the very gates of the hospital.

‘Don’t try and come that way by yourself,’ he cautioned her, lifted a hand in salute and strode away across the forecourt. Lavinia went to her room to change, feeling somehow disappointed, although she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps, she told herself, it was because she had been wearing a rather plain dress; adequate enough for Juffrouw de Waal, but lacking in eye-catching qualities. Not that it would have mattered; the professor hadn’t bothered to look at her once—and why should he? Rather plain girls were just as likely two a penny in Holland as they were in England. She screwed her hair into a shining bun, jammed her cap on top of it, and went on duty, pretending to herself that she didn’t care in the least whether she saw him again or not.

She saw him just one hour later. There had been an emergency appendix just after she had got back to theatre, and she had been sent back to the ward with the patient. She and one of the ward nurses were tucking the patient into her bed, when she glanced up and saw him, sitting on a nearby bed, listening attentively to its occupant. The ward nurse leaned across the bed. ‘Professor ter Bavinck,’ she breathed, ‘so good a man and so kind—he visits…’ she frowned, seeking words. ‘Mevrouw Vliet, the mastectomy—you were at the operation and you know what was discovered? When that is so, he visits the patient and explains and listens and helps if he can.’ She paused to smile. ‘My English—it is not so bad, I hope?’

‘It’s jolly good. I wish I knew even a few words of Dutch.’ Lavinia meant that; it would be nice to understand what the professor was saying—not that she was likely to get much chance of that.

She handed over the patient’s notes, and without looking at the professor, went back to theatre. Zuster Smid had gone off duty, taking most of her staff with her, there were only Neeltje and herself working until nine o’clock. She had been sorting instruments while her companion saw to the theatre linen, when the door opened and Professor ter Bavinck walked in. He walked over to say something to Neeltje before he came across the theatre to Lavinia.

‘Off at nine o’clock?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

His mouth twitched faintly. ‘Could you stop calling me sir? Just long enough for me to invite you out to supper.’

‘Me? Supper?’ Her eyes were round with surprise. ‘Oh, but I…’

‘Scared of being chatted up? Forget it, dear girl; think of me as a Dutch uncle anxious to make you feel at home in Amsterdam.’

She found herself smiling. ‘I don’t know what a Dutch uncle is.’

‘I’m vague about it myself, but it sounds respectable enough to establish a respectable relationship, don’t you agree?’

A warning, perhaps? Letting her know in the nicest way that he was merely taking pity on a stranger who might be feeling lonely?

‘Somewhere quiet,’ he went on, just as if she had already said that she would go with him, ‘where we can get a quick snack—I’ll be at the front entrance.’

‘I haven’t said that I’ll go yet,’ she reminded him coldly, and wished that she hadn’t said it, for the look he bent on her was surprised and baffled too, so that she rushed on: ‘I didn’t mean that—of course I’ll come, I’d like to.’

He didn’t smile although his eyes twinkled reassuringly. ‘We don’t need to be anything but honest with each other,’ a remark which left her, in her turn, surprised and baffled. He had gone while she was still thinking it over, and any vague and foolish ideas which it might have nurtured were at once dispelled by Neeltje’s, ‘You go to supper with the Prof. Did I not tell you how good and kind a man he is? He helps always the lame dog…’

Just for a moment the shine went out of the evening, but Lavinia was blessed with a sense of humour; she giggled and said cheerfully: ‘Well, let’s hope I get a good supper, because I’m hungry.’

She changed rapidly, not quite sure what she should wear or how much time she had in which to put it on. It was a warm evening and still light; still damp from a shower, she looked over her sketchy wardrobe and decided that the pink cotton with its jacket would look right wherever they went. As she did her face and hair she tried to remember if there were any snack bars or cafés close to the hospital, but with the exception of Jan’s Eethuisje just across the road and much frequented by the hospital staff who had had to miss a meal for some reason or other, she could think of none. She thrust her feet into the pink sandals, checked her handbag’s contents and made her way to the entrance.

The professor was there; it wasn’t until she saw him, leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets, that she realized that she hadn’t been quite sure that he would be. He came across the hall to meet her and she noticed that his clothes were good; elegant and beautifully cut if a little conservative—but then he wasn’t a very young man.

He said hullo in a casual way and opened the door for her and they went out to the forecourt together. It was fairly empty, but even if it hadn’t been, any cars which might have been there would have been cast into the shade by the car outside the door.

‘Oh, it’s the Bentley!’ cried Lavinia as her companion ushered her into its luxury.

‘You like it? I need a large car, you see.’ He got in beside her. ‘One of the problems of being large.’

She sat back, sniffing the faint scent of leather, enjoying the drive, however short, in such a fabulous car. And the drive was short; the professor slid in and out of the traffic while she was still trying to discover which way they were going, and pulled up after only a few minutes, parking the car on the cobbles at the side of the narrow canal beside an even narrower street, and inviting her to get out. It seemed that their snack was to be taken at what appeared to be an expensive restaurant, its name displayed so discreetly that it could have passed for a town house in a row of similar houses. Lavinia allowed herself to be shepherded inside to a quiet luxury which took her breath and sitting at a table which had obviously been reserved for them, thanked heaven silently that the pink, while not anything out of the ordinary, at least passed muster.

It was equally obvious within a very few moments that the professor’s notion of a quick snack wasn’t hers. She ran her eyes over the large menu card, looking in vain for hamburgers or baked beans on toast, although she doubted if such an establishment served such homely dishes.

‘Smoked eel?’ invited her companion. ‘I think you must try that, and then perhaps coq au vin to follow?’ He dismissed the waiter and turned to confer with the wine waiter, asking as he did so: ‘Sherry for you? Do you prefer it sweet?’

She guessed quite rightly that it wasn’t likely to be the same sort of sherry they drank at hospital parties. ‘Well…’ she smiled at him, ‘I don’t know much about it—would you choose?’

The sherry, when it came, was faintly dry and as soft as velvet. Lavinia took a cautious second sip, aware, that she hadn’t had much to eat for some time, aware, too, that conversationally she wasn’t giving very good value. Her host was sitting back in his chair, completely at his ease, his eyes on her face, so that she found it difficult to think of something to talk about. She was on the point of falling back on the weather when he said: ‘Tell me about yourself—why did you take this job? Did not your family dislike the idea of you coming here? There are surely jobs enough in England for someone as efficient as you.’ He saw the look on her face and added: ‘Dear me, I did put that badly, didn’t I? It just shows you that a lack of female society makes a man very clumsy with his words.’

She took another sip of sherry. ‘I haven’t a family—at least, only a sister. She’s fifteen, almost sixteen, and lives with an aunt. She hasn’t been happy with her and when I saw this job advertised I thought I’d try for it—I shall be able to live out, you see, and Peta will be able to come here and live with me. I couldn’t do that in England—not in London at any rate, because flats there are very expensive and nurses don’t earn an awful lot.’

She finished the sherry. It had loosened her tongue; she hadn’t told anyone her plans, and here she was pouring out her heart to a stranger—almost a stranger, then, though he had never seemed to be that, rather someone whom she had known for a very long time.

‘You are prepared to take that responsibility? You should marry.’ There was the faintest question in his voice.

‘Well, that would be awfully convenient, but no one’s asked me, and anyway I can’t imagine anyone wanting to make a home for Peta as well as me.’

She couldn’t see his eyes very well; the heavy lids almost covered them, probably he was half asleep with boredom. ‘I think you may be wrong there,’ he said quietly, and then: ‘And what do you think of our hospital?’

It was easy after that; he led her from one topic to the next while they ate the smoked eel and then the chicken, washed down with the wine which had been the subject of such serious discussion with the wine waiter. Lavinia had no idea what it was, but it tasted delicious, as did the chocolate mousse which followed the chicken. She ate and drank with the simple pleasure of someone who doesn’t go out very often, and when she had finished it, she said shyly: ‘That was quite super; I don’t go out a great deal—hardly ever, in fact. I thought you meant it when you said a quick snack.’

He laughed gently. ‘It’s quite some time since I took a girl out to supper. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a long while.’ He added deliberately: ‘We must do it again.’

‘Yes, well…that would be…’ She found herself short of both breath and words. ‘I expect I should be getting back.’

He lifted a finger to the hovering waiter. ‘Of course—a heavy day tomorrow, isn’t it?’

He spoke very little on their way back to the hospital, and Lavinia, trying to remember it all later, couldn’t be sure of what she had replied. He wished her good night at the hospital entrance and got back into his car and drove off without looking back. He was nice, she admitted to herself as she went to her room; the kind of man she felt at ease with—he would be a wonderful friend; perhaps, later on, he might be. She went to sleep thinking about him.

There was the usual chatter at breakfast and several of her table companions asked her if she had had a good supper. Evidently someone had told them. Neeltje probably; she was a positive fount of information about everything and everyone. She informed everyone now: ‘The Prof’s going to a conference in Vienna; he won’t be here for a few days, for I heard him telling Doctor van Teyl about it. We shall have that grumpy old van Vorst snapping our heads off if we have to go to the Path. Lab.’ She smiled at Lavinia. ‘And he is not likely to ask you to go out with him.’

Everyone laughed and Lavinia laughed too, although in fact she felt quite gloomy. Somehow she had imagined that she would see Professor ter Bavinck again that morning, and the knowledge that she wouldn’t seemed to have taken a good deal of the sparkle out of the day.

She settled down during the next few days into her new way of life, writing to Peta every day or so, studying her Dutch lessons hard so that she might wring a reluctant word of praise from Juffrouw de Waal, and when she was on duty, working very hard indeed. She had scrubbed for several cases by now and had managed very well, refusing to allow herself to be distracted or worried by the steady flow of Dutch conversation which went on between the surgeons as they worked, and after all, the instruments were the same, the technique was almost the same, even if they were called by different names. She coped with whatever came her way with her usual unhurried calm.

Only that calm was a little shattered one morning. They were doing a gastro-entreostomy, when the surgeon cast doubts on his findings and sent someone to telephone the Path. Lab. A minute or two later Professor ter Bavinck came in, exchanged a few words with his colleagues, collected the offending piece of tissue which was the cause of the doubt, cast a lightning look at Lavinia, standing behind her trolleys, and went away again.

So he was back. She counted a fresh batch of swabs, feeling the tide of pleasure the sight of him had engendered inside her. The day had suddenly become splendid and full of exciting possibilities. She only just stopped herself in time from bursting into song.




CHAPTER THREE


BUT THE DAY wasn’t splendid at all; she was in theatre for hours as it turned out, with an emergency; some poor soul who had fallen from a fourth floor balcony. The surgeons laboured over her for patient hours and no one thought of going to dinner, although two or three of the nurses managed to get a cup of coffee. But Lavinia, being scrubbed and taking the morning’s list, went stoically on until at length, about three o’clock in the afternoon, she had a few minutes in which to bolt a sandwich and drink some coffee, and because the morning’s list had been held up it ended hours late; in consequence the afternoon list was late too, and even though she didn’t have to scrub, she was still on duty. When she finally got off duty it was well past seven o’clock. There was no reason why she should look for the professor on her way to supper; he was unlikely to be lurking on the stairs or round a corner of any of the maze of passages, so her disappointment at not meeting him was quite absurd. She ate her supper, pleaded tiredness after her long day, and retired to the fastness of her room.

A good night’s sleep worked wonders. She felt quite light-hearted as she dressed the next morning; she would be off at four o’clock and the lists weren’t heavy; perhaps she would see Professor ter Bavinck and he would suggest another quick snack… She bounced down to breakfast, not stopping to examine her happiness, only knowing that it was another day and there was the chance of something super happening.

Nothing happened at all. Work, of course—there was always plenty of that; it was a busy hospital and the surgeons who worked there were known for their skill. The morning wore on into the afternoon until it was time for her to go off duty. Neeltje was off too—they were going out with some of the other nurses; a trip round the city’s canals was a must for every visitor to Amsterdam and they would take her that very evening. She got ready for the outing, determined to enjoy herself. She had been silly and made too much of the professor’s kindness—it was because she went out so seldom with a man that she had attached so much importance to seeing him again. Heaven forbid that she should appear over-eager, indeed, if he were to ask her out again she would take care to have an excuse ready, she told herself stoutly. She stared at her reflection in the looking glass—he wasn’t likely to ask her again, anyway. He was in the hospital each day, she had heard someone say so, and there had been plenty of opportunities…

She left her room and took the short cut to the hospital entrance where she was to meet the others. The last few yards of it gave her an excellent view of the forecourt so that she couldn’t fail to see the professor standing in it, talking earnestly to a young woman. It was too far off to see if she was pretty, but even at that distance Lavinia could see that she was beautifully dressed. She slowed her steps the better to look and then stopped altogether as he took the girl’s arm and walked away with her, across the tarmac to where his motorcar was standing. She didn’t move until they had both got into it and it had disappeared through the gates, and when she did she walked very briskly, with her determined little chin rather higher than usual and two bright spots of colour on her cheeks.

When they all got back a couple of hours later, the professor was standing in the entrance, talking to two of the consultants, and all three men wished the girls Goeden avond. Lavinia, joining in the polite chorus of replies, took care not to look at him.

She wakened the next morning to remember that it was her day off. The fine weather still held and she had a formidable list of museums to visit. She was up and out soon after nine o’clock, clad in a cool cotton dress and sandals on her bare feet and just enough money in her handbag to pay for her lunch.

She went first to the Bijenkorf, however, that mecca of the Amsterdam shopper, and spent an hour browsing round its departments, wishing she had the money to buy the pretty things on display, cheering herself with the thought that before very long, she might be able to do so. But it was already ten o’clock and the museums had been open half an hour already, she started to walk across the Dam Square, with its palace on one side and the stark war memorial facing it on the other, down Kalverstraat, not stopping to look in the tempting shop windows, and into Leidsestraat. It was here that she noticed that the blue sky had dimmed to grey, it was going to rain—but the museum was only a few minutes’ brisk walk away now, she could actually see the imposing frontage of her goal. The first few drops began to fall seconds later, however, and then without warning, turned into a downpour. Lavinia began to run, feeling the rain soaking her thin dress.

The Bentley pulled into the curb a little ahead of her, so that by the time she was level with it the professor was on the pavement, standing in the rain too. He didn’t speak at all, merely plucked her neatly from the pavement, bustled her round the elegant bonnet of the car, and popped her into the front seat. When he got in beside her, all he said was: ‘You’re very wet,’ as he drove on.





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