Pineapple Girl. Бетти Нилс
Eloise’s own taste but nonetheless very pleasing. But she had very little time to examine her surroundings; her patient was tired now and made no demur when her husband suggested that perhaps an hour’s rest would be just the thing. They all went upstairs, Mijnheer Pringle explaining as they went that Juffrouw Blot, the housekeeper, would be along with a tray of tea just as soon as his wife was on her bed. ‘We guessed that you would be tired, my dear, and you can have a good gossip with her later on, when you’re rested.’
Alone with Mevrouw Pringle, Eloise quietly took charge, changed the dressing deftly, took off her patient’s dress and tucked her under her quilt.
‘Your room, Eloise,’ protested Mevrouw Pringle. ‘There’s been no time to show you…here’s Juffrouw Blot with my tea, she can take you…and ask Cor for anything.’
Eloise made soothing little sounds while she tidied the room, was introduced to the housekeeper, a stoutly built middle-aged woman who smiled and nodded and talked to her for all the world as though she could understand every word, and then followed her obediently across the wide landing to the room which was to be hers.
It was a pleasant apartment, lofty like all the other rooms in the house, and comfortably furnished with good taste if without much imagination. Eloise unpacked her bag, tidied her hair and did her face, peeped in at Mrs Pringle to make sure that she really was asleep and went downstairs.
Mijnheer Pringle was lying in wait for her. ‘She’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Such a long journey, but she would insist…it is good of you to come…’ He looked away for a moment. ‘Her doctor will be coming this evening—our friend too. He will talk to you and explain…’
‘Explain what, Mijnheer Pringle?’ She knew the answer already, though.
‘Well—Debby has had this operation, you will have been told about that, of course. What you weren’t told is that she is going to die very soon—weeks, perhaps less. She doesn’t know that; they told her six months or more, got her on her feet and allowed her home because that was what she wanted…’ He sighed, one of the saddest sounds Eloise had heard for a long time. ‘She’s to do exactly what she wants,’ he went on, ‘because nothing can make any difference now. I hope that if she needs you and your holiday is finished, there will be some way of keeping you here. She has taken a fancy to you, you know—she has always been fond of your mother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m determined that she shall be as happy as possible for these last few weeks.’
Eloise swallowed the lump in her own throat. ‘Of course, and if she wants me to stay, I think it could be arranged; you would have to contact the hospital, of course—her doctor could help there. And if there’s anything I can do to help, will you let me know?’
He nodded. ‘Thank you. Shall we go and have tea? It’s been taken into the sitting room.’
There was no milk with the tea, drunk from small cups which held only a few mouthfuls. Eloise, dying of thirst, was debating whether to ask for a third cup and run the risk of being considered greedy when Juffrouw Blot opened the door, said something to Mijnheer Pringle and flattened herself to allow a visitor to enter the room. The man who had sent her the basket of fruit; her firm little chin dropped and her eyes rounded in surprise—a surprise which he didn’t appear to share, for his: ‘Ah, the pineapple girl,’ was casual to say the least as he crossed the room to shake Mijnheer Pringle’s hand.
‘You know each other?’ queried that gentleman.
‘No,’ said his visitor cheerfully. ‘That is to say, no one has introduced us, although we have met.’
Mijnheer Pringle looked puzzled, but he was a stickler for good manners. ‘Eloise, this is Doctor van Zeilst, our very good friend. Timon, this is Miss Eloise Bennett who has kindly consented to spend her holidays with Deborah.’
‘I know.’ The doctor grinned at her. ‘News travels fast in hospitals, doesn’t it?’
‘Apparently.’ She looked at him coldly, quite put out because he had shown no pleasure at meeting her again. ‘I believe I have to thank you for your gift of fruit.’
‘Healthy stuff, fruit.’ He nodded carelessly and turned to Mijnheer Pringle. ‘How is Deborah?’ and then: ‘No, I’d better ask Nurse that.’
He looked across the room, smiling faintly, but for all that she sensed that she was now the nurse giving a report to the doctor. She complied with commendable conciseness, adding: ‘I know little about Mevrouw Pringle’s stay at the nursing home, only what she has told me herself—I’ve had no instructions…’ Her voice held faint reproach.
He must have heard it, for he said blandly: ‘Done deliberately. Sir Arthur felt that in this case, the fewer people who knew the truth, the better. However, I’ll go into the whole thing with you presently.’
He smiled nicely at her and with a word of apology began to talk to Mijnheer Pringle in their own language. After a few minutes she was a little taken aback to hear him observe: ‘You don’t have to look like that, we’re not discussing you.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I didn’t for one moment imagine that you were.’
‘Splendid, touchy females stir up the worst in me.’ He was smiling again. ‘Shall we have our little talk now? It seems a good opportunity; Mijnheer Pringle has some work to do.’
When they were alone he sat down opposite her. ‘You know Mevrouw Pringle well?’
‘No, not really—she’s my mother’s friend—oh, for a very long time. She used to visit us when we lived in Eddlescombe, but I’ve not met Mijnheer Pringle before.’ She added soberly: ‘It’s very sad.’
He answered her just as soberly. ‘Yes, it is, but it would be a good deal sadder if Mevrouw Pringle were to linger on for months in discomfort and perhaps pain, and later spend the last inevitable weeks in hospital. I think sometimes the longing to be in one’s home is worse than the pain. Her husband and I are only thankful that this won’t be necessary in her case.’ He crossed his long legs, contemplating his beautifully polished shoes. ‘I’ll outline the case for you.’
Which he did, clearly and concisely in his quite perfect English, pausing now and then to allow her to ask questions. ‘So there you have it,’ he concluded. ‘The haemoglobin is going down fast and nothing we can give her will check it now; her spleen, her liver…’ he shrugged his great shoulders. ‘The opiate we’re giving her is strong, you will have noticed that; don’t hesitate to let me know if it doesn’t give enough cover. I shall come each day and you can telephone me at any time.’
‘Do you live close by?’ asked Eloise, and went delicately pink because it sounded as though she were being curious.
‘I can be with you in ten minutes.’
He could have told her a little more than that, surely, but he didn’t, merely went on to discuss the various small nursing duties she would be called upon to undertake. ‘And you will remember that no one—and that means no one, is to know about Mevrouw Pringle’s condition.’ It sounded like an order.
‘I am not a gossip,’ she assured him coolly, ‘and you seem to forget that I’m a nurse.’
She was quite outraged by his easy: ‘Yes, I find I do, frequently.’ But before she could frame a suitable reply to this, he went on: ‘Will you be lonely here? It is very quiet—there are plenty of friends around but no bright lights and most of the young men are bespoke.’
There was no end to his rudeness. ‘I can manage very well without bright lights,’ she told him crossly, ‘and I’m not accustomed to being surrounded by young men, so I shall hardly notice their absence, shall I?’
He laughed softly. ‘I say, you have got a sharp tongue, dear girl. Might one venture to suggest that if you took the edge off it the young men might be more prone to surround you?’
She said flatly: ‘Young men like pretty girls.’
‘Young