Sister Peters in Amsterdam. Бетти Нилс
should have taken your off-duty,’ he said evenly.
She threw the paper towel in the bin, and went to turn off the autoclave.
‘I rang Dr Beekman.’ Her voice held a question, politely put.
The professor was getting into his coat.
‘Touché, Sister Peters. I have taken Beekman’s duty over until midnight; his people have come down from Drente for St Nicolaas.’ He grinned at her, called good-night, and was gone.
CHAPTER THREE
CARDBOARD Father Christmases had taken the place of St Nicolaas in the shops. Adelaide bought presents for her family and sent them home. She might have felt homesick, but the friends she had made among the hospital sisters took care to include her as much as possible in their own activities, so that she had little time for moping.
Mijnheer de Wit spent a whole lesson describing the Dutch annual holidays to her. It seemed that Christmas was strictly for the family and more sober than the English version. The giving of presents was usual in the larger towns; in the country the day was marked by a splendid meal and plenty to drink. Turkey and Christmas pudding hadn’t gained much of a foothold, but many homes in Holland had a Christmas tree. New Year—now, that was different. The old man waxed eloquent in his beautiful Dutch—New Year was for everyone to enjoy. He made it sound exciting.
Adelaide had been rather puzzled by the amount of unwelcome attention her red hair had caused. Small boys called out after her in the street, mothers bringing their children to the clinic remarked on it, often with a laugh or pitying look. She was aware that her hair was rather unusual, but it had seldom been commented upon. One evening, at the end of a tedious lesson on the complexities of the Dutch verb, she mentioned it to her teacher. He broke into a rumbling laugh.
‘My dear young lady, the Dutch, as a nation, dislike red hair, and your hair, if I may say so, is very red. You must expect comment upon it, at least when you are in public. I must add that this is the general opinion. Many people admire it,’ he twinkled at her. ‘I do myself.’
Dr Beekman was early the following day; he had some notes to write up, and sat doing this while Adelaide sorted the X-rays. They had become good friends and Adelaide had spent pleasant evenings with his wife Leen; the girls had liked each other at once. Adelaide put the last X-ray on the desk and turned to the doctor.
‘Is my hair an awful colour?’ she asked.
His blue eyes opened wide. ‘Well, it is rather red,’ he replied cautiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
She started to tell him. She hadn’t heard the professor come in; he leaned against the door, listening, as she explained about the small boys. ‘Oh, well,’ she said in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘we’re all afflicted with something, I suppose. Red hair is no worse than a squint or jug handle ears, or a large beaky n…’ she stopped, because of the expression on Dr Beekman’s face. He was looking over her shoulder, at someone behind her, and trying not to laugh.
The professor advanced into the room; his ‘good morning’ was quiet and uttered in a bland voice.
Adelaide felt herself blushing hotly, but she faced him bravely and said, ‘I do beg your pardon, sir. I wasn’t speaking of your nose…’ she stopped and tried again. ‘Yours is quite a nice sort…’ She encountered the professor’s eye. It was fixed steadily upon her; there was absolutely no expression on his face. She had a horrid suspicion that he might be laughing at her, and lifted her chin and looked down her own pretty little nose.
‘I like beaky noses,’ she said, and was relieved to see him smile.
‘Thank you, Sister Peters. Your good opinion will do much towards enabling me to bear my affliction with equanimity.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘How thankful we should be that we do not have the squint.’
Adelaide smiled uncertainly. She still wasn’t sure if he was amused or merely polite—as was his wont. She minded very much if he were to be angry; just lately she had found herself going to a great deal of trouble to please him…
The professor, however, did not seem to share her feelings. He was running through the X-rays on his desk, and said briskly: ‘Shall we get started?’ He glanced at her, smiling faintly, and that was the only crumb of comfort she had.
Out-Patients closed for the two days of Christmas, but of course Casualty stayed open. Adelaide arranged to go on duty at one o’clock on Christmas Day, so that the nurses could go to their homes for the remainder of the day. She had been to the English Church in the Groenburgwal and sung carols, and felt a little homesick. There had been a dinner for the nurses on Christmas Eve; Matron had sat at the head of the long table, lighted by candles, and they had sung Dutch carols before they had started their meal. It had been pleasant and homely and she would write a long letter home about it.
It was very quiet in the clinic; Casualty was empty. She went along to her little office; she might as well start her letters, it would give her something to do. There was a parcel on her desk, wrapped in red paper patterned with robins, and tied with tinsel ribbon. Her name was on the label, written in the professor’s deplorable writing. Inside were three books: she looked at the authors—Jan de Hartog, Johan Fabricius, and Charles Dickens. She was relieved to see that they were all in English as she laid them on the desk before her. It was nice to be remembered; probably the professor had thought that she would miss the presents she would have had had she been in England. He was, she noticed, very considerate towards his staff. She had read quite a lot of A Christmas Carol when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver quickly, expecting a casualty call; instead, she heard the professor’s voice, sounding remote, wishing her a happy Christmas. She wished him one in return, and thanked him shyly for the books. She could hear a background of children laughing and shouting, and the steady murmur of voices, and pictured the family party gathered at his home; she supposed Freule Keizer was there too. Quite unbidden, a large lump came into her throat; she swallowed it desperately back and said in a steady voice: ‘I’m wanted on the other phone, sir. Goodbye.’
After a minute or two she pulled herself together, chided herself for being such a spiritless goose, and went into the tiny clinic kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.
Two days after Christmas, the clinic opened again, and as was to be expected, it was packed. The waiting room was full to overflowing by nine o’clock, and Adelaide, feverishly hunting for notes and X-rays, hoped that they would get finished by first dinner. Punctual to the minute, the professor, accompanied by Piet Beekman, stalked in. He wished her good morning briskly and added briefly in a deceptively mild voice: ‘As fast as you like, Sister. I hope all the notes and X-rays are here; we have a full morning’s work.’
Adelaide stiffened with resentment at the unfairness of his remark. She wasn’t a conceited girl, but she was aware that she did her work well. She shot him a cross look, wasted on his downbent head.
Staff Nurse Wilsma, back from a well-earned coffee break, had brought Adelaide’s post with her. She took it gratefully, glancing at the envelopes before stuffing them behind her apron bib. One of them had an Amsterdam postmark. She wondered what it could be, but there was no time to look. Zuster Steensma was struggling in with a small boy who was screaming and kicking and hitting at her with his small fists. His mother scuttled in after them; she looked frightened as she dodged round them and took the chair in front of the desk. The professor looked up from his notes and smiled at her, but forbore to speak; he would not have been heard in the din.
Adelaide handed Piet the examination tray she was holding and sailed across the room like a pocket battleship, plucked the small tyrant from the wilting nurse, and whisked him on to a couch. Admonishing him soundly for being such a bad boy, she removed his shoes and top clothes with the ease of long practice, evading his arms and legs with skill. He was so astonished that he stopped crying, and when he opened his mouth to start again, Adelaide pulled such a face that he burst out laughing instead.
‘Now be quiet,’ said Adelaide. She had discovered that the children responded just as well to English as Dutch;