A Matter of Chance. Betty Neels
typewriter on it. The walls were lined with vast quantities of books; Cressida, who liked reading, promised herself a good browse through them when the opportunity occurred, but now she sat down in the chair opposite the doctor’s and gave him her full attention.
Would she mind working early in the morning? he wanted to know anxiously—before surgery started at eight o’clock. He himself was an early riser and had formed the habit of putting in an hour’s work before breakfast, which was at half past seven each day except Sunday.
Cressida paled a little at the prospect of rising at six o’clock each morning; she had no objection to getting up early and it was a job, after all, which she was being paid for, but surely the hour was a bit much? She caught her companion’s eye fixed pleadingly on her, and heard herself say cheerfully that she didn’t mind in the least, wondering at the same time how long her working day was to be.
She was enlightened almost at once. ‘If you could work on your own during surgery,’ went on the doctor. ‘We have coffee about ten o’clock, before we do our rounds; if you would like to take an hour’s break then and afterwards continue working until we have our lunch? The afternoon surgery is at half past one—if you would work until we go on our afternoon visits. You could be free then until we have a cup of tea on our return—about half past four. We might do another hour’s work together until evening surgery starts. We dine at half past seven…’ He cast her a look which she rightly interpreted.
‘After dinner?’ she prompted, and he brightened visibly.
‘I am not a slave-driver? Just a short spell perhaps—not every evening, of course. I am so anxious to get the book finished.’
‘Well, of course you are,’ agreed Cressida bracingly, ‘and I can see no reason why we shouldn’t go ahead like wildfire. You have the manuscript here? Have the publishers given you a date?’
The doctor settled back in his chair. ‘The manuscript is almost finished—just the final chapter and of course the whole thing to be given a final correction. It’s in longhand, I’m afraid, and my writing…’
Cressida nodded. Doctors were notoriously bad writers; she had become adept at deciphering their almost unreadable scrawls. ‘And the date for the publisher?’ she reminded him.
He shuffled the pile of papers before him into thorough disorder until he unearthed a letter. ‘Let me see, today is October the twenty-sixth and they ask for the completed typescript by December the twelfth.’
‘Is it a long book?’ asked Cressida faintly, with visions of getting to bed at three o’clock in the morning and getting up again at six. She was a good typist, but rusty, and she had only two hands—besides, he had hinted himself that his writing was awful.
‘Oh, no—eight chapters, about nine thousand words in each, and I believe you will be able to reduce those, for I tend to write with too much elaboration, especially in English.’
‘You would like me to check that? But I don’t know anything about…’
He lifted a podgy hand. ‘My dear young lady, I am sure that I can rely on your judgment—it is merely a question of simplifying my English where it is necessary.’
I shall have to take the wretched manuscript to bed, thought Cressida gloomily, and check every word of it. Well, she had wanted something different; it looked as though she had got it, and yet she had the feeling that she had found exactly what she needed; a job which would keep her on her toes and help her to forget the last sad weeks. And when it was finished and she returned to England, perhaps she would be able to settle down to another job in hospital—another ward to run, surgery this time, perhaps. She sighed without knowing it and Doctor van Blom said quickly: ‘You are tired—I have no right to expect you to start work so soon after your arrival.’
It took her a minute or two to assure him that she wasn’t tired at all and only too willing to start then and there.
They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, and Cressida, glad to have something to occupy her mind, sorted pages, skimmed through the first chapters and then arranged her desk to her satisfaction before typing the first few pages. She had learned to type years ago, before she had trained as a nurse, and she had kept her hand in ever since, typing her father’s sermons, the parish magazine and quite a number of his letters when she had been home for holidays or days off; she was pleased and surprised to find that she hadn’t lost her skill, and moreover, Doctor van Blom’s book was going to be interesting, although she could see that his English was indeed on the elaborate side. She made one or two tentative suggestions which he accepted immediately, saying happily: ‘This is just what I needed—someone to check my errors. You will prove yourself to be of the greatest help, Cressida.’ He beamed at her. ‘You are the answer to a prayer, my dear young lady.’
She hadn’t been called anyone’s young lady for quite some time, although her father’s friends had frequently addressed her as such—elderly gentlemen who had known her since she was a little girl—but now she was very nearly twenty-seven. Doctor van der Teile had called her young woman, which hadn’t sounded nice at all—perhaps it was the way he had said it. It was strange that they should have met again and still more strange that he should have made that remark about their meeting being inevitable… She frowned and her companion said instantly: ‘You have difficulty? My writing, perhaps?’
She hastened to reassure him; she mustn’t allow her thoughts to wander; a month was hardly time enough to get the book ready for the publisher and certainly didn’t allow for any other thoughts than those concerned with it.
The day passed pleasantly; her elderly companions absorbed her into their household with kindly speed, so that she felt at once at ease with them—indeed, they kept her talking so long after dinner that Juffrouw Naald came in, addressed them in severe tones and bore her off to her room, where she pointed to the bed, turned on the bath and produced a glass of hot milk for Cressida to drink—not that she needed any inducement to sleep; her head had no sooner touched the pillow than she was in deep slumber.
It was after breakfast on the third morning, while she was typing out a chapter which Doctor van Blom had decided was now complete, that Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida, her fingers arrested above the keys, wished him a cool good morning and wondered why she should feel so pleased to see him. After all, he hadn’t shown any particular liking for her; indeed, he appeared to dismiss her as a necessary nuisance in his partners’ household. Perhaps it was only because she had been wondering about him—his work, where he lived… She sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, waiting for him to speak.
‘Nose to the grindstone, I see,’ he observed without bothering to return her good morning or ask her how she fared. Instead he turned back to open the door for Juffrouw Naald, who steamed in with a coffee tray, set it on the desk, glanced at them in turn with coy speculation, and went away again.
There were two cups on the tray, and: ‘You pour,’ said Doctor van der Teile.
‘I have my coffee at ten o’clock with the doctors, thank you,’ Cressida told him a little crossly; he was interrupting her work and disturbing her mind too, and why shouldn’t he pour his own coffee?
‘It’s only nine o’clock, and I missed my breakfast,’ and he managed, despite his size and obvious splendid health, to look and sound wistful and half starved. ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘be a dear kind girl.’ He lifted the lid of the dish on the tray. ‘Buttered toast—bless old Naaldtje!’
Cressida picked up the coffee-pot, a handsome silver one of a size made for giants. ‘She is extremely kind,’ she observed primly.
He took his cup from her, sat down behind his partner’s desk and began on the toast. ‘She is also very romantic; she has been trying to find me a suitable wife for the last ten years. She contrives to bring to my notice every likely female she happens to approve of and offer them for my inspection. I rather fancy that you are the latest.’
Cressida choked into her coffee. ‘What utter rubbish! I have no intention—it’s too silly…’
‘Well,