Paradise for Two. Betty Neels
“That won’t do. I’ll come and see my aunt, Pretty—it’s no good her having a diet if she’s not going to keep to it. Don’t you worry now, go and have your breakfast, if you like. I’ll let you know what’s happening.”
She got out of bed and flung on her gown, a gossamer affair of crêpe-de-Chine and lace which matched her nightie.
“That cost a pretty penny,” declared Pretty severely.
Prudence agreed readily. “I like pretty things.” She smiled at Pretty and stuck her feet into satin slippers trimmed extravagantly with satin bows, then took herself out of the room to visit her aunt.
Mrs Wesley was sitting up in her bed sipping milkless tea in a discontented fashion, and it took all of ten minutes to coax her to have the breakfast she was allowed and not the one she wanted, but Prudence was used to dealing with recalcitrant patients, and presently she went away to dress and go downstairs for her own breakfast—the last peaceful minutes she was to have until lunch time, as it happened. Between them, Mrs Wesley and her sister kept her busy for the entire morning; their demands for this and that and the other were numerous, uttered with charm and a stately determination to have their own way. It was a relief to everyone when they consented to rest on their beds after lunch. Prudence tucked them up with soothing murmurs, waited until she heard their gentle snores, and escaped into the gardens. It was a splendid day, warm for the time of year. She found a pleasant seat in a quiet corner and opened her book.
It was obvious that each meal was going to be a battle of wills between herself and her godmother. Prudence reflected that it was a good thing that Mevrouw ter Brons Huizinga had a well-staffed household, devoted to her. There was to be no lack of help when Prudence was summoned to get that lady from her bed, an undertaking which took a great deal of time and almost all her patience. All in all, she thought as she got ready for bed that night, a busy day, and as far as she could see, all the other days would be the same.
They were, at least for the next three days, but by now she had a routine, frequently disrupted by the vagaries of the two elderly ladies, but none the less workable. Not speaking Dutch was a disadvantage, of course, but it was amazing what could be done with arm-waving and pointing.
The fourth day came and went and there was no sign of Haso, and although Prudence reminded herself that she disliked the man intensely, none the less, she wished he would come. It had been rather unfair, she reflected, giving way to a self-pity she seldom indulged in, that she had been left with the responsibility of the aunts. Of course, she could get his partner at any time, but that wasn’t the same thing… She got into bed with something of a bounce and declared to the empty room, “Well, I suppose he’ll turn up sooner or later.”
Sooner, as it turned out.
She wakened to the sound of Pretty’s urgent voice hissing at her.
“Miss Prudence, for heaven’s sake, wake up—there’s something wrong with Madam, and there you are snoring your head off!”
Prudence opened one eye. “I never snore.”
Pretty gave her shoulder a little shake. “Oh, do listen—you must listen! I know there’s something wrong, Madam’s lying there and I can’t rouse her! I can’t think why I went to see if she was all right, but she’s not…”
Prudence was out of her bed, feeling around for her slippers with her feet.
“Hyperglycaemic coma,” she said, although she still wasn’t quite awake.
Pretty said sharply, “Call it anything you like, my Madam’s ill.”
She was quite right; Mrs Wesley, as far as Prudence could judge, was in a diabetic coma, although they couldn’t think of a reason for it. She had eaten her diet, every morsel, at dinner—Prudence herself had seen to that—and her insulin had been the correct dosage. She took a brief look at her godmother and went swiftly to the telephone.
It was Dr ter Brons Huizinga who answered her, and she didn’t waste time with so much as a hello. “Mrs Wesley—she’s in a hyperglycaemic coma—deep, sighing breaths. I’m unable to rouse her at all…”
He cut her short. “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”
Prudence went back to her godmother and then got out the insulin and syringe. “And if you’d go down to the front door and let the doctor in, Pretty?”
He was as good as his word; she was bending over Mrs Wesley when he came into the room.
He didn’t bother to greet her, his, “Well, what has she been eating?” was uttered in a voice which, while not accusing, certainly held no warmth.
“Her normal diet. I had all my meals with her and I’m certain of that.”
He was examining the unconscious figure on the bed. “Aunt Emma—dined in her bed?”
“Yes, of course. She only gets up for an hour or two in the afternoon.”
“She had a normal meal this evening?”
Prudence’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my goodness! Aunt Beatrix went to sit with her…but that was after Pretty had taken the tray away. She had coffee…” She gave a small gasp. “Some friends called to see her today and left a large box of chocolates.” She stared as his expression changed. “You think…?”
“Let us assume that it’s the chocolates.”
He had nothing more to say, but set about the business of dealing with his patient, an intravenous saline drip, soluble insulin given intravenously, following this with an even larger dose by injection, a blood sugar test and specimens taken for testing. He worked quietly, quickly and calmly, talking only when it was necessary, taking it for granted that Prudence knew what she was doing, too.
It was early morning, two hours later, before Mrs Wesley showed signs of coming out of her coma. An hour later, after a small injection of insulin and glucose to counterbalance its effect, she was completely conscious. Prudence heaved a relieved sigh and longed for a cup of tea, just as Pretty poked her head round the door in a cautious manner and hissed, “Tea?”
It was Dr ter Brons Huizinga who answered her in a normal voice.
“A splendid idea, Pretty—and while you are getting it perhaps you, Prudence, would go and get a fruit drink for my aunt.”
There was a beautiful dawn breaking as she went down to the kitchen; she fetched the drink, gave it to a remarkably subdued patient and then accepted a cup of tea from the tray Pretty had fetched.
“I’m going back home,” observed the doctor. “I want two-hourly testing, and for the time being around thirty grams of carbohydrate four-hourly. I’ll be back after morning surgery, but please phone if you’re worried.”
Prudence looked at him with cold dislike, but said with deceptive meekness, “Very well, Doctor. Presumably you’ll arrange for someone to take over while I dress, eat breakfast and cast an eye over your other aunt?”
He said cordially, “Most certainly, since you feel you can’t cope.”
She said tartly, “Don’t be so unreasonable—of course I can cope, and you know it, but I doubt if you intend to take your surgery dressed as you are and with a bristly chin, too. So why should I spend the morning in a dressing-gown until you choose to do something about it?”
“It’s a charming garment; for my part, you have no need to dress.”
Her dark eyes flashed with temper; she said with chilling civility, “I suppose you can’t help being rude!”
He looked as if he was going to laugh, but all he said was, “If you could dress yourself and eat breakfast in half an hour, I’ll stay—but not a moment longer.”
Prudence sniffed, “How kind!” She cast a glance at Aunt Beatrix, lying with her eyes shut, looking more or less normal again, and whisked herself away.
Pretty, encountered on her way to her room,