Fate Is Remarkable. Бетти Нилс
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on the other side of the department, and began her own clearing up. Dr Coles had gone to answer a call from one of the wards, and she was alone with Dr van Elven, who was sitting back in his chair, presumably deep in thought. She bustled about the little room putting it to rights and piling the case notes ready to take back to the office. She was trying not to remember that it was just a week since she had gone out to dinner with Steven, but her thoughts, now that she was free to think again after the afternoon’s rush, kept returning to the same unhappy theme. She had quite forgotten the man sitting so quietly at the desk. When he spoke she jumped visibly and said hurriedly:
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t hear what you were saying.’
He withdrew an abstracted gaze from the ceiling, stared at her from under half-closed lids, and got up. At the door he said quietly:
‘It gets easier as the days go by—especially if there is plenty of work to do. Good night, Sister Dunn.’
Sarah stood staring, her mouth open. He was well out of earshot when she at length said ‘Good night’ in reply.
There was a message for her when she got over to the Home, from Steven, saying that he had to see her, and would she be outside at seven o’clock. To apologise, she surmised; but he could have done that in his note, and she had no intention of running to his least word. She changed rapidly; she had a good excuse to go out, and was glad of it. She would go and see about Mrs Brown’s room. There was actually plenty of time, but as Dr van Elven had said, being busy helped.
Phipps Street looked depressing; the rain had stopped, but the wind was fresh and the evening sky unfriendly. Sarah banged on the front door and the same man opened it to her. He looked at her suspiciously at first, perhaps because she was in a raincoat and a headscarf and looked different, but when he saw who she was he opened the door wide.
‘It’s you again, miss. Thought you’d be along. Come to ‘ave a look, I suppose, and do a bit o’ choosing. ‘Ow’s the old girl?’
Sarah edged past him. ‘She’s fine—and settled in very nicely, though of course she’s longing to come home.’
He lumbered ahead of her up the miserable staircase.
‘Well, o’course. ‘Oo wants ter stay in ‘ospital when they got a good ‘ome?’
They had reached the little landing and he flung open Mrs Brown’s door with something of a flourish. It was empty of furniture—of everything, she noted with mounting astonishment. Two men were painting the woodwork; one of them turned round as she went in, greeted her civilly and asked if she had come to choose the wallpaper. Her grey eyes opened wide and she turned to the landlord. ‘But surely you want to decide that?’ she wanted to know.
‘Lor’ luv yer, miss, no. What should I know about fancy wallpaper?’ He let out a great bellow of laughter and went out, shutting the door behind him. Sarah looked around her. The room was being redecorated quite lavishly. The hideous piping which probably had something to do with the water tap on the landing had been cased in: one of the men was fitting a new sash-cord to the elderly window frame he was painting. The paintwork was grey, the walls, stripped of several layers of paper, looked terrible. There were several books of wallpaper patterns in the centre of the room, on the bare floor. After an undecided moment, Sarah knelt down and opened the first of them. The man at the window said:
‘That’s right, ducks, you choose something you like; we’ll be ready to ‘ang it soon as the paint’s dry.’
She gave him a puzzled look. ‘Well, if there’s no one else.’
She was contemplating a design of pink cabbage roses when she heard someone running upstairs and the door was opened by Dr van Elven. He nodded to the two men, and if he was surprised to see Sarah, she had to admit that he didn’t show it. He said, ‘Hullo. What a relief to see you—now you can choose the wallpaper.’
She had to laugh. ‘It’s like a conspiracy—when I got here the landlord seemed to think that was why I had come, and so did this painter. I really only came to see if there was any cleaning to do before Mrs Brown came home.’
‘Not for ten days at least.’ His tone was dry.
She was annoyed to feel her cheeks warming. ‘Well, I wanted to get away from the hospital.’ She turned back to the pattern book, determined not to say more, and was relieved when he said casually:
‘That’s splendid. Have you seen anything you like?’
‘Mrs Brown likes pink,’ she said slowly, and frowned. ‘Surely if the landlord is having this done, he should choose?’ She looked up enquiringly, saw his face and said instantly: ‘You’re doing it.’ She added, ‘Sir.’
‘My name is Hugo,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You are, of course, aware of that. I think that after three years we might dispense with sir and Sister, unless we are actually—er—at work. I hope you agree?’
She was a little startled and uncertain what to say, but it seemed it was of no consequence, for he continued without waiting for her reply:
‘Good, that’s settled. Now, shall we get this vexed question of wallpaper dealt with?’
He got down beside her as he spoke, and opened a second book of patterns, and they spent a pleasant half hour admiring and criticising in a lighthearted fashion until finally Sarah said:
‘I think Mrs Brown would like the roses. They’re very large and pink, aren’t they, and they’ll make the room look even smaller than it is, but they’re pretty—I mean for someone who’s lived for years with green paint and margarine walls, they’re pretty.’
The man beside her uncoiled himself and came to his feet with the agility of a much younger man. ‘Right. Roses it shall be. Now, furniture—nothing too modern, I think, but small—I had the idea of looking around one or two of those secondhand places to try and find similar stuff. Perhaps you would come with me, Sarah. Curtains too—I’ve no idea …’
He contrived to look so helpless that she agreed at once.
‘Would eleven o’clock on Saturday suit you?’ he asked. She gave him a swift suspicious glance, which he returned with a look of such innocent blandness that she was instantly ashamed of her thoughts. She got to her feet and said that yes, that would do very well, and waited while he talked to the two men. When he had finished she said a little awkwardly:
‘Well, I think I’ll go now. Goodnight, everyone.’
The two workmen chorused a cheerful, ‘‘Night, ducks,’ but the doctor followed her out. On the stairs he remarked mildly:
‘What a shy young woman you are!’ and then, ‘Let me go first, this staircase is a death-trap.’
With his broad back to her, she found the courage to say, ‘I know I’m shy—it’s stupid in a woman of my age, isn’t it? I try very hard not to be; it’s all right while I’m working. I—I thought I’d got over it, but now I seem worse than ever.’
Her voice tailed away, as she remembered Steven. They had reached the landing and he paused and turned round to look at her. ‘My dear girl, being shy doesn’t matter in the least; didn’t you know that? It can be positively restful in this day and age.’
They went on down to the little hall and Sarah felt warmed by the comfort of his words; it was extraordinary how he put her at her ease, almost as though they were friends of a lifetime. She stood by the door, while he, in a most affable manner, pointed out to Mr Ives, the landlord, the iniquity of having a staircase in the house that would most certainly be the death of someone, including himself, unless he did something about it very soon. Mr Ives saw them to the door, and stood on the pavement while the doctor opened the car door for Sarah to get in. It was only when they were on their way back to St Edwin’s that she realised that there had been nothing said about taking her back. The doctor had ushered her into his car, and she had got in without protest.
She hoped he didn’t think she’d been angling for