Caroline's Waterloo. Бетти Нилс
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She said quite clearly: ‘You have no need to be quite so unfeeling. Give me a needle and thread and I’ll do it myself.’
She heard his crack of laughter before she went back into limbo again.
She drifted in and out of sleep several times during the night and each time she opened her eyes it was to see, rather hazily, someone sitting by her bed. He took no notice of her at all, but wrote and read and wrote again, and something about his austere look convinced her that it was the owner of the voice who had declared that she was concussed.
‘I’m not concussed,’ she said aloud, and was surprised that her voice sounded so wobbly.
He had got to his feet without answering her, given her a drink and said in a voice which wasn’t going to take no for an answer: ‘Go to sleep.’
It seemed a good idea; she closed her eyes.
The next time she woke, although the room was dim she knew that it was day, for the reading lamp by the chair was out. The man had gone and Stacey sat there, reading a book.
‘Hullo,’ said Caro in a much stronger voice; her head still ached and so did her leg, but she had stopped feeling dreamlike.
Stacey got up and came over to the bed. ‘Caro, do you feel better? You gave us all a fright, I can tell you!’
Caro looked carefully round the room, trying not to move her head because of the pain. It was a splendid apartment, its walls hung with pale silk, its rosewood furniture shining with age and polishing. The bed she was in had a draped canopy and a silken bedspread, its beauty rather marred by the cradle beneath it, guarding her injured leg.
‘What happened’ she asked. ‘There was a very cross man, wasn’t there?’
Stacey giggled. ‘Oh, ducky, you should have heard yourself! It’s an enormous house and he’s so good-looking you blink…’
Caroline closed her eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘We all fell over, and you cut your leg open on Clare’s pedal—it whizzed round and gashed it badly, and you fell on to one of those milestones and knocked yourself out.’
‘Are you all right? You and Clare and Miriam?’
‘Absolutely, hardly a scratch between us—only you, Caro—we’re ever so sorry.’ She patted Caro’s arm. ‘I’ve got to tell Professor Thoe van Erckelens you’re awake.’
Caro still had her eyes shut. ‘What an extraordinary name…’
Her hand was picked up and her pulse taken and she opened her eyes. Stacey had gone, the man—presumably the Professor—was there, towering over her.
He grunted to himself and then asked: ‘What is your name, young lady?’
‘Caroline Tripp.’ She watched his stern mouth twitch at the corners; possibly her name sounded as strange to him as his did to her. ‘I feel better, thank you.’ She added, ‘It was kind of you to sit with me last night.’
He had produced an ophthalmoscope from somewhere and was fitting it together. ‘I am a doctor, Miss Tripp—a doctor’s duty is to his patient.’
Unanswerable, especially with her head in such a muddled state. He examined her eyes with care and silently and then spoke to someone she couldn’t see. ‘I should like to examine the leg, please.’
It was Stacey who turned back the coverlet and removed the cradle before unwinding the bandage which covered Caro’s leg from knee to ankle.
‘Did you stitch it?’ asked Caro, craning her neck to see.
A firm hand restrained her. ‘You would be foolish to move your head too much,’ she was told. ‘Yes, I have cleaned and stitched the wound in your leg. It is a deep, jagged cut and you will have to rest it for some days.’
‘Oh, I can’t do that,’ said Caro, still not quite in control of her woolly wits, ‘I’m on duty in four days’ time.’
‘An impossibility—you will remain here until I consider you fit to return.’
‘There must be a hospital…’ Her head was beginning to throb.
‘As a nurse you should be aware of the importance of resting both your brain and your leg. Kindly don’t argue.’
She was feeling very peculiar again, rather as though she were lying in a mist, listening to people’s voices but quite unable to focus them with her tired eyes. ‘You can’t possibly be married,’ she mumbled, ‘and you sound as though you hate me—you must be a mi—mi…’
‘Misogynist.’
She had her eyes shut again so that she wouldn’t cry. He was being very gentle, but her leg hurt dreadfully; she was going to tell him so, but she dropped off again.
Next time she woke up it was Clare by the bed and she grinned weakly and said: ‘I feel better.’
‘Good. Would you like a cup of tea?—it’s real strong tea, like we make at Oliver’s.’
It tasted lovely; drinking it, Caroline began to feel that everything was normal again. ‘There’s some very thin bread and butter,’ suggested Clare. Caro devoured that too; she had barely swallowed the last morsel before she was asleep again.
It was late afternoon when she woke again. The lamp was already lighted and the Professor was sitting beside it, writing. ‘Don’t you have any patients?’ asked Caroline.
He glanced up from his writing. ‘Yes. Would you like a drink?’
She had seen the tray with a glass and jug on it, on the table by her bed. ‘Yes, please—I can help myself; I’m feeling fine.’
He took no notice at all but got up, put an arm behind her shoulders, lifted her very gently and held the glass for her. When she had finished he laid her down again and said: ‘You may have your friends in for ten minutes,’ and stalked quietly out of the room.
They crept in very silently and stood in a row at the foot of the bed, looking at her. ‘You’re better,’ said Miriam, ‘the Professor says so.’ And then: ‘We’re going back tomorrow morning.’
Caro tried to sit up and was instantly thrust gently back on to her pillow. ‘You can’t—you can’t leave me here! He doesn’t like me—why can’t I go to hospital if I’ve got to stay? How are you going?’
‘Noakes—that’s the sort of butler who was at the gate when we fell over—he’s to drive us to the Hoek. The bikes are to be sent back later.’
‘He’s quite nice,’ said Clare, ‘the Professor, I mean—he’s a bit terse but he’s been a perfect host. I don’t think he likes us much but then of course, he’s quite old, quite forty, I should think; he’s always reading or writing and he’s away a lot—Noakes says he’s a very important man in his profession.’ She giggled, ‘You can hardly hear that he’s Dutch, his English is so good, and isn’t it funny that Noakes comes from Paddington? but he’s been here for years and years—he’s married to the cook. There’s a housekeeper too, very tall and looks severe but she’s not.’
‘And three maids besides a gardener,’ chimed in Miriam. ‘He must be awfully rich.’
‘You’ll be OK,’ Stacey assured her, ‘you’ll be back in no time. Do you want us to do anything for you?’
Caro’s head was aching again. ‘Would you ask Mrs Hodge to go on feeding Waterloo until I get back? There’s some money in my purse—will you take some so that she can get his food?’
‘OK—we’ll go round to your place and make sure he’s all right. Do you have to pay Mrs Hodge any rent?’
‘No, I pay in advance each month. Is there enough money for me to get back by boat?’
Stacey counted. ‘Yes—it’s only a