The Little Dragon. Betty Neels
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have his work cut out. She got into bed, her mind busy—longing to know more about him.
Mrs Dowling had said that he was poor, and that didn’t matter at all to Constantia; she would have liked to know more about him as a person. Did he have a large practice, she wondered, and was his sister his only relation other than the children? And surely there must be a girl somewhere in his life? She curled up in bed, trying to imagine what she would be like—a very special girl; the doctor deserved that. He was just about the nicest man she had ever met. She wondered how old he was, too. Perhaps, if they saw each other fairly frequently while she was in Delft, she could ask him. She began to worry as to how much longer she would be there; Mrs Dowling wasn’t quite like her other cases, who, sooner or later, had got well enough for her to leave them. Mrs Dowling didn’t really need a nurse at all, and if she had been sensible she could have learned to give herself her insulin injections and cope with her own diet. Constantia found herself hoping that she would be needed for some time yet; true, it was boring with no actual nursing to do, and Mrs Dowling was just about the most tiresome patient she had ever encountered.
And as if to emphasise that opinion, Mrs Dowling was worse than ever the next morning. Her breakfast was uneatable; Constantia had hurt her when she had given her injection; an old friend who was a cornerstone of her bridge table had gone to England and left her with a choice of most inferior substitutes. And the wrong newspaper had been delivered.
Constantia, busy charting insulin doses and sugar levels, was told to leave what she was doing and fetch the correct one, ‘and at the same time you might as well go into that needlework shop in Gerritstraat and see if that embroidery silk I ordered has arrived.’ She added crossly: ‘And go now.’
Constantia went, glad to escape and glad to have the opportunity of telephoning Doctor Sperling to let him know that Mrs Dowling’s tests were all over the place again. Either she was hopelessly unstabilised, which in view of the doctor’s treatment was absurd, or she was eating something she shouldn’t be.
There was a telephone in the hotel close by, so she left a message with the doctor’s secretary and went on her way to the newsagent. She had collected the newspaper and the embroidery silk and was on her way back through the shopping precinct when Doctor van der Giessen came out of the same door as he had done before.
‘Playing truant?’ he wanted to know.
She laughed. ‘No; changing the newspaper and fetching something Mrs Dowling ordered.’
He fell into step beside her. ‘Why can’t she do these things for herself?’ he enquired mildly.
‘Well—I’m not sure…’ She hesitated. ‘Is it all right if I tell you something, or isn’t it ethical?’
He smiled down at her. ‘I don’t suppose it would matter—Doctor Sperling and I have known each other for quite some time. What seems to be the matter?’
‘I left a message with Doctor Sperling’s secretary. Mrs Dowling isn’t stabilising and she ought to be.’
‘Ah—the odd hunk of cheese or bar of chocolate?’ he commented placidly. ‘I shouldn’t be at all surprised—a few days in hospital would see to that. I expect Doctor Sperling will have that at the back of his mind.’ They were crossing the bridge and weren’t hurrying in the sunshine. ‘The children want to know when you’re coming to tea again.’
‘Oh, do they? How sweet of them.’
‘On your next half day, perhaps?’
‘I’d like that very much—about four o’clock? It will be Wednesday.’
‘I’ve a surgery until three-thirty, come then—if no one answers the door walk in and make yourself at home.’
‘I could get the tea if you wouldn’t mind me going to the kitchen,’ Constantia offered.
‘Splendid.’ They had come to a halt in front of the hotel again.
‘I must go,’ she said regretfully.
‘Tot ziens, then.’
She watched him disappear down a small street in the direction of Oude Delft and then went slowly on her way. Life was really rather pleasant, she decided as she waited for Nel to open the door.
It wasn’t quite as pleasant as she went into Mrs Dowling’s room.
‘There you are!’ Her patient’s harsh voice was pitched high with impatience; she scarcely glanced up from manicuring her nails. ‘You’ve been a long time.’
‘Not quite half an hour,’ said Constantia quietly. She put the newspaper and the silk on a table with the little pile of change, which Mrs Dowling leaned over and counted carefully before telling Constantia to give her her handbag. ‘Did you meet someone?’ she demanded.
‘Doctor van der Giessen.’
Mrs Dowling closed her handbag with a snap. ‘Him?’ Her lip curled in a sneer. ‘Sweet on him, are you? I told you that he was as poor as a church mouse—so rumour says—and likely to stay that way, with three children to look after. More fool he!’
Constantia was collecting the odds and ends Mrs Dowling had shed around the room. The remark ruffled her patience and her temper, but she had no intention of letting her patient see that. ‘Probably he prefers children to money,’ she commented lightly, ‘some people do.’
Mrs Dowling shot her a peevish look. ‘That’s ridiculous, and you’re being impertinent, Nurse.’
Constantia let that pass. ‘Would you like cheese or ham with your salad?’ she wanted to know.
‘Neither. You can think up something else; that’s what I pay you for, isn’t it? I’m tired of this dreary diet. I’m sure Doctor Sperling has exaggerated the whole business—I’ll have escalope of veal with a cream sauce.’
‘Followed by a diabetic coma,’ Constantia added silently while she observed out loud, ‘I’m afraid a diet is necessary, Mrs Dowling. Once you’re stabilised Doctor Sperling will allow you more variety. I’ll go and see about your lunch and then give you your injection.’
She was almost at the door when Mrs Dowling called after her in her penetrating voice: ‘Are you going to ask for time off to meet your doctor? I daresay he could afford a cup of coffee somewhere.’
Constantia fought and conquered a desire to throw something at her patient and went out of the room without saying a word, although she muttered nastily to herself on her way to the kitchen.
Wednesday came; Constantia bounced out of bed, observed that it was a lovely morning, even if cold still, and set about dealing with her patient’s wants. It was almost lunchtime when the doorbell rang and a visitor was shown in by Nel—a young man with rather vapid good looks, who embraced Mrs Dowling with every appearance of delight and addressed her as Vera.
‘My nephew, Willy Caxton—passing through Delft and lunching with us,’ explained Mrs Dowling briefly. She nodded at Constantia. ‘My nurse.’
They exchanged a cool greeting because Constantia was smarting under the assumption that she had no name and he obviously didn’t consider it worth his while to ask. ‘Give Mr Caxton a drink,’ decreed Mrs Dowling, ‘and then go and see about lunch. Nel should have it ready.’
It was almost one o’clock. Constantia, hurrying a Nel who didn’t want to be hurried, found herself fretting and fuming that she wouldn’t be able to escape for her half day. Luckily she wasn’t expected until half past three…
It was during lunch that Mrs Dowling told Constantia that she was to escort her nephew to as many of the local places of interest as could be squashed into a couple of hours.
‘It’s my half day, Mrs Dowling, and I’ve already made other arrangements.’
‘Nonsense, what arrangements could you possibly have?’ Her employer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Going out with your doctor, I suppose? Well, he’ll just have