An Apple from Eve

Dr Bell looked awkward and she wondered why. ‘At the latest tomorrow morning. Have you told the boys?’

‘I’m about to telephone them.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s almost five o’clock: If I ring Stowe now they can put them on a train as soon as possible and they could be home this evening—late this evening.’ She frowned a little. ‘Tomorrow morning wouldn’t be a better idea?’ She looked past the old man. ‘Father’s very ill, I can see that for myself, but if they do a valve replacement…’

Dr Bell muttered something in a soothing voice. ‘Travelling will be easier for them this evening—the trains are always crowded in the morning and taxis are harder to get.’

She supposed he was right, but she was too worried and unhappy to think about it. She telephoned the boys’ school and was assured that they would be sent home at once. She went to find Ellen, sent her to the kitchen to coax Mrs Cross to stay a bit later and get a meal ready, then went herself to her father’s room where Dr Bell was standing by his patient’s bed. ‘I have evening surgery,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll come the moment you want me. I’m afraid there’s nothing much we can do until we have the consultants’ opinions.’

Euphemia drew up a chair and sat down beside her father, sleeping peacefully, a drugged sleep, but she was thankful for it; he wasn’t a man to bear with illness and she couldn’t have borne to have seen him lying there worrying about himself. Presently Ellen came in with a supper tray.

‘I’ll take over when you say so,’ she whispered, but, Euphemia shook her head.

‘I’m not tired, you stay downstairs and make sure everything is ready for the boys. Oh, and be a dear and ring St Cyprian’s and tell them that I can’t come back tonight—explain, will you? I’ll telephone them in the morning.’

Dr Bell came again much later. The Colonel was still unconscious and beyond taking his pulse he did nothing.

‘Shouldn’t he go to hospital?’ asked Euphemia urgently.

‘Dr van Deiderijk thinks it unwise to move him for the moment.’

She looked at the kind elderly face she had known for all of twenty years. ‘If you say so…’ She sighed. ‘If you hear anything from that man you’ll let me know at once—won’t you?’

‘Of course. You don’t like him, my dear?’

‘No,’ said Euphemia flatly.

The boys got home late that night and in the early hours of the morning her father died. Euphemia, sitting with him, didn’t call them from their beds; there was no point in doing so. Dr Bell came in answer to her telephone call, and surprisingly, Dr van Diederijk came with him. It was almost five o’clock now and a pearly morning that promised to be a warm day, and beside Dr Bell’s hastily dragged on clothes, the Dutchman’s appearance suggested that he had been up, freshly shaved, and immaculately dressed after a long restful night.

Euphemia greeted them with a face stony with fiercely held back grief. It was later, downstairs in the shabby sitting-room, that she asked:

‘Was it your decision not to admit my father to hospital, Dr van Diederijk?’

He was standing before the fireplace, his hands in his pockets.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’ She took a breath and went on in a rush: ‘You took away his only chance! What right had you to do that—he might be alive now if you’d advised operation…’

‘Alive, yes, if you can call it living to be attached to monitoring machines and drips and ECGs. Your father was an intelligent man, he would have been only too aware that he was being kept alive but with no hope of leading a normal life again. It would have been a matter of days only—can you imagine what that would have meant to him? You must know in your heart that I made the right decision—he had been ill for a long time, I understand—far too long for a replacement to be satisfactory. Besides, he wasn’t a young man any more…’

‘Then why wasn’t I told?’ Her voice shook with rage and grief.

‘I have it from Dr Bell that he didn’t wish you to be told.’ He looked at the other man, who nodded.

Euphemia turned her back on them both so that they shouldn’t see the tears. In a moment when she had control of her voice she said: ‘If I’d known, I could have stayed at home and nursed him.’

‘For that very reason he wished nothing to be said. I must say that I can understand his wishes; you must try and understand too.’

She spun round to face him. ‘Well, I don’t, but then I’m not made of ice…he was my father, you know—and even if he weren’t I wouldn’t be so cold-blooded about it as you are!’

She rushed out of the room, brushing past him, one small corner of her numbed brain aware of the faint whiff of expensive aftershave as she did so. She went to the kitchen, made herself a pot of tea, had a hearty cry and pulled herself together. It was all of twenty minutes by the time she had made her way back to the shabby, comfortable sitting-room. The two men were there, waiting patiently, and she asked them in a wooden voice if they would like coffee. She looked a fright by now, her beautiful nose red with weeping, her eyelids swollen, but she really didn’t care. When they refused, she enquired politely if there was anything else to be done, and when Dr Bell told her that he would make all the necessary arrangements, accompanied them to the door and bade them good morning, remarking on the beauty of the day as she did so. Dr Bell patted her shoulder, said he’d be back later and made for his car, while Dr van Diederijk paused on the doorstep. ‘Give yourself a double whisky and go and lie down for a couple of hours,’ he advised her. ‘It will help you to get through the day.’

She didn’t answer him, only gave him a cold glance and went indoors. All the same, she did as he had said. The whisky went straight to her head; she prudently set the alarm for eight o’clock and got on to her bed and fell instantly asleep.

The man was right, she had to admit later. She awoke refreshed and clear-headed, able to tackle the day ahead of her, full of so many problems. It was at the end of it that she began to think about the future. The boys would be all right; their school fees would be covered by a fund their father had set up for them years ago. She herself would be able to keep herself easily enough, but Ellen was a different matter. She couldn’t remain at home by herself, but on the other hand she had had no particular training. Euphemia frowned over the problem and then decided to ask Mr Fish their solicitor’s advice.

She had only the vaguest notion of her father’s income; there had never been much money and the house had grown shabby with the years, but he had lived comfortably and money had been something he had never discussed with her. She dismissed the matter and set herself to writing to various relations and friends. The boys she had sent to stay with friends close by for a couple of days and Ellen was of no use at all, declaring that she couldn’t possibly think of anything except her father’s death. Euphemia had comforted her gently and sent her to bed early, staying up late herself, writing her letters until, quite worn out, she went to bed herself.

She got through the following days with outward calm. She was a girl with plenty of common sense, and it stood her in good stead now. She loved her father and she grieved for him, but life had to go on. He would have been the first to remind her of that.

Aunts, uncles and cousins she barely knew came to the funeral, and when Aunt Thea, a mild-looking middle-aged lady with a deplorable taste in hats, suggested with genuine eagerness that Ellen should go back to Middle Wallop with her for a long visit, Euphemia thanked heaven silently for settling one of her most pressing problems. The boys were going back to school on the following day and she would return to the Men’s Medical ward at St Cyprian’s on the day after that. There only remained the reading of her father’s will, and that would hold no surprises.

She couldn’t have been more mistaken. Sitting in the small room the Colonel had used as his study, watching Mr Fish gather together his papers after the will had been read, Euphemia tried to take it all in and failed. She hadn’t expected there would be much money, but she had never guessed at debts, still less that the house—their loved home—was mortgaged and would have to be sold. Mr Fish had been adamant about that; either she must lay her hands on the very considerable sum the house was worth, or sell it and pay off the mortgage. People, said Mr Fish in his dry, elderly voice, tended to be businesslike about such things. The fact that they were rendering someone homeless was secondary to their instinct for good business.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll think of something,’ Euphemia promised her brothers and sister. ‘No one’s going to do anything for a month at least, there’s plenty of time to fix something up.’ She spoke so cheerfully that they actually believed her.

‘Uncle Tom—would he lend us the money?’ asked Ellen hopefully, and, ‘Cousin Fred drove here in a socking great Jag,’ observed Nicky, the elder of her brothers.

‘But he’s getting married,’ Billy, the youngest, chimed in, and added with all the wisdom of twelve years, ‘He’ll need all his money.’

Euphemia swept them all to their feet. ‘Well, we’re not going to worry about it now, Father wouldn’t have liked it. Ellen, shouldn’t you go and pack, and you two, put out what you need and I’ll pop up presently.’

She went back to the drawing-room where the last of the family were bidding each other goodbye. They met seldom, only at christenings or weddings or funerals, when they enjoyed a good gossip. Dr Bell was still there too. Euphemia whispered: ‘I want to speak to you,’ as she went past him, and when the last of her relatives, barring Aunt Thea who had gone to help Ellen pack, had disappeared through the open gate, she turned to him.

‘Dr Bell, I want your advice. Father has left some debts—not many, but they must be paid, and the house is mortgaged. Mr Fish says we must sell it, but…well, it’s our home. There must be another way of getting the money, only I can’t think of it at the moment.’

He beamed at her, pleased that he could help. ‘There is another way—at least, you can postpone selling the house for a time. Find a tenant, and let it furnished. I believe that might bring in enough to pay the instalments on the mortgage. I’m not going to say it’s the right answer, but it would give you a breathing space, and who knows, something may happen…’

‘You mean win a prize from Ernie or marry a millionaire?’ She beamed at him. ‘Dr Bell, you’re an angel! That’s what I’ll do. How do I start? Advertise? And how much rent should I ask?’ She faltered for a moment. ‘If only Father…’ She blinked back tears and smiled again, a shaky, lopsided smile this time. ‘Bless you for thinking of it, Dr Bell.’

He patted her arm. ‘As I said, it may serve its purpose for a breathing space while you all get adjusted. I’ll ask around—I meet a good many people, someone somewhere will be looking for just such a place as this.’

Ellen and Aunt Thea joined them then and when they had driven off, Ellen tearful but happy to have her immediate future settled for her, Euphemia bade the doctor goodbye and went up to the boys’ room to help them pack. The house seemed very quiet and empty, and would be even more so presently when they had gone. She got out the car and drove them to the station and stood waving until the train was out of sight.

It was getting dark when she got back to the house, with an overcast sky and the threat of thunder. She made herself a pot of tea and ate some of the leftover sandwiches, then went along to her father’s study to start sorting out the papers in his desk. Her sadness had gone beyond tears; she felt numb, anxious to get as much done as possible before she went back to the hospital in the morning. She worked until late into the night and then wandered through the nice old house, wondering if she would be able to let it at a good rent, whether she would ever have the chance to pay off the mortgage; it was for a frighteningly large amount. She was still doing sums in her head when she fell asleep in the pretty bedroom she had had since she was a small girl.

She had been dreading returning to the hospital. She had a great many friends there; she had done her training with most of them, worked her way up the ladder of promotion until she had been offered Men’s Medical two years previously, and now at the age of twenty-seven, she had a safe future before her. Not that she wished to remain a nurse for ever; she wanted to marry, preferably a man with enough money to support her in comfort somewhere in the country—a garden, she had daydreamed idly from time to time, with a donkey and dogs and children to play in it. But none of these things would be of any use unless she loved him and he loved her.

Driving to work through the early morning she realised that her vague dreams would have to go by the board for the present. Ellen had to be thought of, and the boys. No man in his right mind would be prepared to take on a whole family, and even if she succeeded in finding someone to rent their home she would have to go on working. She could see no chance of ever paying the mortgage off, but with each year of instalments paid, there was the chance that something might happen. She turned the car into the hospital forecourt and parked neatly. As she crossed to the swing doors she decided that Ellen would probably marry someone rich who would want to live in the house and thus keep it in the family—a childish notion but comforting none the less.

Everyone was very kind to her. The Senior Nursing Officer, a tart middle-aged lady who seldom had a kind word for anyone, was surprisingly sympathetic, and Euphemia’s own friends lingered on their way to their wards to offer their sympathy. And once on her own ward, her nurses, who liked her because she was sensible and fair and kind as well as very pretty, made it their business to murmur conventional stilted phrases. It was the tray of tea on her desk and the vase of flowers beside it that touched her; they might not have known quite what to say to her, but the tea spoke volumes.

And the patients knew all about it too, all of them, from crabby old Mr Crouch, who disliked everyone on principle, to Dicky, the boy with a heart condition, six feet tall but with the mind of a four-year-old. As she did her morning round, Euphemia received sympathy from each one of the twenty-four beds’ occupants.

She had been prepared for it, but she found that by the end of the day she was worn out. She went off duty finally, made tea; had a long hot bath and went along to telephone Ellen, who it seemed had settled in nicely, although grieving in her gentle way and anxious to know what was to be done about their home. Euphemia reassured her firmly and went back to her room to write to the boys. By the time she had done that she was tired; another pot of tea with her friends coming off their evening duty, and she was ready for bed. She hadn’t expected to sleep, but she did.

Sir Richard Blake, doing his weekly round the next morning, had something to say too. He considered her a sensible girl, with no nonsense about her, and he had been acquainted with the Colonel. He swept round the ward barking questions at the students trailing behind him, leaving them limp at the ward doors when he had finished, although his patients, to whom he showed nothing but benevolence, regretted to see him go. But he didn’t leave immediately. Euphemia, bidding him good morning and speeding him on his way with a polite ‘Thank you, sir,’ was surprised when he marched into her office with a brusque: ‘A minute of your time, Sister.’

She followed him in and closed the door, trying hard to remember if she had done anything awful since his last round.