Tangled Autumn

When Sappha returned after a few minutes with a fricassée of chicken and an egg custard, and having placed these delicacies before her, poured a glass of wine and put it within her reach, her patient said: ‘What a great deal of work I am going to give you, Sappha.’

‘Indeed you won’t—in hospital I ran around all day except when I had to sit at a desk and fill in forms and answer the telephone.’

The Baroness speared a morsel of chicken and asked: ‘Will you not be bored just with me to look after?’

‘Not in the least.’ Sappha spoke with a conviction which wasn’t quite genuine, for she had her private doubts on the subject; not only would her working day be far less exacting, her private life was going to be very different too. No more going out on her evenings off duty to the theatre or dinner and dancing or to the cinema. She tried to remember where she had seen the last cinema on the way to Dialach. Probably one had to go back to Inverness, or at least Achnasheen or Garve. Her speculations were brought to an abrupt end by the realisation that even if she were in London there would have been no theatres or cinema or dinners—not with Andrew, at any rate. She said rather abruptly: ‘I’ll fetch your coffee,’ and when she got back her patient had finished her supper and was lying back against her pillows, deep in thought, she roused herself, however, to say pensively: ‘Of course, you’ll have our Gloria—she’s about your age. Such a pretty girl—I expect you know that she’s engaged to Hamish—a dear boy, your uncle thinks very highly of him.’ She watched Sappha pour the coffee and then obediently swallowed the pills she was offered. ‘Loathsome things,’ she muttered crossly, and Sappha laughed and said encouragingly:

‘Yes, but think how much worse everything would be if you didn’t have them.’

‘Since no one has told me what they are or why I am taking them, how can I possibly agree with you?’ her patient wanted to know, and then on the same breath and with a suddenness which took Sappha by surprise: ‘Why are you not married or at least engaged? You’re a pretty girl, young—twenty-three or four?—intelligent and well dressed.’ And when Sappha didn’t reply: ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m just a curious old woman.’

Sappha managed a smile, ‘You’re not old, nor are you rude. I’ll tell you one day, but just for now I’d rather not talk about it.’

She went downstairs, outwardly calm, but inwardly a little ruffled. She had, after all, come several hundred miles in order to be free from just such questions as the Baroness had asked.

Mrs MacFee was in the sitting room, sitting before the fire, and Mr MacFee was standing in the window, engaged in conversation with Dr van Duyren. They paused as she went in, however, and came over to the fire.

‘You two have met, I understand,’ remarked Mr MacFee cheerfully. ‘Well, now you can sit down for a few minutes and get better acquainted.’

‘Just as though,’ thought Sappha crossly, ‘we can’t wait to tell each other how pleased we are to meet again.’ She sat down, accepted a glass of sherry and was instantly affronted by the manner in which Dr van Duyren walked as far away from her as possible, saying: ‘Oh, we shall have time enough for that, I imagine. I’m sure Nurse would prefer to rest a little.’

She gave him an open-mouthed, indignant look while Mrs MacFee observed: ‘Why, of course—such a long journey—how thoughtless we are. You must be worn out, my dear, although I must say that in that uniform you look so fresh and efficient.’

Sappha, murmuring politely, looked up and caught Dr van Duyren’s dark gaze bent upon her and it was obvious that he was laughing. She lifted her rather determined chin, nettled at his lack of interest coupled with his implication that she was a useless creature who needed a rest, or worse, that she looked as though she needed one. And calling her ‘Nurse’ too, she hadn’t been called that for eighteen months or more.

Reading her thoughts with an uncanny accuracy, he said smoothly:

‘Forgive me—I have been guilty of demoting you. You were a Ward Sister, weren’t you?’ He looked apologetic, although she was sure he wasn’t, and when he continued: ‘I shouldn’t have any idea what to call Gloria,’ the remark somehow made things seem worse because it reminded Sappha that she was a stranger in a small community where apparently everyone knew everyone else. She wondered rather wistfully if they would accept her, and then, catching his eyes on her again, unsmiling now, decided that it didn’t matter in the least.

She treated him with a cool politeness throughout supper and when that meal was over, asked him if he would spare her a few minutes as she had something to discuss with him, to which he replied that he would be delighted although she saw that he was a little surprised too, if his eyebrows were anything to go by.

Mr MacFee had urged them to make use of his study; a small dark room, cluttered with old copies of the Statesman and some dusty volumes which looked like encyclopaedias and probably were. It was furnished with a large desk upon which were laid paper, pens and a great deal of blotting paper—her host’s sermon, waiting to be written, thought Sappha as she preceded her companion into the room and took a remarkably uncomfortable chair pushed up against the wall. The doctor had the good sense to rest his bulk against the desk, from which he regarded her without speaking.

She folded her hands tidily in her lap and said austerely: ‘I should be glad of your co-operation, Doctor,’ and watched the eyebrows arch once more.

‘So soon? I am amazed—I thought that that would be the last thing you would wish.’ He sounded mildly amused.

Sappha suppressed a desire to answer him back, knowing that it would get her nowhere. She closed her pretty mouth on the words which bubbled to her lips and was silent for so long that he enquired, still very mild: ‘You wanted me to co-operate, I believe. How?’

‘Your mother is anxious to see your sister—Antonia—she feels that you wouldn’t approve because of her studies. Surely it could be arranged for her to come over by air, even for a day or so?’

He said coldly: ‘Antonia’s schooling is important. She is doing very well—probably she will go on to a university.’

‘Oh, fiddle,’ said Sappha rudely and quite out of patience. ‘Surely she can do some extra homework or something—your mother’s peace of mind is much more important.’ She shot him a sharp glance. ‘Your sister will probably marry before she even gets to university.’

His cold voice became icy. ‘Probably, but as you yourself are aware there is many a slip between the cup and the lip when it comes to marriage.’

Sappha sat very still, staring at him. She had gone rather white even though she appeared quite composed. She hadn’t realised that the man standing in front of her would know about her and Andrew, but of course Uncle John would have told him. She felt humiliation, so bitter that she could taste it, well up within her. She took her lovely eyes from his face and focused them on the wall above his head, and said quietly: ‘We are discussing your mother, I believe,’ and heard his voice, wonderfully kind and gentle saying: ‘I beg your pardon, that was unforgivable of me. I am afraid I have no excuse, only the unsatisfactory one of always having my own way with my family and taking it for granted that no one will gainsay me.’

He crossed the space between them and caught her by the shoulders so that she came to her feet, willy-nilly. ‘Forgive me—if you will, I’ll arrange for Tonia to come over whenever you say.’

Sappha studied his face; his eyes, now that she saw them so close, weren’t black at all but brown, and at that moment they looked warm and friendly. She said uncertainly: ‘I say pretty breastly things myself sometimes—and I forgive you without the bribery—or is it blackmail?’

‘Whichever you like, I’ll take the blame for both.’ He smiled at her so that his face changed completely and just for a second she caught a glimpse of someone quite different, but only a glimpse, not enough to stop her saying: ‘It’s rather difficult to put into words, but I think we should understand that…’ she paused so as to get it quite right, ‘some people don’t get on very well—I think perhaps we are all like that.’

‘Ah,’ he said blandly, ‘mutual dislike and so forth—is that what you mean? It has been known. Well, in that case, we must conceal our true feelings for each other under the guise of good fellowship, mustn’t we?’ He walked a little away from her. ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult, for I go back to Holland tomorrow and you will have plenty of time to practise a friendly approach before I return. Now, shall we go back to the drawing room? I usually spend half an hour with Mother at this time if you have no objection. I’ll be gone early tomorrow morning, so you won’t need to strain your friendly approach.’

It wasn’t until they had parted with outward goodwill and she was sitting with the MacFees that she came to the conclusion that he had been laughing silently when he had made that last remark.

Sappha had expected to spend a wretched night; leaving London had been a wrench, and the peace and quiet she had anticipated in the Highlands had been strangely ruffled by her meeting with Dr van Duyren. She went to bed prepared to lie awake, and promptly slept, to awaken only when Meg, the little daily maid, came in with her morning tea.

‘It’s a fine bright day, Miss,’ she observed as she drew the curtains, revealing a glimpse of the sea and the rugged coastline beyond the rooftops. ‘The Baron left with the sun on him.’

Sappha sat up, tossed her hair over her shoulders and yawned. ‘Baron who?’ she enquired, not quite awake.

Meg turned a surprised face towards her. ‘Why, miss, the Baron, ye ken, though maybe ye call him the doctor, but here in the village he gets his rightful title.’

Sappha sipped her tea. ‘Oh, Dr van Duyren, the Baroness’s son.’

Meg nodded. ‘The Baron,’ she stated simply. ‘Breakfast is at half past eight, I was to tell you.’ She went away, leaving Sappha to ponder this titbit of information. She had never met a baron before; she supposed, after due thought, that he was very like a baron should be—the very name conjured up a swashbuckling, high-handed gentleman, for ever shouting down his inferiors and being charming when it suited him. She got up and dressed rapidly, reminding herself the while of everything about him that annoyed her.

Her patient was awake after a good night and very ready to talk while Sappha performed the few necessary tasks prior to bringing up her breakfast. Her son, she told Sappha, had left at first light to board a plane at Inverness and she wasn’t at all sure how long it would be before he would be coming again, for as well as running a practice with his two partners, he lectured in Groningen.

‘Ah, yes—somewhere in the north of Holland, then,’ said Sappha, shaking down the thermometer, and was taken back when the Baroness said touchily: ‘Not North Holland—our home is in Dokkum, which is in Friesland. Groningen, of course, is not.’

Sappha begged her pardon, made a mental note to have a look at an atlas when she got downstairs, and besought her patient to open her mouth.

Uncle John came later that morning and spent a long time examining his patient, and a still longer time talking to Sappha about her. He was pleased with the results of the operation he had performed; the tumour had been removed before it could do lasting damage and the bones were hardening once more with the increased calcium, moreover the renal failure was improving at a heartening rate, but he warned Sappha of the depression which was bound to attack the Baroness from time to time—the aftermath of her rare disease. ‘But we’ll pull her through, I have no doubt’, he said cheerfully, then asked without pause: ‘I suppose Rolf has gone?’

Sappha gave her uncle a level look. ‘You mean Dr van Duyren—or should I say Baron van Duyren?’

He returned her look with an innocent one of his own. ‘My dear, how should I know? Everyone around here calls him Rolf—the people in the town address him as Baron, I believe, but I hardly think he would expect you to address him as such. Don’t you like him?’

Sappha pinkened faintly. She said crossly: ‘How ever should I know, Uncle John? I’ve hardly spoken to him.’ She picked up a batch of forms and went on in a businesslike way: ‘Shall I fill these in for you to sign? I expect you’re taking them with you.’

Dr McInroy arrived just as her uncle was preparing to leave. He was a sturdy man in his early thirties, of middle height, and with good features and bright blue eyes. After he had greeted the specialist, he turned to Sappha with a warm smile, saying: ‘Miss Devenish—I’ve heard all about you from Gloria and I’m delighted to welcome you to Dialach.’ He sounded so genuinely pleased to meet her that Sappha found herself smiling widely as she shook hands, but even as she did so, she had a fleeting recollection of her meeting with Dr van Duyren, who hadn’t greeted her at all…but there was no time to indulge her own thoughts; the two doctors began to discuss their patient, and as they seemed to take it for granted that she should stay with them, she concentrated upon the subject in hand, so when she was drawn into their conversation from time to time she was able to join in in a manner which caused Dr MacInroy to look at her with something like respect and remark:

‘You know a great deal about osteitis fibrosa cystica—have you seen one before? It’s a rare condition.’

Sappha shook her head. ‘No, never, that’s why I read up all I could about it before I came—I picked a few brains too.’ They all laughed and presently she left them to return to her patient.

The Baroness was lying back in bed looking bored. As well she might, thought Sappha, with only one leg and one arm available. She bustled around with an exaggerated cheerfulness getting ready to bedbath her patient, and presently, while she was doing this, asked: ‘What else do you do—other than reading?’

‘Oh, crosswords—there’s nothing else with one hand…’ The Baroness spoke listlessly and Sappha made haste to say: ‘Uncle John is delighted with your progress—he wants you to do a few exercises each day, so that when your arm comes out of plaster it will be fairly strong. I’m going to get you out of bed and into a chair by the window—there’s a lovely view. I suppose you don’t paint?’

Her patient looked surprised and faintly interested. ‘Yes, I used to—how did you know?’

‘I didn’t—but I was thinking if we could get hold of some paints and a canvas or some paper, you could amuse yourself.’