The Fifth Day of Christmas

Ten minutes later he was sitting at the kitchen table devouring the food she had cooked, while she made the tea. ‘Thank heaven there’s a gas stove,’ Julia commented as she fetched two cups. ‘The wind took the electric and the telephone.’

‘How very whimsical!’

Julia poured him another cup of tea and then filled her own cup. In the little silence which followed a clock wheezed dryly and struck twice, and the wind, taking on a new strength, howled like a banshee round the house. Julia looked up to see the stranger’s eyes fastened on her. He smiled and said, ‘If you trust me, go to bed—I’ll clear up and find myself a room.’

She got to her feet and picked up her torch, yawning as she did so. ‘There’s your candle,’ she indicted a brass candlestick with its snuffer which she had put ready for him. ‘Don’t come into my room, will you? It’s at the top of the stairs—nor the third one on the right—that’s my patient’s. Good night.’

She wondered why he looked amused as he wished her good night, getting politely to his feet as he did so, which small action somehow reassured her.

Not that she needed reassuring, she told herself, lying curled up in her chilly bed; the fire had died down and the warmth it had engendered had already been swallowed up by the icy air. She shivered and decided that she liked him, even though she knew nothing about him, neither his name nor his business, but she liked his face—a face she felt she could trust, with strong features and steady blue eyes and a mouth that was firm and kind. And even though he had called her a fool—which she was bound to admit was the truth—he had also called her beautiful. She fell uneasily asleep, smiling a little.

Something wakened her in the pitch darkness, a sound, not repeated. She switched on the torch to find that it was just after six o’clock, and sat up in bed, the better to listen. The sound came again—a hoarse croak. She was out of bed, thrusting her feet into her slippers as the list of post-operative complications liable to follow an appendicectomy on a diabetic patient unfolded itself in her still tired mind. Carbuncles, gangrene, broncho-pneumonia…the croak came again which effectively ruled out the first two, and when she reached her patient’s bedroom and saw Mary’s flushed face as she lay shivering in bed, she was almost sure that it was the third.

As she approached the bed Mary said irritably, ‘I feel so ill, and I can’t stop coughing—it hurts.’

‘I’ll sit you up a bit,’ said Julia with a calm she didn’t feel. Sudden illness on a hospital ward was one thing, but in an isolated house cut off from the outside world, it was quite a different matter. She fetched more pillows and propped the girl up, took her temperature which was as high as she had expected it to be, and gave her a drink, while all the time she was deciding what to do. Presently, when Mary was as comfortable as she could be made, Julia said,

‘I’m going to send someone for the doctor—once we’ve got you on an antibiotic you’ll feel better within hours. Will you stay quietly until I come back?’

She found the stranger in the third room she looked into, lying on his back on a vast fourposter bed, fast asleep. She put out an urgent hand and tapped a massive shoulder and he opened his eyes at once, staring at her with a calm which she found most comforting.

Before she could speak he said reflectively, ‘The hair’s a little wild, but I still think you’re a beautiful girl. What’s the matter?’

Julia swept her long black hair impatiently on one side the better to see him. ‘My patient—she’s ill. I’m afraid I must ask you to go and find a doctor or a telephone or—or something. I can’t ask the ambulance men to go; they’ve got to go back to London today and they must have a night’s sleep.’

He had sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. ‘And I, being a man of leisure, am the obvious one to sacrifice on the altar of frostbite and exposure.’

Julia just stopped herself in time from wringing her hands. ‘I’d go myself, but who’s to look after Mary if I do?’

‘A moot point,’ he conceded, and stood up, reassuringly large. ‘And before I detect the first rising note of hysteria in your very delightful voice, I must tell you that I am a doctor.’

Julia’s first reaction was one of rage. ‘You beast,’ she said roundly, ‘letting me get all worried!’

He smiled at her and lifted her neatly to sit on the bed and then sat down beside her. ‘I am of the opinion that if I were not a doctor I should even now be meekly dressing myself, preparatory to tramping miles in search of aid, while you coped with great competence with whatever crisis has arisen. Now, let’s have the bad news.’

She shivered, and was glad when he put an arm around her shoulders.

‘My patient’s a diabetic—an unstabilised one. She had appendicectomy followed by peritonitis two weeks ago. She made a good recovery although she isn’t very co-operative and has had several slight comas. She wanted—insisted on coming home and it was arranged that she should travel from St Clare’s in London by ambulance. We had a job getting here, but on the whole she had a comfortable journey and her usual diet and insulin. Her TPR was normal last night. She’s loaded with sugar and acetone now and her temp’s a hundred and three.’

He got off the bed, taking her with him. ‘Well, you pop back to the patient and make soothing sounds while I put on some clothes and fetch my case—it’s locked in the car just outside the door.’ He gave her a gentle push. ‘Go along now, there’s a good girl.’

Mary was restless when Julia got back to her. She said as soon as she caught sight of her, ‘I’m going to die, and there isn’t a doctor.’

Julia gave her another drink of water and then went to build up the fire. ‘Yes, there is.’ She explained about his arrival during the night in a few brief words because Mary was too feverish to concentrate on anything. ‘He’ll be here in a moment,’ went on Julia soothingly, ‘he’ll take a look at you and then prescribe something which will have you feeling better in no time.’

She went and got the case history notes and the charts and diets she had prepared so carefully for the nurse who was to have taken over from her, laid them neatly on a table and then hastily plaited her hair. She had just finished doing that when the doctor knocked on the door and came in.

Not only had he donned his clothes, but a faultless professional manner with them, which somehow made the whole situation seem normal and not in the least worrying. He knew what he was about, for he dealt with his patient gently and with a calm air of assurance which convinced her that she was already getting better, and then went to bend over Julia’s papers, lying ready for them. When he had finished reading them he looked up and asked,

‘Is there a doctor’s letter?’

‘Yes,’ said Julia, ‘it’s in my room.’ She didn’t offer to fetch it. ‘I think I should see it—I’ll take full responsibility for opening it, Nurse. Would you fetch it?’

She did so without a word, not sure as to the ethics of the case, and stood quietly by while he read it. Which he did, refolding it into its envelope when he had finished and adding some writing of his own before handing it back to her.

‘Penicillin, I think, Nurse. Shall we give her a shot now and repeat it six-hourly? And the insulin—she’s been on Semilente, I see. We’d better increase it this morning and test every two hours until this evening. Now, diet…’

He went away when he had given Mary her penicillin and told her cheerfully that she would be out of bed in a couple of days, leaving Julia to reiterate all he had said before she went to dress. Once more in uniform and intent on perching her cap on her neatly arranged hair, she turned in surprise when there was a tap on her door.

‘Tea,’ said the stranger, ‘and if you’ll tell me where the ambulance men are I’ll wake them for you.’

Julia took the proffered cup. ‘How kind,’ she said with surprise, and felt suddenly downcast when he answered carelessly,

‘Oh, I’m handy about the house,’ for it made him sound as though he were married. She said hastily because she wanted to change the trend of her thoughts, ‘Is the weather better?’

He sat down on the end of the bed and started to drink the ambulance men’s tea. ‘No—the snow’s in drifts—the car’s almost covered and so is the ambulance. There’s no snow at present, but there’s more to come as far as I can see in this light. The fog has lifted, but the ground’s like glass.’

She sipped her tea. It looked as though they would be there for another day at least and she was surprised to find that she didn’t mind in the least. When he asked, ‘What’s your name?’ she answered without hesitation. ‘Pennyfeather, Julia Pennyfeather.’

‘Miss Pennyfeather—it is Miss?’

She nodded. ‘You’re drinking Willy’s and Bert’s teas,’ she pointed out.

‘I’m thirsty. Don’t you want to know my name?’

She nodded again.

‘Van den Werff—Ivo. Very nearly thirty years old and until now, a confirmed bachelor.’

She ignored her sudden delight. ‘Dutch?’ she hazarded. ‘Do you work in England—no, Scotland?’

‘I’ve been on a course at the Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh. I’m on my way back to Holland, but I intend to spend a day or so in London before I cross.’

Julia drank her tea, conscious of a sense of loss because presently he would be gone and she would never see him again. He got up off the bed and picked up the tray with the two empty cups and went off.

Julia went downstairs herself a few minutes later and found the old man sitting by the gas stove, drinking tea. She said good morning pleasantly and was told there was nothing good about it, so she busied herself getting her patient’s diet and went back upstairs with it. It was another ten minutes by the time she had given the insulin and arranged Mary more comfortably to have her tea and bread and butter, and when she got back to the kitchen the old man had gone. She set about laying the table and got out the frying pan once more; lucky that there were plenty of eggs and a quantity of bacon, she thought, peering into the old-fashioned, roomy larder. She was making the tea when the three men came in, Willy and Bert very apologetic at having slept through the night’s calamities. They looked well rested though, and volunteered cheerfully to do any chores she might choose to set them.

Bert looked at Julia an asked worriedly, ‘And what’s to be done about you, Nurse? We’ll ‘ave to go the minute we can—will you be able to come with us? You can’t stay here alone.’

‘She won’t be alone.’ The doctor’s quiet voice sounded quite certain about that. ‘I’ll stay until the patient’s own doctor can take over and the nurse can get here.’

‘That’s quite unnecessary,’ said Julia quickly, ‘I’m perfectly able to manage…’ she remembered how she had awakened him that morning and went faintly pink, and before she could finish what she was going to say, Bert observed with obvious relief, ‘Ah, well, if the doc’s going to be ‘ere, that’s OK, ain’t it, Willy? Can’t do better than that.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ said Dr van den Werff, ignoring the light of battle in Julia’s fine eyes. ‘In any case, we can do nothing today except get this mausoleum warm. If the snow holds off we might reconnoitre later on…in the meantime shall we share out the chores?’

Something which he did with a pleasant authority which neither Willy nor Bert disputed, and which Julia, even if she had wished to do so, was unable to argue against because she had to go back to her patient, leaving him to explain to the old retainer, who had appeared from nowhere to join them at breakfast, just why they were forced to remain at Drumlochie House for at least another day.

CHAPTER TWO