Heaven is Gentle

‘Bedroom,’ he explained briefly, ‘bathroom next door, kitchen here.’ He swept open the third door. ‘You will eat with us, of course, although when you have your free days you may do as you wish. There’s a sitting room up at the house which you are welcome to use—there’s television there and books enough. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one—we don’t have tea, but Hub will fix that for you. Supper at eight, but that will depend on how the day has gone.’ He turned to go. ‘Hub will bring your case along in a minute and light the fire for you.’ He eyed her levelly. ‘And don’t get the idea that this a nice easy job—you’ll not only have the patients to see to but a good deal of paper work as well, and remember that you will be at our beck and call whether you’re off duty or not.’

Eliza eyed him coldly in her turn. ‘Charming! I’m not quite sure what you expected, but I’m not up to your expectations, am I? Well, I didn’t expect you and you’re not up to mine—I expected a nice old gentleman like Professor Wyllie, so at least we understand each other, don’t we, Professor?’ She walked towards the bedroom, saying over her shoulder:

‘I’ll see you at lunch. Thank you for bringing me over.’

She didn’t see the little gleam of appreciation in his dark eyes as he went. The door shut gently behind him and she dismissed him from her mind and began to explore her temporary home. It was indeed very small but extremely cosy, the furniture was simple and uncluttered and someone had put a bowl of hyacinths on the little table by one of the two easy chairs. There were nice thick curtains at the windows, she noticed with satisfaction, and a reading lamp as well as a funny old-fashioned lamp hanging from the ceiling. The bedroom was nice too, even smaller than the sitting room and furnished simply with a narrow bed, a chest of drawers and a mirror, with a shelf by the bed and a stool in one corner. There was no wardrobe or cupboard, though; presumably she would have to hang everything on the hooks behind the bedroom door. The kitchen was a mere slip of a place but adequately fitted out; she wouldn’t need to cook much, anyway, but it would be pleasant to make tea or coffee in the evenings before she went to bed. She was roused from her inspection by the rattle of the door knocker and when she called ‘come in’, the same elderly man who had brought the coffee tray came in with her case. He smiled at her, took it into the bedroom and then went to put a match to the fire laid ready in the tiny grate.

‘I can do that,’ exclaimed Eliza, and when he turned to shake his head at her: ‘You’re Hub, aren’t you? Are you Mr Hub, or is that your Christian name, and are you one of the staff?’

When he answered her she could hear that he wasn’t English, although he spoke fluently enough. ‘Yes, I’m Hub, miss—if you will just call me that—I’m one of the staff, as you say.’ He added a log to the small blaze he had started and got to his feet. ‘You will find tea and sugar and some other groceries in the kitchen cupboard, miss, and if you need anything, will you ask me and I will see that you get it.’

She thanked him and he went away; he was a kind of quartermaster, she supposed, seeing to food and drink and household supplies for all of them; she couldn’t imagine either of the professors bothering their clever heads about such things.

She remembered suddenly that she had promised that she would telephone her mother when she arrived; she would just have time before she went to lunch. She picked up the receiver, not quite believing that there would be anyone there to answer her, but someone did—a man’s voice with a strong Cockney accent, assuring her that he would get the number she wanted right away.

Her mother had a great many questions to ask; Eliza talked until five to one, and then wasn’t finished. With a promise to write that evening, she rang off, ran a comb through her hair, looked at her face in the mirror without doing anything to it because there wasn’t time and went back to the house.

Lunch, she discovered to her surprise, was a formal meal, taken in a comfortably furnished room at a table laid with care with good glass and china and well laundered table linen. There was another man there, of middle height and a little stout, pleasant-faced and in his late forties, she guessed. He was introduced as John Peters, the pharmacist and a Doctor of Science, and although he greeted her pleasantly if somewhat absentmindedly, he had little to say for himself. It was the two professors who sustained the conversation; a pleasant miscellany of this and that, gradually drawing her into the talk as they sampled the excellent saddle of lamb, followed by an apricot upside-down pudding as light as air. Eliza had a second helping and wondered who did the cooking.

They had their coffee round the table, served by Hub, and she had only just finished pouring it when Professor van Duyl remarked smoothly:

‘We should warn you that we start work tomorrow and are unlikely to take our lunch in such comfortable leisure. Indeed, I doubt if we shall meet until the evening—other than at our work, of course. You see, each attack which a patient may have must be recorded, timed and treated—and there are ten patients.’ He smiled at her across the wide table, his head a little on one side, for all the world, she thought indignantly, as though he were warning her that she was there strictly for work and nothing else. The indignation showed on her face, for his smile became mocking and the black eyebrows rose.

‘You have had very little time to unpack,’ he observed with chilling civility, ‘if you like to return to the cottage and come to the office at—let me see…’ he glanced at Professor Wyllie, who nodded his head, ‘half past two, when you will meet the rest of the people who are here before seeing the patients. This evening we can get together over the case notes and explain exactly what has to be done. You have your uniform with you?’

She was a little surprised. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good. May I suggest that you put it on before joining us this afternoon?’

‘Very wise,’ muttered Professor Wyllie, and when she looked at him enquiringly, added hastily: ‘Yes, well…h’m’ and added for no reason at all: ‘You have a raincoat with you too, I trust? The weather in these parts can be bad at this time of year.’ He coughed. ‘You’re a very pretty girl.’

She went back to the cottage after that, poked up the fire and unpacked her few things, then rather resentfully changed into uniform. As she fastened the silver buckle of her petersham belt around her slim waist, she tried to sort out her impressions; so her day had been arranged for her—her free time was presumably to be taken when Professor van Duyl was gracious enough to let her have any. A very arrogant type, she told herself, used to having his own way and bossing everyone around. Well, he had better not try to boss her! She caught up the thick ankle-length cape she had had the foresight to bring with her, huddled into it, and went back to the study. Professor Wyllie was sitting in his chair, his eyes closed, snoring quite loudly. She was debating whether she should go out again and knock really loudly, or sit down and wait for him to wake up, when Professor van Duyl’s voice, speaking softly from somewhere close behind her, made her jump. ‘He will wake presently, Miss Proudfoot—sit down, won’t you?’

But first she turned round to have a look; he was standing quite close with a sheaf of papers in his hand and a pair of spectacles perched on his splendid nose; his dark eyes looked even darker because of them.

She sat, saying nothing, and jumped again when he said: ‘You are very small and—er—slight, Sister.’ He made it sound as though it were a regrettable error on her part.

She didn’t turn round this time. ‘Oh, so that’s why you don’t like me.’

He made an exasperated sound. ‘My dear good girl, I have no personal feelings about you; just as long as you do your job properly while you are here.’

Eliza tossed her pretty head. ‘You really are…’ She spoke in a hissing whisper so that the nice old man behind the desk shouldn’t be disturbed, but he chose that moment to open his eyes, and although he smiled at her with evident pleasure, she thought how tired he looked. She was on the point of saying so, with a recommendation to go to bed early that evening, but he spoke first.

‘Christian, you have the notes sorted out? Good. We’ll deal with those presently.’ He got up. ‘Now, Eliza, if you will come with us.’

He led the way from the room with Eliza behind him and Professor van Duyl shadowing her from behind. They went first to a small, rather poky room where Mr Peters was busy with his pills and phials.

‘Each patient has his own box,’ he told Eliza, ‘clearly marked. Syringes and needles here,’ he indicated two deep enamel trays, ‘injection tray here—for emergency, you understand. Kidney dishes and so on along this shelf. I’ll have them all marked by this evening. I’m on the telephone and you can reach me whenever you want. If I’m not here, young Grimshaw will help you.’

He nodded towards a pleasant-faced young man crammed in a corner, checking stock, and he and Eliza exchanged a smile and a ‘Hi’, before she was led away to what must, at one time, have been the drawing room of the house. It had several tables and desks in it now and a small switchboard. ‘Harry,’ said Professor Wyllie, waving a friendly hand, ‘sees to the telephone—house and outside line. Bert here does the typing and reports and so on and sees to the post.’ He crossed the room and opened another door. ‘And this is Doctor Berrevoets, our Path Lab man—does the microscopic work, works out trial injections and all that. He’s Dutch, of course.’

Unmistakably so, with a face like a Rembrandt painting, all crags and lines, with pale blue eyes and fringe of grey hair encircling a large head. He made some friendly remark to Eliza, and his English, although fluent, was decidedly foreign. She thought him rather nice, but they didn’t stay long with him, but went back the way they had come while Professor Wyllie explained that they all slept in the house and that should she ever need help of any kind, any one of them would be only too glad to assist her. He flung open another door as he spoke. ‘The kitchen,’ he was vague again; obviously it was a department which had no interest for him at all. Hub was there, pressing a pair of trousers on the corner of the kitchen table, and another man with a cheerful face was standing at the sink, peeling potatoes. Eliza smiled at Hub, whom she already regarded as an old friend, and walked over to the sink.

‘Did you cook lunch?’ she wanted to know.

He had a rich Norfolk accent as well as a cheerful face. ‘I did, miss—was it to your liking?’

‘Super. Are you a Cordon Bleu or something like that?’

He grinned. ‘No such luck, miss, but I’m glad you liked it.’

Outside in the dusty hall again, Professor van Duyl said blandly: ‘Well, now that you have the staff eating out of your hand, Sister, we might settle to work.’

She didn’t even bother to answer this unkind observation. ‘Who does the housework?’ she enquired, and was pleased to see the uncertainty on their learned faces. ‘Who washes up and makes the beds and dusts and runs the place?’

They looked at each other and Professor van Duyl said seriously: ‘You see that size has nothing to do with it, after all. Motherly, we said, did we not?’

His elderly colleague reminded him wickedly, ‘No looks, and not young.’

Eliza listened composedly. ‘So I’m not what you expected? But excepting for my size, I am, you know. I can be motherly when necessary and I—I’m not young.’ She swallowed bravely. ‘You are both quite well aware that I am getting on for twenty-nine.’

Professor Wyllie took her hand and patted it. ‘My dear child, we are two rude, middle-aged men who should know better. You will suit us admirably, of that I am quite sure.’

He trotted away down the hall, taking her with him. ‘Now, as a concession to you, we will have a cup of tea before visiting the patients.’

Hub must have known about the tea, for he appeared a moment later with a tray of tea things. ‘Only biscuits this afternoon,’ he apologised in his quaint but fluent English, ‘but Fred will make scones for you tomorrow, miss.’

Eliza thanked him and poured the tea, and looking up, caught Professor van Duyl’s eyes staring blackly at her; they gleamed with inimical amusement and for some reason she felt a twinge of disappointment that he hadn’t added his own apologies to those of his elder colleague.

The Nissen hut was quite close to the house, hidden behind a thick, overgrown hedge of laurel. It looked dreary enough from the outside, but once through its door she saw how mistaken she had been, for it had been divided into ten cubicles, with a common sitting room at the end, and near the door, shower rooms, and opposite those a small office, which it appeared was for her use. She would be there, explained Professor van Duyl, from eight in the morning until one o’clock, take her free time until half past four and then return on duty until eight in the evening.

‘The hours will be elastic, of course,’ he told her smoothly, ‘it may not be necessary for you to remain for such long periods as these and we hope that there will be no need for you to be called at night.’

She looked away from him. What had she taken on, in heaven’s name? And not a word about days off—she would want to know about that, but now hardly seemed to be the time to ask.

She met the patients next; they were sitting round in the common room reading and playing cards and talking, and although they all wore the rather anxious expression anyone with asthma develops over the years, they were remarkably cheerful. She was introduced to them one by one, filing their names away in her sharp, well-trained mind while she glanced around her, taking in the undoubted comfort of the room. Warm curtains here, too and a log fire in the hearth, TV in one corner and well stocked bookshelves and comfortable chairs arranged on the wooden floor with its scattering of bright rugs.

‘Any improvements you can suggest?’ asked Professor Wyllie in a perfunctory tone, obviously not expecting an answer.

‘Yes,’ she said instantly. ‘Someone—there must be a local woman—to come and clean each day. I could write my name in the dust on the stairs,’ she added severely. ‘The Nissen hut’s all right, I suppose the patients do the simple chores so that you can exclude any allergies.’

Both gentlemen were looking at her with attention tinged with respect.

‘Quite right,’ it was the Dutchman who answered her. ‘They aren’t to come into the house. For a certain period each day they will take exercise out of doors, under supervision, and naturally they will be subjected to normal house conditions.’ He smiled with a charm which made her blink. ‘I am afraid that we have been so engrossed in getting our scheme under way for our ten cases that we rather overlooked other things. I’ll see if Hub can find someone to come up and clean as you suggest.’ He added politely: ‘Do you wish for domestic help in the cottage?’

Eliza gave him a scornful look. ‘Heavens, no—it won’t take me more than half an hour each day.’

As they went back to the study she reflected that it might be rather fun after all, but she was allowed no leisure for her own thoughts, but plunged into the details of the carefully drawn up timetable.