Making Sure of Sarah

Mr ter Breukel and Suzanne were already at the table, but he got up to pull out her chair and expressed the hope that she had slept well.

‘Very well,’ said Sarah. ‘Such a pretty room, and the sort of bed you sink into.’

‘Good. You had my note?’

She buttered a roll. ‘Yes. What shocking handwriting you have. But I suppose all medical men write badly so that no one can understand, if you see what I mean?’

Suzanne turned a laugh into a cough, and Mr ter Breukel said gravely, ‘I think that is very likely.’ He gave her a glance just long enough to take in the delightful sight of her in her cleaned and pressed clothes, no make-up and shining mousy hair. Sarah, not seeing the glance, drank her coffee and remarked that he would be wishing to leave for the hospital and she was quite ready when he wished to go.

‘Although I’m sure I should be quite all right to walk to the police station. Unless perhaps I should go to the hospital first?’

‘Yes, that would be best. Everything depends on the condition of your mother and stepfather.’ He got up from the table. ‘You’ll excuse me? I must telephone. Could you be ready to leave in ten minutes?’

She got into the car beside him presently; she had bidden Suzanne goodbye and thanked her for her kindness, and Suzanne had kissed her cheek, rather to Sarah’s surprise, and said it had been fun. Sarah, thinking about it, supposed that for Suzanne it had been just that, and she had liked her… She liked the man sitting beside her too.

At the hospital he nodded a casual goodbye, said that he would see her later, and handed her over to a nurse who took her to her mother.

Mrs Holt was awake and complaining.

‘There you are. I hope you’ll arrange for us to go back home as quickly as possible. I shall never recover in this place. Tea with no milk, and nothing but thin bread and butter and a boiled egg.’

Sarah bent to kiss her. ‘Did you sleep? Do you feel better this morning?’

‘Of course I didn’t close my eyes all night, and I feel very poorly. Have you got our things yet? I want my own nightgowns; someone must do my hair…’

‘I’m going to collect them this morning; I’ll bring whatever you need here, Mother.’

‘Have you seen your father?’

‘Stepfather,’ said Sarah. ‘No, Nurse tells me that he is to have his leg seen to this morning.’

‘How tiresome.’ Mrs Holt turned her head away. ‘Go and get my things; when you get back I’ll tell you if I want anything else.’

Sarah went through the hospital once more and, because she was a kind girl, asked if she could see her stepfather.

He was in a small ward with three other men, and she saw at a glance that he was in no mood to answer her ‘good morning’. She stood listening to his diatribe in reply to her enquiry as to how he felt, and, when he had run out of breath, said that she would come and see him after he had had his operation. Only to be told that he couldn’t care less if he never saw her again! So she bade him goodbye and started back to the entrance. Neither parent had asked where she had slept or how she felt.

Getting lost on the way out, she had time to think about her future. She supposed that some time during the day someone at the hospital would tell her how long her mother and stepfather would have to remain there. Mr ter Breukel had told her that someone would arrange their return to England, so it seemed best for her to go back as quickly as possible and look after the house until they returned.

She preferred not to think further ahead than that; life hadn’t been easy living at home, her sense of duty outweighing her longing to have a life of her own. But her mother, each time Sarah suggested that she might train for something and be independent, had made life unbearable, with her reproaches and sly reminders that her father had told Sarah to look after her mother. Then, of course, he had had no idea that his wife would remarry—and to a man who was in a position to give her a comfortable life. And who had taken a dislike to his stepdaughter the moment they had met.

She found the main entrance at last, but halfway to it she was stopped.

A porter addressed her in surprisingly good English. She was to wait—he indicated an open doorway beyond which people were sitting.

Perhaps she was to be told what arrangements had been made for her parents. She sat down obediently; there was no point in getting fussed. She had hoped to return to England that day, but probably she would have to spend another night in Arnhem. Which should hold no terrors for her; she would have some money once she had been to the police station, and all she had to do was wait for someone to tell her what to do next.

There were a great many posters on the walls, and she was making futile guesses as to what they were about when the porter tapped her on the shoulder.

She followed him back to the entrance hall and saw Mr ter Breukel standing by the doors. Her smile at the sight of him—filled with relief and delight—shook him badly, but all he said was ‘I’ll take you to the police station,’ with detached courtesy.

CHAPTER TWO

‘CAN you spare the time?’ asked Sarah anxiously. ‘Don’t you have patients to see?’

‘I have already seen them.’ Mr ter Breukel was at his most soothing. ‘I shall be operating this afternoon. On your stepfather, amongst others.’

‘How soon will I know when he can go home?’

‘Probably later this evening. Ah, here is the police station.’

She was glad that he was with her. She gave a succinct account of the accident, and from time to time he was a great help translating some tricky word the officer hadn’t understood. All the same it took a long time, and after that the luggage had to be checked, money counted, passports examined. She was given hers, as well as some money from her stepfather’s wallet. He wouldn’t like that, she reflected, signing for it, but she would need money to get back home. And supposing her mother travelled with her?

She explained that to Mr ter Breukel and waited for his advice.

‘Does your mother have traveller’s cheques in her handbag?’

The handbag was an expensive one from one of the big fashion houses, unlike Sarah’s own rather shabby leather shoulder bag, and there were traveller’s cheques inside, and quite a lot of money.

‘Good. You can give the bag to your mother and she can arrange for it to be kept in safe-keeping until she leaves.’

Put like that, it all sounded very simple. But they went back to St Bravo’s and suddenly nothing was simple any more.

Her mother’s X-ray had shown a hairline fracture; there was no question of her leaving the hospital for some time. And there was no time to talk about it, for Mr ter Breukel had been called away the moment they arrived back.

Sarah unpacked what she thought her mother might need, and when that lady demanded her handbag gave it to her. Then she went in search of the ward sister, who told her kindly enough that it would be most unwise for her mother to be moved. ‘And, since your father must stay also, they can return together when they are able to travel.’

Sarah went to see the other ward sister about her stepfather then. He was already in Theatre, and Mr ter Breukel was operating. ‘Come back later, about six o’clock, and we will tell you what has been done.’

So Sarah went out of the hospital and into the main streets. The luggage was safe with a porter, she had money in her pocket and she was hungry.

She found a small café and sat over coffee and a roll filled with cheese, deciding what she should do next. It made sense to find a tourist information office and find out about getting back home. Maybe not for a few days, but she would need to know…

It wasn’t difficult to find, so she went inside and found that the girls behind the counter spoke English. She could fly, they told her, an easy train ride to the airport at Schiphol, or she could get a ferry from the Hoek van Holland or from Scheveningen to Harwich. They could arrange it for her.

Sarah thanked them, then asked if they knew of a small, inexpensive hotel. They went to a lot of trouble, and she left presently with a short list from which to choose. Now it was just a question of going back to St Bravo’s, finding out about her stepfather, seeing her mother, collecting her case from the porter and moving into whichever hotel had a room vacant.

She went into another café and had a cup of tea and some biscuits, and then found her way back to the hospital. She went first to see her stepfather, who was nicely recovered from the anaesthetic but whose temper was uncertain. He was propped up on his pillows, a leg in plaster under a cradle. In reply to her civil and sympathetic enquiry as to how he felt, he said angrily, ‘That infernal surgeon says that I must remain here for at least two weeks…’

‘I thought that once the plaster was dry you could walk with a crutch…’

‘Don’t be a fool. A broken rib has pierced my lung; it has to heal before I’m fit to be moved.’

‘Oh—oh, I’m sorry. I’ll tell Mother. I’m going to see her now.’

‘And don’t bother to come and see me. The less I see of you the better—if it hadn’t been for you…’

No doubt he had told anyone who would listen that it had been her fault. She bade him goodbye and went along to see her mother.