The Little Dragon

Constantia’s grey eyes surveyed her with veiled contempt. ‘He’s a hardworking doctor—surely that’s more important?’

Her patient made a vulgar noise. ‘And what use is that with three children to clothe and feed and educate? I don’t know him, but Doctor Sperling has hinted as much. He’s poor.’ She uttered the word with contempt.

Constantia composed her features into mild interest and said: ‘Oh?’

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t made it your business to find out? I thought all nurses were after doctors. Well, now you do know, so there’s no point in making eyes at him.’

Constantia went a little pale; she said evenly: ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mrs Dowling, I still have an hour or so of my half day—I have some letters to write. I’ll say goodnight.’

‘You’re so damned ladylike!’ snapped her patient.

She had spoilt what was left of the day, of course. Constantia went along to the kitchen and collected her frugal supper and then went to bed early, for there was nothing else to do. She took great care not to think about Doctor van der Giessen at all.

Doctor Sperling came the next morning and because Mrs Dowling complained of headache, prescribed tablets—to be fetched by Constantia immediately, for the apotheek would be unable to deliver them at once. ‘Just over the bridge,’ he told her, ‘go through the shopping precinct, you will find it a little further along. You will need to get there by noon—they will be closing for lunch.’

Mrs Dowling glanced at the diamond-studded watch on her bony wrist. ‘Yes, go now, Nurse, and you, Doctor Sperling, can stay for a few minutes and see what is to be done about my diet. I need variety—my appetite needs tempting.’

Constantia felt a pang of pity for Doctor Sperling as she slipped away. Even ten minutes away from her patient was a pleasurable little bonus. Not even that lady’s ‘Hurry back, Nurse,’ could dim that. She whipped off the cap Mrs Dowling insisted that she wore, fetched her coat and let herself out of the house.

She had finished her errand and was almost at the bridge when Doctor van der Giessen, carrying his bag, came out of a doorway.

His ‘Good morning’ was genial. ‘Free so early in the day?’ he wanted to know.

She beamed at him warmly, for it was like meeting an old friend. ‘No, just an errand—some pills for Mrs Dowling; Doctor Sperling wanted her to have them at once.’ She gave a small skip. ‘I have to be very quick.’

He was blocking her path and he made no move to stand aside.

‘It’s not good for you to rush around. I prescribe two minutes of standing just where you are—we can while them away with a little light conversation. Did you enjoy your half day?’

‘Oh—yes. I walked to the Hofje van Elisabeth Pauw and then I went to see the other one close by, and by then it was too late to go to a museum, so I had coffee at the Central Hotel—it’s nice there. There were a lot of people.’

His eyes were quick to see the wistfulness on her face. He said gently: ‘And then what did you do?’

‘I went back…’ She remembered Mrs Dowling’s remarks and went bright pink.

‘And your patient was waiting for you?’ he prompted.

‘Yes, she was—but it didn’t matter.’ She smiled at him. ‘I really must go.’

He fell into step beside her, and as they crossed the bridge asked: ‘When is your next half day?’

‘Thursday. There’s a bridge party. It’s market day, isn’t it? I’m going to have a super time going round the stalls.’

He caught her arm in a casual grip and steered her across the busy street. ‘I have a half day too—perhaps we could go together.’

They were on the pavement outside the Hotel Central’s coffee room, full of people sitting at the little tables in its windows, watching the street and the passers-by in it.

‘Oh, I’d love that.’ Constantia sounded like a happy child, ‘but wouldn’t it bore you?’

He was looking at the curious faces peering at them through the glass, but he turned to look down at her. ‘No, it wouldn’t. I enjoy your company.’ He smiled in a friendly fashion and went on casually: ‘I’ll be here waiting for you.’

‘Two o’clock,’ pronounced Constantia, and added, ‘You have no idea how marvellous it is to have a friend.’

‘You think of me as a friend?’ There was mild interest in his voice.

‘Oh, yes. I hope you don’t mind?’

‘I’m delighted. Shall we shake on it?’ They shook hands and the interested faces on the other side of the glass window smiled, although neither of them noticed that.

Constantia was late. Mrs Dowling made a point of pointing that out to her. She grumbled on and off for the rest of the day too, so that Constantia went to bed with a faint headache; not that that mattered. Thursday wasn’t too far away; she would wash her hair, she decided rather absurdly, and fell to wondering if she should have it cut short and permed—perhaps not, supposing it didn’t suit her? Unlike most pretty girls, she had never considered herself more than passable—although it doesn’t matter what one looks like to a friend, she reminded herself, and that was what Doctor van der Giessen was.

Thursday held a touch of spring, with a brilliant sunshine making nonsense of the biting wind. Constantia, tempted to wear a thin wool dress under her winter coat, changed her mind and put on a Marks and Spencer sweater and a pleated skirt and tied a scarf round her slender neck. No one would see what she was wearing under her coat and the dress wouldn’t be thick enough. She pulled a knitted cap down over her ears and thus sensibly attired, hurried from the house before Mrs Dowling, awaiting her friends for bridge in the sitting room, should think of something for her to do.

The doctor was waiting, bare-headed in the wind and not seeming to mind. He greeted her casually and she said at once: ‘Sorry I’m a bit late—it’s sometimes difficult to get away.’ And then: ‘You’re sure you don’t mind coming to the market? Are the children at school?’

He nodded. ‘Though I must get back about half past three or four—they’ll be coming home then.’

Less than two hours, she thought regretfully, and then chided herself for being discontented. Two hours was quite a long time and she was lucky to have someone to go out with.

The market square, when they reached it, was teeming with people; housewives with bulging shopping baskets, old men peering at the stalls and buying nothing, children weaving in and out between the grown-ups, dogs barking, and a number of respectable matrons in frightful felt hats and expensive unfashionable coats, who peered at the stalls’ contents with sharp eyes and when they bought anything, bargained for it shrewdly. There weren’t just fruit and vegetable stalls, butchers and fishmongers and household goods, there were stalls devoted entirely to cheese, mountains of it—brightly coloured aprons and dresses and trestle tables laid out with rows of old-fashioned corsets and bras. Constantia, her fascinated eyes held by the sight of them, was quite taken aback.

‘They’re so large and there are so many,’ she remarked to her companion. ‘Whoever buys them?’

He grinned down at her. ‘I’ve never dared to stay long enough to find out,’ he told her, ‘but they must do a roaring trade. As far as I can remember they haven’t changed their—er—shape since I was a small boy.’

Constantia giggled and then sighed with pleasure. ‘Isn’t this a simply gorgeous place?’ she wanted to know. ‘And look at those flowers—it’s only March and there’s roses and lilac and freesias and tulips…’

‘But this isn’t the flower market, that’s in the Hippolytusbuurt—we’ll go there presently.’

They strolled round, the doctor’s hand on her arm, for there was a good deal of good-natured pushing and shoving and as he pointed out, her small slim person would have stood very little chance of staying upright. Constantia, who was remarkably tough despite her fairy-like appearance, didn’t argue the point; it was pleasant to be looked after so carefully. And the flower market was something she wouldn’t have missed for the world, for the stalls lined the whole length of the canal, a riot of spring flowers. Constantia stood and sniffed their fragrance and exclaimed, ‘Oh, I’ve never seen anything like this—are they here all the year round?’

‘Yes, even in midwinter. They hang out little orange-coloured lanterns so that the customers can see.’ They had paused before a stall and Jeroen van der Giessen spoke to the stallholder, who smiled and began bunching narcissi, daffodils and tulips in a vast colourful bouquet. When the doctor took them from her and handed them to Constantia she said in utter surprise, ‘For me? all these? there are dozens… How absolutely super!’

She couldn’t help but see the notes the doctor was passing across the stall—a lot of money—far too much, but she knew instinctively that if she even so much as hinted that he was being extravagant, he would be annoyed. All the same, the money would have bought warm socks for the children…

Evidently that point of view hadn’t occurred to her companion; he appeared quite unworried at his expenditure, took her arm again and strolled on until they reached the end of the canal, where he turned down a narrow street which led them to Oude Delft. ‘Tea?’ he enquired. ‘I live close by and the children are always famished when they get home.’

She wondered just where close by was. The houses on either side of the canal were large; museums, converted offices, large family mansions for those who could still afford to maintain them. She didn’t have to wonder for long; he crossed one of the little arched bridges and paused before the massive door of a patrician house, its flat-faced front ornamented in the rococo style with a great deal of plaster work.

‘Here?’ asked Constantia in an unbelieving voice.

Her companion had taken out a key and turned to look at her. ‘Er—yes.’

‘You live here? I thought…oh, it’s a flat.’

‘No, it’s a house—the owner allows me to live in it.’

‘How kind of him—a relation, I expect.’ She skipped past him into the hall, quite happy again. For one moment she had wondered if he was actually the owner of all this magnificence. For it was magnificent; a vast square hall, its white marble floor covered with thin silk rugs, an elaborately carved staircase rising grandly from its centre, and the sort of furniture that one saw in museums—only the atmosphere wasn’t like a museum at all. The house was lived in and cared for. She wondered who coped with the vast amount of polishing and cleaning evident in the hall alone. ‘Do you have a daily woman?’ she asked.