Sister Peters in Amsterdam

Before she could reply the professor said in his easy way:

‘Why not let Sister stay? I am sure she will have no lack of offers to see her home, and in the unlikelihood of her being on her own, one of us will see her back later.’

‘Thank you, professor, but I should like to go now; I’m on duty in the morning.’ She spoke quietly in a stiff little voice and turned away with a brief good night to find the Baroness, who rather surprisingly kissed her and urged her to come and see her again. Adelaide made a vague reply to this, thinking it very unlikely that she would see her hostess again. She intended to concentrate on her Dutch lessons and her own small circle of friends in the hospital. She watched the professor and Margriet going towards the balcony. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from this evening—perhaps that if he saw her out of uniform, he would realise that she was a girl as well as a highly trained cog in the hospital machinery. As she went upstairs with Leen to get her coat, she allowed herself to remember that he had kissed her, but then so had a great many other people; she derived little comfort from the thought.

She said goodbye to Leen and Piet at the door of the Sisters’ home, and went upstairs to her room, where, despite the lateness of the hour, she sat on her bed thinking about the evening. One fact emerged very clearly—she was in love with the professor.

She had a whole day to get over the party. Casualty was slack; there was no clinic. She sat in her office, scowling over her Dutch grammar. After a while she shut her books and wrote a letter home. She gave a colourful and gay account of the party; it was slightly exaggerated, as she wanted her family to know what a good time she was having. She carefully made out a money order to go with the letter. The boys’ school fees would be due again soon. They were clever, and deserved the best education that could be managed. Her thoughts played truant again, and she wondered if Professor Van Essen was rich. She had no idea where he lived, but she supposed he had a good practice in Amsterdam. It was natural that she should think about Margriet Keizer too, for she was obviously a close friend of his.

Adelaide opened her book again; she was behaving like a silly schoolgirl. She reminded herself what she was doing and who she was. She resolved to think no more of the professor, but work for him to the best of her ability and be pleasant and friendly and take no interest at all in his private life. She was well aware that this high-minded resolve, if put to the test, might well prove worthless; in the meantime, she told herself sternly, she would apply herself to her Dutch grammar.

The day seemed endless—Wilsma took over Casualty duty at two o’clock, and Adelaide went out into the grey cold day and walked until she was tired. The streets were almost empty; she supposed that everyone was within doors, visiting or receiving visits from family. She began to feel lonely, but told herself resolutely not to give way to self-pity, and when she found a small café open went in and had a cup of coffee, and walked back to the hospital again. Most of the Sisters were out, and supper was quickly eaten by the few who remained. She went to her room and busied herself washing her hair, until Zuster Zijlastra came in to tell her about her visit to her home. It was late when she finally put out the light, to lie awake in the dark, remembering the professor’s kiss and their dance together. Common sense reminded her that nearly everyone in the room had kissed her too—he had only done what was obviously the custom. No amount of wishful thinking on her part could make it otherwise. She went to sleep on the hopeless thought.

She felt nervous at the idea of seeing the professor again, but she need not have worried. There was no time for talk beyond a hurried good morning. Casualty was full with children who had burnt themselves with fireworks, eaten too much, or, taking advantage of the relaxing of parental discipline over the holidays, had found the matches and got burned, or sampled the contents of aspirin bottles. Adelaide stayed in Casualty, while Zuster Wilsma took the clinic, and the professor and Dr Beekman went back and forth as they were needed. By midday Casualty was empty again, and they all sighed with relief. It was fortunate that the morning clinic had been a small one. Refreshed by their one o’clock dinner, the staff assembled once more for the afternoon session, which Adelaide knew would run far over the scheduled time. There was little leisure for private thought, which was perhaps why she was able to work cheerfully with the professor for the rest of the busy day without any feeling of awkwardness or embarrassment. By the end of the afternoon she had slipped back into their usual professional friendliness—casual and matter-of-fact, and quite impersonal. It had been easier than she had expected.

A few days later the professor mentioned that he had some beds at another hospital in Amsterdam. ‘Only four,’ he explained, ‘to take the overflow if we get a run on the beds here. I’ll arrange for you to be taken there one day, so that you can look around.’

Adelaide was packing dressing drums with a practised hand.

‘I should like that, sir, thank you. If you could give me two or three days’ notice so that I can arrange the duty rota.’

She snapped a lid shut, opened the perforated strip around the drum, and put it on to the loaded trolley.

The professor scrawled his signature, put away his pen, and got up to go.

‘Very well, Sister. I’ll let you know. Good night.’ He walked to the door, but stopped halfway and said over his shoulder: ‘Are you quite happy here, Sister Peters?’

Adelaide folded a dressing towel, flattened it with a thump, and laid it with its fellows.

‘Yes, sir, I am, very.’

He gave a non-committal grunt and went out, leaving her standing staring at the closed door, wondering wistfully if he minded in the least if she was happy or not.

The promised visit to the hospital took place at the end of the week, but not, as she had hoped, in the professor’s company. Dr Beekman took her in his Volkswagen. It was a bitterly cold day, with low grey clouds, turning yellow at the corners.

‘Snow,’ said Piet Beekman. ‘A good thing we arranged to come today.’

Adelaide braced herself against the seat as he raced round a corner, much too fast.

‘Doesn’t the professor come to see his patients?’

Dr Beekman cut a swathe through a bunch of dignified cyclists, miraculously missing them all.

‘Yes, more often than not—but he’s going to some reception or other at the Amstel Hotel early this evening, so he wanted to get away in time.’

He drew up with a squeal of brakes, wrenched the wheel round, and shot up a side street, to stop with devastating suddenness before a large gloomy door.

‘Here we are,’ he said cheerfully, and leant over and opened the door for her to get out. Adelaide took stock of her surroundings. The hospital was on a corner, and looked bleak. Once inside, however, she discovered that the bleakness outside had not been allowed to penetrate its walls. The wards were bright with coloured paint and gay with flowering plants; the children in them looked happy. The place sounded like a parrot house. Half way round, Dr Beekman was called to the phone. She guessed what it was before he told her. He had to go back to the clinic.

‘I don’t suppose I shall be long,’ he said. ‘One of the Sisters will take you round the rest of the wards and I’ll come back for you later.’

‘No, don’t come back, Dr Beekman, I’m sure I can find my way back. Just tell me the number of the tram I have to catch, and I can’t go wrong. And if I do, I’ll get a taxi.’

He was uncertain. ‘Are you sure?’ He thought for a moment. ‘You’ll need a twenty-four tram.’