The Final Touch

‘She said not, though her clothes were ruined. We took her back to the nurses’ home a few minutes ago…’

The professor was gently lifting shreds of the child’s clothing away from the burns with fine forceps. ‘Zuster here will give you all the details you will want; we must get this child to the burns unit without delay.’

The toddler remained unconscious so that he could work on the small thin body without hindrance. They were very severe burns and even if she recovered the scars would be deep; she would need to come back time after time for skin grafts. He continued his painstaking work while his registrar attended to the plasma drip, making an occasional remark from time to time, his face calm and unworried, not allowing his thoughts to stray for one moment from the desperately ill child. At length he straightened up. ‘Good, let us get her up to Theatre. Get this cleaned up and dressed before she rouses. We will keep her sedated but I want her specialled for the next forty-eight hours.’ He glanced at his registrar. ‘See to that, will you, Wim?’

He turned away while a nurse took his gown. ‘Get another plasma up before we start, please. I’ll want the theatre in fifteen minutes.’

He walked away, taking the phone from inside his pocket as he did so. By the time he reached the nurses’ home, the warden was waiting for him.

He greeted her in his usual calm way. ‘Zuster Charity Pearson—she has just returned here; she has been involved in a fire in the Jordaan. If you will come with me? She works on the burns unit and I wish to make sure that she is unhurt, Zuster Hengstma.’

The warden was a homely body, rather stout and inclined to gossip, but she was a motherly soul. ‘The poor child. I’ve not seen her, Professor, or, depend upon it, I would have made sure…’

‘Of course you would.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But I think we had better take a look, don’t you?’

They went up in the lift to the third floor where Charity had a room, the warden looking worried, the professor his usual bland self.

Charity, having gained her room without being seen, had sat down on her bed and hadn’t moved since. She still wore the coat, which smelled of burnt cloth and oil, and she hadn’t taken off her gloves. She realised that she was in a mild state of shock, for her teeth chattered still and she couldn’t stop shivering. She sat there, telling herself to get out of her clothes, have a warm bath, make a cup of tea and then get into bed and have a nap, all sensible things to do, and later, her old self again, she would go along to the warden and beg some mild treatment for her scorched hands. However, her body refused to obey her; she just went on sitting there with no interest in what should happen next.

She didn’t hear the warden’s gentle tap on her door; it wasn’t until it was opened and the warden entered, with Mr van der Brons looming behind her, that she looked up. The sight of his vast reassuring figure was too much for Charity; she burst into tears.

Zuster Hengstma trotted to her, making soothing clucking sounds and put her arms about her. Her English, always fragmental, gave way to a flood of Dutch, but what she was saying would have sounded kind in any language. Charity buried her face into the kind soul’s ample bosom and sobbed.

Mr van der Brons said nothing at all, only sat himself down on the rather flimsy seat and waited patiently. Presently Charity’s sobs became watery snorts and sniffs and he got up then, handed her a large, snowy handkerchief and sat down on the other side of her.

‘We will have that coat off for a start,’ he suggested mildly, ‘and the gloves.’ He viewed the ruin of her woolly cap atop the chaos of her hair. ‘And the cap.’

She gave a prodigious sniff. ‘So sorry,’ she muttered. ‘So silly of me to sit here like this. I’m quite all right, you know, just dirty.’

He didn’t answer but smiled and nodded at the warden, who removed the cap and began to unbutton the coat, while he picked up first one hand and then the other and very gently drew off the gloves. She had been lucky; save for first-degree burns on the backs of her hands, she had escaped unhurt, although they were painful. He examined them carefully and put them back in her lap. ‘We won’t bother you with a lot of questions now,’ he told her, with an impersonal kindness which she found soothing. ‘Zuster Hengstma is going to help you to undress and have a bath and get you into bed and I will return and see to your hands. Not badly damaged, I’m glad to say, but they must be treated and you must have something for the pain.’

‘I’m on duty in the morning…’

‘No. You will have a day off. If you feel all right you may return on the following day, but only to light duties.’ As she opened her mouth to protest, he said, ‘No, no arguing.’

He got off the bed and went to the door and had a low-voiced conversation with the warden, then turned round to say, ‘You are a very brave girl, Charity; we are all proud of you.’

Which for some reason started off the tears again.

An hour later she was sitting up in bed; Zuster Hengstma had bathed her despite her protests, washed her hair and anointed her face liberally with a nourishing cream. Mr van der Brons, ushered in with the deference due to a senior consultant, reflected that a shiny face and still damp brown hair were hardly aids to female beauty, and yet Charity managed to look decidedly—not pretty, he conceded, more like a child who had just been got ready for bed. He dismissed the thought as nonsense and listened composedly to Zuster Hengstma’s recital of Charity’s injuries.

She had got off lightly, he told her her; her scorched hands would heal in no time at all, and the scratches and bruises she had sustained would disappear within a few days.

‘The baby?’ she wanted to know. ‘And the little girl? Are they going to be all right?’

‘The baby is in the paediatric unit; it’s early days yet…and the little girl is with us; early days for her too, but children are very resilient. I think that she has a very good chance—thanks to you—and she will of course have to come back from time to time for skin grafts.’

‘Their mother and father…’

‘The father was at work; the mother had gone down the street to get food.’ He saw the look on her face and went on kindly, ‘Don’t condemn her, Charity. Will she not have to live with it for the rest of her life?’

‘No no, I won’t, only it’s so sad,’

‘It could have been even sadder.’

He went away presently, bidding her eat her late lunch like a good girl and take a nap afterwards.

She ate the lunch Zuster Hengstma brought to her but she had no intention of going to sleep. Lying in bed on her day off was a complete waste of time; she would go along to the nurses sitting-room and see what was on TV. She pushed the tray to one side and lay thinking about the rest of her day. When the warden slipped into the room ten minutes or so later Charity was asleep.

She was still asleep when the professor came to take another look at her. He nodded his satisfaction, handed the flowers he had brought to Zuster Hengstma and left a pile of magazines and books on the bedside table.

‘Just keep her in bed for breakfast,’ he suggested. ‘She can get up and dress during the morning. I’ll be along to see her about noon.’

The directrice had accompanied him this time, a stern-visaged lady with a heart of gold which was never allowed to show. She stood looking down at Charity, lying there with her hair all over the pillow, her mouth slightly open, her poor scorched hands lying neatly on the coverlet.

‘We must let her see that we appreciate her bravery, Professor.’

‘Indeed we must. If she is fit tomorrow I shall take her out to lunch.’ He ignored her sharp look. ‘And is there any way in which her clothes can be replaced? Could you suggest that she is covered by insurance or something similar?’

The directrice’s stern mouth twitched. ‘I’m sure that I can think of something, Mr van der Brons.’

They went away together and when Charity awoke it was to see Zuster Hengstma standing by the bed with the tea tray.

‘The professor came again,’ explained that lady. ‘He has brought you flowers and books and after tea you may have visitors.’

The flowers were beautiful and the books would keep her happy for hours. And visitors… She wondered just for a moment if Cor would come and see her and then dismissed the thought.

Of course he didn’t, but several of the nurses came, eager to hear all about the fire and her part in it, being friendly and kind and talking a lot so that by the time she had had her supper she was ready for bed again. She lay back against the extra pillows the warden had brought for her, dipping into the books and glancing every now and then at the vase of lilac, carnations, roses and freesias on the dressing table. Mr van der Brons was really very kind, she thought sleepily: he didn’t say much but somehow he didn’t need to; he was the kind of person one could confide in without feeling a fool. She began to wonder what kind of life he led away from the hospital. It would be interesting to know, but she thought it unlikely that she ever would; he wasn’t a talkative man and to try to find out about him from other people seemed sneaky.

She put down the books and turned off the bedside light. When she saw him again on duty she must thank him for his kindness. He must have been thinking of his sister in Edinburgh, she thought sleepily, a little muddled in the head, but knowing exactly what she meant.

She closed her eyes and thought about the next day; she had been told to stay in bed for breakfast but after that she would go out and buy a new coat. Grey or brown, she debated, useful colours which would go with everything she had; she would have to spend the money she had earmarked for a dress and boots. It was her last waking, regretful thought.

CHAPTER THREE

EXCEPT for the backs of her hands, Charity felt quite herself when she woke up the following morning. Having breakfast brought to her in her bed seemed quite unnecessary, but a treat she had seldom enjoyed. Zuster Hengstma fussed around her, chattering away in Dutch just as though Charity understood every word, and, since she was a kind-hearted woman, Charity made no bones about trying out her own version of the Dutch language.

Zuster Hengstma patted her shoulder. ‘Your Dutch is good,’ she said not quite truthfully, ‘and it will be better. Now you may get up if you wish. The directrice will come and see you later.’

So Charity dressed herself and settled down to read one of the books. When the directrice had been she would take herself off for the rest of the day, somewhere quiet; the Amsterdam Historic Museum would do nicely and one of the nurses had told her that there was a restaurant there—she could have a snack lunch before going in search of a new coat. Having decided what to do with the rest of her day, she opened the copy of Jane Eyre which Mr van der Brons had sent, reflecting that it was a happy surprise that the books were all very much to her taste.

The directrice came shortly after eleven o’clock, accompanied by Mr van der Brons, who wished her a civil good morning, hoped that she had slept well, gave her hands a quick look and then stood by the window, staring out at the wintry day, which gave the directrice an opportunity to enquire in her turn as to Charity’s health.

‘I am delighted that you were not more seriously hurt,’ she told her, ‘and I must commend you upon your courage and quick thinking. You have ruined your coat, I am told. Perhaps you do not know that our nurses are insured against mishap of any sort, so that within a short time you will receive a sum sufficient to replace what you have lost. In the meantime, if you present yourself at the secretary’s office today or tomorrow an advance payment will be made so that you may purchase a coat without any delay.’