It was cold outside and bleak with the bleakness of January. The clouds had a yellow tinge to them and the wind was piercingly cold. She hurried to the post office some streets away, where there were clerks who spoke English and would understand her when she asked for a registered envelope.
The post office was warm inside. The walk had given her eyes a sparkle and put some colour into her cheeks. She had perched her knitted beret on top of her head and wound its matching scarf carelessly round her throat. She took her gloves off and blew on her cold fingers and went up to the counter.
It took a little while to understand the clerk and then she was so disappointed that she could hardly believe him. She had taken it for granted that she could send either the cash or a money order to Bolly and it seemed she had been hopelessly at fault—she could do no such thing. Go to a bank, suggested the clerk helpfully, where there would be forms to be filled in and a certain amount of delay. But she wanted Bolly to have the money now—within the next day or two. If she waited until she went back herself that was a whole week away—besides, she had promised Bolly. She sighed and the clerk sighed in sympathy and she said, ‘Well, thank you very much for explaining. I should have found out earlier, shouldn’t I?’
‘Can I help?’ The professor—she would have known his icy voice anywhere. She whirled round to face him.
‘Oh, how funny to meet you here, sir. I don’t think so, thank you. It’s just something that was my own silly fault anyway.’
‘Why should it be funny, Nurse Trent? I also write letters, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you do, only—only I should have thought that you would have had someone to post them.’
‘Indeed? I am not particularly interested in your suppositions, but I find this one extraordinary. How can I help you?’
Persistent man, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She explained in a matter-of-fact voice and apologised again for being stupid.
‘Why should you be stupid?’ he asked irritably. ‘You were not to know before you asked. How much money did you want to send?’
‘Forty pounds. No—I’ve got to take some off …’ she began to reckon twelve and a half per cent of forty pounds in her head and the amount came different each time she did it. Finally she asked, because he showed signs of impatience, ‘How much is twelve and a half per cent of forty pounds?’
‘Five pounds. Why?’
‘Well, that’s what I have to pay the agency for as long as I work for them.’
‘Iniquitous! It so happens that I am going over to London this evening. I will take the money, since you seem so anxious to send it.’
She stared at him, astonished. ‘But you don’t even … you’re very kind, but I couldn’t trouble you. I shall be going back myself in a week’s time.’
The professor tweaked her out of the queue forming behind her.
‘Ah, yes—I should be obliged if you would remain in Amsterdam for a further few weeks. I have a patient upon whom I shall be operating in ten days’ time, and he will need a special nurse in hospital and probably to accompany him home when he is sufficiently recovered. Your usual fee will be paid you.’
Abigail’s voice sounded a little too loud in her own ears. ‘But you don’t …’ She stopped—what had his personal opinion of her got to do with it anyway? He wanted a nurse and she was available. She answered him with her usual calm good sense, ‘Yes, Professor, I should be quite willing to stay on for as long as you require me.’
He nodded carelessly, as though he had known all along that she was going to say yes.
‘Very well, we will consider the matter settled,’ and when she looked at him it was to find him smiling. Perhaps it was because she had never seen him smile that her heart lurched against her ribs and her breath caught in her throat. It transformed his handsome face into one of such charm that if he had at that moment suggested that she should remain in Holland for the rest of her life, she would probably have agreed without further thought. But her idea wasn’t put to the test; the smile vanished, leaving him looking more impatient than ever.
‘Give me the address of the person who is to receive the money,’ he suggested, ‘and I will see that it reaches him—or her.’
‘Him,’ said Abigail, and would have liked to tell him about Bolly, but quite obviously her companion was anxious to be gone. She handed him the envelope with the letter inside and the forty pounds hastily pushed in with it. She had forgotten about the agency fee, but he hadn’t.
‘Twelve and a half per cent?’ he wanted to know.
He really was in a hurry. ‘I’ll—I’ll take it out of my pay next week. You’re sure …?’
He interrupted without apology, ‘Stop fussing, Miss Trent.’ He stuffed the envelope into a pocket with a nonchalance, Abigail thought vexedly, of a man who found forty pounds chicken feed, wished her a curt goodbye and walked away. She began to walk back to the flat, her head bent against the sneering wind, telling herself that the reason she felt so happy was because Bolly would have the money by the following evening, or at the very least, the morning after.
The professor came to see Mrs Morgan three days later. He paid his visit while Abigail was out for her afternoon walk and left no message for her at all. It wasn’t until the evening previous to Mrs Morgan’s departure that he came again. Abigail was packing her patient’s clothes, surrounded by tissue paper, orderly piles of undies, innumerable hats and an assortment of suitcases. Evidently Mrs Morgan never worried about excess baggage. That lady was reclining on the couch, directing operations; she looked very well and remarkably attractive, which was more than Abigail felt, for her head ached and her usually neat hair was a little untidy, nor had she had the time to do anything to her face for some time, and over and above these annoyances she was worried about Bolly; she had had a cheerful letter from him, thanking her for the money, but she sensed that he was hiding something from her. She was thinking about it now and frowning—she was still frowning when there was a knock on the door and Doctor Vincent and the professor walked in. They both wished her a good evening and she flushed a little under the professor’s brief, unfriendly glance, very conscious that she wasn’t looking her modest best. They stayed perhaps ten minutes, made their farewells and started for the door. But this time Professor van Wijkelen made a detour and came to a halt by her and her pile of luggage.
‘I understand that you will be taking Mrs Morgan to Schiphol tomorrow morning. You will be fetched from there and taken straight to the hospital. Perhaps you can arrange to have your luggage with you.’ His eyes strayed over the ordered chaos around them. ‘I trust you have a good deal less than this.’
‘One case,’ Abigail told him briefly, and he nodded. ‘I will leave a message for you at the hospital tomorrow,’ he stated. ‘Good evening, Nurse.’
He had gone before she could thank him for posting her letter.
Mrs Morgan was actually bidding Abigail goodbye at Schiphol when she interrupted herself to exclaim, ‘There, I knew there was something, honey! I’ve clean forgot to give you your money.’ She made to open her unwieldy bag, but it was too late; a smiling official indicated the passenger conveyor belt which would take her one stage nearer the plane. ‘I’ll post it to you,’ she called, waved and smiled and nodded, and was borne swiftly away; so easy for her to say it, thought Abigail a little forlornly, but where would she send the money to? Mrs Morgan knew that she was going to another job, but she hadn’t asked for any details and Abigail hadn’t volunteered any.