Tulips for Augusta. Бетти Нилс

‘Hullo, Miss Augusta Brown,’ and she, speechless, led him upstairs, aware of a sudden delight despite her anxiety for her aunt.

      It seemed he was no stranger to her aunts. Tante Emma greeted him tearfully. ‘Constantijn, I am so glad to see you—my sister…’

      He smiled at her with great kindness. ‘Why not go back to your room with Maartje—I’ll come and see you presently.’

      While he was talking he had been standing by the bed, looking at his patient, who stared back at him and presently smiled very faintly at him. He smiled back warmly, and gently pressed the hand he was holding. He said quietly and with great calmness, ‘I’m going to have a look at you—I believe I know what is wrong, but I must be sure, then you shall have something to take away the pain and allow you to sleep. When you wake up you will feel better.’

      He set about his examination and Augusta helped him, because it was the natural thing to do, even without her cap and apron, and he seemed to expect it anyway. When he had finished, he opened his bag and took out a phial of morphia and presently slid a needle gently into Tante Marijna’s arm. The old lady’s eyes slid from his impassive face to Augusta’s and back again.

      ‘I absolutely refuse to go to hospital,’ she said in a clear thready voice.

      ‘I hadn’t thought of it,’ said Dr van Lindemann. ‘Why should you when you’ve a perfectly good nurse here?’

      His glance flickered across the bed. ‘Stay here a moment, will you, while I talk to your aunt?’ He didn’t wait for her nod, but disappeared through the door, to reappear presently with Maartje.

      ‘Maartje will sit here for a short while…there are a few things… I’ve given Juffrouw van den Pol some trichloral; I think she’ll settle.’ He glanced at the bed. ‘Your aunt will be all right, I think. Maartje tells me there’s coffee in the kitchen—come down and have a cup while we decide what to do.’

      Augusta followed him meekly, and found the coffee pot warm on top of the stove; there was milk in a double saucepan too, hot enough to have a creamy coat wrinkling its surface. The doctor strolled around the kitchen collecting cups and saucers and a sugar pot, talking as he did so.

      ‘Your aunt’s had an attack of angina—just as you thought—nasty enough, but she’ll recover. She’s as fit as a woman of half her age and has great determination. Five days’ complete bed rest and then gradual convalescence.’

      Augusta nodded, the coffee pot in one hand, the milk in the other.

      ‘Do you like the skin?’ she inquired.

      He looked as though he was going to laugh. ‘Yes—do you?’

      She began to pour. ‘Yes. You’d better have it as you’re the guest.’

      ‘How nicely you put it,’ he said smoothly. ‘We’ll share.’

      They sat down opposite each other on the rush-seated wooden chairs that any museum would have been glad to possess. ‘How long are you staying?’ He was the doctor again, deliberate and detached.