The Little Dragon. Betty Neels

unless controlled by insulin, would be cause of those headaches. You must allow me to guide you in the matter. I will discuss your diet with Nurse and see what alternatives there are to the diet I prescribed. And now you must tell me how you feel today, Mrs Dowling.’

      His patient spoke at some length, her voice grating unpleasantly on Constantia’s ear. But she had heard it all before, so she felt justified in allowing her thoughts to wander. Tomorrow, she reflected, she would have the half day Mrs Dowling so grudgingly gave her twice a week. She had glimpsed the town briefly already, now she was going to explore it; its churches, museums, old houses, canals and narrow alleys. After all, she might never have the chance to come to Delft again. She was really very lucky, she could have been up to her eyes on Women’s Medical…the Nieuw Kerk first, she decided, and then the Town Hall…

      Mrs Dowling had paused for breath; Constantia switched her mind back to her present surroundings, and although she wasn’t required to speak, looked intelligent.

      Ten minutes later she was attending Doctor Sperling to the door. The new diet had been discussed, written down and approved by the patient. The insulin doses the doctor had tactfully left until he was alone with Constantia; she listened carefully to his instructions and smiled a goodbye, quite sorry for him because although he was well thought of by his colleagues in the medical profession and had a fashionable practice, he still had to suffer the tiresomeness of patients like Mrs Dowling. And it seemed as though he would have to suffer her for some time yet, for she harboured the notion that her complaint was something she could ignore if she wished, and indeed before the doctor had persuaded her to have a private nurse she had played ducks and drakes with both her diet and her insulin.

      She hadn’t liked the idea of a nurse at first, but after the beginnings of a diabetic coma, luckily nipped in the bud by the doctor, she had changed her views and even got a good deal of satisfaction from having a nurse to look after her. She had a number of friends, hard-faced women like herself who were addicted to bridge and the bullying of those they considered beneath them, and as none of them had had a private nurse at any time, she derived a good deal of satisfaction from Constantia’s presence. But not pleasure; she had tried in vain to bully her, but Constantia wasn’t to be cowed. She had learned to show an imperturbable front which quite disconcerted her patient, and although she had a nasty temper upon occasion, she kept it well in check.

      The agency for whom she worked had thought that she might be in Holland for two or three weeks, no longer, but already a week had gone by and if Mrs Dowling was going to insist on doing exactly what she liked about her diet, then Constantia could see that she might be there for very much longer. Given a sensible patient, the diabetes could have been controlled within two weeks, diets worked out and the insulin doses adjusted, so that an occasional visit to the doctor would have been quite sufficient. But Mrs Dowling wasn’t sensible, she was also very rich and moreover suffered from the illusion that money would and could smooth her path. Quite why she needed Constantia was a puzzle, and certainly she had said nothing about her leaving. Constantia, who liked to nurse patients who needed all her skill and care, felt impatient when she thought about it—but if she were to go, the chances were that Mrs Dowling would do something silly like eating éclairs for tea and forgetting her insulin, and end up in hospital in a coma.

      Constantia went back upstairs and spent the next half an hour persuading her patient that Vienne snitczels just wouldn’t do for her dinner that evening.

      ‘I sometimes wish that I were back in England,’ complained Mrs Dowling. ‘I could go to one of those health hydros where I’m sure my wishes would be carried out.’

      ‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t,’ said Constantia briskly, ‘if you want to.’

      Her patient cast her a look of dislike. ‘When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it,’ she snapped. ‘What have you to offer in place of Vienne snitczels?’

      Constantia was ready with quite a list; Mrs Dowling rejected first one and then the other and then finally, seeing that Constantia had no intention of ordering the snitczels, graciously allowed that Parma ham cut wafer-thin might do very well. Constantia retired to the kitchen to confer with the cook and on the way back again lingered for a moment at a downstairs window.

      The snow was coming down thickly now and it was almost dark. Across the bridge she could see the shops lighted up; it would be pleasant to wrap up warmly and explore—tomorrow she would do just that.

      By lunch time the next day the snow had ceased and the sun had come out; it was cold, though. Constantia, already a little late because Mrs Dowling had thought up first one and then the other small task for her to do before she went, hurried along the Wijn Haven, across the bridge and into Oude Langen Dijke, where she turned off to cross the market square in the direction of the Nieuwe Kerk. She paused as she went to turn and stare at the Stadhuis; it looked beautiful in its snowy setting—seventeenth-century Baroque, although there was a small part of it which was much older and no longer open to the public. She shivered as she stood; the wind was cold and her coat, several winters old now, wasn’t quite adequate. She dismissed the coat with a cheerful shrug and continued on her way, and it was as she reached the far side of the market square that she saw Doctor Sperling’s car parked opposite the Nieuwe Kerk. There was another car close by, a shabby little Fiat parked rather carelessly, and its occupant was apparently talking to Doctor Sperling, for she could see that he was talking to someone bending down at his car’s window. She had almost reached it when the doctor turned round, saw her, and raised a dignified hand.

      Constantia hadn’t much dignity. She skipped up to the car and said, ‘Hullo, Doctor Sperling,’ with an almost childlike friendliness, and then uttered a surprised ‘Oh,’ as whoever it was on the other side straightened up to look at her over the car’s roof. A very large, tall man with pale hair silvering over the temples, his eyes were blue, and heavy-lidded, his nose high-bridged above a large firm mouth. A nice face, decided Constantia, and smiled widely at him.

      He had a nice smile too, she discovered. The arm he stretched over the car’s roof was enormous, so was his hand, but his grip was gentle.

      ‘Jeroen van der Giessen.’ His voice was deep and placid.

      ‘Constantia Morley…’ Doctor Sperling’s pedantic voice interrupted her. ‘Miss Morley is nursing Mrs Dowling.’ He poked his head further out of the car window. ‘You have a free afternoon, Nurse?’

      ‘It’s my half day—I’m exploring, Doctor Sperling.’ She smiled at him, delighted with her freedom; she smiled at the large man, too, rather shyly. ‘I don’t want to miss a minute,’ she explained. ‘Goodbye, Doctor—Mijnheer van der Giessen.’

      She crossed the road and went into the Nieuwe Kerk and Doctor Sperling watching her, observed severely: ‘A good nurse, very thorough and conscientious, but one feels that she should take life more seriously.’

      ‘Why?’ asked his companion, his eyes on Constantia’s small brisk person as it disappeared into the church.

      Doctor Sperling coughed. ‘She is twenty-six,’ he remarked severely.

      Two lazy blue eyes twinkled down at him. ‘I’m thirty-nine myself and I have the greatest difficulty in taking life seriously.’

      The older man examined his nails. ‘I’m not surprised, Jeroen, with three children and those dogs and that great house.’ He sounded faintly envious. ‘And your work.’ He sighed. ‘I must get on, I’ve another patient to visit. We must have an evening together…’

      ‘Give me a ring.’ The two men shook hands and Doctor Sperling watched the other man insert his giant-like proportions into the Fiat and drive away. He was a good driver; no fiddling with mirrors or gears, no anxious ear cocked for engine noises, just in and away. ‘He could drive a biscuit tin,’ muttered Doctor Sperling, and drove off himself, only rather more sedately.

      Constantia, in between a close study of the stained glass windows in the choir, the Royal Burial Vault of the House of Orange and the mausoleum of William of Orange, allowed her thoughts to dwell upon the man she had just met. She had liked him and he had looked at her as though he