She was as cross as two sticks, and Mevrouw Nauta junior looked harassed and lost no time in making off, leaving Sarah to pacify her elderly companion as best she could.
‘Shall I read to you?’ she asked hastily. ‘Or shall we talk?’
‘We will talk, young woman—at least, I shall talk and you will listen.’
So Sarah sat down by the bed and listened to the old lady talking of her earlier life. Every now and then she dropped off into a light doze, to wake refreshed and talk of her youth in a breathy voice, sometimes so faint that Sarah could hardly hear it.
After dinner, taken in the magnificent dining-room, sitting between the Nautas at a table glistening with silver and crystal, Sarah went back again, a little tired by now, and listened to the thin old voice until the old lady slept. It was almost midnight and the house was quiet; she arranged the bell where it could be reached should Mevrouw Nauta senior wake and want her, and went to her room, undressed and got into bed, rather worried at the idea of leaving the old lady alone, but reassured by the bell on the bedside table. Her own bed was blissfully warm and comfortable, and she slept within minutes.
* * *
WITHIN THE NEXT two or three days she achieved some kind of a flexible routine, although this depended very much on Mevrouw Nauta’s state of health. That she was going downhill was obvious, despite the cheerful doctor who visited her each day. She had no appetite, and Sarah spent a good deal of time coaxing her to eat the dainty little dishes which the cook sent up. It was halfway through the week when Sarah, listening to her companion’s half-whispered ramblings, discovered that she had been something of a pianist in her younger days. ‘Girls don’t play the pianoforte these days,’ grumbled old Mevrouw Nauta.
‘Well, I do,’ said Sarah. ‘Or at least, I did.’ A remark which bore unexpected consequences, for when Sarah got back from her tea that afternoon there was a piano installed in one corner of the room.
‘The schoolroom is on this floor,’ explained the younger lady, ‘and my mother-in-law told me that you played. It seemed a good idea to have the piano moved in here.’
So Sarah spent the evening and the succeeding days playing the tunes the old lady fancied, a state of affairs which pleased them both.
At the end of the week, Sarah began to feel that she had been there forever. St Cyprian’s seemed of another world and, despite her erratic hours and lack of much free time, she was happy. The Nautas were kind to her and so were the servants; she couldn’t understand them, of course, nor they her, apart from Hans. But he beamed goodwill, and they saw that there were flowers in her room and trays of tea the moment she had any spare time to herself. She even began to think that the old lady was improving—a mistake, as it turned out, for that very evening her peevishness made it impossible to settle her for the night. She declared that she had no intention of sleeping and that Sarah was to stay with her. ‘And that’s what you’re paid for,’ she pointed out waspishly.
‘Of course I’ll stay with you, but if you don’t mind I’ll go and have a shower and get into a dressing-gown first. Give me ten minutes,’ begged Sarah, and whisked herself off to her room. It was still early; as she passed the head of the staircase she could hear voices downstairs, and Hans crossed the hall below. She was back with the old lady presently, cosily wrapped in the dressing-gown over her nightie, hopeful that in a little while Mevrouw Nauta might go to sleep and she could go to bed herself in the dressing-room.
The old lady had other ideas—Sarah played the piano with her foot on the soft pedal until after midnight, and then, obeying the ill-tempered old voice, started on chapter three of Pride and Prejudice. The clock was striking one o’clock when she was told to put the book down and play the piano again. ‘And don’t start on any of your lullabies,’ said the irascible old lady, ‘for I won’t be soothed, I intend to stay awake all night.’ So Sarah, thundering her way through some of Brahms’ more dramatic works, her foot well down on the soft pedal again, didn’t hear the door open, nor did she see Professor Nauta come into the room.
He glanced at his sleeping grandmother and crossed the room soundlessly. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’ he wanted to know, bending his vast person to reach Sarah’s ear.
Sarah stopped in mid-bar, and swung round to face him. She had gone pale with fright and her voice was a furious squeak. ‘How dare you frighten me? And you should watch your language, Professor.’
He stood towering over her, studying her small person wrapped cosily in her sensible woolly dressing-gown. Her hair, which she had plaited ready for bed if she was lucky enough to get to it, had come loose and hung in a shining mass almost to her waist, and her eyes were heavy with sleep.
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, I think I was surprised—it was hardly what I expected.’
She was very conscious of his hand. ‘Your grandmother is having a bad night, and she wanted me to play for her. Why are you here?’ She caught her breath. ‘I’m sorry, it’s your home, I didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘To say goodbye,’ he said softly. ‘It will be only a few more days now.’ He turned his head and looked across to the bed, his face suddenly relaxed and smiling. Sarah looked too—old Mevrouw Nauta was awake.
The Professor crossed the room and sat down on the side of the bed. He took his grandmother’s hand in his and bent to kiss her cheek, and then began a cheerful conversation in his own language. Presently he turned his head. ‘Go to bed, Sarah,’ and, as she started towards the dressing-room, ‘No, not there, your own room. I’m going to stay and talk to my grandmother. I’m not in the least tired. There is coffee in the kitchen—do you know where that is? Have a drink and go to bed; you will be called in the morning.’
She made a feeble protest, but she was tired and tomorrow would be another long day. She had her coffee, had a quick shower, got into bed and was asleep within seconds.
When she woke up the Professor was sitting on the edge of her bed, balancing a small tray with two mugs on it. She shot up in bed, peering at him through a curtain of hair. ‘Mevrouw Nauta—she’s worse? I must get up—’
‘Presently. Drink your tea first. She is no worse. There’s no one up yet—it’s not yet six o’clock, but she has a fancy for a little music. I told her she would have to wait just a few minutes while I fetched you from your bed.’
Sarah gulped her tea. The Professor looked weary and he needed a shave. ‘You must go to bed,’ she told him in a no-nonsense voice. ‘I’ll get dressed.’
‘Come as you are. Put on your dressing-gown and slippers and play anything she fancies—she is on the edge of sleep, and you will have time to dress and breakfast shortly.’ He got off the bed, fetched her dressing-gown from a chair and picked up the tray. ‘Don’t waste time,’ he begged her.
So she pattered along to the old lady’s room, bade her good morning and sat down at the piano.
‘Schubert,’ ordered her companion in a wispy voice, ‘and then Delius. When is my supper coming?’
‘Very soon,’ said Sarah in her quiet voice. ‘I’ll play until it does, shall I?’
Ten minutes later the Professor came again, this time bearing another tray with a small jug and glass. He had found time to shave and change into a sweater and slacks, and he no longer looked tired. Sarah wondered how he did it. She allowed her fingers to wander through Rosamunde while her thoughts wandered too. It had been a strange night; she had never known one like it, and most likely never would again. When she got back to the hospital, sitting at her desk soberly ticking off names, and remembered this night, she felt sure she wouldn’t believe it. She tossed her hair back impatiently and felt the Professor’s hands gathering it into a cascade and plaiting it. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Not so distracting.’ He gave a little laugh and went back to sit by the bed…
Half an hour later the old lady was asleep and he got to his feet. ‘She will sleep soundly for a couple of hours at least. Get dressed and have your breakfast,