and he had said that Charles would be cared for. The fee would be welcome, too: shoes, a new dress for her meagre wardrobe, and perhaps, on a Bank Holiday, a day-trip to the sea. She heard herself say, ‘Very well, Professor Nauta, if you will arrange everything and see that Charles is quite safe, I’ll do it.’
She felt no last-minute regret, and as for the Professor, he showed no sign of satisfaction, merely nodded briefly and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Fletcher. I will make the arrangements and keep you informed. Have you a passport?’
She shook her head.
‘Then go to the post office and get a visitor’s passport—it will be sufficient for your stay in Holland.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We should be getting back.’
At the hospital he got out and opened her door. He said stiffly, ‘My mother will be most grateful to you, Miss Fletcher. I am sure that you are no gossip, but I should be obliged to you if you will refrain from discussing our arrangement with anyone. The hospital manager will of course be in full possession of the facts.’
He got back into the car and drove away and she went back to her desk, five minutes late. It was unfortunate that the supervisor who headed the clerical staff was talking to Mrs Pearce. Miss Payne didn’t like Sarah, and here was an opportunity to tick her off for being late.
‘You mustn’t make a habit of these slovenly ways,’ said Miss Payne nastily. ‘I haven’t forgotten those three extra days you took with your last holidays on some trumped-up excuse. There are plenty of girls waiting to step into your shoes.’
Sarah didn’t answer; indeed, she wasn’t really listening, and Miss Payne turned back to Mrs Pearce, which left Sarah free to get ready for the afternoon’s influx of patients while she thought about Professor Nauta’s astonishing proposition. And what was more astonishing, she had agreed to it, and now that she had she felt excited. It would be wonderful to get out of the rut of her dull life for a couple of weeks; she began making plans as she ticked off names. She would raid the modest nest-egg in the bank and get some new clothes, something sensible that she could wear once the trip was over. There would be no need for anything other than blouses and skirts and a jacket; she would take her only decent dress to the cleaners on her way to work in the morning. Dove-grey wool jersey, timeless in its style and undoubtedly suitable.
The trickle of patients became a steady flow and then a flood and she had to call a halt to her plans.
* * *
IT WAS TWO days before she had any further news of her trip. She had got herself a passport, washed and pressed and ironed, polished her elderly baggage, but she hadn’t bought any clothes, not until she was quite certain… The Professor had taken his usual clinic, stalking past her desk without as much as a glance and, on his way out, accompanied by his registrar, he had paused briefly to say goodnight. Probably he hadn’t meant a word of it, she told Charles as she got their suppers. ‘And what a blessing I haven’t bought any new clothes,’ she observed rather crossly. ‘Oh, well, we’ll have to keep each other company, won’t we?’ She paused as she made the tea. ‘And another thing—I wouldn’t have taken two weeks’ holiday at this time of year…’
There was an envelope on her desk the following morning. It contained flight tickets, instructions and the address of where she was going. She would be met at Schiphol, the Professor wrote in his crabbed handwriting, and she would find her expenses enclosed. He hoped that she would be agreeable to her fee being paid weekly. The size of it sent her mousy eyebrows soaring. His granny must be a handful…
Her holiday had been allowed, and, if she would present herself at the hospital entrance at half-past seven on the following Saturday, a taxi would convey her to Heathrow. Charles would be fetched on Friday evening, and he trusted that she would consent to that. It was signed, without protestations of sincerity or faith, Radolf Nauta. Very businesslike, thought Sarah, but she hadn’t expected anything less.
She put the envelope into her handbag in the drawer, and applied herself to the morning’s work. Her holiday, by some lucky chance, was to start from noon on Friday—overtime, stated the slip she had had from the office—if she went without lunch and was lucky with buses she would be able to go to Oxford Street and replenish her wardrobe. Mrs Pearce and Mrs Drew wished her goodbye with ill-concealed curiosity. Sarah never went anywhere, not even on holidays, and beyond telling them that she would be going away she had said nothing. They settled back behind their desks when she had gone and speculated about it; they came up with any number of ideas, most of them far-fetched, but not as far-fetched as the truth.
Sarah got on a bus and took herself to Oxford Street, where she found herself a sensible pleated skirt in a useful shade of brown, a neat little jacket to go with it and a couple of drip-dry blouses. They did nothing to enhance her appearance, but they were suitable. A word she had come to loathe. Perhaps one day, she promised herself, her little nose very close to a shop window while she studied the latest fashions for the younger woman, she would take the whole of her nest-egg and spend the lot, and never mind the rainy day.
She hadn’t been told who was to fetch Charles; she got out his shabby basket and put it ready, gave him an extra-special supper and sat down to wait. By eight o’clock no one had arrived, so she started to get her supper. ‘And if no one comes,’ she assured the animal, ‘I shan’t budge from here, so you don’t need to worry.’
She was opening a can of beans when someone knocked on her door. The Professor stood there. ‘I’ve come to collect Charles.’
She stood aside for him to squeeze past her. ‘Good evening, Professor Nauta,’ she said pointedly—quite lost on him, for he was examining her room with the air of a man who didn’t find it to his taste.
‘You live here?’ he asked.
A silly question—she wished she could think of a silly answer. She said, ‘Yes.’ And then, remembering her manners, ‘Will you sit down? Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Thank you, no. I’m now on my way home; I’ll hand Charles over as I go.’
She said urgently, ‘You’re sure he’ll be all right? Properly looked after?’
‘Quite sure.’
She picked up Charles, tucked him into his basket and fastened the lid, and he put a paw through the hole at the side and she held it for a moment. ‘Be good,’ she begged him. ‘It’s only for a little while.’
If the Professor hadn’t been watching her with the faintest of sneers on his mouth, she would have wept; Charles was, after all, her companion in a lonely life. As it was, she closed her gentle mouth firmly and handed him the basket.
‘I promise you that he will be most lovingly cared for,’ said the Professor, surprising her, ‘and when you return all you need to do is phone this number—’ he gave her a slip of paper ‘—and he will be returned to you at once.’
She was lonely that night without Charles’ portly form curled up at the bottom of the divan; it was a relief when she got up and had her breakfast and then got ready to leave. Mrs Potter, the landlady who lived in the basement, poked her head round the basement stairs to see her go. ‘I’ll keep your room, ducks!’ she shouted, quite unnecessarily since Sarah had paid her rent for the two weeks she would be away. ‘And ’ave a good time—meet a jolly bloke and ’ave some fun.’
Sarah thought it unlikely that there would be any jolly blokes near Granny. One never knew, of course; she fell into a pleasant daydream as she walked to the hospital: she would meet a man, handsome, rich, and he would fall instantly in love with her. It would be nice to go back to her bedsit a married woman, although of course if she married she wouldn’t go back, would she? He would have to like cats…
The taxi was waiting for her. She wished the driver good morning, got in and was borne away to Heathrow and in due course found herself sitting—to her surprise—in a first-class seat of a KLM plane.
Accepting the coffee she was offered, she looked around her. Everyone else looked as though he or she flew to Schiphol every day as a matter of