LITMIR.BIZ

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quite unable to argue with this tiresome giant of a man. ‘I will make an exception, Olympia, you may take your free time this afternoon, but you will, of course, return to evening duty at half past five.’

      It was barely half past two; Olympia murmured dutifully and got herself out of the room; her aunt would have to take over until she got back, there were no other trained nurses on duty—she might change her mind, thought Olympia, desperately tearing off her uniform and putting on the tweed suit like lightning. Thank heaven it was a fine day even if cold. She did her hair with a speed which did nothing to improve her appearance, tucked a silk scarf given her by a grateful patient round her neck, snatched up her gloves and bag and raced upstairs. He was still there. He took a leisurely farewell of her aunt, assured her of his gratitude, opened the door for Olympia and closed it with firmness behind him.

      ‘What do you want to buy?’ asked Olympia at once.

      He stood on the pavement outside the house, deep in thought. ‘Well, let me see, something for Ria—my little daughter, you know. She is almost five years old and very precocious, I’m afraid. Her mother died a week or so after she was born.’

      Olympia restrained her feet from the impatient dance she felt like executing; any moment Aunt Maria might change her mind and they were still standing just outside the door. Quite shocked at what he had told her, she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and felt inadequate. Of course he would have been married; men like him didn’t go through life like monks; perhaps he had loved his wife very much, perhaps he was still grieving for her. She tried again. ‘It must be terrible for you.’

      He looked taken aback, but only for a moment. ‘Ria is a handful,’ he said blandly. ‘Shall we go?’

      They went to Selfridges, this time to the toy department, where, after a prolonged tour of its delights, Olympia, asked to choose a suitable present for a five-year-old girl without worrying too much about the price, picked out a doll’s house. It was a thing which she herself would have loved to possess and never had; it was furnished down to the last miniature saucepan in its magnificent kitchen, and was everything which a little girl could wish for. She spent a long time hanging over it, switching on the lights, opening and shutting the miniature doors, rearranging the furniture. When at last she looked up it was to find her companion’s blue eyes regarding her with a tolerant patience which coloured her cheeks with guilty pink. She said apologetically: ‘I always wanted a doll’s house—your little daughter will love this one.’

      She watched while he wrote a cheque for it—a fabulous sum, she considered, and fell to wondering how it was that he was able to write cheques when he was a Dutchman, living, presumably, in Holland. She spoke her thought. ‘You live in Holland, don’t you?’

      He smiled. ‘Oh, yes—I have a large practice in the country town called Middelburg. That is my home, but I do a good deal of lecturing, some of it in England.’

      So that accounted for the cheque book. ‘Have you been here ever since we—since you helped me that day?’

      ‘No. I wished to see you again, so I came over three days ago.’

      She had nothing to say to that, and anyway the saleslady wanted to talk to him about the packing up of the doll’s house. When he turned to her again it was only to say: ‘I think we have time for tea before you have to be back. Shall we go to Fortnum and Mason again, or would you prefer somewhere else?’

      Olympia could not, from her limited experience, think of any place to better it, so she murmured a polite: ‘That would be nice,’ while her sober head buzzed with the effort of guessing why he had wanted to see her. They were in the taxi, travelling in a companionable silence, before a possible reason struck her. He was looking for a governess for his small daughter and had picked on her. The possibility of such a miracle filled her with a warm glow of delight, to be instantly quenched by the recollection of her promise to her aunt—only if she were to marry might she leave, Aunt Maria had said. She clenched the cheap handbag on her lap with suddenly desperate fingers so that her companion, watching her from his corner, asked: ‘Supposing you tell me what’s bothering you?’

      Her voice rose several notes in its urgency. ‘Nothing—nothing at all.’

      He said, his manner very placid, ‘We haven’t known each other very long, but I hoped you might feel able to confide in me.’

      She turned to look at him. ‘Confide…?’ she began, and then: ‘In you?’

      ‘Next time, perhaps,’ he replied casually as the taxi stopped, and for the rest of their afternoon together, he talked about nothing in particular. Only as he walked up to the front door of the nursing home with her and she put out her hand did he say, ‘I’m coming in—I wish to see your aunt.’

      Olympia allowed her hand to drop back to her side, pausing before she opened the door. ‘Why?’ she asked.

      ‘I should like her to understand quite clearly that I wish to get to know you,’ he said to astonish her.

      She stared up at him for a long moment and spoke wistfully: ‘It won’t be any good, you know, she won’t let me go…’ And she was unaware of what she had said.

      He smiled, but his voice was firm. ‘I think that she will.’

      Olympia opened the door. She had never known anyone get the better of Aunt Maria, but presumably there had to be a first time for everything. She wished him success from the bottom of her heart. ‘I’ll see if she’s in her office,’ she offered, and left him standing in the chill of the hall.

      She was back within a minute. ‘Aunt will be pleased to see you,’ she told him, and shivered. He paused beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘This damned cold hall,’ he remarked feelingly, then astonished her by asking, ‘Why are you called Olympia?’

      She smiled then and her eyes widened and twinkled at him so that she looked pretty. ‘Father was an archaeologist, he met Mother during a dig in Greece. I—I like it.’

      ‘So do I.’ He went through the door behind her as he spoke, leaving her to run downstairs and change back into uniform.

      She had no moment of time in which to think about him after that; her aunt had done none of the things the nurses did towards easing the evening’s work. There were beds to turn down, medicines to give, supper trays to lay, the old people to help with their preparations for bed, and Miss Snow, if she were to be believed, had been left to cope with the patients’ teas all by herself and was so incensed in consequence that Olympia took ten minutes of her precious time to soothe her down and persuade her not to give in her notice then and there. Perhaps, she thought, as she dished out the light supper at a great rate, it would be as well if Aunt Maria told Doctor van der Graaf not to call again.

      But she hadn’t, or if she had, he had taken no notice of her, for he came again the very next day, this time in the morning just as Olympia was going off duty for the split her aunt insisted was necessary for her to take twice a week—that meant that she went on duty at half past seven in the morning, was free from half past ten until one o’clock, and then worked through the remainder of the day until the night staff came on, a wretched arrangement which no hospital nurse would have tolerated unless circumstances made it vital. She found him standing in the hall on the way down to her room and had given him a rather surprised good morning, followed by an inquiry as to whether he wished to see her aunt again.

      ‘God forbid,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve come for you. Your aunt gave me the times of your off duty—I thought we might go somewhere and have coffee—lunch is out of the question, I take it.’

      He stood looking at her, his head on one side. ‘I thought that the modern nurse had improved her lot to a certain extent; it seems that doesn’t apply to this place.’

      ‘My aunt hasn’t many nurses—only me and Mrs Cooper, and she’s part-time. Miss Snow and Mrs Drew aren’t trained—they’re very good, though.’

      ‘You do not complain. I suspect that the writer of that poem—I can’t remember much of it—had you in mind when

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