The Magic of Living
Aunt Maud had been wrong; the hat did something for her, she looked almost pretty. She winced at the memory of the severe felt she had purchased for church-going last winter, with her aunt’s unqualified approval. The next hat she bought, she vowed, turning her head this way and that before the mirror, she would buy by herself, and it would be a hat to shock the family, the village churchgoers and the parson himself. She took it off with regret. It was a pity that as a general rule she didn’t wear hats; all the same she glowed gently with the knowledge that she wasn’t quite as plain as she had imagined. It would be nice, she thought sleepily, if you were wearing such a hat when Nanny’s Mr Right came along, if ever he came, which seemed unlikely.
Two days later Sister Brewster sent for her, to inform her in tones of disapproval that since her cousin was unable to go on the children’s holiday which Lady Marchant had so kindly arranged, and Matron had signified her approval of Arabella taking her place, she would have to make do with whoever was offered her. Upon this rather unfortunate opening she proceeded to build her plans for the expedition, merely pausing from time to time in order to tell Arabella that she was to do as she was told at all times. ‘I shall have my hands full,’ stated Sister Brewster loftily, ‘and I want no nonsense of any sort.’
Arabella wondered if the programme—and a very muddled one it was too—was to be adhered to, what time there would be left for her to do more than draw breath, let alone give way to any sort of nonsense. She assured the older lady that she wasn’t the nonsensical type, and then enquired how many children they were to escort.
‘Twenty-two,’ said Sister Brewster snappily.
‘Are they all able to help themselves?’
‘Some ten or eleven are capable of doing most things. You will need to help the others.’
Arabella caught her breath, clamped her teeth firmly on to her tongue and remained commendably silent. It was going to be far worse than she had been led to believe; no wonder Hilary hadn’t wanted to go, although she might not have known the details when she cried off. Arabella, who wouldn’t have played a dirty trick on anyone, couldn’t imagine others doing so, especially her own cousin.
She went along to the Sisters’ Wing of the Home that evening and told Hilary about it, and her cousin, sitting before her mirror, doing things to her pretty face, made a sympathetic sound. ‘Poor old Bella, I am sorry, love. Never mind, it won’t be for long and once you get to the camp I’m sure you’ll find swarms of volunteer helpers, then you won’t have nearly so much to do.’
She applied mascara with an expert hand and Arabella watched with an appreciative eye. ‘We’re leaving in two days’ time,’ she told her cousin. ‘Did you do anything about Watts’ holiday?’
Hilary got up and put on her coat. ‘Watts? Don’t worry your head, Bella—everything will be arranged.’
Arabella prepared to leave. ‘Where are you going?’ she enquired.
Hilary gave her a mischievous smile. ‘Just a little dinner for two. I’m late—be a darling and tidy up a bit for me, will you? I’ll be late back and I know I’ll be too tired…’bye, love.’
She was gone in a discreet cloud of Ma Griffe and Arabella started to put away discarded clothes and tidy the dressing table. She had done it before quite a number of times, and as she opened doors and closed drawers she reflected, without envy, that her cousin was certainly the prettiest girl she had ever seen. The thought sent her to the mirror to peer at her own reflection, an action so unrewarding that she made haste to go back to her own room.
Lady Marchant, even though she was in Canada, had seen to it that her work in arranging a holiday for the spastic children should not go unsung; the children were conveyed to Wickham’s in the morning where the bus was waiting for them, together with a battery of cameramen from all the best newspapers and even someone from the BBC.
Arabella, busy arranging the children in their most comfortable positions and then strapping them in, had no time to pose for her photograph, although she was assured by her friends later that there were some excellent shots of her back view on the six o’clock news, but Hilary, who had come down into the courtyard ostensibly to help, turned her lovely face to the cameramen, who realized that she was exactly what they were looking for. They snapped her in a dozen positions and the BBC reporter managed a short interview, in which Hilary, without actually saying so, gave the impression that she was in charge of the whole excursion.
The bus left at length, half an hour after everyone else, because Sister Brewster, at the last minute, had discovered that she had left behind most of the papers she needed for the journey; it was unfortunate that she couldn’t remember where she had left them. They came to light in her room finally, but by then the newspaper men and the reporter had gone home to their lunch.
Contrary to her expectations, Arabella enjoyed the journey; the children were good even though they were wild with excitement; most of them were able to do only a very little for themselves even though they had the intelligence of a normal child. Arabella listened patiently to their slow, difficult speech, pointed out the sights as they went along, and when the bus pulled in to a layby, helped them to eat their lunches. Several of them needed to be fed, several more needed a steadying hand. It took so long that she ate her own sandwiches once the bus had started again, sitting up in front with three of the more helpless of the children. They were pathetically lightweight, so they were close to the driver and the bus door, so that they could be whisked in and out quickly and leave room for those not quite so handicapped. The driver, Arabella had quickly decided, was a dear; quite elderly and rather thickset, a good steady driver too and not easily distracted by the shouts and noise going on around him.
They were to cross by Hovercraft to Calais and spend the night near Ghent, at a convent known to Lady Marchant, and despite Sister Brewster’s misgivings, the journey went smoothly and surprisingly rapidly. Once on the other side of the channel, Mr Burns, the driver, took the coast road to Dunkirk, turning off there to cross into Belgium and so eventually to Ghent. The convent was just outside the town, a charming red brick building enclosed by a large garden and with a gratifyingly large number of helpers waiting to receive them. The children were fed and put to bed and the three of them were sitting down to their own supper in a commendably short space of time. They talked little, for they were tired, and Arabella for one was glad to stretch herself out in her severe little bed in the room allotted to her leading from the children’s dormitory.
They were on their way directly after a breakfast eaten at an hour which had meant getting up very early indeed, but the morning was fine if chilly and spirits were high as Mr Burns turned the bus towards Holland. They had a journey of roughly a hundred and fifty miles to go and more than five hours in which to do it, for they were expected at the camp by one o’clock. Part of the journey at least would be on the motorway, the remainder as far as Arnhem on a first-class road. The holiday camp was nine or ten miles further on, in the Veluwe, and with no towns of any size nearby, that much Arabella had learned from her study of the map before they had left, and as they went along, Mr Burns supplied odds and ends of information concerning the country around them.
They were through Arnhem and off the main road now, tooling along through pleasant quiet country, wooded and sparsely inhabited—a little like the New Forest, decided Arabella, on her way round the bus with sweets for the children. It was as she was making her way to the front again that she noticed that Mr Burns’ driving had become rather erratic; he wasn’t on the right side of the road any more, but well in the middle. The bus shot back to the right far too sharply and then, as though propelled by some giant hand, to the left. Arabella was beside a strangely sagging Mr Burns by now, applying the hand-brake, switching off the ignition and then leaning across his inert body to drag at the wheel. The bus came to a lop-sided halt on the wrong side of the road, on a narrow grass slope leading to a small waterway. It took a few long seconds to decide what it would do next and then tilted sideways and slid slowly over. Arabella had ample time to see a car, coming fast and apparently straight at them. Her head was full of a jumble of thoughts, tilting themselves sideways out of her mind just as the bus was tilting—Sister Brewster, squeaking like a parrot; the children, gasping and crying incoherently for help; Hilary, telling her it would be quite an easy trip and she had nothing to worry about; last and most strangely, a vivid memory of Anne’s gorgeous bridesmaid’s hat.
The bus landed on its side quite gently and lay rocking. She heard the squeal of brakes as she tried to twist round to hold the children nearest to her upright.
CHAPTER TWO
THERE was someone trying to open the driver’s door, now crazily above Arabella’s head. She could hear a man’s voice, uttering harsh foreign words as the door handle came away uselessly in his hand and fell within inches of her head. The next moment she saw a large hand slide through the partly opened glass top of the door and work its way to the inside handle; when the door opened with a protesting groan, the hand’s owner put his head through and stared down at her.
He was a good-looking man, not so very young, with fair hair and blue eyes under thick arched brows. Arabella examined his face with a dreamlike detachment brought on through shock, but when he allowed his gaze to roam rapidly round the chaos around her, she pulled herself together.
‘Please help us,’ she was glad to hear her voice was steady. ‘These children are spastics.’ Even as she spoke she wondered if he understood a word she said.
Apparently he did, for he disappeared without a word, leaving her a prey to the fear that he might have decided that it would be more prudent to get help rather than start rescue operations on his own. Her fears were groundless, however; she heard the door at the back of the bus being wrenched open with some difficulty and his voice, speaking English this time, telling Sister Brewster with firm authority to climb out into the road and stop any car which might come along. She couldn’t hear Sister Brewster’s reply, but the squawking had stopped.
The bus had stopped rocking by now, but there was water slopping through the half-open windows at the back. Arabella made shift to unbuckle two or three of the children who were getting wet, and lift them on to the other side of the bus, to sit them higgledy-piggledy on top of the children already there. She heard the man’s voice again and saw that he was back, leaning precariously through the door. He spoke with approval:
‘Good girl—move as many as you can from that side, but keep away from the back, the bus may slide even more. We’ll get the children out in a minute or two, but first I must move the driver.’
Arabella cried: ‘He’s…’ and stopped herself just in time because the children had stopped their wailing and crying to listen. ‘Isn’t he?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Tell me the names of any of the children who can help themselves enough to get out of the back of the bus.’
‘John, Teddy, Peter…’ she paused. ‘Sister Brewster’s there,’ she reminded him.
‘No use at the moment—go on.’
‘I can’t remember any more names, but they can help William and Joan once they’re out. They’re not too good on their feet, but they could manage.’
She could hear him telling them what to do; he had a deep, rather slow voice, it was very reassuring just listening to it; she felt her heartbeats slow as her first fright subsided. It was just a question of getting the children out. She contrived to turn once more and take a more detailed look at her small companions. Some of them had minor cuts and red patches which would be nasty bruises later on and they would all be badly shocked; she thought briefly and with regret of poor Mr Burns and then lifted her head again as their rescuer spoke.
‘You’ll have to help, I’m afraid. Untwist his feet from the pedals, will you?’
He made the request in a matter-of-fact way which made it easier for her to do as he had bidden her. Poor Mr Burns disappeared from view and the way was more or less clear for the children.
‘I’m afraid you must heave them from below,’ said the man, ‘but there’s bound to be a car along soon and then we’ll have help—it’s a quiet road, but not as quiet as all that.’ He peered down. ‘Strapped to their seats, are they? Let’s start with the little one beside you and then you’ll have more room to turn round.’
It was a slow business, for the children were unable to help themselves, but Arabella, although small, was sturdy and possessed the gift of patience. She had just pushed ten-year-old Bobby Trent’s frail body below the door so that the man could lean down and catch him by the arms, when she heard a car pull up. Without loosening his hold on the little boy, the man turned his head and shouted something, and Arabella heard an answering voice before the car started up again, its urgent roar fading quickly into the distance.
The man grinned down at her. ‘Gone for help,’ he told her briefly, ‘and there’s help here besides.’
He lifted Billy as though he had been made of feathers and disappeared with him, to reappear after a moment and climb through the door. The bus had been overcrowded before, what with its cockeyed seats and scattered luggage and terrified children. Now there was no room to move, for he was an immensely tall man and largely made. But they were not cramped for long; another man appeared above them and now the children were being passed swiftly upwards and out to safety. Arabella, with an eye to the men’s speed, began at once to unbuckle the remaining children so that no time should be lost. It was a difficult task, for the children were frightened, making their helplessness even more marked. She soothed them as best she could and tried to control wildly waving arms and legs, wishing that Sister Brewster could pull herself together and give a hand, although probably she was busy with the children already rescued.
‘Would it be easier to get the rest of the children out of the back door?’ ventured Arabella.
Her companion didn’t pause in his rescue operations. ‘No—the bus is beginning to tilt at that end; we don’t want to shift the balance, it might make it more awkward.’
She considered that nothing could be more awkward than their task at that moment, but she kept silent. It was hardly an occasion for conversation, and the men seemed to know exactly what they were doing.
There were only five children left when she heard several cars stop close by with a tremendous squealing of brakes. The man beside her had called to his helper above, who in his turn shouted down to whoever it was who had arrived, and a moment later a round, serious face, crowned by a peaked cap, appeared at the door above them. ‘Police,’ muttered Arabella, and redoubled her efforts with the incredible muddle Sally Perkins had got herself and her straps into. The owner of the face seemed to know the man in the bus, for he listened to what he had to say, nodded his head in agreement and disappeared again.
Arabella could hear the singsong warning of the ambulances now, and the thought flitted through her head that she hadn’t the least idea of what was to happen to them all; presumably someone would arrange something—perhaps Sister Brewster? No, on second thoughts, old Brewster would be waiting for someone else to do it for her. The last child was heaved gently aloft, so that he could be lifted clear of the bus, and Arabella found herself clipped round her neat waist and held high, so that she could be lifted through the door too, to be deposited gently on the grass. She was barely on her feet when the two men joined her. The second man spoke no English, but he smiled kindly at her, dusted her down, said ‘OK’ and when she thanked him, shook her by the hand and made off after a brief word. She wondered if the man who had come to their rescue was going too; his car was close by—a Bentley, a silver-grey piece of elegance which stirred her to envy.
‘We had better take a look at these children before they go to hospital,’ remarked her companion.
‘Hospital?’ she echoed stupidly.
‘In Doesburg.’
‘In Doesburg?’ repeated Arabella, still stupid, knowing she sounded like a bad Greek chorus and unable to do anything about it.
He smiled at her very kindly. ‘I imagine that the other lady is in charge?’ and at her nod: ‘If you will tell me her name? I think I should speak to her, then we will have a quick look at everyone and get them settled as quickly as possible.’ He turned to go and then paused to add: ‘I’m a doctor, by the way.’
He glanced at the huddle of small figures lying and sitting awkwardly on the grass verge, being tended by ambulance men and police, and then allowed his gaze to rest upon Arabella, who looked deplorable; her overall stained with heaven knew what, her hair hanging wispily around a far from clean face; her cap—the cap Sister Brewster had insisted that she should wear, with some vague idea that it would uphold the prestige of the British nurse abroad—crushed and dirtied by desperate little fingers, pulled askew by some unhappy child.
Arabella was in no state to mind her appearance; she was indeed unaware of the doctor’s amused and critical eye. Relief was surging through her, because they were all out of the ruined bus and here was a doctor at hand to help the children. She declared with fervour: ‘Gosh, I am glad!’ and started at once on the difficult task of discovering which of the children, if any, was seriously hurt.
The doctor was back beside her within a few minutes. ‘Sister Brewster will go with those children who can help themselves a little—they’re going to the hospital now. Do you mind staying and giving a hand here?’
She accompanied him from child to child as he examined each one, leaving her to put on an emergency dressing here and there before they were whisked away to an ambulance. On the whole, they had got off lightly; cuts and bruises and terror, and a nervous excitement which had caused the children’s condition to be grossly exaggerated. Only Billy Trent and Sally Perkins had suffered serious injury, for they each had broken a leg. Surprisingly, they were quieter than the other children, possibly exhausted by fright and pain and bewilderment. The doctor muttered to himself as he made them as comfortable as possible in the last waiting ambulance. ‘Hop in,’ he ordered Arabella tersely, and the expression sounded strange in his correct English. ‘I’ll go ahead in the car.’
He banged the door on her as though the very sight annoyed him, but she forgot that at once in her efforts to keep Billy and Sally happy once the ambulance was on the move.
They turned off the road after a very few minutes, to go through heathland and woods, cross beneath two main roads after a mile or so, and enter a small, pleasant town. The hospital was situated some way back from its main street, a fairly modern building at the end of a cul-de-sac lined with small old houses. Its courtyard was a hive of activity and from what Arabella could see from the ambulance windows, there was no lack of helpers. Several people detached themselves now and came hurrying to undo the ambulance doors and convey the children inside; Arabella was swept inside too, with a kindly nurse’s hand firmly under her elbow. She had time to glimpse the silver-grey of the Bentley parked on one side of the small forecourt before she was borne through the doors into what was apparently the entrance hall. But they didn’t stay here. The trolleys bearing the children were already turning down a short passage leading away from the hall, and Arabella, urged on with gentle insistence by her companion, trotted obediently after them. Casualty, she saw at once, quite a nice one too, but just now filled to capacity with spastic children… She barely had time to glimpse Sister Brewster lying back with her eyes closed, when the doctor appeared from nowhere beside her.
‘Keep with these two,’ he counselled her. ‘X-Ray first, and then probably the plaster room—they’ll feel better about the whole thing if they see you around.’
She nodded, and then remembered to voice a doubt at the back of her mind. ‘Mr Burns—his people in England, and Wickham’s—should someone do something?’
‘It’s being done now. Off to X-Ray—I must go and have another chat with Sister Brewster.’
Arabella perceived that for the moment at any rate she was a nurse, not a young woman who had had a nasty fright and needed, above all things, a nice cup of tea and a good cry. She said quietly: ‘Yes, very well, Doctor,’ and was brought to a halt by his: ‘She has brown hair, and speaks soft like a woman.’
‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ she stated automatically, and wondered if he had sustained an injury to his head while he was in the bus. It seemed not.
‘The sight of you called it to mind,’ he explained, and walked away, leaving her to accompany Billy and Sally to X-Ray.
It took a long time to get everyone sorted out, especially as Sister Brewster, instead of being helpful and efficient, lay back and declared that she was far too poorly to be bothered with a lot of questions and plans. Arabella, freed for a short time from Billy and Sally while they were anaesthetized while their legs were put in plaster, drank the cup of coffee someone put into her hand and then helped get the remaining children into their beds.
The hospital had risen nobly to the occasion; extra beds were being put up, more staff had been called back on duty, there was a supply of night garments and a trolley of warm drinks and soup. Arabella, almost dropping with tiredness, her appearance more deplorable than ever and starving for food, toiled on. The children had rallied amazingly. They had all been examined by now; two house doctors and the doctor who had come to their help in the first place had checked each one of them carefully. There was nothing, they declared, that could not be put right by a good night’s sleep and a day or two’s rest before being sent home. Excepting for Sally and Billy, of course, who would have to stay for a week or two.
Sister Brewster had retired to bed in the Nurses’ Home, tearfully contradicting herself with every breath and far more worried about a bruise on her arm than anything else. Arabella, called away from the children to speak to her superior, was put out to find that Sister Brewster didn’t much care what happened to anybody but herself; she made no enquiries as to Arabella’s state of mind or body, declared peevishly that Mr Burns should never have been sent on the journey without a medical examination, and even implied that it was all his fault, which annoyed Arabella so much that she would have liked to have answered back, only she had a sudden urge to cry, and that would never have done. She wished Sister Brewster a cold good night instead and went back to the children, to help them eat their suppers and then go from bed to bed, tucking them in and kissing them in a motherly fashion.
She was on her way down to the hospital dining room with a friendly group of nurses, intent on her comfort, when a voice over the intercom requested, in good English, that the nurse who had accompanied the children should present herself at Doctor van der Vorst’s office. ‘The younger of the two nurses,’ added the voice.
‘Who’s he?’ demanded Arabella of those around her, a little cross because her thoughts were bent on supper and bed. She neither knew nor cared for the moment what arrangements had been made nor who was making them. Presumably someone would sort everything out and they would all be sent home, but now all that she wanted was food and a good sleep so that she could forget Mr Burns, dying with such awful suddenness, and the children’s terrified little faces—she had been terrified herself.