Betty Neels - Never Say Goodbye

Her old voice crumbled and the doctor said quickly: ‘What a splendid idea, Nanny. I’ll rent a car and we’ll drive over there tomorrow—how about a quick look at Sopot as well?’

‘Oh, I’d love that above all things—we used to go there in the summer…’ She launched into a recital of her life while her husband had been alive, until Dr Winter interrupted her gently: ‘Well, you shall see as much as possible, but in the meantime I think you might let Nurse… Isobel finish your packing, don’t you?’ He got up. ‘Suppose I leave you for an hour while I see about a car and our rooms at the hotel?’

He stooped and picked her up out of her chair and carried her through the second door into a small bedroom. He paused on the threshold—and no wonder; there wasn’t an inch of space, there were boxes, bundles and an old trunk taking up every available corner. Isobel cleared a pile of books off a chair, remarking comfortably: ‘If you’ll tell me what has to be done, I’ll do it, Mrs Olbinski.’

‘A sensible girl,’ observed that lady succinctly. ‘All this must go with me.’

Dr Winter was edging round the room looking at its contents. He said with gentle firmness: ‘I’m afraid that you won’t be allowed to take more than the clothing you’re wearing and your most treasured possessions. No money, of course. Small stuff which will go into a suitase, or a well tied cardboard box.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ll be back presently.’

Isobel took off her coat and hat. ‘Men!’ declared Mrs Olbinski pettishly. ‘They’re all alike, so quick to tell us of the unpleasant tasks they want done, and just as quick to go away until they’re completed.’ She darted a look at Isobel. ‘But Mr Thomas is a good man, make no mistake, my dear—too clever, of course, with his head in his books and always working, never finding the time to get himself a wife and children.’

Isobel murmured politely, her mind occupied solely with the problem of how to pack a quart into a pint bottle—something, a great many things, would have to be discarded.

‘What will you wear to travel in?’ she asked. A question which led to a long discussion as to the merits of a shabby winter coat or an equally shabby raincoat. They settled on the coat, a weary felt hat to go with it, a dark dress, gloves and shoes, and Isobel hung them thankfully in the corner cupboard. Underclothes were quickly dealt with, largely because there were not many; and that left mounds of small bits and pieces, all of which Mrs Olbinski declared were vital to her future life in England. Isobel didn’t say much, merely sorted family photos, a few trinkets, and a handful of small ornaments from the old scarves, ribbons, bits of lace and books. These she packed before going in search of something in which to put a few, at least, of the books.

She found a shopping basket in the kitchen and then patiently brought over Mrs Olbinski’s remaining treasures so that she could decide which must be left behind. This took time too, but at last it was done, and Isobel suggested tentatively that there might be someone her companion knew who might be glad to have the remainder of the books and vases and clothes.

The old lady brightened. ‘Go and knock on the door below, Isobel—there’s a pleasant woman living there; she might be glad of these things since I’m not to be allowed to keep them.’ She added crossly: ‘Why doesn’t Mr Thomas come back? He’s doing nothing to help.’

Too true, thought Isobel, wrestling with the lady downstairs’ valiant attempts to speak English. Signs and smiles and a few urgent tugs to an elderly arm did the trick at last; they went back upstairs together and Isobel left Mrs Olbinski to explain to her friend, who was so pleased with the arrangement that Isobel felt near to tears; how poor they must be, she thought, to be so glad with what were no more than clothes fit for the jumble. When she could get a word in edgeways she suggested that once Mrs Olbinski had gone, the lady might like to come back and collect the bedclothes and what food there was left. And that wasn’t much—she had had a look. She had just ushered the delighted lady back to her own flat, deposited her new possessions in the sitting-room and wished her goodbye when the street door below opened. It could be anyone, it could be Dr Winter; she didn’t wait to find out, but skipped upstairs once more to her charge.

It was Dr Winter, calm and unhurried and far too elegant for his surroundings. ‘There you are,’ declared Isobel, quite forgetting her place. ‘Just nicely back when all the work is done!’

He chose to misunderstand her. ‘Oh, splendid. I have rooms at the hotel and there’s a car at the end of the street. I’m taking you out to lunch, Nanny, and since we have time on our hands, we’ll take a short drive this afternoon.’

‘I can’t go like this!’ The old lady was querulous; getting tired.

‘If you wait a few minutes, I’ll help Mrs Olbinski to put on her things,’ suggested Isobel, and when he had gone, fetched the clothes from the cupboard and set about helping the old lady, wondering how she had managed in the lonely months since her husband’s death, with her poor twisted hands and frail bent body. It took a little time, but the doctor made no comment when she called to him that they were ready. He picked up the old lady, reminded Isobel to lock the door behind them, and went down the narrow stairs. Once on the pavement they each took an arm, and made a slow painful progress to the car where the doctor set Mrs Olbinski in the seat beside his and bade Isobel get in the back. It was a small car and he looked out of place driving it.

The hotel was large and once Mrs Olbinski was comfortably settled with the doctor, Isobel was shown to her room, large and well furnished and with a shower room next door. She unpacked her case, did her face and hair and went downstairs again. It was, of course, a pity they couldn’t return to Stockholm at once, but on the other hand it would be a golden opportunity to get even a glimpse of Gdansk. She looked forward to their promised outing with all the pleasure of a child.

They lunched presently in a stylish restaurant, half empty, for as the waiter told them, the summer season had barely started. The meal was wholly Polish—hot beet soup, crayfish, pork knuckle with horseradish sauce, followed by ices. Isobel enjoyed it all, and so, she noticed, did Mrs Olbinski.

They set off once lunch was finished, with the old lady quite excited now. They were to go to Sopot, a seaside resort only a few miles away and which she had known very well in earlier days. ‘We went each year for our holiday here; there was a small hotel, quite near the Grand Orbis Hotel, and we would watch the people staying there in the evening, going in and out in their evening dress,’ she sighed. ‘Such a beautiful place!’

Very beautiful agreed Isobel, but almost deserted. They drove slowly about its streets; there were few people about and the shop windows looked almost empty, and at length they turned towards the sea and parked the car in a long avenue of trees. The sense of solitude was enhanced by the wide beach, quite deserted too, and the chilly grey of the Baltic beyond. ‘We’ll walk nearer so you can have a better view. Nanny will be all right and we can see her easily enough.’

There was a narrow concrete bridge crossing the sands, reached by a spiral staircase. It was a minute’s walk away and Isobel ran up it ahead of the doctor to stand and admire the coast line stretching away on either side of her. ‘This must be lovely on a warm summer’s day,’ she said, ‘and with lots of people here.’ She started to walk beside him towards the stairs at its other end. ‘Where are all the people?’ she wanted to know.

‘The country is under martial law,’ he reminded her. ‘There’s little money for holidays, and still less for food; I daresay tourists from other countries will come here when it’s high summer.’