After cleaning the other injuries and bandaging Kelly’s feet, the doctor re-arranged the bed clothing and called for Sybilla.
He spoke to her in Norwegian. “Now then Nurse,” he said indulgently, peering over his glasses at her. “Your patient is doing well. The injuries are minor and superficial.”
“Does that news please you, Dan?” he asked reverting to English.
“Sorry,” Kelly asked, “what news?”
“Why, that your injuries are minor and superficial.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Kelly answered. “I thought it wasn’t much. Sore, but not much real damage, eh?”
The doctor turned so that Sybilla was between himself and Kelly and held a conversation with her in their native language. He was speaking to the woman, but he was watching the young seaman intently.
As he started to walk out the room, he turned abruptly and snapped something in Norwegian directly at Kelly, ending the sentence with a clearly interrogative “Dan?”
Kelly shrugged his shoulders and raised his arms slightly, palms upper.
“I’m sorry doctor,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t speak a word of Norwegian.”
“Of course you don’t, my friend,” Amundsen nodded. “Why should you? It is not exactly an international language. Goodbye Dan.” With that he walked out, following Sybilla onto the street.
Sybilla closed the door behind them and furtively glanced around. “Well?” she asked.
“You really should rest, Sybilla,” he replied, loud enough for an approaching cyclist to hear. “Take the rest of the day off. I will inform the works doctor. You have only a slight chill, but you must rest.”
By now the cyclist had passed. Amundsen grasped her arm and slowly walked her down to the crossroad a few yards from the corner of the house. From here they could see all four lanes and anyone who might be approaching. They were quite alone.
“Well?” she asked again. “Is he English?”
“One of the few things he isn’t, is English. An extraordinarily complex young man. Irish father, Serbian mother. Born in Wales, raised in Scotland where his Father worked in the shipyards after leaving the Welsh mines. A very bright young man. He won a scholarship to Cambridge you know. That apart, in attitude, beliefs and convictions he is most definitely British! No question about it.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked.
“There are lots of things,” Amundsen replied. “His accent, the idiosyncrasies of his speech, his mannerisms, his knowledge, the things he knows and particularly the things he doesn’t know.”
“The things he doesn’t know?” she queried.
“Yes,” responded the doctor. “He freely admits he doesn’t much care for cricket and he can’t remember the score of the last Calcutta Cup rugby game before the war, though he does remember who won and by roughly how many.”
“What does that prove?” she asked incredulously.
“Consider,” said Amundsen, “would any German spy posing as a British Officer with a Cambridge background admit to not liking cricket, and wouldn’t they take the trouble to memorise something as vital as the score of the last Calcutta Cup rugby match?”
Sybilla looked bemused for a moment, then she persisted. “But is he a spy?”
“Impossible to say for sure, but I think it is unlikely. I think he is what he says he is. A poor wretched shipwrecked mariner, yearning to be comforted.”
She angled a glance at him as he said the latter, but he wasn’t looking at her. He seemed to be speaking to the ground.
“Sometimes we have to believe what our hearts tell us,” he continued. “What does your heart tell you, Sybilla?” This time he was looking at her. Intently.
She looked away. “I think, like you, that he is simply a shipwrecked British sailor. I don’t believe there is anything sinister here. However, it does leave us with a minor problem.”
“No,” said Amundsen as he walked away shaking his head “it doesn’t leave us with anything. It leaves you with a huge problem. Good day, Sybilla.”
Sybilla returned to the house and tapped gently on the door of Kelly’s room. Without pausing she opened the door and popped her head round.
“The good doctor has decided I am sick today and must stay off work for the afternoon,” she told him, smiling broadly. “So, I will be able to look after you if you need anything.”
“I’m sure I will be fine now,” Kelly said, almost biting his tongue as the words left his mouth. He could think of nothing better than being nursed by Sybilla Thorstaadt. “You have been very kind,” he added.
“Don’t mention it. You are a very good patient.” She retreated from the room.
Shortly afterwards Kelly heard a bath being run. He fervently prayed it was not for him. He wasn’t sure if he could endure any further water torture. After a few minutes Sybilla re-entered the room wearing a towel around her body. The towel covered her breasts and reached midway down her thighs.
“Excuse me,” she said brightly, “I need another towel.” She had her back to Kelly and was rummaging in a high cupboard. She was on her tiptoes and had to stretch to reach the article with the result that the towel raised itself up, leaving half of her buttocks uncovered.
“I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” she said as she finally retrieved the towel. Kelly desperately wanted to make a reply, but could not trust his voice to remain calm. Instead, he watched in wondrous admiration.
After a few moments Kelly heard the sound of splashing coming from the bathroom and shortly afterwards, the sound of Sybilla singing. It was a soulful melody, beautifully sung by a beautiful woman.
Dan Kelly lay back and thought about Sybilla Thorstaadt.
The Enigmatic Sybilla
Kelly had fallen asleep thinking about Sybilla, and had been awoken by the sound of the outside door being opened. Before he had time to react, he heard the voice of Gunnar Thorstaadt calling his wife’s name and heard her reply.
Kelly caught brief snatches of conversation, none of which he could understand, before the bedroom door opened slowly and Gunnar peered round.
