by Betty Neels
But there was no need to use either of these. The door was opened as they reached it, by a tall angular woman of uncertain age, dressed severely in black, whose equally severe features broke into a smile as Walle flung an arm round her shoulders and kissed her cheek.
‘Annie, Philly, she has been with my grandfather for most of her life—you’ll have to try out your Dutch; she speaks no English.’
Philomena put out a hand and spoke up gravely, getting a bit muddled, but Annie didn’t seem to mind, for she smiled and shook the hand repeatedly and talked back at Philomena before ushering them into the hall.
It was long and narrow and very high-ceilinged, with an ornate plastered ceiling and red damask walls, and they went past the staircase, at right angles to it, in order to reach the double doors at its end. Annie threw them open with something of a flourish, disclosing a large square room with big windows overlooking the grounds at the back of the house and furnished with a great deal of mahogany and red leather. A particularly large armchair was drawn up to one of the windows and in it was seated an old man who looked round as they went in and then stood up. He was almost as tall as his grandson, with a splendid head crowned with white hair, and even in old age, his good looks were still striking. He greeted the doctor with evident pleasure and then took leisurely stock of Philomena—a look she bore with equanimity, looking back at him with candid eyes.
‘H’m—so this is Philomena.’ He had a deep voice and his English was slow and deliberate. His blue eyes, as blue as his grandson’s, raked her from head to foot. ‘No looks, lovely eyes, pretty figure…going to marry her, Walle?’
‘Yes,’ said Walle
Philomena took her green gaze from the old gentleman’s face and looked at the doctor, who was standing there smiling at her as though he hadn’t uttered a single preposterous word. She felt the colour leaving her face and then rush back into it while her heart, instead of continuing its unobtrusive beating under her ribs, had jumped into her throat, so that speaking, let alone drawing a breath, was an impossibility. And that was a good thing in a way, because all the elder of the two gentlemen, looking at her so fixedly, said was: ‘A glass of sherry before lunch, don’t you think? Come and sit beside me, my dear, and tell me what you think of Holland, though I daresay you have seen little enough of it.’
Philomena had found her voice. She replied with a calmness which surprised her: ‘Well, I haven’t been here very long, but what I’ve seen I like…’
‘We work her too hard.’ Walle had poured the sherry and was handing it round. ‘Although,’ he added wickedly, ‘she has every hope of going to Friesland— Hubert Stanversen fancies her.’
She choked. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it, and you have no right…’
He interrupted her smoothly. ‘Well, no, perhaps not just yet—I’m rather in the position of a child who having marked down the nicest cake on the plate for his own, hopes desperately that no one else will want it.’ He smiled at her, a slow, sweet smile which made her gulp. ‘Probably it makes him over-possessive towards it.’
Philomena had never been likened to a piece of cake; she supposed it was a compliment. She made herself look away from Walle because if she didn’t she was in grave danger of believing every word that he said, and remarked sedately: ‘The view from this room is delightful. Are you a keen gardener, Mijnheer van der Tacx?’
She was bitterly disappointed when both gentlemen plunged readily enough into a horticultural discussion which lasted until Annie arrived to tell them that lunch was on the table.
Walle’s grandfather might have been old, but he had lost none of his zest for living. The meal was elaborate and elegantly served, with a young girl waiting on them, and the master of the house ate with the appetite and pleasure of a young man while he carried on a conversation which ranged from reminiscences of his youth to the discovery of oil in the North Sea, interlarded with a good many asides concerning various members of the family, and he broke off in the middle of one of such tales to ask suddenly of Philomena: ‘Well, my dear, do you suppose you are going to like us? We are a good-tempered lot on the whole, although we have nasty tempers when we are crossed, but I daresay you will learn quickly enough how to turn Walle round your thumb.’
She looked at him helplessly, conscious that Walle was laughing softly. She would have liked to have pointed out that she hadn’t been asked to join the family anyway; that his grandson was enjoying a joke; that he had no intention of marrying her, but she liked the old man and she wasn’t going to upset him. She said calmly: ‘Very probably. You said that you had a nephew in America. Does he come to Holland to see you?’
Her red herring was successful, for her host launched himself into a series of tales about his nephew, and presently they got up from the table and went back into the study to drink their coffee. Mijnheer van der Tacx dozed off almost immediately and Philomena, refusing to meet Walle’s eye, sat staring into her cup with painful intensity until he said quietly: ‘You didn’t believe me, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’ He leaned over and took her cup away and then sat back, the picture of contented ease.
She thought carefully before she answered him. ‘A great many reasons.’
‘One will do.’
‘I should have thought that they were obvious enough.’
He looked amused. ‘Playing for time, Philly?’
She answered indignantly: ‘No, I’m not! You heard your grandfather—no looks, he said, and he’s quite right. And for another thing you don’t know me, and then there’s Tritia…’
‘Ah—the crux of the matter. And what has she got to do with us?’
Philomena pinkened, but now she had got started it seemed silly not to get the wretched matter cleared up. ‘I presume that you’re going to marry her…’
She got no further, because his shout of laughter stopped her although his grandfather’s eyes remained closed. ‘And what in heaven’s name makes you think that?’ he wanted to know.
Philomena considered. If she said: ‘Because Tritia doesn’t like me,’ he might just stare, not understanding, although another woman would know what she meant at once. She could of course say because the girl loved him, but if he hadn’t already realised that, there was a danger that it might kindle his interest… She was saved from saying anything at all by old Mijnheer van der Tacx, who woke at that moment enquiring in an innocent voice if there was any more coffee in the pot and would they care to take a stroll in the garden.
She followed Walle, willy-nilly, out into the bright sunshine and listened while he pointed out various flowers and shrubs, told her a little of the history of the house, and enlarged upon various aspects of his grandfather’s life, and all the while she was waiting for him to say something else, only he didn’t. She could have dreamed it all. She damped down a wild desire to ask him if he had indeed said that he was going to marry her, and made suitable replies to his gentle conversation, and felt nothing but relief when at length he suggested that they might go indoors again.
‘Grandfather will have finished his nap by now,’ he said easily, ‘and be wanting a cup of tea. I thought we might leave after that.’
Philomena wasn’t sure what she had expected; it looked as though he would drive her straight back to Ommen in time for her supper with Mevrouw de Winter. Perhaps he was impatient with her for not replying to his joke in kind, perhaps, and this was indeed a lowering thought, he had guessed that she had almost believed him, although she had denied that. He would be feeling embarrassed and anxious to be rid of her company so that they could meet again the following day on a professional footing without any awkwardness. She accompanied him back into the study, making conversation a little too brightly, and found their host awake and indeed demanding his tea, a brief, chatty interlude; she couldn’t help but see that Walle showed no sign of embarrassment and although they left shortly afterwards, he seemed quite unhurried. It wasn’t until they were well away from the village th
at he observed: ‘I have a surprise for you, Philly.’
Nothing, she decided silently, would ever surprise her again. Aloud she said pleasantly: ‘Oh? What is it?’
‘An old friend of mine—we were at medical school together, Christian van Duyl—he and his wife have invited us for dinner. They live near a small town called Druten, some miles this side of Nijmegen. She’s an English girl, Eliza—they’ve been married three years or so. I think you might like her.’
‘It sounds delightful, but isn’t Nijmegen rather a long way?’
‘Lord, no. We go through Breda and Tilburg—it’s on the way back, about a hundred and thirty miles altogether and sixty odd miles from Ommen.’
They were on the road to Bergen-op-Zoom now and travelling fast. Philomena, torn between delight at the prospect of the evening in Walle’s company and a feeling of deep annoyance at his earlier remarks, decided that being annoyed was a waste of time and settled back to listen to his gentle flow of talk; information about the towns they travelled through, the quiet land around them and some of its history. Indeed, by the time they had neared their journey’s end, she had quite forgotten to be annoyed and when she allowed herself to think about it briefly, she was inclined to think that she had exaggerated her feelings about the matter. Any other girl would have taken his joking in good part and she had been a fool not to do the same.
The friend was evidently as well endowed with the world’s goods as Walle; the house which came into view as they rounded the curve of the drive was large and impressive, although it wasn’t as old as the castle.
They were met at the door by an elderly man whom Walle addressed as Hub and who led them indoors into a vast hall, grandly furnished, and then melted into the background as two people came through a door towards them. A striking couple; the man tall and dark and as big as Walle, the girl small and very pretty, with golden hair swept into a coil on top of her head. Philomena, swept away on the warmth of their greeting, found herself in a smallish room, very elegantly furnished but cosy nonetheless, where she was sat down in a chintz-covered chair and given a glass of sherry.
‘I’ll take you upstairs presently,’ promised Eliza. ‘Dinner isn’t until eight o’clock. Tell me, how do you like Holland?’
‘What I’ve seen I like very much…’
‘Oh, good—it grows on you. Ommen’s a dear little place, isn’t it? What do you think of Walle’s castle?’
Philomena said cautiously: ‘It’s rather breathtaking.’ She smiled at the fairylike creature beside her. ‘But this house is breathtaking too.’
‘That’s what I thought the first time I saw it, but now it’s home.’ Eliza looked across to where her husband stood talking to Walle. ‘Mind you,’ she added, ‘home would be anywhere where Christian and baby Chris are.’
‘I didn’t know you had a baby. How old is he?’
The two of them became engrossed until Christian reminded them that dinner was only ten minutes away and wouldn’t Philomena like to tidy herself first?
So the two girls went upstairs, visiting the nursery on the way, so that the ten minutes became twenty before they joined the men again.
‘We had to peep in on baby,’ explained Eliza. ‘Walle, you must see him before you go—he’s grown.’ Her tone implied that the infant had done something miraculous and her husband smiled down at her with loving amusement.
‘They do, you know, my love. Hub has been to the door twice and coughed—I fancy we’re keeping dinner waiting.’
The meal was a merry one and the food delicious; moreover they drank champagne with it so that Philomena, already feeling at home with her host and hostess, began to enjoy herself. She was sampling a delicate sorbet when Eliza asked: ‘What are we celebrating? I mean, the champagne? Is it someone’s birthday?’
‘No, my love, and I think that perhaps celebrating is rather a premature gesture. Shall I say that we’re celebrating a hopeful wish?’
Eliza might be small and helpless to look at, but she was a forthright girl. ‘Oh, you mean Walle and Philomena.’ She beamed at Philomena, who had gone a bright, becoming pink. ‘Sorry if I’ve put my foot in it. I quite thought from looking at you both…’
Philomena said composedly: ‘It’s quite all right.’
She was interrupted ruthlessly by Walle. ‘The poor girl doesn’t know if she’s coming or going—Grandfather jumped the gun this morning and since I—er—hadn’t mentioned the matter, she feels in rather a muddle. Isn’t that so, Philly?’
‘Yes,’ said Philomena, and didn’t look at him.
Christian took the champagne from its silver bucket and refilled their glasses. ‘There is nothing like champagne to clear up a muddle,’ he observed cheerfully. ‘What do you think of this one, Walle?’
‘Dom Perignon 1970,’ said Walle promptly. ‘I’ve some myself, though I quite like a Krug.’ The two men drifted easily into a discussion about wines and Philomena, her colour normal once more, went on with her dinner, answering Eliza’s happy chatter while she firmly ignored the bewildered thoughts racing around inside her head.
The conversation for the rest of the evening was exemplary. It wasn’t until they were on the point of leaving that Eliza said happily: ‘Of course, we shall see you again, Philomena—isn’t it nice that Christian and Walle are such old friends? We’ll be able to visit each other, and think how splendid it will be for the children…’
Philomena took care not to look at the men. Probably, she thought crossly, Walle would be holding back a laugh. She agreed in a rather faint voice because she could really think of nothing else to say and got into the car in a silence which wasn’t broken for quite a few minutes, and then it was Walle who spoke.
‘Poor Philly, everything has conspired to puzzle you—you don’t know what to believe, do you?’ He went on in a matter-of-fact voice: ‘Of course, I could propose to you here and now, but I don’t intend to; it’s neither the time nor the place—we’ll have to wait for a suitable moment.’
He didn’t wait for her to reply, which was just as well, as she had none ready. ‘Did you enjoy your day? I did—Grandfather may be an old man, but he’s still very with it, although since my father died he has become much more subdued.’
‘When did your father die?’ She seized on the chance to start a normal conversation, although her voice wobbled annoyingly.
‘A year ago; he wasn’t old—sixty-seven—but he went out on a bitter cold night and caught a chill which became pneumonia—it was well advanced by the time he was seen, he hadn’t a chance.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He would have liked you, Philly, and I think that you would have liked him. A pity he couldn’t have seen us married.’
Philomena caught her breath. And what did she say to that? she wondered. Chloe or Miriam would have known exactly how to handle the situation; she wished fervently that she had some of their self-assurance. But she hadn’t. She asked in a small voice: ‘Are you like him?’
‘So I’m told, and I’m glad.’ They were tearing through the Veluwe now although there was little to see save the wooded heath on either side of the road picked up by the headlights, and presently Walle turned off on to the Loenen road on to a minor road which led them eventually to Deventer. They were more than halfway home and he, Philomena realised, had no intention of talking seriously. He entertained her with titbits of information about the villages and towns they went through, talked a good deal about hospital life in Holland, enquired after her own family and asked how she liked living at Mevrouw de Winter’s house.
‘Very nice, thank you,’ said Philomena sedately, ‘and I have endless opportunities to speak Dutch.’
‘Good, the quicker you learn it the better. There’s a pretty busy clinic tomorrow, I believe.’
They talked of this and that for the rest of the journey. The roads were emptier now, for it was late, indeed the church clock at Ommen was striking half past twelve as Walle stopped before the little house. He got out and opened P
hilomena’s door and when she started to wish him goodnight, stopped her with an airy, ‘Oh, I’m coming in for a cup of coffee. Mevrouw de Winter will have one ready for us.’
And he was right. Her landlady, cosily dressing-gowned, was waiting for them in the kitchen with the best cups and saucers on a tray and the coffee pot simmering on a gas ring. She would have carried the tray through to the front parlour, only the doctor wouldn’t allow that, declaring that he liked kitchens and Mevrouw de Winter’s in particular, and went on to ask after her family with the genuine interest of a longstanding friend. He didn’t hurry. It was striking one o’clock when he got to his feet and bade Mevrouw de Winter a courteous goodnight. ‘Philomena will see me out, won’t you, Philly?’ he added.
The little hall seemed over-full with them both standing in it. Philomena made herself as small as possible against the wall and wished him goodnight. Even in her own ears, her voice sounded rather breathless.
She was plucked from the wall as though she had been a handful of feathers. The doctor didn’t say a word, only kissed her in such a manner that she was kept awake half the night remembering it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
PHILOMENA NEED NOT have missed her sleep. Walle, when she met him at the clinic in the morning, was brisk and impersonal, certainly not the same man who had kissed her the previous evening. He dealt with his patients with his usual calm patience but wasted no time when he had finished—indeed, she came out of one of the surgeries to get something for Doctor de Klein to see his massive back going through the door. It wasn’t until the very last patient had gone that Doctor Stanversen casually mentioned that Doctor van der Tacx wouldn’t be in for a few days. He didn’t give a reason and Philomena didn’t like to ask.
The week crawled by, despite the fact that they were busier than usual. Philomena filled her free time with short trips to neighbouring towns and the writing of lengthy letters to her friends at Faith’s—she wrote home too, despite the fact that she would get no reply. Her stepmother had telephoned, not so much to discover how she fared as to tell her that they would be going away for a week or so. ‘Scotland,’ she had said, ‘though exactly where I’m not sure—some remote lodge, I believe. It’s not the fashionable time to go, but the MacPhersons have invited us and I believe their lodge is rather super. They have that nice boy of theirs staying, too—a little older than Chloe.’ She had forgotten to ask Philomena if she were happy in Ommen, although she did suggest that she stayed there for as long as she liked.
