by Betty Neels
CHAPTER NINE
THE MORNING PASSED delightfully, most of it spent stretched out on a garden chair on the lawn behind the house. Celine, drinking iced lemonade and listening to Mireille’s chatter, felt envy stirring inside her although she wasn’t an envious girl. There was so much that Mireille had; a loving husband, and a successful one too, four charming children, a lovely old house, and from the glimpse Celine had had, sufficient staff to run it well. She was to go over the house, Mireille had promised, but later; there was time enough before lunch. So they sat in the sun while Celine described the season’s clothes in London, her home in Dorset and the work she did at the surgery, interlarded with chatter from the children and a lot of barking from the dogs.
Presently they strolled indoors and Mireille took her on a leisurely tour of the house, spending a long time in the kitchen talking to a large, very stout woman—not that much was said, but since Celine’s Dutch was non-existent and Maagda the cook’s English was the same, so everything had to be translated and said twice. Once out of the kitchen, though, they trooped through the house, children and dogs forming a lively tail behind them, while Celine was shown pictures of ancestors, old family silver and beautifully carved furniture housed in its various rooms. Upstairs the rooms were lighter and colourful and cleverly modernised, and on the floor above there was an enormous room for the children, equipped with almost everything a child could wish for.
‘This is a good idea,’ declared Mireille. ‘You will find that it is necessary when you have children. Oliver’s house is smaller than this one, is it not? But there are bedrooms not in use, if I remember; you will have fun together, making them ready for the children when they come.’
Celine agreed with a smile that hurt; it was like having a door opened on to a wonderful landscape she would never be allowed to wander in.
Lunch was a noisy, cheerful meal, and the moment it was over, Oliver left for Leiden. When he had driven away, Mireille, standing beside Celine in the open doorway, remarked: ‘You English—so cold, no kissing, not even a hand held…you are perhaps shy?’
‘Not when we’re together,’ said Celine with what she hoped was suitable coyness.
They all spent a lazy afternoon by the lake. Theo had his own boat tied up to a small jetty and they went over it before the children got into the small dinghy moored alongside and invited Celine to take a trip on the water. They pottered round happily enough before they finally came ashore and went off on their own, leaving her to stretch out on the grass beside her host and hostess. She dozed off almost at once and didn’t wake until Oliver slid his length down beside her and kissed the tip of her nose. As she opened her eyes and stared up into his face, so close to hers, she thought she saw a look in his eyes that sent her heart thumping, but almost immediately he had dropped the lids and she was left uncertain, so uncertain that she told herself silently that it had been nothing but wishful thinking. Besides, Theo and Mireille were both watching; he had probably kissed her because it would have been the natural thing to do.
She summoned a smile and sat up. ‘I’ve been asleep again; that’s all I seem to do. Did you have…’ She paused, she had been going to say a busy afternoon, but did famous consultants have those? Didn’t they have appointments arranged for them so that they could make their deliberations without haste? She went on: ‘A successful consultation?’
‘Most successful,’ he told her gravely, and she looked away because she knew that under the gravity he was laughing at her.
But he behaved beautifully for the rest of that day. They dined late by candlelight and Celine, by no means conceited, couldn’t help but know that the apricot silk showed to its best advantage in the gentle light. Perhaps it was the combination of them both which caused him to behave exactly as a man in love should, sitting beside her on one of the enormous sofas, an arm flung behind her shoulders, not touching her or even looking at her much, but somehow conveying the impression that she was very much his. And she could see by the twinkle in Mireille’s eyes that she thought the same.
They sat around talking until quite late, and when Mireille said at length that she was going to bed and Celine got up too, she could find no fault with Oliver’s goodnight kiss. Her head full of foolish dreams, she took herself off to bed determined to lie and recall every minute of the evening, instead of which she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
Both Oliver and Theo left after breakfast the next morning and Celine, who had expected him to renew his suggestion that she might like to go with him to the hospital, was quite unreasonably peevish because he didn’t. True, she had refused yesterday, but didn’t he know that a girl could change her mind? She borrowed a bikini from Mireille and spent the morning with the children in the swimming pool at the bottom of the large garden around the house, leaving it every now and then to lie in the sun and gossip with Mireille. But when she heard the car coming up the drive she skipped indoors and spent the next half hour showering and changing into the Italian dress, to come down presently, looking very neat and rather sedate, and join the others in the garden for drinks.
They went for a walk after lunch, along the lakeside, through the water-meadows and along the brick-built lanes on top of the sleeper dykes. ‘The next dyke nearer the water is a dreamer,’ explained Theo, ‘and the one nearest the lake is the watcher.’
They all sat down presently, because it was a warm afternoon, and watched the multitude of yachts on the lake in the distance. It was a charming sight, and Celine, listening to the casual talk with Oliver stretched out beside her, half asleep, could have stayed there for ever. But it was just as pleasant when they got back and found tea waiting for them in the garden, and presently Theo and Mireille and the children wandered off, leaving her and Oliver sitting comfortably in garden chairs.
‘A pity you didn’t want to come this morning,’ observed Oliver presently. ‘I think you might have found it interesting.’
‘If you’d asked me again I would have,’ said Celine crossly.
‘Oh, dear—I’ve been wondering why I’ve been kept at a distance all day.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ cried Celine, and felt her cheeks grow hot. ‘I’ve been…well, what do you mean, anyway?’
He got up and crossed over to her chair and pulled her out of it, quite gently. ‘Not enough of this,’ he said, and bent and kissed her, holding her close. He went on holding her, looking down into her face, smiling a little. ‘We are engaged,’ he reminded her softly.
Anyone could see them from the house. She supposed unhappily that was his reason for kissing her—not that it mattered what his friends thought; she wasn’t likely to see them ever again and once they were back in England it would be a simple matter to let them know, in the course of time, that she and Oliver were not to be married after all.
Oliver felt her stiffen in his arms, and released her. He said in a cool friendly voice, ‘I believe Mireille has some plan for tomorrow while we’re at the Seminar—a tour of Leiden and then probably on to Amsterdam.’ And when Celine didn’t answer: ‘Theo has asked us to stay on for another day or so, but I can’t spare the time. I thought we might try for the night ferry tomorrow.’
Which meant that she would see nothing of him all day. She said: ‘Yes, of course, what a good idea,’ and then, chattily: ‘I shall enjoy seeing something of Leiden—it’s the birthplace of Rembrandt, isn’t it? And didn’t the Pilgrim Fathers start from there? And isn’t there a rather splendid canal the— Rapenburg, it’s called, isn’t it? Doesn’t the University lie quite close to it? And the Hospital?’ She paused for breath, aware that she was babbling like a tourist who knew her guide book by heart.
She peeped at Oliver and found his face impassive, which meant very probably that he was laughing at her. She said with a touch of peevishness: ‘I promised the children I’d play croquet…’
‘Ah, yes—a soothing game when the nerves are twanging a bit.’
‘My nerves don’t twang!’ Her v
oice was sharp.
‘My dear girl, have I said they did?’ He was at his most placid, and the desire to box his ears for him was very great, only they were out of reach.
It was a good deal cooler the next day, which was a good thing, because Mireille had planned a formidable programme for them both. The two men had left the house soon after eight o’clock, and as soon as the children had been bestowed into the care of an elderly woman, who, it seemed, came daily to oversee their activities during the school holidays, she urged Celine into her little Renault car and drove into Leiden.
Considering the time they had at their disposal, Mireille worked miracles. They left the car and walked in Leiden; down one side of the Rapenburg Canal and up the other, past the University and the little lane leading to the Hortus Botanicus Gardens, and then on to the other side past the Museum of Antiquities, and from there into Breestraat, the backbone of Leiden, as it were.
But Mireille had by no means finished. They did a lightning tour of the Sint Pieterskerk, the Burcht fortifications and the Cornmarket Bridge, they even managed to have a quick cup of coffee in the Doelen, on the edge of the Rapenburg Canal. Celine was still getting her breath as she was urged back into the car and Mireille started on the short drive to Amsterdam. ‘Because,’ she exclaimed, ‘you simply must see as much as possible. Such a shame that you can’t both stay another couple of days. Oliver seemed to like the idea when I suggested it at first; I suppose something has turned up.’
‘He’s a very busy man,’ said Celine quickly.
If Mireille had achieved miracles of sightseeing in Leiden, she did even better in Amsterdam. Celine was taken on a barge tour through the canals, a brisk view of the Dam Palace and the Dam Square, lunch in the Bijenkorf store, so that they could have a quick look round its enticing wares, a glimpse of the Beginjnhof, a group of charming almshouses tucked away behind Kalverstraat, and an even briefer glimpse of the Rijksmuseum, but only from the outside. ‘Because it’s time for us to go home,’ said Mireille reluctantly, ‘but you have seen a little of the city anyhow.’
Celine, her eyes and head aching, agreed. ‘A bit rushed,’ went on Mireille, ‘but next time you come Oliver can take you on a more leisurely trip. I daresay you’ll be married by then.’
She glanced questioningly at Celine, who went a guilty pink and muttered that she supposed so, but Mireille, who thought the pink and mutterings were shyness, was quite satisfied.
The men got back an hour or so after their own return; there was barely time to have dinner before Oliver’s laconic: ‘Well, it’s time to go. It’s been delightful—remember it’s your turn to come to us. Theo, let me know what you decide about Vienna—we might go together.’
Mireille groaned: ‘Not another of your meetings? Well, if you go, Celine can come here to me and you can pick her up on the way back.’
A suggestion to which Oliver agreed with what Celine took to be well assumed enthusiasm. She said all the proper things, hugged the children, allowed to stay up to see them off, and got into the car beside Oliver.
The drive was a short one, not much more than half an hour, and they talked very little. Waiting in the queue to go on board, Oliver said: ‘Do you think you could start work after lunch tomorrow? We should be at Bethnal Green by mid-morning. The thing is Nurse Byng is off sick—Peter rang this morning—and there’s a large clinic for the afternoon.’ He glanced at her. ‘I shall be tied up for a couple of days, so we shan’t see much of each other.’
‘I expect you’ve a lot of work to catch up on, and of course I can be ready by lunch time—earlier than that if you like. I’ve only got to have a shower and change.’
‘After lunch will do, and thanks. Did you like Theo and Mireille and the children?’
‘Very much—the children are darlings. They’re a happy family, aren’t they?’
‘Yes—nice to see in this day and age, isn’t it? Ah, good, we’re moving.’
It was already late evening by the time they were on board, and Celine could only agree when Oliver suggested that she might like to go straight to her cabin. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you a drink,’ he told her, which took away the one excuse she had had time to think up. So she went down to her cabin, drank the tea and ate the sandwiches the stewardess brought, then went to bed, where she cried herself to sleep, although she wasn’t quite sure what she was crying about.
It was a dismal morning. She had got up early and gone on deck where she found a grey sky and damp tepid air which seemed to cling to everything. They were still some way off, although the coast of England was clearly visible. She had forgotten to ask about breakfast, and was leaning against the rail wondering what to do about it, when Oliver joined her.
‘You’re up early, Celine. Shall we have breakfast? We shan’t dock for another hour. You slept well?’
The question was casual, but he had noticed the pinkened lids and pale face. His mouth twitched at her swift: ‘Oh, marvellously, thank you.’
She was thankful for the meal; for one thing she was hungry and for another it made conversation easier. They didn’t hurry over it, and there was just time to go to her cabin and get her bag before the ferry docked.
They were clear of Harwich and on the way to London within half an hour, driving through drizzle now; weather to suit her mood, thought Celine. The trip to Holland hadn’t been a success. She still wasn’t quite sure why she had been asked to go. Oliver must have had some good reason; he was a man to have good reasons for doing anything he did, but he didn’t always bother to tell anyone else about them. She essayed small-talk as they went, but it was apparent that he wanted to think undisturbed. She fell silent, and presently closed her eyes and feigned sleep, opening them rather cleverly just as he was threading his way through the last of the streets leading to the surgery. She had had to peep once or twice, of course, but she woke up in what she considered to be a most natural way, only to hear Oliver’s dry voice: ‘Next time you pretend to be asleep, Celine, you’d better get your breathing right—and empty your head of thoughts. I could almost hear you thinking.’
He pulled up in front of the surgery door and turned to look at her. She said in a waspish voice: ‘You didn’t want to talk— I thought it would be easier if I closed my eyes, but I’ll remember what you say—for next time.’
She opened her door and got out before he could reach her side of the car. ‘Don’t do that again,’ he told her severely. ‘The traffic’s bad along here.’ He opened the door and went back to the car. ‘Go on up,’ he told her, ‘I’ll bring your case.’
Her room looked small after the large room she had had at Mireille’s house. She went back to the head of the stairs just as Oliver got there. She took her bag from him and stood awkwardly, looking at him.
‘Thank you for the trip,’ she said finally. ‘I—I enjoyed it.’
‘Good.’ His voice was placid, he was smiling a little. ‘They’ll be glad to see you downstairs later.’
He went back downstairs and Celine stood watching his enormous back disappear from her view. The relationship hadn’t changed one iota, she thought drearily. He was exactly the same as when they had first met—their engagement was a farce even if it had served its purpose. The quicker she ended it the better. She went back to her room and unpacked, showered, and put on a cotton skirt and top, ate the lunch Mrs Thatch provided for her, and went downstairs to the clinic, where Maggie greeted her with a quite heartwarming relief. ‘Oh, good, you’re back— I thought I heard the car; didn’t see Dr Seymour, though. There’s a big clinic presently—if you’ve had your lunch will you start getting out the notes? There’s a list on the desk over there.’
Celine slipped back into the routine without effort. It was nice to be kept busy, it stopped her thinking, and by the end of the day she was too tired anyway. Of Oliver there had been no sign, but he had said that they wouldn’t be seeing much of each other for a few days.
It was two days more before she was able to see him again. He arri
ved for the morning clinic, elegant and unruffled and pleasantly businesslike, so that beyond a good morning, Celine didn’t say anything more. The clinic was a long one and he prepared to go as soon as it was finished. She was in the waiting-room, straightening it ready for the afternoon, as he went past the door, and he stopped.
‘How about dinner this evening?’ he asked. ‘I think it’s time we had a talk, Celine.’
She could see nothing encouraging in his manner—unapproachably pleasant, which was perhaps just as well. ‘Yes, I want to talk to you, but there’s no need for dinner. I can say it all in a few minutes.’
‘I’m sure you can. We’ll have a meal at my house, I’ll come back for you at seven o’clock.’
Celine opened her mouth to make a suitable retort to this piece of arrogance, but he had gone. She finished her tidying up, reflecting that it was really not important, it didn’t matter—nothing mattered now. She would say what she had to say and go back home. The prospect choked her with unshed tears.
The evening clinic was very short, all the same she had to hurry in order to be ready by seven o’clock. She got into the apricot dress, took great care with her face and hair, put on her Gucci sandals, snatched up their matching bag, told Mrs Thatch she wouldn’t be late back and went downstairs, to meet Oliver opening the street door. It annoyed her to see that he looked quite cheerful, and his placid conversation as he drove her to his house did nothing to soothe her. She was on edge herself; she felt he should be the same.
Pym greeted her with a beaming smile and left them alone in the drawing-room, and Celine, uncertain as to how much time she had before dinner should be announced, sat uncertainly, a glass of sherry in her hand, rehearsing her opening sentence.
‘I should wait until we’ve had a meal,’ observed Oliver calmly. ‘It’s easier to talk on a full stomach.’
She considered this unanswerable, and it was as well that Pym chose that moment to tell them that Mrs Pym had dished up.
