by Betty Neels
He looked down at her, smiling lazily. ‘I’m sure I shall—is it to be a surprise?’
‘Well, yes. It’s supposed to be, you know. Though it really doesn’t matter—I mean, it’s not quite the same as…’
He laughed a little. ‘You mean that we are both past the stage of white satin and veils and hordes of bridesmaids. Should you have liked that?’
Alethea recoiled in horror. ‘Lord, no! I’m twenty-seven, Sarre—besides, how can one possibly enjoy one’s wedding if one is fussing about veils and bouquets and guests?’
‘You intend to enjoy our wedding?’
‘Yes. Don’t you?’ She added hastily: ‘That was a silly thing for me to ask. I’m sorry…I was only thinking—we’re friends and I feel comfortable with you and you know all about me. I don’t know much about you and I only want to know what you wish to tell me—I’ll never encroach, I promise you, Sarre.’ She added thoughtfully: ‘Being friends is very restful.’
He glanced down at her. ‘Yes, so much more restful than being in love.’
She went pink. ‘Yes. Will you fly over for the wedding?’
‘No—Wienand and I will drive and he’ll fly back. We’ll get here the evening before. Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you about witnesses at the register office. Who would you like? Your grandmother, naturally—is there anyone else?’
‘No. I haven’t any aunts or cousins. Would any of your family like to come or would they prefer not to?’
‘I’m sure they would like it. I’ll ask them. Wienand will be with us, of course.’ He took her arm. ‘I thought we might invite Sir Walter and his wife too.’
‘Are we going straight back?’ she asked.
‘Would you mind? I do have quite a backlog of patients. I shall be going to Hamburg, though, in a couple of weeks’ time, I thought you might come too.’
‘I shall like that.’
They turned their steps homewards then, talking casually, but not about themselves. There didn’t seem any more to say, and indeed for the rest of that day and the few hours they had together before he left for Holland again, they scarcely mentioned their wedding. It was as if Sarre, now that all the arrangements had been made, had lost all interest in it. Alethea didn’t allow herself to mind about this; after all, he was a man at the height of his career with wide interests, he had made his mark in the world, he had his home and children, all that was behind him, whereas a younger man would probably see his wedding as the beginning of these things. Nick, for example—she tried to bury the thought and couldn’t—there would have been a house to search for and furnish, a career to plan, children to educate and bring up… She made herself stop thinking about it. Sarre had told her to turn the page forward, and she must.
She missed Sarre when he went; the little house had seemed over-full while he was there but curiously empty when he was no longer there. She occupied herself in sorting out her clothes and packing those she would take with her, conferring with her grandmother and Mrs Bustle about the lunch which was to be given after the ceremony, and helping to clean the little house from top to bottom, a quite unnecessary exercise which Mrs Bustle considered absolutely essential before the wedding could take place.
In actual fact, the days flew by. Sarre had telephoned her from Hamburg and there had been an elaborate card from Mrs McCrea and another from Al and she had received a surprising number from her friends at Theobald’s. She had hoped that there might have been something from the children and had to remind herself that she was still almost a stranger to them. Patience, she told herself once more; they hardly knew each other as yet.
Sarre and Wienand arrived together in the afternoon, having made the crossing from Calais by Hovercraft, and Alethea, seeing the Jaguar slide to a halt at the gate, hurried out to meet them, and if she was disappointed at Sarre’s quick kiss it was instantly made up for by Wienand’s boisterous hug and warm salute. ‘Prettier than ever,’ he declared. ‘How do you fancy switching bridegrooms tomorrow?’
‘What about the girlfriend?’ asked Alethea, laughing.
‘Which one?’ he laughed. They were walking up the path, the three of them together, and Alethea’s grandmother, watching them from the window, frowned a little before going to meet them.
They had tea in the garden, one of Mrs Bustle’s special teas, with scones and jam and cream, ginger cake, cucumber sandwiches and little iced biscuits, and now the conversation was all of the wedding. ‘There will be an aunt and uncle of mine coming,’ explained Sarre, ‘my father’s brother and his wife. They’ll drive up from London in the morning in time for the church service—you already know about Sir Walter and his wife.’
‘Well, I haven’t invited anyone,’ said Alethea, ‘if I’d asked one of my friends at Theobald’s they would all have expected to come. There’s just Granny and Mrs Bustle and the vicar’s wife…’
‘And the entire village, unless I’m very much mistaken,’ remarked her grandmother dryly.
Alethea and Sarre went for a walk after tea, leaving Wienand to entertain her grandmother, and Alethea asked how the children were.
‘Very well—you didn’t meet Nero, their dachshund, did you? He was at the vet’s—he came home yesterday and they’re all over him.’
She made some noncommittal answer, wondering if he had deliberately misunderstood her, and told him about the cards. ‘I’ve saved all of them for you to see,’ she added, and then wondered if they would interest him at all. She still didn’t know when he said: ‘We’ll put them in a scrapbook, shall we?’ and went on to talk about something else.
It seemed strange to be walking down the churchyard path with Sarre the next morning, his ring on her finger. Alethea didn’t feel married yet, though; the ceremony at the register office had been formal and almost businesslike—she was glad that only her grandmother and Wienand had been there as witnesses, because none of it had seemed quite real. But Sarre was real enough, walking beside her now in his beautiful pale grey suit. He was holding her hand and halfway up the path he stopped and turned her round to face him.
‘You look quite lovely,’ he told her, ‘the most lovely bride that ever was.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And now we’re going to be married.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Oh, Sarre, do you feel like that too? I’m so glad. I don’t think I like register offices much.’
He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘I promise you we’ll not go to one again, my dear.’
At the porch the vicar was waiting and over his shoulder Alethea saw that her grandmother had been quite right; the church was full. She said, ‘Oh, lord!’ under her breath and was glad of the reassuring grip of Sarre’s hand on hers. He let go of it for a moment and turned to pick up something on the porch bench; a posy of flowers exactly matching her outfit. She took it in her other hand and caught his again as they started down the aisle.
It was a simple ceremony and brief, yet she felt well and truly married as they came out of the church with everyone crowding round them wishing them well, throwing confetti and rose petals, calling good luck. They brushed each other down, laughing, when they got back to the cottage and then went to the door to meet their few guests. Sarre’s aunt and uncle were dears, elderly and good-natured and pleased with everything. They had arrived in an elderly Rolls-Royce driven by a man called Piet, no longer young but thickset and so broad that he appeared to be almost square. Sarre greeted him like an old friend, introduced Alethea who had a hand almost wrung off before Piet was led away by Mrs Bustle for a cooling draught of beer, and then took her to join the others.
The lunch was a happy affair with everyone crowded round the table in the dining room. Mrs Bustle had excelled herself with iced melon, fresh salmon salad, and a variety of rich puddings. Sarre had insisted on providing the champagne and Alethea, still feeling as though she were in a dream, drank two glasses of it before she quite knew what she was doing. Sarre, sitting beside her and glancing down, chuckled at her pink cheeks and bright eyes. ‘You need a slic
e of wedding cake to mop up the champagne,’ he said softly. ‘It’s coming in now and you’ll have to cut it.’
She managed very well, although it seemed a great pity to spoil such a lovely bride cake. It was so good that Sarre gave her another glass of champagne and she sat listening to the speeches in a pleasant haze. Wienand proposing their health, Sarre replying, his uncle getting up and welcoming her into the family, even the vicar saying a word or two. They came to an end at last and everyone went into the garden and sat about and talked until Mrs Bustle, with a little discreet help from a girl from the village, came out with the tea tray and after that it was time to leave. They were going from Dover this time, with the Hovercraft, an early evening crossing which meant that they would be back in Groningen well before midnight.
Sitting in the car presently with Sarre beside her, Alethea sighed and said: ‘Well, that was a very nice wedding. I quite enjoyed it.’
‘So did I. I’m glad Uncle and Aunt are taking your grandmother and Mrs Bustle out to dinner this evening, it’ll make a nice end to the day.’
Alethea agreed. And what sort of an end could she expect for her day? she wondered. The children would be in bed, probably the servants as well. Were they going to stop on the way for dinner, or have supper when they arrived? She didn’t like to ask and upon reflection, it didn’t really matter.
She was still wearing her wedding outfit although she had left the bouquet with her grandmother. Sarre had asked her to keep it on and although she hadn’t planned to wear it on the journey she had had no objection; they would be in the car for the whole journey so that there was no fear of spoiling it.
‘We have a long drive before us,’ explained Sarre, ‘but once we’re on the other side we can speed up a bit.’
As to speed, Alethea decided in no time at all, they weren’t doing too badly on this side either. Sarre cut across to the M11, left it just south of Harlow and worked his way down to the Dartford Tunnel, and after that it was a more or less straight run all the way to Dover, with the Jaguar eating up the miles with no effort at all.
‘This is a nice car,’ observed Alethea.
Sarre’s mouth twitched. ‘Very nice,’ he agreed gravely. ‘I need something pretty powerful; I travel around quite a bit. I’ve just taken delivery of a Bristol 603E, we’ll try it out together.’
Alethea thought a bit. ‘A Bristol—aren’t they handmade, as it were?’
‘That’s right.’ He added: ‘I need two cars in case one breaks down.’
She didn’t know much about cars, but surely a Bristol and a Jaguar would add up to around thirty-five thousand pounds? It occurred to her that she had very little knowledge of Sarre’s income. He had told her that he had inherited the house in Groningen, and doctors, she knew, did get discount on things, but there were still the servants and the upkeep of the big house. She longed to ask about it and didn’t dare.
‘We’ve not discussed money, have we?’ remarked Sarre, just as though he had known what she was thinking about, so that she went a guilty red and jumped. She said: ‘No,’ rather shortly and then added: ‘You don’t have to, unless you want to.’
He laughed softly. ‘My dear girl, you are my wife, of course we must discuss it.’
He sent the car tearing down the M2. ‘We’ll go and see my solicitor as soon as possible—I’ve made a new will, of course.’
‘Sarre…’
‘It’s customary,’ he pointed out laconically. ‘It will be explained to you in good time. I’ve money of my own as well as an income from my work—quite a lot of money. You’ll have an allowance, naturally, and I think I can promise that you can have anything within reason.’
‘Are you rich?’ asked Alethea.
‘Well, yes, I’m afraid I am. It seemed best not to mention it until after we were married.’ She could hear the laugh in his voice as he spoke.
‘Very rich?’
‘Very.’
She sat silent for all of a minute. ‘If I’d known that I’m not sure if I would have married you.’
‘That’s why I waited until we were married before telling you.’
He was looking straight ahead and she stared at his profile, its chin very firm, his mouth too. As she looked it curved into a smile. ‘Forgiven?’ he wanted to know.
He couldn’t see her smile, but she did. ‘Yes, of course. Actually, I expect I’ll like it very much—I mean, to have money to spend.’
She settled back in her seat; she felt more at ease with him now that she knew. Money wasn’t all that important to her, but it would be nice to have enough of it; besides, Sarre seemed to take it for granted and she supposed that in time she would too.
The crossing was smooth; it seemed no time at all before they were making their way out of Calais towards Ostend and then on towards Antwerp. They stopped in Bruges where they had dinner at the Portinari Hotel, not lingering over it, and then sped on. From Antwerp the road was fast; it seemed no time at all before they were sweeping around Utrecht and taking the road to Assen and Groningen. They had driven a hundred and ninety miles from Bruges, more or less, in under three hours and they were welcomed by the carillons ringing out eleven o’clock. There were lights streaming from the downstairs windows and as they drew up before the door, it was flung open and Al stood waiting to usher them in. Alethea, with Sarre’s hand on her arm, stood uncertainly on the cobbled pavement. She seemed to have come a very long way in a very short time, but then of course she wasn’t used to fast driving or the effortless manner in which Sarre conjured up meals in hotels, instant attention when he wanted it, as well as apparently having a route so imprinted on his brain that he didn’t falter once the whole way.
‘Welcome home,’ said Sarre, and walked her up the steps.
And indeed it was a welcome home: behind Al, Mrs McCrea, Nanny, Nel and even Juffrouw Bril were grouped, and in front of them the two children in their dressing gowns but nonetheless wide awake. The hall was filled with flowers; cream roses and carnations, lilies of the valley, orange blossom and stephanotis—the flowers which had made up her little bouquet. She stood there for a few seconds, taking it all in while Sarre said something quietly to Al, who disappeared briefly and then reappeared with that selfsame bouquet. She took it with a little gasp of surprise and looked enquiringly at Sarre.
‘I had an arrangement with Granny,’ he told her blandly. ‘You see I wanted everyone here to see just exactly how you looked at our wedding.’
Alethea had no time to reply. Everyone had surged forward to shake their hands and wish them well; the children first with hugs for their father and polite handshakes for herself, and then Al and the rest of them. And presently they all went into the drawing room, and that was filled with flowers too, with a sofa table drawn up under the windows, laden with champagne buckets and glasses. There was even a wedding cake, a masterpiece made by Mrs McCrea.
Alethea stood among them all, being toasted and complimented on her dress and recounting the wedding to Al and Mrs McCrea while Sarre, with Sarel and Jacomina hanging on each arm, did the same for Nanny and Nel and Juffrouw Bril. It was hours later, when she was in her lovely bedroom lying awake, that Alethea recalled uneasily how the children had cold-shouldered her. She had hoped that once she was married to Sarre, they would accept her. It was still too early, she reminded herself, and turned her thoughts to her wedding. It had been a happy affair and she had enjoyed the long journey back to Groningen with Sarre. He had said that he would take her to Hamburg, that would be fun too. She slept at last, still speculating about it.
She discovered very quickly that being married to Sarre was very nearly the same as being engaged to him. True, she was now addressed as Mevrouw, and Mrs McCrea was punctilious in discussing the menus each day, as well as asking her her wishes about the running of the house.
‘I’ll leave that to you, Mrs McCrea,’ said Alethea, going hot and cold at the idea of taking over the management of such a large establishment. ‘Perhaps you would show me exactly h
ow you go on, though. You see, you’re an expert and I’ve never kept house in my life—all the same, I should like to learn. Could we go through cupboards and stores and so on when you have the time to spare?’
Mrs McCrea beamed at her. ‘A very sensible suggestion, ma’am, if I may say so. Even if a lady doesn’t run her household herself she should know exactly what goes on in it. I’ll be delighted to tell you anything you want to know. And as to the menus, ma’am, if you’ll just say if there’s anything you don’t like or would prefer…’
‘I eat anything,’ stated Alethea. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been in hospital for years and you get used to eating what’s on your plate.’
‘Ugh—you’ll have what you fancy here, ma’am, you only have to say. Now, the master likes his meat—the gentlemen do, I’ve found, but if you fancy something lighter, that’s easily seen to.’
‘Thank you, Mrs McCrea. I don’t know much about anything at present, but if you want something, you will ask, won’t you? Pots and pans and equipment and so on, I mean. I expect you’ve always gone to the master for those, but it would help him if I dealt with the everyday requirements, wouldn’t it?’
‘Indeed it would. He has enough on his plate without bothering about the house.’
And Al took her firmly under his wing; he appeared unobtrusively with sound advice on the occasions when she found herself in doubt about something or other and he sat beside her in the Colt Sapporo which Sarre had given her. She had protested at such an expensive car and he had heard her out with his usual calm and then silenced her with the remark that as she was British she would naturally prefer a British car. ‘It is for your own use,’ he pointed out. ‘I fully intend that you shall drive the Jaguar and the Bristol when we can get out together. But take Al with you until you have your licence.’ So she drove carefully round the city while Al sat beside her regaling her with snippets of Sarre’s life, rendered all the more colourful by his cheerful Cockney voice.
