by Betty Neels
When she got back with Corrie’s lunch it was to hear that the professor had telephoned to say that he had cancelled her flight and would arrange the refund; he had also telephoned her father.
“Good lord!” exclaimed Charity, much struck by his thoughtfulness. “You know, I’d quite forgotten to do that.”
“It is not necessary to worry,” Juffrouw Blom assured her, “Professor van Tiljen thinks of everything.”
Charity spent a busy day getting to know the occupants of the home, doing what she could for the invalid, who was in considerable pain, and making an early evening round to check that all the occupants were well and not worried about anything. She had had no experience of such work, but it seemed to her that the old people in the professor’s care were happy and content and enjoyed small luxuries which presumably his wealth made possible. There was no lack of equipment in the surgery; it held everything necessary to deal with an emergency, the communal dining room was an eye-opener to her too, with its small tables, and gay curtains, its flowers on the windowsills and colourful pictures on the walls, and beyond it was the recreation room, cosy with easy chairs and small tables, shelves of books, a TV in a corner and a piano on a little platform. There were flowers here, too, and she noticed that the chairs were old-fashioned and high, just the kind of chair the old people would have had in their own homes. Her heart warmed towards Everard’s kindliness even while she wondered why a highly successful surgeon with all he could possibly want in the world should choose to spend his wealth and his time on the old, and probably the forgotten inmates of the home. She would have liked to have asked him. Her tour finished, she went back to Juffrouw Blom, helped her to prepare for the night and then sat down with pen and notebook, ready to be told what she was to do on the following morning.
She had got no further than the first details about early morning pills and injections to be given before breakfast; as far as she could discover, it would be necessary to make a series of domestic visits at an early hour. She looked with a new respect at her companion, who, as far as she could make out, worked a sixteen-hour day and enjoyed it. Her pen was poised ready to take down the next lot of instructions when Juffrouw Blom lifted a majestic arm and said simply: “He’s coming.”
A moment later the half-open door was thrust wide and the professor walked in. He was, as always, impeccably dressed, still in the fine grey cloth suit he had worn that morning; his shoes had lost none of their gloss, his linen was immaculate, but over and above these things Charity could see that he was bone weary. Little lines of fatigue ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth, there was the faintest of frowns between his brows. She exclaimed impulsively: “You’re tired. You should be at home, going to bed.”
He gave her a long, considered look and walked over to Corrie.
“Sound advice, dear girl, but why condemn me to my lonely bed when I have two such charming ladies to visit?” He gave her a mocking smile as he spoke and addressed himself to Juffrouw Blom. “Well, Corrie, how has the day gone? Let me take a look at that ankle.”
Charity addressed his broad back. “Would you like some coffee?”
He didn’t turn round. “Yes, please—and a sandwich if it isn’t too much trouble.”
So that was why he looked so tired. “When did you last have a meal?”
He sounded vague. “Oh—one, two o’clock—between lists.”
Of course he had been fetching her when he should have been in theatre.
“And this evening?”
He cast her a look over his shoulder and said almost apologetically:
“Well, I had to catch up with my work somewhere.”
Charity knew her way around the kitchen by now; she was back in no time at all with a nicely laid tray and when he got up to take it from her, she told him to stay where he was and put it on the table close by. When she took the cover off the dish by the coffee pot he leaned forward to inspect the generous portion of scrambled eggs on buttery toast and smiled at her with such charm that her heart turned right over.
“My dear girl,” he exclaimed, “I had no idea that you could cook. You are indeed a woman of parts.”
“Eat it before it gets cold,” she suggested matter-of-factly. “And I can’t cook, only that.”
He began to make vast inroads into his supper. “Perhaps I should marry you,” he remarked to outrage her. “Think how convenient it would be when I get home from a night emergency to find you there, waiting with coffee and scrambled eggs.”
His brief, mocking glance silenced her; it was Corrie who answered him. “What nonsense you talk, Professor,” she told him comfortably. “You would be the last man to expect your wife to get up in the middle of the night to cook for you.”
He speared a mouthful of egg. “Dear Corrie, I am the last man to expect a wife…”
Juffrouw Blom was on to a topic close to her heart. “That, if I may say so, is nonsense—here you are, a man of no more than forty, and in the ten years in which I have known you…”
“Is it really ten years?” he interrupted her smoothly. “And that reminds me—Charity, may I have your ticket? I’ll see about getting a refund for you. You don’t have much luck in your efforts to get home, do you?”
His manner was coolly friendly, so she answered him in the same vein, adding: “Thank you for telephoning Father—I quite forgot to do so.”
“I’m not surprised. I must apologise for rushing you in the way I did, but we were in a fix, were we not, Corrie? This place falls apart when Corrie is ill you know.”
He drank the last of his coffee. “You will need some more clothes, I daresay. You will be taking over Corrie’s free time, presumably? I’ll take you over to den Haag tomorrow afternoon—will it take you long to pack?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
His eyes widened with laughter. “Another virtue,” he murmured. “Perhaps I should snap you up after all.”
But Charity was prepared now; if his manner was to be one of cool, friendly banter, then hers would be the same. They would be seeing each other fairly frequently for the next week or so. He had been very out-spoken with her at the opera; she knew now exactly where she stood in his opinion, and since they had to meet, she supposed that a light-hearted burying of the hatchet, however temporary, was by far the best way to deal with an awkward situation. Not that he had shown any sign of awkwardness, she thought it unlikely that he would. She felt awkward herself, though. To hide it now, she took the tray away to the kitchen and was so long tidying it away that by the time she got back, he had gone.
He came too early the next afternoon; she was still running round with Mist Mag Tri for the elderly stomachs that needed it, and escorting those who usually rested to their flats, to take off their shoes for them and tuck them up on their beds. She had just left Mijnheer and Mevrouw Laagemaat comfortably side by side in their crowded little bedroom, and was flying downstairs to see Bep, when she bumped into him on the landing. She had no way of stopping her headlong flight, except by tumbling into his arms. They felt hard and at the same time gentle around her as she made haste to disentangle herself.
“So sorry,” she was breathless for more reasons than running downstairs. “You’re early, but I won’t be more than five minutes. Have you seen Corrie?”
“Not yet.” He was laughing down at her. “You may have ten minutes if you wish, I’ll stay with her until you’re ready. Is there anything you need to report while I’m here?”
She shook her head. “Everyone seems well and happy. I thought Mijnheer Laagemaat was a little breathless when he went to lie down just now, but he said he felt all right—perhaps he was just tired.”
“Probably,” he agreed dryly, “he is eighty-two. You manage to make yourself understood?”
She answered without thinking. “Oh, yes—I’ve been in Holland long enough to have picked up some Dutch—as long as it’s basic, I can manage.”
She went to pass him, but he barred her way. “And yet I remember,”
he told her blandly, “that you were extremely annoyed with me when I pointed out that your stay here would give you an opportunity of learning our language.”
She was immediately on the defensive. “Yes, well—of course I was annoyed—you only said it to annoy me; you were very unpleasant, you often are,” she finished recklessly.
“My dear good girl, put yourself in my place. Did I not tell you that you dog me at every turn?”
“Then if you dislike me so much,” she flared, “why bother to come tearing along—at my great inconvenience, mark you…” her voice rose as her feelings strengthened. “Each time I pack to go home, you come along with some—some reason why I can’t go.”
She was stopped by the look on his face; a look she couldn’t understand at all. He said slowly: “So I do,” and stood back to let her pass. She was conscious of his eyes on her back as she ran downstairs.
She speculated briefly about it as she changed, and because there was no time she brushed her hair into a ponytail, snatched up her handbag and tore along to Corrie’s room. Their trip would take up most of the afternoon. The least she could do, however unpleasant he was, was to save as much time as possible. Why he should go to so much trouble to help her when he was so consistently rude to her, she couldn’t imagine. And yet she loved him. Seeing him leaning against Juffrouw Blom’s massive wardrobe, waiting for her with no sign of impatience, merely strengthened that feeling. She was sure now that she would always feel like that, even if, despite his disclaimer, he married his doormat.
Apparently they were to be on good terms again; the drive to den Haag was nothing but pleasure, with her companion talking about everything and everyone under the sun save himself; even when she ventured to ask him why he had opened the old people’s home, he put the question gently aside without answering it. She should have had more sense, she thought bitterly, than to ask him questions like that; she would be the last one to share his ideas on life, and yet, to her annoyance, she found herself telling him quite freely of her own life and home when he asked. Not that there was much to tell; for she really had only the vaguest idea of what she would do. A job in some hospital, naturally—but a week or two’s holiday first; it was early autumn, and Budleigh Salterton could be delightful at that time of year.
Mrs Boekerchek was waiting for them, embarrassingly arch in her manner but unfailingly kind in her offers of help and when Mr Boekerchek came in, looking almost well and full of himself once more, Charity slipped away to collect the rest of her belongings. She was back again in a commendably short space of time to hear the professor refusing an offer of tea as he had urgent business to attend to before he returned to Utrecht. She concealed her surprise, bade her friends goodbye with a promise to see them again before she left Holland, pretended not to hear when Mrs Boekerchek wanted to know in a whisper if there was a romance blossoming, and accompanied the professor to his car. He stowed her case and got in beside her.
“Corrie told me that you have some vital shopping to do for her; that is why I refused the offer of tea—I should have mentioned it.”
“Have you the time?” she asked quickly. “I hadn’t liked to ask you because I thought you would be in a great hurry. I didn’t know that Corrie had told you.”
“Only that she wanted you to buy something for her. I gather I’m to be surprised later.”
Charity smiled. “That’s right. Corrie’s such a dear, why ever didn’t someone marry her?”
“He was killed in the war. I should be lost without her—she’s sound right through, and so kind. She likes you.”
“I like her. Could we go to one of the big stores? Metz will do.”
She found what she wanted with no trouble and bore it triumphantly back to the patient professor. He eyed the package with some interest. “Have you been putting frivolous ideas in Corrie’s head?” he asked.
“They were there already. I hope I haven’t wasted too much of your afternoon, it was very kind of you to bring me over.”
“I am not an unkind man,” he assured her gravely, “and upon reflection, I haven’t wasted my afternoon.” He glanced at his watch. “If you have really finished, I suggest that we go straight back and have tea with Grandmother.”
“Will there be time for that? I don’t think I should— I told Bep I would be back…”
“Half past five—I made that clear to her, that gives you ample time to do the medicine and injection round before the old people sit down to their evening meal.” His eye fell upon the package. “Should I call and see Corrie this evening?”
“Oh, would you, that would be…” She paused in thought. “I suppose you couldn’t possibly tell me when, so that she’s…”
“Half past eight—no, eight o’clock,” he obliged readily. “I can only stay a few minutes, though; I have a dinner date.” He shot her a wicked glance. “The doormat,” he told her silkily.
She felt the chill of disappointment and her voice was stiff as she answered him.
He had manoeuvred the Lamborghini ahead of a succession of cars and had a free road for the moment, and he was driving with a relaxed expertise which was a joy to watch. Charity concentrated on that for a few minutes before asking: “Perhaps you would rather take me straight back to the Home—that would give you more time…”
“Do I want more time?” his voice was innocent. “Perhaps you think that I should go into a brown study and concentrate on the—er—doormat, without you to distract me.” He threw her a sidelong glance, his eyes alight with amusement. “It takes a good deal to distract me, Charity.”
“That is not what I meant,” she said with a decided snap. “I have never met anyone like you…”
“A point in my favour. How are you enjoying the job?”
So the hatchet was to be buried again. “Very much. I had no idea that it could be so interesting—no wonder Corrie loves it. When I first saw it, the Home looked so gloomy, but inside it’s simply marvellous. Is there a waiting list?”
“Yes, a long one. I’m looking out for another place to convert—a friend of mine in Amsterdam thinks he has found the very thing. I must go and see him about it. He’s married to an English girl.” He spoke carelessly. “Perhaps you would like to come with me and meet her.” Not giving her time to answer, he went on: “You’re free on Saturday, aren’t you, and that is when I intend to go.”
There was nothing in the world she would rather do, although it seemed strange that he should ask her when they annoyed each other so much—besides, what about the doormat? She answered carefully: “But wouldn’t you rather take—take…”
“Away for the weekend.” His reply was laconic.
“In that case, I should like to come very much—your friends won’t mind? I shan’t be in the way?”
“On the contrary,” he remarked with unflattering candour, “you and Abigail can sit and worship the baby while Dominic and I are left free to talk.”
So that was why he had asked her to go. Charity sat silent until they got out of the car and when he said kindly: “My grandmother will be pleased to see you, Charity,” she couldn’t help wondering if he found her a dead bore and a nuisance into the bargain, but just because the old lady had taken a fancy to her, he was putting himself out to be civil. This unhappy theory was substantiated presently, for he drank a cup of tea and then left their company with the excuse that he had some telephone calls to make and would return in time to take Charity back. She had no time to brood about this, however, for the old lady was full of questions about her job and Juffrouw Blom’s ankle and when did she intend to return to her home.
Charity forbore from saying that she intended to go home the moment she was given the chance to do so, but she refrained, merely explaining patiently that she would leave just as soon as Juffrouw Blom was on her legs again. “I don’t have to wait until she is quite recovered,” she went on, more for her own benefit than that of her listener. “As soon as she can get around a little, I shall feel free to go.”
&nbs
p; “You’ll not come back?” The old lady’s eyes were sharp.
Charity smiled, nicely in command of herself because the professor wasn’t there. “I don’t suppose so. The Boekercheks have asked me to visit them, but you know how it is—once I have gone, I shall be forgotten—that’s natural.”
Her hostess nodded her head. “Quite natural child, but there are exceptions to every rule. Some people one meets remain in one’s mind for the rest of one’s life.” Charity jumped visibly when she went on, “Everard will remain in yours, I fancy.”
A question which would have to be answered, judging by the lynx-eyed look she was getting from her companion. “Well, yes,” said Charity, rather proud of her noncommittal voice. “You see, I’ve done a lot of work for him…”
“I don’t mean that.” The gruff old voice was impatient.
“Yes,” said Charity simply.
“I thought as much.”
“I should hate him to find out,” said Charity humbly.
“Not from you, he won’t—nor, I need hardly add, from me. Your secret is quite safe, Charity.” She went on in a cross voice: “He’s taking out that wheyfaced van Stassen girl this evening; she’s only half alive, and the live half isn’t at all to my liking.”
At which remark Charity couldn’t help but laugh, so that when Everard, coming back to fetch her, wanted to know what was so amusing she hesitated over a suitable reply, it was Mevrouw van Tijlen who came to her rescue with some observation about the amusing people she had met as she put up her old face to be kissed by her grandson, and when Charity bent to shake her hand, she kissed her too.
There seemed to be a great deal to do when she got back. She had handed over her shopping to Juffrouw Blom before she began on her evening’s work, and it was an hour or so before she went back to that lady’s room, to find her sitting up in bed, decked out in the pale blue lacy confection Charity had chosen. She walked round the bed slowly, viewing the occupant from every angle. “It’s perfect,” she pronounced. “You look sweet and it makes you heaps younger and much slimmer. Those little sleeves are just the thing.”
