The Gemel Ring

by Betty Neels

  “It is not too girlish?”

  “Heavens, no. Why should you wear dull undies just because you’re past your first youth? Don’t you feel better for wearing it?”

  Juffrouw Blom nodded. “It is true, even though there is no one to see, I feel both young and gay; I shall buy more of these pretty things and throw this away.” She tossed the white cotton tent on to the floor and Charity was bending to pick it up when the professor knocked and came in. He looked remarkably handsome; surely the doormat was looking forward to her evening, thought Charity, wishing him a sober good evening. He accorded her a brief, casual nod; clearly his visit was for Corrie, for he went straight to the bed and after eyeing her for a moment, said: “Well, Corrie, how very nice you look—that silk thing suits you. Why ever have you been wearing those tents all these years? Was this the secret shopping?”

  Corrie chuckled richly. “You have said so many times that I should buy pretty things, Professor, and now I do so—I was a little afraid until Charity persuaded me, for I thought that you might laugh.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of her hands in his. “No, Corrie, why should I laugh? You look delightful, and I beg you to buy all the pretty clothes you have a mind to, for you are still far too young to wear all these dreary greys and blacks. As soon as you are on your feet we will go shopping—new uniforms, I think, blue this time, or brown, and a different style. Which reminds me, if I don’t take a look at that ankle now, you’ll not be on your feet for days, and we don’t want that.”

  He left shortly afterwards, leaving Juffrouw Blom in a warm glow of content and Charity ice cold with misery, imagining the evening he was enjoying in Juffrouw van Stassen’s company.

  She didn’t see him the next day, and the morning after that, when he came to strap Corrie’s leg, he gave her little of his attention, nor did he stay for coffee, pausing only to warn her that the physio would be along to start Juffrouw Blom’s exercises. “Once you’re on your feet,” he declared cheerfully, “we’ll have you back at work in no time,” he turned a blandly smiling face towards Charity, “and then Charity will be out of a job once more.”

  It seemed he couldn’t wait for her to go; she went through the day in a fine temper, well concealed and therefore all the harder to quench.

  She was doing her evening round when he telephoned her. “I shall call for you tomorrow morning at half past nine,” he informed her. “It will be Saturday, you know.”

  “Oh, yes—well, if you still want me…!” began Charity, caught off her stride.

  “Half past nine,” he repeated, and laughed gently “Goodnight.”

  She wore the green jersey again, because it was getting chilly now and everything else she had was too thin, and because the morning was overcast, she took her raincoat, wishing she had something more glamorous to wear. She looked a little pale when she went to say goodbye to Juffrouw Blom, already dressing-gowned and sitting in her chair, busy with laundry lists and the like, and that lady, scanning her face, offered the opinion that it was high time she had an outing of some sort, for she looked quite pasty-faced. The professor made a similar remark as he opened the car door for her to get in, although he put it down to working too hard. “And I daresay you find it a little dull after hospital life,” he commented as they started on the twenty-six miles to Amsterdam.

  She protested vigorously: “Indeed I don’t—Corrie is such fun, and the old people are sweet. Of course, we can’t talk a great deal, but it’s wonderful what one can do with a dictionary and a bit of arm-waving.” She paused. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

  “Yes. It’s nice to get these matters settled,” he observed, just as though, she fumed silently, she knew what he was talking about. When he didn’t say any more she began a conversation about the weather, in which he joined; she could hear the laugh in his voice and wondered why he found it amusing.

  The van Wijkelens’ house was large and old and tucked away in a small cutting off one of the main canals. Its massive front door was opened by an elderly man who addressed them in a friendly Cockney voice which surprised Charity, especially as her companion seemed to know him very well. “This is Bollinger,” he explained. “He came to Amsterdam with Abigail, and has stayed ever since,” and when she had shaken hands: “Where is everyone, Bolly?”

  “Up in the nursery, sir, if you and the young lady like to go up.”

  They climbed the staircase side by side. There was a good deal of laughing and talking coming from across the landing; a door was half open and Charity could see the van Wijkelens. He as tall as Everard and equally good-looking and his wife, surprisingly, small and plain; but plain in an interesting fashion, Charity had to admit as they were discovered, welcomed and taken to admire the baby in his cot—a delightful small creature, bathed and fed and about to take his morning nap.

  On the landing again, Abigail van Wijkelen led the way downstairs. “I hope you didn’t mind,” she said in her gentle voice, “but he’s rather new, you know, and we’re so very pleased with him.”

  This remark led, naturally enough, to an interesting conversation between the two girls concerning babies, Abigail’s small son in particular, and then, by a natural sequence of events, to clothes; they were still discussing the newest fashions when the gentlemen disappeared into Dominic’s study, leaving the girls to pour more coffee and settle down for a cosy chat.

  “Everard doesn’t come very often,” volunteered Abigail, “he’s so busy—but I think Dominic has found him a suitable house…” She stopped. “You do know about Everard’s…oh, dear, have I dropped a clanger?”

  Charity laughed. “No, it’s all right, I know all about it. I discovered it quite by accident. I’m working there now, as a matter of fact, because Juffrouw Blom, who runs the place for him, has sprained her ankle.”

  Which remark called for more explanations. They were still deeply engrossed when the men came back and Abigail said at once: “Dominic, isn’t it a shame that Charity has to go back to England in a few days? There are so many of us she could have met.” She turned to Charity. “There’s Sophy Oosterwelde near Utrecht, too, she’s married to another friend of Everard, and they have a boy and a girl—it would have been so nice…”

  “Yes, wouldn’t it?” Charity agreed hastily, “but I haven’t been home for ages and I do need new clothes—besides, my sister’s getting married.” No need to mention that the event was a good six months away; it gave her such a splendid excuse.

  They stayed for lunch and Charity tried not to see how charming Everard could be. Dominic was charming too, but he had eyes only for his wife, although his manners were perfect; he looked at her as though she were the sun and moon and stars all rolled into one, thought poor Charity, and when she caught the professor’s eye upon her, frowned fiercely at him.

  They didn’t have much to say to each other on the way back to Utrecht and although she had half expected him to mention her leaving, he said no word about it, but left her at the door of the Home with a hasty excuse that he was due at the hospital for a consultation. She was about to go in when he called after her: “I forgot—my grandmother would like you to have tea with her tomorrow. I shall be away—could you walk round, or would you like Potter to bring the car round?”

  Charity stood still, considering. She had nothing to do and as it was Sunday there was no shopping she could invent—besides, he wasn’t going to be there. She scowled; escorting the doormat, probably; she still didn’t believe his denial of their future marriage. “Very well,” she said at length, and a little ungraciously.

  The old lady was resting in her room when Potter admitted her and showed her into the sitting-room, begging her to make herself comfortable until her hostess came down from her room in a few minutes. He also remarked respectfully that he was very glad to see her once more as he poked up the cheerful log fire and went quietly from the room. Left alone, Charity started on a tour of inspection; she viewed a number of portraits of sober and severe-lo
oking gentlemen, presumably the professor’s forebears, sat, for purely sentimental reasons, in his chair, and went to pore over the silver in the cabinet. She would take another look at the gemel ring—the ring which would remain there, he had said, until he gave it to the woman he loved.

  It wasn’t there. She looked at each shelf carefully and then looked again. Only the space where it had rested was clearly to be seen. She went white, picturing it upon the doormat’s finger; he would have put it there on that Friday evening when he had told her, quite openly, that he was taking the creature to dine.

  Charity went and sat down, feeling shattered. While the ring had been there there had always been hope, however ridiculous that seemed, but now she could stop dreaming her fairy tales. The door opened and she got up to greet Mevrouw van Tijlen, smiling determinedly.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHARITY GOT THROUGH her visit with commendable self-control, though perhaps her laugh was a little too frequent and her voice a shade too loud. Her green eyes glittered with the strong feelings bottled up inside her, and when she rose to leave she bade the old lady goodbye in a falsely bright voice, saying that as she would be returning to England within a few days, there might be no opportunity of seeing her before she left.

  Her hostess’s reply was tart as well as gruff. “Huh—running away, are you?”

  “I am not running away,” protested Charity with dignity. “There is nothing to run away from.”

  Mevrouw van Tijlen fumbled among her chains and produced her lorgnette so that she might study Charity the better. Her voice was still tart. “Oh, yes, there is—your future. But perhaps you prefer to spend it in some hospital, ministering to the sick.” She sniffed delicately. “Girls aren’t what they were.”

  “I am not chasing after any man.” Charity’s voice was almost as tart and very determined.

  The old lady looked shocked. “I should hope not indeed!” she exclaimed. “That is for the man, in his own time and in his own way, of course. One needs patience.” She went on craftily, “You remember what Everard said about the gemel ring, do you not? It is still in the cabinet, child.”

  Charity bent to kiss the soft old cheek. “No, it’s not,” she said in a voice devoid of all feeling. “That’s why I’m going back to England.”

  She tackled Juffrouw Blom about giving up her job when she got back and Corrie admitted that she was quite able to resume her work; she couldn’t get around all that well, but there would be no problem with stairs, for there was a lift—besides, Mevrouw Smit would be coming back from her holidays in less than a week. “If you would stay just a day or two longer,” she begged, “I know how much you want to go home.”

  “Of course I’ll stay,” Charity assured her; she didn’t want to go home at all, she didn’t want to go anywhere, only stay close to Everard, an impossibility which she would have to acknowledge finally and the sooner the better. Old Mevrouw van Tijlen had been quite right; while the gemel ring had been in its case, she had clung to the hope that there was still a chance because he didn’t love anyone else.

  The doormat must have some hidden attraction, though heaven knew she had looked insipid enough at the opera, thought Charity sourly. Probably she came from an impeccable background—Everard would make a good husband, she had no doubt, and a splendid father, even to a row of dreary, spectacled children, who would, of course, take after their equally dreary mother… She turned her back on Juffrouw Blom and stared out of the window, seeing nothing because her eyes were full of tears. A clutch of small Everards would have been nice; she remembered Abigail van Wijkelen’s and the look on her face when she spoke of her son, and Dominic was besotted with her… She turned back towards the bed into which she had just helped Corrie.

  “Will you mention it to the professor?” she asked, “or shall I?”

  “I’ll say something—I know that he would like me back as soon as possible, he said so. Not,” she added hastily, “that he finds you unsatisfactory, Charity, on the contrary he is very pleased with you, he said that too. But there is the buying to do for the month, and the decorators are coming to paint the dining-room.” She stopped to think. “I am so very grateful to you, and I know that when Mevrouw Smit gets back, she will be grateful also. It is not perhaps work for a young girl—the excitement of hospital…”

  Her remark reminded Charity that she hadn’t a job, she hadn’t even begun to think about one; she had no idea where she wanted to go either. She made a mental resolve there and then to start looking for one the day she got home. She tried to work up some enthusiasm about her future and failed utterly; she didn’t care what she did, she didn’t care if she never saw the inside of a hospital again. She said suddenly: “Look, do you mind if I speak to the professor? Perhaps it might look better—I could see him tomorrow, he’ll be along for morning surgery, won’t he?”

  But as it turned out, she saw him much sooner than that.

  She had been in bed for more than an hour, lying awake, staring into the dark and listening to the carillons competing with each other every quarter of an hour, when the intercom buzzed. It was Mevrouw Laagemaat’s quavery voice asking for help. Charity flung on her dressing-gown, a frivolous garment of patterned voile with a great many ruffles and a sash, thrust her feet into a pair of equally frivolous slippers and tore through the silent corridors and up to the next floor where the old couple had their flat. The door was open, Mevrouw Laagemaat was standing just inside, wringing her hands. Terrified out of her wits, Charity noted, but unscathed—it would be old Mijnheer Laagemaat.

  He was lying on the bed, apparently asleep. She could hear his loud uneven breathing as she crossed the room, and she knew what his pulse would be like before she lifted his bony, fragile wrist. She knew that he was deeply unconscious too; even in the dim light of the old-fashioned silk-shaded lamp, his colour was shocking. To get the doctor was paramount; stopping only to beg the old lady to make coffee, because she would feel better if she had something to do, Charity sped back along the corridor to the telephone and dialled the professor’s number.

  It was Potter who answered, and when she said: “Potter, please get the professor, it’s urgent,” was reassured by his quiet: “Right away, miss,” and still further reassured by Everard’s voice within seconds, asking her what was the matter.

  “It’s Mijnheer Laagemaat,” she said without preamble, and gave him a quick, careful account of him, not wasting a word in the telling, and when he said: “I’ll be over in five minutes,” she said merely:

  “Thank you, Everard,” unconscious of the fact that she had called him by name.

  She was back with the old man when the professor walked in, looking oddly youthful in slacks and a high-necked sweater, but he had his case with him and when he had finished his quick examination, he wasted no time in opening it and giving her a phial.

  “Give that,” he told her quietly. “It won’t do much good, but it will make things easier for him.” He gave her a brief direct look. “There’s no chance—an hour or so, perhaps less. Where is his wife?”

  “I asked her to make coffee for you—to give her something to do.”

  “Good girl,” his voice was warmly approving. “See to that injection, I’m going to talk to her.”

  She had done as he had bidden her and tidied the bed when he spoke from the kitchen door. “Come here, Charity—we’ll leave Mevrouw Laagemaat with him for a little while, she wants that.”

  The two of them stood, side by side in the tiny room, with its old-fashioned gingham frills and geraniums on the sill, and the little oil cooking stove the old lady preferred to the new-fangled electric oven. The coffee was hot and tasted good and they had two cups, saying little, for there was nothing to say. Charity had gone to perch on the table, her extravagant gown billowing around her, her hair tumbling down her back. Her face, without its make-up, looked very young and tired. But she was unaware of this, indeed she had not given her appearance a thought; her mind was centred on the old man.

>   “Is there anything else I can do? Do you want me to telephone you when he…or shall I wait until the morning?”

  He put down his cup. “You won’t need to do either, I’ll stay. You see, I’ve known them for a long time. Now I’m going to send Mevrouw Laagemaat here and you see that she has some coffee, will you? and bring her back. We shan’t have very long to wait.”

  The old lady was docile and very calm now. She drank her coffee, insisted on washing up the cups and saucers with Charity’s help, and then went back into the bedroom. The old man’s breathing had become very quiet now, drowned by the harsh tick-tock of the marble clock on the draped mantelpiece. The professor got up, pushed the old lady gently into a chair by the bed and sat down beside her, while Charity took the little chair he had set ready for her. He began to talk almost at once, in a quite normal voice, and although she couldn’t understand anything of what he said, Charity could hear the kindness in his voice. The old lady heard it too, responding to it with a few murmured words and even an occasional smile. And when the old man died, so gently that it was hard to tell, she followed the professor out of the little room, leaving Charity to do the small necessary tasks which needed to be done.

  When she joined them presently, Mevrouw Laagemaat was standing with his arms around her, crying into his shoulder. But she didn’t cry for long; he sat her down in one of the squat, overstuffed chairs arranged stiffly around the centre table and glanced up at Charity. “This is how she always hoped it would be,” he told her, “so although she grieves, she is happy too.”

  Charity, studying his quiet calm face, stifled an urge to weep herself; for Mevrouw Laagemaat, because she would have to go on alone for a little while longer, after a lifetime of sharing, and in some half-understood way, for herself, because she was alone already and had not yet shared her life with anyone. She gulped back the lump in her throat and said huskily: “I’ll make some coffee, shall I? And where shall I put Mevrouw Laagemaat for the night?”