by Betty Neels
The professor thought briefly. “There’s Mevrouw Smit’s room next to Bep. Put her in there, then there will be someone close by. You’ll have to get Bep up anyway, but get the old lady settled first. I’ll give her something to make her sleep.”
So it was arranged and presently he took his leave with an abrupt: “Come with me, Charity, and bolt the door after me.”
She found herself padding silently beside him through the dim, quiet passages and down the stairs to the side door, his own unhurried tread almost as silent.
At the door he paused. “Go to bed as soon as you can,” he counselled her. “I’ll be round just after eight, I’ll see to everything then.” He smiled at her, making nonsense of her resolution to be gone at the first opportunity. “Thank you, Charity. I’m sorry this had to happen while you were here.” He put a large hand under her chin and tilted her face up to study it. “You are good and kind and gentle, as well as being clever.” He bent his head and kissed her gently. “You are also very beautiful.”
Charity did what was necessary with Bep’s help. Only when they were finished and Bep had gone back to her bed and she herself was once more in her room did she allow herself to think her own thoughts. It was almost three o’clock; she would have to be up soon after six, she set her alarm clock and climbed tiredly into bed, longing to sort out the night’s happenings and too tired to make sense of them. She would be clearer-headed by morning, she told herself drowsily, and slept on the thought.
She wasn’t clear-headed at all. It was agony to get up after so short a night’s rest. She dressed quickly, paying little attention to her pale, weary face, bundled up her hair anyhow, ramming the pins in with a fine disregard for her appearance, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
There was coffee on the stove; she felt better when she had a cup. She put a second cup on a tray and went upstairs to Juffrouw Blom’s room. The inmates were beginning to stir; she could hear faint elderly voices, taps running, kettles being filled; soon it would be time to go round with her little tray of medicines. Juffrouw Blom was awake and heaved herself up against her pillows as she went in. “What happened?” she asked at once. “I can see that you have had no sleep. Something went wrong—someone was ill.”
Charity poured them each a cup of coffee and perched on the bed. It was nice to lay the burden of the night’s happenings on to Corrie’s broad shoulders. Juffrouw Blom listened to her tale without interruption and then nodded her head. “You did well.”
“There wasn’t much to do,” protested Charity.
“No dramatic treatment, no. But who wants that when they are very old? Comfort and care and a shoulder to cry on, that is what is needed. The professor would not have it otherwise.”
Charity remembered how gentle he had been with the old lady. “No, I know that. He’s coming after eight o’clock. Should I get Mevrouw Laagemaat up? I peeped in just now and she’s still sleeping.”
“Leave her. Professor van Tijlen will do all that is necessary, as he always does, but have some coffee ready for him—it is his theatre day and he will go straight there without his breakfast if we do not prevent him.”
“But he can’t do that,” protested Charity. “Someone ought to see that he has something—his lists are so long.”
Juffrouw Blom’s glance flickered over her and away again. “That is what I think also. A good wife, that is what he needs.” She drank the rest of her coffee, and when she spoke again it was about something quite different, but when Charity got up to go she asked: “You’re sure you want to tell him about going? I could do it later on—he is sure to come in this evening, or even tomorrow.”
“No, I think I’d rather do it, Corrie. There are only Mevrouw Kist and Mijnheer Jasper on the list for surgery so far, and neither of them will take long.”
She hurried off to the kitchen again, forming sentences in her head—polite phrases about how much she had enjoyed her work and how much she wanted to go home, for she had made up her mind while she had been with Corrie that she wouldn’t let last night alter her purpose; he would have been grateful to anyone in similar circumstances. His kiss had been kind, the sort of kiss one would give a tired old lady or an unhappy child. She realised that she had a headache and that her temper was uncertain; she would have a nap after lunch and take a couple of Panadol straight away, but one thing and another hindered her from fetching them, and she still hadn’t taken them when the slight creak of the side door heralded the professor.
She should have been delighted to see him, but somehow the sight of him, looking as though he had had a long restful night’s sleep, immaculately dressed as he always was, his face placid, set her nerves on edge. His cheerful greeting did nothing to improve this feeling; she muttered briefly and asked: “Shall I fetch you some coffee now or would you prefer it later on? And do you want to take the surgery first?”
He appeared not to notice her moroseness but stood relaxed, smiling down at her. “You haven’t had enough sleep,” he told her. “My poor girl, you’re as cross as two sticks, aren’t you?” He walked to the desk. “I’ll do the form-filling and so forth and some telephoning and have my coffee while I do it, if I may. I shall want you here to check times and so forth,” he finished, vaguely.
Charity fetched his coffee and a plate of buttered toast besides, and then, because he refused to have anything unless she had a cup herself, went back to the kitchen again for another lot of coffee. Their drinks poured, she perched silently on a chair beside the desk and watched him as he wrote until presently he cast down his pen and glanced at her.
“So—that is settled.” He bit into his toast, drank some of the coffee and pulled the telephone towards him. His calls made, he sat back, munching toast while he gave her a brief outline of what had been arranged. This done, he suggested that he should see the surgery patients.
“There are only two,” explained Charity. “Mevrouw Kist has a sore mouth and Mijnheer Jasper has a nasty little cough.” She got up to precede him to the door. “It seems so funny,” she mused aloud, “that you should be so deeply interested in old people…”
“Ah, you mean that my interest should be centred upon the operating table and not upon the actual person. But there, dear girl, you are at fault, I am deeply interested in people—more than you might suppose.” He shot her a sidelong glance full of amusement. “You would wish me to become a dry as dust surgeon who thinks only of his work. I admit my work is very important to me, although just lately I have to realise that there are other things equally important. No, Charity, when I am out of theatre, my mind is filled with only the pleasantest of thoughts.”
Against her better judgment, she asked: “What thoughts?”
They were in the gloomy hall, not hurrying. “You, for instance,” he said.
She said sharply: “Not me—Juffrouw van Stassen.”
He halted his leisurely progress. “Now why do you say that? I believe that I gave you my reasons for not pursuing my intentions in that quarter.”
“You were joking.” Charity was feeling crosser and crosser with every minute which passed. “You didn’t really expect me to believe you? Just because I was rude about her wouldn’t be a reason for not seeing her again—and you did—you took her to dinner…”
He was eyeing her with the greatest interest. “Am I to understand from your dreadful muddled remarks that you mind my seeing her again?”
“You don’t have to understand anything,” said Charity recklessly. Her head was really very bad, she hardly knew what she was saying, although she suspected that presently, when she could think clearly again, she would bitterly regret most of what she was saying now. They had reached the surgery door; without giving him an opportunity to say more, she opened it and ushered him in.
His two patients were soon dealt with. Charity saw them on their elderly way and went back to clear up the few things the professor had used. She was washing her hands at the sink while he tidied away their notes when he said to surprise her: �
�Something is on your mind, Charity, and it’s not just a headache, is it?”
He had unwittingly forced her hand; there was nothing for it but to tell him that she would like to leave. She did it in a rambling way, getting to the point only after a great many explanations and excuses, and so intent on making the whole thing sound perfectly normal that she didn’t notice the expression on his face. At length he cut through her breathless, repetitive chatter.
“Why do you want to leave?” he asked flatly. “Oh, I know you want to go home, you have told me that several times in as many minutes, but what is the real reason?”
She took refuge in a haughty coldness. “There is no reason.”
He gave her a mocking smile. “Juffrouw van Stassen, perhaps?” he asked her blandly.
She flared up at that; words which she hardly knew she was uttering went tumbling off her tongue at a fine rate. “I’m sick of her!” she told him; a shade too loudly. “I don’t care if you marry her—she’ll be a h-horrid wife, but of course you won’t care, you’re so besotted…”
He was sitting on the side of the desk, swinging a leg, looking remarkably composed. “Besotted?” He looked thoughtfully at her. “You know, I can only recall one occasion when you saw Juffrouw van Stassen and myself together—in public, if you remember, and I pride myself on containing my deeper feelings in public.”
“Oh, don’t be so pompous!” Her green eyes flashed at him, she was in a fine temper by now. “And I don’t believe you have any deeper feelings.” She hiccoughed with choked rage and tears. “Of course you’re besotted—you gave her the gemel ring, I know you did, it isn’t in the cabinet any more.”
His expression had not altered at this remarkable speech, only his eyes gleamed beneath their lids. All he said was: “Neither is it. I had no idea that you were so interested in its history.” His raised eyebrows, invited her to continue.
“I’m not—I couldn’t c-care less, only your grandmother told me, and I just happened to notice.” She flew off at a sudden tangent. “I can’t think why I ever agreed to come here and work for you…”
“Nor can I, Charity. I was beginning to think that I had the answer, but perhaps I was wrong.”
She snapped: “Well, you have to be wrong, sometimes,” and turned her back on him because if she looked at him for a moment longer she would burst into tears. “When will it be convenient for me to go?” she asked him in a low voice.
“Whenever you wish.” His voice was very even. “Charity, do you want to go?”
Pride made her say: “Of course I do.”
“We would not see each other again.” His voice was mild enough.
It was shocking, but she was unable to prevent one dreadful lie piling up on the next. “I don’t care—I don’t want to see you again.”
She had controlled her voice at last; it was cold and quiet and in her own ears it sounded convincing; it must have sounded convincing to the professor too, for he got down off the desk, saying without heat:
“That settles the question, doesn’t it? I shall be away for a few days, arrange something with Corrie, will you—I’ll send your cheque.”
He started for the door, and Charity stood at the sink, drying her hands again, trying to think of something she could say to stop him, short of telling him that she loved him and life was never going to be the same again.
She wasn’t really listening when he said: “I am grateful to you for all your help, Charity. You have been more than generous with your time and services—I do not know what we should have done without you, and I never heard you grumble.”
He retraced his steps and stood in front of her. “It is useless to say that we part as friends—all the same, I wish you well, dear girl.” He smiled at her, a smile of such kindliness that she actually had her mouth open to tell him that she didn’t want to leave him, ever—but no sound came; when she finally achieved a whispered “Everard,” he had gone.
There was nothing left to do but explain as best she could to Corrie, decide which day to leave, and book a seat on a flight from Schiphol.
Corrie was upset at the idea of losing her, but she made no fuss, for she had been expecting her to leave within the next week. She was up and walking with a stick now and declared quite cheerfully that she could manage very well until Mevrouw Smit returned, so Charity booked her flight for the day after next, telephoned her mother and plunged once more into the day’s routine, her ears stretched for the telephone, the door, the postman or the sound of the Lamborghini’s gentle snort, but although the telephone rang times out of number, as did the front door bell, not to mention the postman delivering a sizeable mail, there was nothing for her. She even stayed up late, sitting in the office until midnight, hoping that perhaps Everard would come, although her common sense told her that there was absolutely no reason why he should. She went to bed finally, and spent a miserable night.
The next day dragged intolerably; Charity flung herself into the business of checking the laundry—no mean task—made up beds, helped the more frail to take their baths, ran errands for Juffrouw Blom, who had wedged herself into the office once more and more or less assumed command and even then found herself after the midday meal with time on her hands. The temptation to visit Mevrouw van Tijlen was very great, but she resisted it and went resolutely to the shops, where she bought more presents for her family and a glamorous nightie for Corrie. Somehow the evening crept by; before she went to bed she telephoned the professor’s house and when Potter answered asked him to give his mistress her love and tell her that she was leaving in the morning, and gained a morsel of comfort from his sincere “I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Dawson, indeed I am, me and Mrs Potter, both.”
She thanked him, bade him goodbye and hung up, reflecting that she had met a number of very pleasant people while she had been in Holland; it was a pity that she was unlikely to see them again.
She spent another sleepless night, and in the morning she left.
Home looked just the same. It was autumn now, of course, and the garden was full of dahlias and chrysanthemums and late roses. The virginia creeper which rioted over the house was turning colour, presenting a welcoming and well-remembered picture. There was no doubt that her family were glad to see her again, although they were not unduly curious as to what she had been doing, probably because Lucy’s wedding, although still some six months away, took the lion’s share of their attention. She was to have a big wedding, for the Colonel and his wife were well known in Budleigh Salterton and had a great number of friends. Both Charity’s parents and her sister took it for granted that she would be there for the wedding.
“You must get something close by,” advised her mother, “so that there will be no difficulty about travelling and time off. I don’t suppose that nice professor wants you back again? I do hope not, for there will be your dress to fit and the flowers and…”
“The wedding isn’t for six months,” Charity reminded her parent patiently. “I thought I’d have a week at home now and start looking around for something.”
She had been home for exactly two days when Potter telephoned. His voice sounded clear in her ears, as respectful as he always had been, only now there was an undercurrent of something else she couldn’t define.
“Miss Dawson? I’m relieved to find you at your home. It’s Mevrouw van Tijlen—she’s not at all well and she asked me to telephone you. She would like you to come and stay with her, just for a few days. She is, I think, a little nervous.”
“Is the professor not home?” asked Charity with unnatural calm.
“No, miss—he went to Vienna, and Mevrouw won’t allow me to telephone him because he’s attending some important conference there. I’m a little worried, miss.”
“Potter, I’m only just home.”
“I understand, miss. Only I had hoped—however, I’ll let Mevrouw know.”
It was too much; the old lady was Everard’s grandmother and he loved her, and so, in a way, Charity loved her too—and s
he might be very ill, she was old as well; she knew that she would never forgive herself if anything happened to the old lady while Everard was away.
“All right, Potter. I’ll come. I’ll get a flight some time today if I can.”
“I’m very relieved, miss.” He sounded it too. “If you would be good enough to telephone when you know the time of your flight, I’ll meet you at Schiphol with the Daimler, miss.”
“Thank you, Potter, I’ll ring you back.”
Charity went in search of her mother, who heard her out and said finally:
“Well, darling, it’s wretched for you—just as you’ve got home, too, but I can quite understand how you feel about it.” She shot her elder daughter a shrewd look. “I’m sure your father will agree with you. Do you want any help with packing?”
It was surprising how quickly Charity flung a few things into a small case while her father telephoned London Airport. It was still only mid-morning when her father drove her into Exeter to catch the London express; by late afternoon she was at Schiphol.
Summer had left Holland; the sky was overcast and of a uniform grey and there was a chilly wind; Charity was glad of her green tweed suit and thin woolly sweater as she made her way to the airport’s entrance.
Potter was waiting, his manner nicely welcoming. Mevrouw van Tijlen, he told her as they drove towards Utrecht, was better, the doctor had told her to rest more. Charity, putting searching questions, received vague answers which she put down to lack of knowledge on Potter’s part; Mevrouw van Tijlen, as he pointed out, was well into her eighties, and far too active.
“She has always taken such an interest in the professor’s work, miss—very proud of him, she is, wouldn’t hinder him for the world. Most devoted they are—it’s a close knit family, as you might say, even though there’s only cousins and aunts and uncles and such like.”
