Roses for Christmas

by Betty Neels

  He answered her over a shoulder as he took the car away from the airport approach roads and turned into a country road which seemed to her to be very dark. His voice was a little impatient. ‘Ten kilometres to the north, but we only go through the outskirts. I live another eight kilometres further on.’ He turned away again, under the impression, she decided crossly, that he had told her all she needed to know of the geographical details. She sat in silence then, Margaret once more asleep beside her, and looked out of the window—not that she had been able to see much, only the road ahead, spotlighted by the car’s powerful headlights, but presently the road had woven itself into the city’s edge and she gazed out upon the lighted windows of the houses and stared up at the rooftops. It was a pity that it was such a dark night, for she could see so little, and very soon they had left the streets behind them once more and were back in the country. She tried again, being a dogged girl. ‘What is the name of the village you live in?’

  ‘I don’t live in a village. The nearest one is called Ezingum.’ He had sounded impatient still and she had lapsed into silence once more, straining her eyes to see what was outside the window. She was rewarded by a glimpse of water presently—a river, a canal perhaps, never the sea? She wanted to ask the silent man in front of her, but he would only grunt or at best answer her with that same impatience.

  She sighed, much louder than she knew, and had been surprised when Fulk said quietly: ‘We’re almost home,’ and turned the car into a narrow lane—but it wasn’t a lane; she had caught a glimpse of towering gateposts on either side of the car. It was a drive, running between grass banks with the wintry outlines of larch trees above them. They rounded a bend and Eleanor saw Fulk’s house for the first time. Henry had described it as a nice house and she had conjured up a rather vague picture in her mind of a pleasant villa in the residential part of Groningen, but from the number of lighted windows and the impressive porch before which they were stopping, it wasn’t in the least like that. This house, even in the semi-dark, was large and solid—the manse would probably fit very nicely into its hall. She had wakened Margaret then, hushed her fretful voice demanding to know where they were, and got out of the car because Fulk had opened the door for her. As she stood beside him on the smooth gravel sweep, he had said briefly: ‘Welcome to Huys Hensum, both of you,’ then swept them up the steps to the front door, open now and with a little round dumpling of a woman waiting for them.

  ‘Juffrouw Witsma,’ he had introduced her, shaking her hand and saying something to her in his own language, and they had all gone into the house…

  Eleanor looked at the clock, took Henry’s pulse, slipped the thermometer under his thin arm, and checked his breathing. His temperature was up a little since she had taken it last. She charted it and looked anxiously at his small white face. He was sleeping now, but he was restless too, although Fulk had expressed satisfaction at his condition. She settled back into her chair and allowed her thoughts to wander once more.

  Her first glimpse of the house had taken her off balance; obviously her previous conception of Fulk as being a successful doctor, comfortably off, but no more than that, would have to be scrapped. His home, even at the first glance, had been revealed as old, magnificent and splendidly furnished. He had led them across the lofty square hall, with its polished floor strewn with rugs, its panelled walls and enormous chandelier hanging from an elaborate ceiling, into what she had supposed to be the sitting room, a room large enough to accommodate ten times their number, but somehow homelike with its enormous armchairs and sofas flanking the hooded fireplace, handsomely framed portraits on the walls and a variety of charming table lamps set on fragile tables. He had invited them to sit down, saying that he would go at once to Henry to see how he did. He was back within a short while, reassuring them at once that the boy was holding his own nicely. ‘He wants to see you, Eleanor,’ he had told her. ‘I haven’t told him that Margaret is here, time for that when he feels more himself. Juffrouw Witsma has supper ready for us—I suggest that we have it at once so that Margaret can go to bed.’

  She had agreed at once, only begging that she might see Henry first, and he had raised no objection, merely remarking that if she didn’t mind, he and Margaret would start their meal. ‘And then if you are not back, I’ll take Margaret up to her room and see her settled in,’ he promised, ‘but first I will show you where Henry is.’

  The stairs were oak and uncarpeted, with a massive banister, and at their top she followed him across a wide landing and down two steps into a little passage, thickly carpeted. With his hand on one of the three doors in it, he turned to her. ‘The day nurse is still here, I shall be taking her back to Groningen in the morning, but I arranged with the hospital that unless I telephoned, there would be no need for the night nurse.’ He stared down at her, his eyes half hidden by their lids. ‘Your room is next door and communicates with his, and he will be quite safe to leave while he is sleeping, but you will do just as you wish—you have only to ask for anything you require and if you would prefer the night nurse to come, I will see to it at once.’

  She had thanked him sincerely. ‘You are being so very kind and you have done so much already…there’s no need of a nurse; if you don’t mind, I’d like to be with Henry, just in case he wakes up during the night.’

  He had nodded without comment and opened the door for her. She remembered how the beauty of the room had struck her and the feeling of gratitude towards Fulk for not dismissing Henry as just another little boy, prone to clumsiness and a little careless, but had considered him worthy of such handsome surroundings. But she had barely glanced at the blue and white tiled chimneypiece, the massive pillow cupboard, the tallboy and the little games table with the half-finished jigsaw puzzle on it, her eyes had flown to the narrow bed with its carved headboard and blue counterpane. Henry had looked very small and white lying there. She could hardly remember speaking to the nurse, who smiled and shook hands; she had gone at once to the chair drawn up to the bedside and sat down in it and taken her brother’s hot little paw in her own hands. He had opened his eyes and said in a thread of a voice: ‘Eleanor—Fulk said he’d fetch you. I’ll go to sleep now.’

  She had stayed quietly there while Fulk took the nurse down to her supper with Margaret and himself, promising that he would be back very shortly. ‘I’m quite all right,’ she had assured him, longing for a cup of tea.

  He had smiled then. ‘At least let me take your coat,’ he suggested, ‘and do be a sensible girl; you will be in and out of this room all night unless I am much mistaken, and if you don’t eat you will be fit for nothing.’

  He had been right, of course. He had come back surprisingly quickly and taken her place by the sleeping boy, urging her not to hurry: ‘And if Henry wakes,’ he had promised, ‘I’ll tell him you’re at supper. Margaret is in her room—the second door facing the stairs—one of the maids is unpacking for her. I expect you would like to say goodnight to her.’ He sat down and picked up a book and Eleanor, feeling herself dismissed, went out of the room.

  Margaret, much refreshed by her supper, was disposed to be excited. ‘Only imagine, a maid to unpack,’ she told Eleanor, ‘and there’s a bathroom, all for me, and look at this room, isn’t it sweet?’

  It was indeed charming, pink and white and flowery with its white-painted furniture and chintz roses scattered over the curtains. Eleanor had admired it, kissed her sister goodnight and gone downstairs, where she found the housekeeper hovering in the hall, ready to lead her to her supper, a meal taken in another vast room, furnished with graceful mahogany pieces which could have been Sheraton. She had eaten her way through soup, ham soufflé, light as air, and baked apples smothered in cream and had been happily surprised when Juffrouw Witsma, looking a little puzzled, brought in a tea tray and set it before her. She went back upstairs presently, feeling a good deal better both in self and in temper, and Fulk must have seen it, for he said at once: ‘That’s better. Did you get your tea?’

 
Eleanor had beamed widely at him. ‘Oh, yes, thank you. Do you drink tea in the evening here—with your supper, I mean?’

  His mouth had twitched, but she hadn’t seen it. ‘Well, no, but I thought that you might like it.’

  She had told him that he was most thoughtful and he had said smoothly: ‘Oh, there’s a streak of good in every villain, you know,’ and gone on to speak of Henry and his treatment. ‘He’s very slightly better, I fancy. It’s a question of nursing and keeping him at rest while the antibiotics get to work.’ He walked to the door. ‘There’s a bell by the bed, you have only to ring.’ He had gone before she could utter a word.

  Eleanor shook her head free of her thoughts and glanced at the clock again, a splendid cartel model in bronze. It was well after midnight and Fulk hadn’t returned, although he had said that he would. She considered unpacking and getting ready for bed and then returning to her chair; she could doze well enough in it—she would give Fulk another half hour, she decided, just as he opened the door and came quietly towards her.

  He studied the chart she offered him, cast an eye over the child and said reassuringly: ‘Never mind the temperature, it should settle in a day or two. I’ve telephoned the manse to let them know we’ve arrived safely—they send you their love. Now go and have your bath and get ready for bed, I’ll sit here in the meantime—I’ve some writing to do.’

  There seemed no point in arguing; she went to her room and looked around her. Someone had unpacked her things; her nightie and dressing gown had been carefully arranged on a chair, her slippers beside it. The bed, a delicate rosewood affair canopied in pale pink silk, had been turned down and the pink-shaded lights on the bedside tables switched on. It was a lovely room, its dressing table and tallboy matching the rosewood of the bed, its gilded mirrors and chintz-covered chairs giving it an air of luxury. Eleanor kicked off her shoes and, her tired feet inches deep in carpet, went to investigate the various doors. A cupboard, a vast one, handsomely equipped with lights and drawers and shelves so that her own few bits and pieces looked quite lost in it; and then a bathroom, small and pink and gleaming, with an extravagant supply of towels and soaps and bath luxuries to make her eyes sparkle. She ran a bath, dithered blissfully between Christian Dior and Elizabeth Arden and rushed out of her clothes; she would allow herself ten minutes.

  It was a little longer than that before she went back to Henry’s room, swathed in her blue quilted dressing gown, her hair plaited carelessly. Fulk stood up as she went in, casting her the briefest of glances as he busied himself collecting his papers.

  ‘My room is at the front of the house, in the centre of the gallery,’ he told her. ‘If you want help, don’t hesitate to call me—in any case I shall look in early in the morning, and we can discuss things then. He still has two more days on antibiotics, it’s a question of patience.’

  Eleanor nodded, fighting down an urge to cast herself on to his shoulder and burst into tears, something she felt he would dislike very much. When she had been a little girl, he had frequently called her a watering pot and she had no intention of giving him the chance to do so again. So she wished him a calm goodnight and took up her position by Henry’s bed once more.

  He wakened several times during the next few hours, staring at her with round hollow eyes, obediently swallowing his medicine, taking the drink she offered, but about three o’clock he fell into a more natural sleep, and presently, despite her efforts not to do so, Eleanor fell asleep too. She wakened two hours later; Henry was still sleeping and Fulk, in a dressing gown of great magnificence, was standing on the other side of the bed, looking at her. She struggled to get rid of the sleep fogging her head and mumbled apologetically: ‘I must have dropped off—it was three o’clock…’

  ‘Go to bed,’ Fulk urged her with an impersonal kindness which nonetheless brooked no refusal. ‘I’ll stay here for an hour or so.’

  She yawned widely. Bed would be heaven and with Fulk here to look after Henry, she knew that she would sleep, but she said at once: ‘No, I can’t do that; you have to go to Groningen in the morning—you said so.’

  ‘I can go later.’ He dismissed the matter. ‘Do as I say, Eleanor—you’ll be of no use to anyone as you are.’

  Not perhaps the kindest way of putting it, but true, nevertheless. She got to her feet and said uncertainly: ‘Very well, but you will call me? If I could just sleep for a couple of hours…’

  He hadn’t moved from the bed, he didn’t look at her either, only said softly: ‘Of course you will be called,’ and bent over Henry.

  She trailed off into the bedroom, her anxious mind full of the possibility of Henry’s heart being damaged by his illness, so tired that she couldn’t think about it properly any more. Her thoughts became a jumble of ward jobs she might have left undone before she left, her mother’s worried letter, the fact that she had forgotten to bring any handkerchiefs with her, Miss Tremble’s diet, which really didn’t matter anyway, Henry’s small white face and Fulk, popping up over and over again. She was wondering about that when she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ELEANOR WAKENED to find a fresh-faced young girl by her bed, holding a tray. She smiled when Eleanor sat up, put the tray on her knees, went to open the long brocade curtains, saying something friendly in a soft voice as she did so, and went away.

  Eleanor shook the last wisps of sleep from her head, registered that it was light and morning, even if a grey one, and saw that the little Sèvres clock on the table beside her showed the hour to be half past eight.

  She bounced out of bed and, dressing gown askew, no slippers on her feet, tore silently into the next room. Fulk was exactly as she had left him, the sheets of closely written paper scattered round his chair bearing testimony to his industry. There was a tray of coffee on the small table drawn up beside him; fragrant steam rose from the cup he was about to pick up. Henry was asleep.

  Fulk raised his head and looked at her; at any other time she would have been furious at the mocking tilt of his eyebrows, but now she had other things on her mind. ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ she demanded in a whispered hiss.

  The eyebrows expressed surprise as well as mockery. ‘Did Tekla not bring you your breakfast? I asked her to do so.’

  ‘Yes, she did.’ She added a belated thank you. ‘But it’s half past eight.’ She paused to survey him; he looked tired, but perhaps that was due to his unshaven chin and all the writing he had done. ‘You have to go to Groningen,’ she reminded him.

  ‘How tedious that remark is becoming, Eleanor.’ His voice was tolerant but his eyes still mocked her. ‘I’m quite capable of organising my own day without your help, you know, and in any case at the moment you are being nothing but a hindrance. Go and eat your breakfast and put some clothes on.’ The glance he gave her left her in no doubt as to what he thought of her appearance. ‘You can have half an hour.’

  He began to write once more, pausing only to add: ‘Henry has slept soundly. We will discuss his treatment before I leave the house.’

  She looked at him blankly, realizing dimly at that moment that her childish opinion of him had undergone a change, which considering his arrogant manner towards her was a little bewildering. She bit her lip and drew in her breath like a hurt child, murmured incoherently and turned on her heel. Fulk reached the door a second or so before she did and caught her by the shoulders. ‘Why do you have to look like that?’ he asked her harshly, and when she asked: ‘Like what?’, he went on: ‘Like you used to when I wouldn’t let you climb trees.’ He gave her a little shake. ‘I never thought…’ he began, then went on in quite a different voice: ‘I’m sorry, Eleanor—I had no right to speak to you like that. You’ve been wonderful—I whisked you away with no warning and then allowed you to sit here all night.’ He bent and kissed her cheek gently. ‘Now go and dress and eat your breakfast—please, Eleanor.’

  She smiled then. ‘You must be tired too, and you’ve a day’s work before you. You’ve been so kind, Fulk—I keep saying that
, don’t I?—but I can never thank you enough.’ She added shyly: ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘We have both changed—no, that’s not right, you’ve not changed at all.’

  Refreshed by a hasty breakfast, she bathed and dressed in a russet skirt and sweater, piled her hair neatly, and went back to Henry’s room. Fulk was waiting for her. ‘I’ll be back within half an hour,’ he told her from the door, and then: ‘You haven’t made up your face, it looks nice like that.’

  She was left staring at the closing door, but only for a moment, for Henry opened his eyes at that moment and said in a wispy voice: ‘Gosh, I’m thirsty.’

  She gave him a drink, persuaded him to take his medicine, took his temperature and pulse, and washed his face and hands. ‘And later on,’ she told him firmly, ‘after Fulk has been to see you, I shall give you a bedbath and change the sheets, and then you’ll have another nice nap before lunch. Do you ache, my dear?’

  Henry nodded. ‘A bit, but I feel better, I think. When is Fulk coming?’

  ‘Very soon—he’s been sitting here for these last few hours while I had a sleep. He has to go to the hospital this morning.’

  Henry closed his eyes, ‘He’s super,’ he mumbled, ‘I shall certainly be a doctor when I’m a man, I’m quite certain of that now—I shall be like Fulk; very clever and kind.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ She smiled at him. ‘Now stick out your tongue and I’ll clean it for you. No, you can’t do it; I’m sure Fulk has told you that you will get well much more quickly if you just lie still. I know it’s a dead bore, but in a few days you’ll be able to sit up. Shall I tell you a secret? Margaret came with us, she’s coming to see you presently, and when you’re better she’ll be able to play cards with you.’