Roses for Christmas

by Betty Neels

  Eleanor knew her voice was sharp. ‘Margaret, what nonsense you do talk!’ She was helped by Henry’s, ‘Anyway, you don’t like him, do you, Eleanor, you said so in the loft—you said he was a horrid boy.’

  ‘Pooh,’ cried Margaret, ‘that’s a load of hooey, that was years ago; of course you like him, don’t you, Eleanor?’

  ‘He’s grown into a very kind and—and nice man,’ said Eleanor cautiously.

  ‘I wouldn’t call him nice, exactly, I mean you don’t notice nice people very much, do you? And you do notice Fulk. But he’s smashing, all right, his eyes twinkle and he laughs—I mean a real laugh, and when he’s cross he goes all quiet instead of shouting.’

  Eleanor eyed her sister in some astonishment, agreeing with every word, but all she said was: ‘Darling, how observant you are.’

  She devised several activities to keep them busy the next morning, and in the afternoon, as it was a fine if cold day, they went for their usual walk before tea, which they had round a splendid fire in the sitting room while they watched the various festivities in honour of the saint. Eleanor switched it off presently, however, because Henry was beginning to look a little tired, and they all went upstairs to his room where she settled him before the fire in a comfortable chair, fetched the games table and suggested that he and Margaret might like to have a game of draughts while she went to the kitchen to see what was for his supper. She had turned the angle of the staircase and had paused to admire the prospect of the hall below her when the front door opened and her mother and father walked in, followed by Fulk.

  Her joyous cry of ‘Fulk!’ she drowned very quickly by her breathless exclamation of: ‘Mother, Father!’ as she raced down the staircase to fling herself at her smiling parents. ‘Oh, what a glorious surprise!’ she babbled. ‘Won’t Henry and Margaret be thrilled—they’re up in his room.’ She looked at Fulk then. ‘I thought you’d gone to spend Sint Nikolaas with Imogen.’

  He said nothing, although he smiled and his dark eyes held a gleam which might have been anger, or possibly amusement as he suggested to Mrs MacFarlane that they might like to see Henry before they did anything else.

  After that the evening went like a bomb. Henry, so excited that he could hardly speak, consented to lie down on his bed and rest on the understanding that he should join the rest of the party for dinner later on, and Margaret undertook to unpack for her mother, never ceasing to talk as she did so. Fulk had taken Mr MacFarlane down to the sitting room for a drink, suggesting that the ladies might like a cup of tea upstairs, ‘For you’ll want to gossip,’ he declared, ‘and there’s plenty of time before dinner.’

  Eleanor was left to coax Henry to rest, to tidy away the children’s game and then to follow her mother and sister to the big bedroom in the front of the house, where she sat on the bed, joining in the conversation and pouring the tea when it came. It wasn’t until the evening was over, with Henry safely tucked up in bed and the rest of them saying their good nights, that she had a moment alone with Fulk. The other three had gone across the hall to look at a particular portrait in the dining-room which they had been talking about, leaving Fulk lounging by the french window in the drawing room, waiting for Flan to come in, and Eleanor, standing, very erect, by the door. She plunged into speech at once, for there was no knowing how long they might be left alone, and although she had thought over what she was going to say, she realized now that she had forgotten every word; better get it over with. She relaxed a little and said soberly: ‘Fulk, I must thank you for all the trouble you’ve taken to bring Mother and Father here, and the expense and the time—I only wish you were as happy as we all feel.’

  He had turned his head to watch her. Now he said blandly: ‘It merely required a telephone call or two, a couple of free days which I had owing to me, anyway, and as to the expense, I’m sure that by now someone must have told you that I am a wealthy man.’

  ‘Well—yes, Hermina told Margaret and she told me, but you could have had all the money in the world and still not done it.’ She gulped, ‘Oh, I feel so mean—you see, I thought you’d gone to Cannes again, to your Imogen, and I was beastly enough to mind about it, and that’s where you should be really, not here with us. You could have gone out dancing and dining and having fun.’ She went on feverishly, seeing it all in her mind’s eye. ‘There would be sunshine, wouldn’t there, and you could have gone riding too and given each other presents, and…’

  His short laugh stopped her, his voice was all silk. ‘Hardly that. Imogen considers the feast of Sint Nikolaas old-fashioned.’ He smiled with a trace of mockery while she tried to find something to say and then went on, still silkily: ‘When we came in this evening, you cried my name—oh, you remembered to cover it up quickly, but not quite quickly enough. Why, Eleanor?’

  She had hoped that he hadn’t heard. She said lamely: ‘I was surprised; I thought you were miles away…’

  He came and stood in front of her, but she didn’t look at him. ‘It’s nice to think that I’m on your mind, even when I’m not here.’ He laughed again, quite cheerfully this time. ‘Although perhaps it was those few guldens you owe me which were on your mind—was that it?’

  She seized on that, thankful for an excuse, and then, anxious to get away from him, embarked on a disjointed speech which became more and more muddled as she went along, happily unaware of the unholy delight in his eyes. She was brought to a sudden stop by his kiss. ‘Your thoughts show very plainly on your pretty face, my dear,’ he told her gently, and opened the door and ushered her out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SINT NIKOLAAS WOULD BE coming in the evening after tea, which meant that the day was spent, by Henry and Margaret at least, in a state of anticipation. With the exception of Eleanor and her brother, the whole party went to church in the morning, and for the benefit of Mr MacFarlane, Fulk drove them to Groningen to the Martinikerk, so that during lunch the conversation largely concerned this magnificent edifice with its sixteenth-century wall paintings in the choir and its five-storied spire. ‘A pity that you were unable to see it for yourself, my dear,’ remarked Eleanor’s father. ‘Should you go to Groningen before you return to Scotland, you must make a point of visiting it.’ He turned to Fulk. ‘I was much struck by the architecture of the village church we passed on our way home—in the Roman-Gothic style, I fancy.’

  Eleanor, eating her delicious ragout of game, wondered if Fulk was bored; he didn’t appear to be, indeed, he seemed to know as much about the building of churches as her father did. She listened to him telling her father that that particular style of building was only to be found in the most northerly provinces of the country, and entering into a discussion concerning the differences between the early and late Gothic style of architecture, but he was too well-mannered to allow their talk to monopolize the conversation and switched easily enough to other matters, and soon everyone was talking in a more lighthearted fashion, especially Henry, who, having been a very good boy all the morning, was now inclined to get excited; something which Eleanor saw quickly enough; so did Fulk, for as soon as lunch was finished and before they all went into the drawing room for their coffee, he suggested in the mildest of voices that Henry should have his afternoon rest a little earlier than usual. ‘You don’t want to miss Sint Nikolaas’ arrival,’ he pointed out, ‘and if you take a nap now, you will be downstairs again in plenty of time for tea.’

  Henry agreed cheerfully enough and Eleanor bore her small brother away, tucked him up, admonished him in sisterly tones to be good, and went back to the drawing room, where she spent the rest of the afternoon listening to her mother’s quiet voice talking about the various small happenings at home, and answering suitably when she was expected to. But she left most of the talking to Margaret, who had a great deal to say and had them all laughing over her various experiences, for unlike Eleanor, she had been to the village on various occasions, had tea at Hermina’s home, and spent a good deal of time with Juffrouw Witsma in the kitchen, watching her cook and learnin
g Dutch at the same time. It was Fulk who remarked: ‘I’m afraid that Eleanor hasn’t had the same opportunities as Margaret, for she has been tied hand and foot to Henry. I don’t know what I should have done without her help, for I have been able to go about my daily work knowing that he was safe with her.’

  They all looked at her, and she looked at her shoes, feeling foolish, and her mother said thoughtfully: ‘Well, we shall have to make it up to her in some way,’ and smiled across at Fulk as she spoke, and he agreed with a smile before enquiring about Mrs Trot. ‘Moggy fits very well into our household,’ he observed, ‘and Flan adores him.’ The big dog lifted his head and thumped his tail, drawing attention to himself, and the talk, naturally enough, turned to dogs.

  Tea was over and everyone was sitting round talking in a desultory fashion when there was a thunderous knock on the door, and Henry, who had been sitting silently with his ears cocked for the slightest sound, got out of his chair. Fulk got up too, observing that Sint Nikolaas was punctual as usual and they had better see what he had left at the door, and with Henry beside him, went out of the room, to return very shortly with a large, bulging sack. He set it down in the centre of the room, saying: ‘Margaret, go to the kitchen and fetch everyone here, will you? And then you and Henry shall hand round the presents.’

  There were gifts for everyone there, even for Mr and Mrs MacFarlane, a thoughtful act on Fulk’s part which engendered Eleanor’s instant gratitude, and when the sack was at last empty, Henry, being the youngest person present, was allowed to open his parcels first.

  He opened each gift carefully, and there were quite a number, for besides the presents Eleanor and Margaret had bought, there were a variety of things to please a small boy, and the last package of all, an air gun, complete with pellets and a target board, caused him to shout with delight.

  ‘We’ll fix the target up tomorrow,’ Fulk promised, and Henry, for all his clever little brain still uncertain about the good saint who handed out presents so lavishly, asked: ‘How could Sint Nikolaas possibly know that I wanted a gun?’

  Fulk shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘It’s something most boys want. When you’ve got the hang of it we’ll do some clay pigeon shooting, if you like. Now it’s Margaret’s turn.’

  The pink velvet dress she had so much admired was at the bottom of the pile. She shook it free from its folds of tissue paper and all she could say was: ‘Oh, Fulk—it’s the dress I showed you when we were shopping in Groningen!’ She ran across the room and flung her arms round his neck and kissed him soundly. ‘Oh, you really are groovy,’ she told him fervently, and raced away to try it on.

  By the time it came to Eleanor’s turn, everyone was in high spirits; somehow Fulk had managed to create the right atmosphere of excitement and pleasure and the traditional wine they were drinking certainly helped him. She began on the little pile before her, feeling like a child again; the crocodile handbag was in the third box she opened; the very one she had admired with Margaret, and her sister, a charming picture in her new pink dress and perched on the side of Fulk’s chair, called out: ‘I pointed it out to Fulk, Eleanor, but I never knew—honestly I didn’t.’

  It was a beautiful thing; Eleanor had never had anything like it before, probably she never would again. She laid it down carefully and looked at Fulk, watching her. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice which quavered a little, ‘it’s marvellous—you shouldn’t have done it, but it’s quite—quite…’ Words failed her when he asked, laughing: ‘Don’t I get the same treatment as Margaret gave me?’

  There was a little wave of laughter and there was really no way out. She crossed the room and kissed him, aware of the eyes watching her. The kiss was light and brief and she managed some sort of laughing remark before she sat down again and opened the rest of the presents she had been given; it was a relief when she got to the last one and everyone turned their attention to Juffrouw Witsma, whose turn it was.

  Being the master of the house, Fulk opened his gifts last of all. His devoted staff had given him handkerchiefs and a rather dreadful tie which he declared was exactly to his taste; Eleanor had no doubt that he would wear it just because they had given it to him, although the blinding paisley pattern was hardly his style. He opened the book last of all, declaring that it was just what he had intended getting for himself, and then went round thanking everyone; when he reached Eleanor his thanks were brief. ‘I’ve kissed all the other women,’ he told her in a soft voice, ‘but I’m not going to kiss you, Eleanor—and you’re welcome to make what you like of that.’

  He grinned suddenly at her before going to open the champagne without which he declared Sint Nikolaas Avond was incomplete.

  Everything was back to normal in the morning; Eleanor got down to breakfast to find Fulk already behind his paper, and although he wished her good morning, his detached manner gave her the impression that for him at least life was real, life was earnest. There was no one else there and he seemed to feel no need for conversation, but continued to read De Haagsche Post while he finished his coffee. Presently he folded it carefully, gathered up his letters, said goodbye to her in the tones of a man who was simply upholding the conventions, mentioned that he would see Henry before he left for the hospital, and went from the room, leaving her feeling strangely hollow. Not that she allowed her feelings to overcome her; when her family joined her a few minutes later, she was the life and soul of the breakfast table.

  Mr and Mrs MacFarlane were to stay a week, and it had already been decided that Henry should remain where he was until a few days before Christmas. He was doing well now, but as Fulk had pointed out, he was living in a strict routine now, with long rest periods, early bedtime and a kind but firm refusal to indulge any ambitious whims he might think up. The longer he kept to this routine, the better chance he had of permanent recovery, and when his parents protested that the boy was giving Fulk a great deal of trouble he shrugged it off with: ‘Not in the least. I have already told you that Eleanor takes the brunt of caring for him, and heaven knows the house is large enough for us all.’

  A remark, which, when relayed to Eleanor, did nothing to improve her spirits. She and her mother were walking in the garden and Mrs MacFarlane, having delivered this facer, went on: ‘Such a good, kind man; he will make a splendid husband. I wonder what this Imogen of his is like? I would have thought that she would have wanted to spend more time with him…’

  ‘Fulk went to see her,’ Eleanor explained in a calm little voice, ‘just for the weekend—he must love her very much to go all that way just for a weekend…’

  ‘There are other reasons for taking long journeys,’ remarked her parent, and before Eleanor could ask her what she meant, she asked: ‘What about you, darling? Will you have to go straight back to the hospital, or will you be able to come home for Christmas?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ And it was true, she hadn’t. ‘I’d better write and find out, hadn’t I? Though I’m sure they’ll expect me, you know what Christmas is like on the wards, and I wouldn’t dare be away.’ She fell silent, contemplating Christmas without Fulk, and not only Christmas; the rest of the year, and all the years after that.

  It was during dinner that evening that Fulk remarked to the table in general that he thought that Eleanor deserved a day out. ‘And now that you are here,’ he suggested pleasantly, ‘she could quite safely have one, could she not?’ He addressed Mr MacFarlane. ‘She would have the chance to see the Martinikerk for herself, and there are one or two splendid museums. I have arranged to take a day so that I may go with her.’

  He smiled round the table and everyone, with the exception of Eleanor, smiled back, agreeing with him in a pleased chorus, not realizing that the subject of this treat hadn’t been given a chance to accept or refuse it.

  During the animated discussion which followed as to the best way of cramming as much as possible into a day’s outing, Eleanor remained silent; not that anyone noticed; they were all too busy putting forward their own views as
to what constituted the highlights of sightseeing. Her father, naturally enough, had a good deal to say about churches, and the Martinikerk in particular, but he was drowned by Margaret’s insistent voice raised on behalf of old castles, and her mother, a poor third, voiced the view that perhaps a nice look at the shops would be the thing. Fulk, sitting back in his chair, listened courteously to their arguments, saying little, while he watched Eleanor, but presently he gathered the threads of the conversation skilfully together in such a way that each felt that he or she had contributed a valuable piece of advice and suggested that they should go into the drawing room for coffee. It was a chance that Eleanor took. Mumbling that she would see if Henry was comfortable, she flew upstairs, where she spent quite an unnecessary amount of time shaking up her brother’s pillows while she tried to decide what to do. A day out with Fulk would be heaven, there could be no argument about that; on the other hand, he hadn’t asked her, had he? Not in so many words. He was making a gesture, rewarding her for her long hours in the sickroom. Well, she didn’t want a reward! She gave the surprised Henry’s pillow still another shake and went downstairs. The drawing room door was shut and she could hear voices and laughter from behind it; she suddenly didn’t want to go in and half turned on the staircase to go to her room when Fulk’s study door opened and he put his head out.

  ‘Ah, I thought so—I could practically smell the paint-work blistering under your bad temper.’

  ‘I am not in a bad temper!’

  ‘Come in, then—we’ll have a cosy chat.’

  She stayed exactly where she was. ‘What about?’

  ‘Our day out tomorrow, of course.’

  She looked down her nose at him. ‘I wasn’t aware that I had been invited to go anywhere with anyone,’ she informed him coldly.

  ‘Quite right, dear Eleanor, you haven’t. You would have refused point blank, wouldn’t you, but now that everyone has gone to such trouble to suggest where we should go, and your mother is here to look after Henry, you can’t very well refuse, can you?’