by Betty Neels
‘Three weeks’ time.’
‘Yes. You ask a lot of questions.’
‘Meaning it’s your turn? Well?’
‘Where do you come from? You’re not English, although you speak it perfectly. I think you’re Dutch.’
He inclined his head. ‘You are correct, my dear Miss Darling. I come from Utrecht, or rather, that is where I do most of my work. My home is in a small town called Rhenen, on the north bank of the Rhine.’
‘A pretty name—is it a pretty place?’
‘I think so.’
It was apparent that she had been allowed her quota of questions. She got up, saying: ‘Will Jan really not mind fetching the children? If not, I can go.’ She smiled at the older man as she spoke and he got to his feet.
‘I should like to go. Mijnheer?’
Mr van Manfeld nodded. ‘Yes, go by all means, Jan.’
When they were alone together Cassandra made up the fire, said matter-of-factly. ‘I’m going to switch on a lamp, a small one on this side of the room. Do you want to close your eyes when I do it?’ and then, ‘I’m going to make the tea.’
‘Must you? Or is it an excuse to get away from me?’
‘Why should I want to get away from you?’ She sounded reasonable. ‘I asked you to stay for tea. I didn’t have to, you know.’
‘You’re heaping coals of fire, Miss Darling.’
‘Well, I don’t mean to,’ she declared. ‘Why were you so bad-tempered on Friday?’ She saw the look on his face and added hastily: ‘All right, you don’t have to answer, and I’m not being nosey, I just wondered.’
He stirred in his chair. ‘I had a visit from the man who is looking after my eyes—he’s pretty good in his own line. I had hoped that he would say that I might wear different glasses—that there had been some dramatic improvement. I was disappointed, and I haven’t yet acquired the patience of the blind.’
She said with quick sympathy: ‘Being a surgeon makes it much harder for you, and not knowing if you will be able to go on with your work makes it even harder, doesn’t it?’
He winced. ‘You have a knack of touching a raw wound, dear girl, even if it is with a gentle finger.’
‘I don’t mean to hurt you, truly I don’t. But cast your mind back, Mr van Manfeld. You were totally blind at first, weren’t you? And now you can see just a little, out of focus and blurred, but you can see, so you are getting better. Can’t you remember that?’
He didn’t answer her and when he spoke he sounded thoughtful. ‘I wish I could see your face.’ He smiled, and although he couldn’t see, she smiled back.
The children came tumbling into the house, excited because Jan had fetched them from school and had told them that he would be staying for tea. They came into the sitting-room, still in their outdoor clothes, and stood staring silently.
‘Come and meet the ogre, my dears,’ invited Cassandra cheerfully. ‘His name is Mr van Manfeld and he and Jan have come to call. His dark glasses make it difficult for him to see, so go and stand in front of him and shake hands.’ Her practical voice made everything normal to their childish ears. They offered hands, said how do you do in small polite voices, and Andrew asked, disappointment colouring his voice: ‘You’re not an ogre?’
‘Well, no, not a storybook ogre, I’m afraid, but I have got some very ogreish habits, and as you can see, I am a little on the large side, though small for an ogre—but I have got enormous feet.’
The children examined his heavy brogues with interest, demanding to know what size. Cassandra left them to it and went to get the tea.
Jan came to help her carry in the tea things. ‘We always have it round the fire,’ she explained. ‘I hope you won’t mind—and we’re always famished, so I hope you’ll both eat a lot.’
Which they did. She watched the plates empty and the cake diminish, while she listened to Mr van Manfeld talking nicely to the children.
She talked to Jan at the same time, polite nothings, although she would have liked to ask him about his native Poland, but perhaps he didn’t care to talk about it, so to be on the safe side she talked about the village and the country around them and listened, after a time, with real interest to his replies, because he knew a great deal about the island. She was telling him about the squirrel when Penny interrupted to say:
‘Aunt Cassandra drew him when we got home. She drew lots of mice too—she draws beautifully.’
She trotted off and came back presently with Cassandra’s sketch book and opened it for Jan to see.
‘You are talented, miss,’ he said quietly, and pushed the book towards Penny. ‘Take the book, if you please, to Mijnheer and tell him what is in it.’
She watched the two children, one each side of their visitor, telling him in a muddled chorus about the mice and when they had finished, he asked:
‘Will you keep this book for me, and when I can see again, I should like to see it with my own eyes, although I must say yours were a very good substitute.’ He closed it and got up. ‘Jan, I think we must go or the animals will wonder where we are.’
‘Animals?’ cried Cassandra and the children.
‘The kitten—you may have seen him? He came looking for a home—a fox with a broken leg, a tawny owl, a robin with a broken wing—that’s all we have at the moment. They come and go.’
It was Penny who asked: ‘Please may we come and see them? We won’t disturb you...’
‘I should be delighted if you would all come. On Saturday afternoon perhaps, when there is no school, and we will have tea, though not such a splendid one as we have had today. I will send a message.’
They all went to the door and Cassandra said: ‘You will take care? It’s not a very easy path—you’ve a torch?’ and Jan nodded a little impatiently as he said good-bye and turned to go, but Mr van Manfeld paused on the step. ‘Your name is beautiful. May I call you Cassandra? I think it must suit you very well.’
The two men disappeared into the thickening dusk and Cassandra drew the children indoors and shut the winter evening out. The three of them washed up to the accompaniment of an animated discussion on their visitors. ‘I like the ogre,’ said Penny. ‘And so do I,’ added Andrew. ‘Do you like him, Aunt Cassandra?’
She was forced to admit that she did, and for the first time since she had fancied herself in love with the Surgical Registrar, she regretted not having a face as charming as her name.
They were drinking their mid-morning cocoa next day when Jan rang the bell and they rushed to the door to let him in.
‘Mijnheer wishes you to come this afternoon, if that is possible. He is sorry that he sent no message, but there were things...’
Presumably she was supposed to accept the ‘things’ as an excuse, and of course the children had no hesitation in saying that they would go immediately after their dinner. Cassandra, not wishing Mr van Manfeld to have everything all his own way, modified this statement with the promise of their arrival during the afternoon. ‘And do tell Mr van Manfeld that we are pleased to come; it will mean changing our plans for the afternoon, but luckily you came before we had made final arrangements.’
Jan fixed her with an expressionless black eye, assured her that he would deliver her message, and with the promise of seeing them all again within a few hours, took himself off.
Cassandra had privately decided to arrive just before tea time, but the children had other ideas. She found herself, much against her will, climbing the path soon after two o’clock; nothing she could say would dislodge their fixed idea that the ogre could hardly wait to see them again, and the quicker they got there the better.
They had tea sitting round the big table in the comfortable kitchen, because, as Mr van Manfeld explained, it was easier than trying to squash into the sitting-room. The talk was cheerful because the children were happy. They talked
about school, their friends in the village, Bob’s rheumatism, and the dead mouse Penny had found on the lawn that morning. It was she who asked suddenly: ‘How long do you have to wear your blinkers, Mr van Manfeld?’
Cassandra was on the point of saying something—anything—but her host forestalled her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said with surprising mildness. ‘Not very much longer, perhaps. We shall have to wait and see, shan’t we? When I throw them away shall we celebrate with a party?’
The suggestion was instantly accepted by the two children, although Penny asked: ‘Can’t I give a party for you? I’d love to give a party—Mummy wouldn’t mind, and you can be my guest and we’ll have red jelly and ice cream, and Jan can come, and the kitten. Will you?’
The ogre’s face was lighted by a smile which was all kindness. ‘I think that’s a lovely idea. I accept your kind invitation, Penny, and we’ll all come, won’t we, Jan?’
At last it was time to go and, on the point of going out of the house Cassandra paused to remark: ‘We’ve spent the whole afternoon without a single cross word.’
Mr van Manfeld took her hand and held it. ‘That’s the effect you have upon me, Cassandra Darling.’ A remark one could take whichever way one wanted; her common sense told her that he was merely addressing her by her own name and not using a term of endearment. She followed Jan and the children down the hill, wondering when she would see him again, and hoping that it would be soon.
It was sooner than she had expected and in circumstances she could not have forseen—it was, in fact, the very next morning. They had set off for a walk before church quite early, long before the church bell began to ring. They skirted the side of the hill and Cassandra, steadfastly refusing the children’s suggestion that they should go first to Ogre’s Relish and see if the ogre would like to accompany them, pursued her way along a little path winding itself around the foot of the hills above it. Cassandra noticed the grey clouds piling up on the horizon, and the wind, away from the shelter of the trees, blew cold. She had intended to follow the path along the loch and back the same way, but now she decided to turn off and strike inland, along the narrow rocky path over the rough turf. It followed a small wild stream which presently became a waterfall and they stopped to admire it. The ground was open now, the trees retreating on either side of them to come together again ahead of them, so that they could see nothing but pines around them.
‘We have to go left at the fork,’ said Cassandra, but at the fork Penny stopped. ‘There’s water down there, Aunt Cassandra,’ she cried, ‘down this other path—it’s another loch, a teeny-weeny one. Please may we go a little way and look at it?’
There was no reason why they shouldn’t. The path ended abruptly on a small turf platform poised above the water, still slippery from the night’s rain because there was no sun there. Penny, behind Cassandra, lost her footing, knocked her off her feet and slithered with a splash into the water. It wasn’t far, ten feet or so, and the water was as smooth as glass; she went in with a loud plop and Cassandra, scrambling to her feet, thought that her small niece would never come up again. She had pulled her anorak off by the time Penny’s small head appeared above the water, and dived in. She wasn’t a good swimmer, but Penny was very close to the edge.
The water was horribly cold. She gasped with the surprise of it as she surfaced, clutching the struggling Penny as she turned for the sloping turf at the water’s edge. Bob was sitting above them, watching intently and whining softly, but of Andrew there was no sign. Probably he had gone for help; for all his seven years, he was a surprisingly sensible little boy and sturdy, and would make short work of getting back to the village.
Cassandra clutched her small niece tighter and turned her head from side to side, studying the banks. There must be a spot where it would be possible to scramble up, or at least push Penny to safety without the danger of her rolling off again. Bob, who had been whining steadily, startled her out of her thoughts by barking suddenly and she heard voices—
Andrew’s and...
‘The ogre!’ squeaked Penny, and Cassandra drowned the small voice with a shout of her own. ‘Don’t come any nearer!’ her voice was urgent. ‘There’s no foothold—you mustn’t...’ she spluttered, swallowing water, ‘you mustn’t,’ she repeated.
‘Don’t fuss, my dear young woman,’ the ogre besought her, his voice clear and unhurried from the bank. There was a gentle splash as he slid into the water, feet first. Beside her in no time at all, he said: ‘Penny, put your arms round my neck—you’re quite safe, only wet and cold.’ His voice was quiet and calm and quite unhurried and Penny did as he had bidden her without question. When she had anchored herself firmly he went on, still without any sound of urgency in his voice, ‘Now tell me where the bank stands out in the water like a finger.’
Cassandra looked too and saw it first. ‘It’s on our right, on the other side.’
‘Then that is where we must go, Cassandra. I take it you can swim? Keep beside me.’
She had no wish to do otherwise; even though he couldn’t see, or not very much, his bulk was reassuring and some of his massive calm had spilled on to her. She ploughed along beside him. It was no great distance, but she was already tired from holding Penny and her arms felt like lead. It was nice to hear her companion advise her to put her feet down as he stood up himself. Incredibly the water was scarcely waist deep.
‘A narrow shelf under water,’ he explained as he slid Penny carefully on to the turf. ‘It’s the only place, the rest of it is bottomless.’
A remark calculated to hasten her own efforts to get on to dry land, which she achieved rather clumsily, helped by an undignified push from behind. He climbed out beside her, scooped up Penny and remarked:
‘You’ll have to lead the way—there should be some sort of path right the way round, but keep well away from the bank.’
Cassandra found the path quickly enough and with a hand on his arm guided him up to it, Penny quiet in his arms. It was cold and still under the trees. She shivered violently and asked: ‘Where’s Andrew?’
‘I told him to go back to the cottage and warn Jan. Everything will be ready for us there.’
Jan had worked hard in the ten minutes or so he had had before their arrival. Penny was soon undressed and wrapped in a blanket, and sitting in front of the fire. Cassandra could hear the bath water running too—Andrew was in the kitchen getting tea, and Jan, without wasting more words, handed her a blanket and threw open a door.
‘If you would undress, miss? I will dry your clothes as far as possible—you could have a bath after Penny, perhaps? And here is Mijnheer’s dressing-gown.’
She did as she was told and fifteen minutes later went back into the kitchen where Jan told her to sit by the fire and handed her a mug of tea which he laced liberally with whisky.
‘Jan—how kind you are. We’re putting you to a lot of trouble and I must thank you.’
‘I have done little,’ he shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is Mijnheer who did much.’
‘I know.’ She took a sip of fortified tea and found it surprisingly good. ‘I haven’t had a chance to see him yet, but I shall.’
The subject of their conversation appeared a few minutes later, clad in slacks and a sweater, to sit down in his chair again and demand to know if Jan had given her tea and put the whisky in it as he had ordered.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Cassandra answered him meekly, ‘it makes me feel nice and warm.’ Which remark he answered with a crack of laughter.
‘You will all stay for lunch,’ he told her, ‘and Jan shall go home with you when your clothes are dry.’
‘Oh, it’s very kind of you,’ she said, ‘and Penny and I are very grateful to you for rescuing us. We should like to thank you.’
He smiled faintly. ‘It’s always a pleasure to rescue damsels in distress, but do thank me.’
Cass
andra hadn’t understood him, but Penny had; she got up from her place before the fire and went and flung her small arms round his neck and kissed him soundly. He put an arm round her and drew her to stand by his chair. ‘More than thanked,’ he remarked. ‘The other cheek’s waiting!’
‘Well, really,’ Cassandra remonstrated, ‘I don’t...’
‘You must,’ shrilled Penny, ‘you must, Aunt Cassandra. You told me the other day that when you thank someone you have to do it properly or it’s rude.’
Cassandra got to her feet, feeling a fool and very shy. She kissed the cheek he offered swiftly and took a step backwards, but his arm held her. ‘Your hair is long,’ he said quietly, and ran his hand down its length.
Jan came in with the soup then and they all fell to with a good deal of laughing and joking. The soup was excellent; Cassandra, who was a born cook, caught the flavour of sherry and the smoothness of cream—this was something out of a very expensive tin indeed, and she felt guiltier than ever. They were busy with second helpings when Andrew asked loudly:
‘Are you a poor beggar, Mr van Manfeld? Daddy said you were one day when he was talking to Mummy.’
There was a horrid silence which seemed to stretch on and on but which in reality lasted only a few moments. Cassandra found her voice and broke it. ‘He’s only a little boy,’ she said in a low urgent voice. ‘It was something he heard—he doesn’t know—you’re not to be...’
The face her host turned to her was smooth, without expression, as was his voice, so why should she feel so strongly that he was laughing at her?
‘You must learn not to be a busybody, Miss Darling,’ he warned her, and turned to Andrew, but now his face was relaxed and smiling. ‘There are degrees of poverty,’ he stated cheerfully, ‘and yes, I suppose you might say that I am poor in everything that matters most. If I had been in your father’s place I daresay I should have said exactly the same thing!’
