Saturday's Child

by Betty Neels

  ‘What I’ve seen of it—it’s a great deal bigger than one would suppose from the outside, and the furnishings are beautiful.’

  Mrs Macklin nodded agreement. ‘It’s been in the family for hundreds of years. Such a pity if Dominic doesn’t marry again, because if he doesn’t everything will go to a distant cousin of his, who farms his lands somewhere in Gelderland and dislikes city life, which means that the house here would be neglected, or worse, sold. No, Dominic needs a wife, Abigail, and children too.’

  Abigail stirred in her chair, rocked by a brief, glorious daydream. She got up. ‘I’ll get tea, shall I?’ she offered, anxious to have something to do, and as she went to the door: ‘I expect he’ll find a wife sooner or later. He has a lot of friends in Friesland, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Dozens. He’s there now—I expect you know that.’

  She hadn’t known, and after all, there was no reason why he should have told her. She murmured something which meant nothing as she went through the door to the kitchen. Neither of them mentioned him again for the rest of her visit.

  He came home that evening. Nina, tired out from trying on her new clothes, not once, but several times, had had her bath and was tucked up in bed, already half asleep. Abigail arranged the nightlight where the child could see it if she wakened, and prepared to go to her room. She left the door open as she always did so that she would hear if Nina called, and sat down in the easy chair by the window. She had meant to do her hair and her face and then count her money, something she had done several times in the last few days, as if by doing so she would increase the small sum left in her purse. Instead, she sat idle, thinking about the professor and wondering where he was and what he was doing.

  He was on his way up his own staircase, having let himself into his house with surprising quietness, considering his size. She had heard nothing at all until he asked from the door, ‘Is Nina asleep?’ and then, when she turned round, ‘Hullo, Abigail.’

  He looked so pleased to see her that she forgot how untidy she was and that her face needed doing, and smiled warmly at him.

  ‘Oh, nice to see you, Professor,’ she spoke impulsively. ‘Did you have a good time? Nina’s been such a very good girl.’

  He leaned against the wall, his hands in his pockets, smiling faintly.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that. May I come in?’

  ‘Of course—but don’t you want to see her? She’s not been in bed long, I daresay she’s still awake. I put her to bed a little early because we went shopping this morning and she was excited and tired.’

  He made himself comfortable on the side of the bed. ‘What did you buy?’

  ‘Oh, a zipper suit—a nylon one with ribbed cuffs and a high neck; she likes to play in the garden in the morning and she can’t do that properly if she’s wearing something she has to be careful of. And another dress—she only had two with her, you know, and a pair of red shoes and a little fur bonnet.’ She paused, then added guiltily, ‘I do hope I haven’t been extravagant … you did say …’

  He shrugged wide shoulders. ‘I don’t think we need worry about that. You’re not out of pocket? You must let me know if you are.’

  Here was a splendid opportunity to bring up the matter of her salary. She said, ‘No …’ but was interrupted by the entrance of Bollinger, who knocked on the open door and came in with a cheerful air. ‘Nice to see you back, boss,’ he remarked, ‘I seen the car below and there’s a Doctor Leesward on the phone for you. He says it’s urgent.’

  The professor, with a brief word of excuse, went out of the room and Bolly with him; Abigail was left to take off her cap and do her hair and her face, wondering the while if she would have the chance again that evening of bringing up the subject. No chance at all, as it turned out, for when she went downstairs for dinner, a few minutes early, it was to learn from Bollinger that the professor had gone to the hospital and was likely to be late home. She ate the meal as quickly as she could, trying not to feel lonely, then sat by the fire, knitting a pair of red mitts for Nina to match the new red shoes. She had been in bed for more than an hour when she heard the professor come in.

  He had gone when she and Nina got down in the morning. They were eating their simple lunch together when he came in. He took his seat at the table to Nina’s delight and after glancing at their plates, exclaimed:

  ‘In heaven’s name—fish, steamed fish and potato purée!’ He looked so horrified that Abigail burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s very good,’ she said, ‘and it’s good for Nina’s tummy. Besides, there’s ice-cream for afters.’

  ‘Good God, who perpetrated this menu?’

  ‘Me,’ said Abigail, paying no attention to her grammar. ‘It’s nourishing and easy to digest.’

  ‘Are you eating it too?’

  ‘Of course—it would be the height of extravagance to have something different—besides, think of Mevrouw Boot.’

  ‘Very commendable. I hope you don’t expect me to join you.’ He spoke a little absentmindedly and with a muttered word of excuse, pulled some papers out of a pocket and became engrossed in them; Abigail could see that he had other more important things on his mind than his companions at table, so she urged Nina to eat up like a good girl, and went back to her own lunch.

  Bollinger came in presently, bearing a magnificent steak, which the professor ate with the same absentminded air, while Abigail, who didn’t care for steamed fish at all, tried to keep her nose from twitching at the appetising aroma from his side of the table. She ate the rest of her fish as a good example to Nina, and went on to the ice-cream, while the professor, with every sign of enjoyment, ate hugely of the apple pie and cream Bollinger had brought for him. The cream he shared with his small relative, who had asked, with a good deal of vehemence, if she might have some, but when he offered the dish to Abigail she refused with such promptness that he asked her if she didn’t care for it—a singularly annoying question, for they had shared enough meals together by now for him to have noticed that she had never refused it before.

  He caught her smouldering gaze and said coolly, ‘Ah—I think I understand. I’m breaking my own rules, aren’t I? I must say you look very ill-tempered about it.’

  A remark calculated to stoke her ill humour, so that she said sharply:

  ‘Yes, you are. You told me exactly what Nina was to eat and I’ve kept strictly to your wishes. She’s clever enough to remember this the next time I give her rice pudding or egg custard. And I don’t like steamed fish.’

  He shook with laughter. ‘My poor dear girl, how tiresome I have been! Excuse me while I explain to my niece.’ Which he did, amidst a good deal of giggling from Nina and a bellow of laughter from himself, so rare a sound that Abigail stared.

  ‘It’s all right, Abigail, we’re not laughing at you. Well, I must go back, I suppose. Would you walk round to Professor de Wit’s for me this afternoon? There’s a book I particularly want him to have.’

  He smiled at her and her heart beat a little faster, and after he had gone she wondered if he could possibly be the same irritable, cold-seeming man she had first met. Probably Nina’s company, she thought; he was so fond of the child, and she was indeed a dear little creature. Abigail was fond of her too; she would miss her when she returned home to Spain, and that would be very soon now.

  The professor joined her for dinner that evening, and because she could see that he was tired, Abigail, beyond answering his brief enquiries as to the afternoon, made no attempt at conversation. They were eating Mevrouw Boot’s perfectly turned out chocolate soufflée when he said:

  ‘Anyone else would have chattered—how did you know that I didn’t want to talk?’

  ‘Well,’ said Abigail frankly, ‘you looked a little forbidding, you know, and weary. I daresay you had something on your mind you wanted to think out quietly, and in that case you would hardly wish to make conversation, would you?’

  ‘Do I usually make conversation with you, Abigail?’

  She nodded he
r neat head at him. ‘Oh, yes, but mostly you don’t talk at all.’ She smiled at him as she spoke, but he remained unsmiling, until:

  ‘Do you find me a bad-tempered man, Abigail?’

  She put down her fork and thought before she answered this. He was asking awkward questions again and if she gave the wrong answer he might change back into the same cold, irritable man she had always thought him. On the other hand it would be of no use to fib to him. She said finally:

  ‘No, not bad-tempered—that is, not bad-tempered underneath, are you? otherwise the children would be afraid of you, and they’re not, they’re sold on you, aren’t they? You have always been,’ she hesitated, ‘abrupt, as though … no, that’s not quite right. I think you were annoyed at having to meet me; I had the strong impression that you disliked me, that you still do, but not always, and I can’t understand that. Is it because I’m English? or perhaps because I’m nothing to look at, although you said it wasn’t …’

  ‘I’ll say it again, if only to convince you. But you are right, I didn’t want to meet you, I’ve had no interest in women—girls—for a long time, but after I had met you I found myself arranging for you to take over a case so that I could see you every day. Do you not find that strange?’

  She shook her head, for it seemed no stranger than her own acceptance of his offer for the very same reason. She longed to tell him so, but something warned her not to say anything—not yet.

  ‘Contradictory behaviour, was it not? And you know why?’ His blue eyes searched hers, he looked suddenly grim. ‘I was once married. It was a long time ago.’ The bleakness of his voice hurt her.

  ‘Yes, I know about that.’

  He looked suddenly ferocious. ‘Who told you? Not the servants—they know better.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t the servants, and it wasn’t gossip either. It was the only way someone could answer a question I had asked.’ She went on hurriedly, trying not to see the arrogantly arched brows, ‘You see, I couldn’t understand why you were sometimes … just as though you hated me … and others … ‘she became a trifle incoherent, remembering the other times. ‘I got upset once or twice and—and angry, and to make me understand better, this—person told me about you—just that you had been married and had lost your wife. I didn’t ask any questions, it wasn’t my business.’ She added with a little flare-up of feeling, ‘It isn’t my business now; you started telling me—I should never have dreamed of mentioning it.’

  ‘It’s something I don’t talk about. I’m surprised that I’m talking about it now, but I wanted to tell you, Abigail—I had to tell you, before … ‘He paused as Bollinger came into the room to enquire where they would have their coffee.

  ‘Oh, here,’ said the professor impatiently. ‘We’ll ring when we’re ready for you to clear, thank you, Bollinger.’

  Bollinger was back very quickly, and a good thing too from Abigail’s point of view, for in the deep silence in which they sat her thoughts were racing round and round inside her head, thoughts she hardly dared to think. If she had been a cool, poised girl, she would have used those few minutes to good purpose instead of allowing her brain to seethe with nonsense.

  She poured the coffee when it came and handed him his cup across the table and met his eyes as she did so, her own troubled and bewildered.

  He said thoughtfully, ‘It’s strange, Abigail, but in all these years I have never wanted to tell anyone—and I must admit to several—er—friendships in that time—about my marriage, but I want to tell you, because you’re different; you know what it is to be unhappy and you’re honest too and I think that you would keep a confidence. But you see, my dear, I have grown wary of women, and I found it difficult.’

  ‘You’re sure you want to tell me? You’re not going to feel awful about it in the morning?’

  He laughed a little and shook his head, then passed his cup for more coffee and she busied herself filling it, then put the cup down, forgetting to give it back to him, her eyes upon his as he began to speak.

  ‘I married when I was twenty-five—fifteen years ago. Did you know that I am almost forty-one, Abigail? She was very pretty and gay too, she loved clothes and jewels and furs and fast cars and she was the kind of girl men like to be seen about with—I counted myself very fortunate when she agreed to marry me. It took me just six weeks to discover that she didn’t love me, and another six weeks for me to find out that I didn’t love her. Perhaps if I had loved her I could have forgiven her the affairs she had. She was killed in a car crash, together with the current boy-friend, five months after we were married. I swore I would never love another woman again, for although I had no feeling for her, my pride suffered, and although, as I said just now, I became—involved, shall we say, from time to time, it meant nothing to me.’ He put out his hand for his coffee cup. ‘Now you know why I have never allowed anything—any woman, to interfere with my life.’

  Abigail emptied the cooling coffee from his cup and poured fresh with a steady hand, which was surprising, for inside she was trembling. It seemed to her that she had been warned that, even though he liked her, he had no intention of allowing his feelings to take over from the life he had decided upon. What other reason could he have had for telling her something he admitted he had never discussed with anyone? The only good reason would be because he loved her, and he had had plenty of opportunity of saying so; it could be dismissed without a thought. He had felt the urge to talk; he was used to her by now and presumably, as she was a suitable recipient of his confidences, he felt himself able to talk to her. She summoned a smile.

  ‘Thank you for telling me, Professor. It was a truly awful thing to happen to you and I can well imagine that it’s made you wary of women. But it’s a long time ago. I’m sure you will find someone who will change your views for you. Perhaps you don’t get out enough to meet people; you work so hard, don’t you? There are a great many nice girls in the world, you know.’

  ‘You suggest that I should find one and marry her?’

  ‘Yes, why not? Just because there’s one rotten apple in the barrel doesn’t mean that the whole barrelful is bad.’ She made her voice as matter-of-fact as she could.

  ‘But I enjoy working hard. If I took a wife she might try to change that.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t—not if she loved you, she would want to help you in every way she could.’

  He looked amused. ‘How?’

  She was suddenly out of patience with him. ‘How should I know? She’s the one to answer that question.’

  ‘I must remember to ask her when the time comes.’ He spoke gravely, although there was a gleam in his eyes. ‘And now, much as I have enjoyed this conversation, I have to go back to the hospital. There is a case …’

  He told her about it and she listened with interest and asked questions too; it was another ten minutes before he got to his feet.

  And as for Abigail, she rang the bell for poor patient Bollinger and went to sit by the fire, and when he came into the room, said how sorry she was that they had been so desultory over their dinner.

  ‘That’s OK, Miss Abby,’ said Bollinger, busy with the table, ‘I was right glad to see you having such a nice chat. The boss don’t often talk. He must like you.’

  Abigail swallowed from a throat thick with the tears she would have liked to shed. ‘I do believe he does, Bolly,’ she agreed sadly.

  The professor was at breakfast when she and Nina went down the following morning. He lifted his niece into her chair, tied her bib, urged her to eat up her porridge and then turned his attention to Abigail, who had sat down silently after a quiet good morning. Unlike her, he seemed in the best of spirits.

  ‘I’m going to Friesland tomorrow; Bollinger will be going with me, for he has to see about bulbs for the garden there. I think it would be nice if Nina were to accompany us—you too, naturally, Abigail.’ He gave her a bright glance. ‘I feel that Nina has deserved a treat, do you not agree?’

  ‘Yes, she’s been as good as gold, but are yo
u sure you want me to come?’ She coloured faintly and added hastily, ‘She doesn’t really need a nurse now.’

  ‘No? Bollinger and I love her dearly, but I believe we should both be mentally deranged by the end of the day if there wasn’t someone to take her off our hands for at least part of the time. I have business to attend to and Bollinger takes his bulbs seriously.’

  Abigail couldn’t help smiling at him. She had never seen him look so relaxed. ‘Then I’ll come, I should like to. What time do you want us to be ready?’

  ‘Could you manage eight o’clock? We could make it later if you like—it’s barely a hundred miles.’

  ‘I’m sure we can be ready by then. Nina wakes early, you know.’

  ‘Does she? She keeps very quiet about it.’

  ‘Well, she gets into my bed and I tell her a story.’

  ‘In English?’ He was laughing again.

  ‘A little of both. She understands quite a lot, don’t you, poppet?’ She turned to look at the small girl beside her, tucking into a boiled egg and fingers of bread and butter with remarkable energy. ‘Yes,’ said the poppet from a full mouth, adding rapidly, ‘No—Mary, Mary, quite con … con …’ a frown marred the small features, to be replaced by a rapturous smile. ‘Little Boy Blue …’ she began.

  ‘Lovely, darling,’ said Abigail fondly, ‘you’re a clever girl, but eat up that nice egg and Oom Dominic will tell you something very exciting.’

  The egg was forgotten. ‘Oom Dominic,’ she smiled eggily up at him, ‘tell,’ she commanded in an imperious pipe.

  Her uncle told her and rather unfairly left a few minutes later, leaving Abigail to calm a very excited little girl. He didn’t come back all day and Abigail ate her dinner alone, not sure whether to be relieved or not. She had spent a good part of the night and most of the day persuading herself that the only way possible to her was to forget most of what the professor had said and to remember that within a very short time she would be going away and would never see him again, and in the meantime to behave exactly as she always had done. Breakfast had been a test; she considered she had come out of it rather well. She talked to Bollinger as she ate, glad of the opportunity of explaining that she would be able to pay him some more money very soon—quite a lot of money, she pointed out; she hadn’t been paid for three weeks, and there would be some money over, even after that, for she still had her fare intact. After her old friend had gone, she curled up by the fire. There would be enough left to buy some clothes; she occupied herself deciding what she would buy when she got back to London.