by Betty Neels
‘What is it, Tante Marijna? Something’s worrying you.’
Her aunt hesitated. ‘It is very foolish of me, but I find that I am a little afraid of being here alone—just during the night, you know.’
‘You’re not,’ said Augusta instantly, and dismissing the blissful thought of sleep. She had had some hazy notion of spending the night in the little room across the landing, once Tante Marijna had settled for the night, but this was obviously out of the question. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she went on mendaciously, ‘I’m going to bath and undress, and come back here and make myself comfy for the night in this chair. I’ve heaps of letters to write and I’m not a bit sleepy. I’ll fetch Maartje.’
That sensible woman, when appealed to, agreed that there was nothing else to do. ‘Perhaps if Juffrouw van den Pol sleeps you will be able to close your eyes,’ she observed hopefully. ‘I am glad the doctor has arranged to take you out tomorrow—you can do with a little outing.’
Augusta, swallowing coffee, choked. ‘Oh, but he has said nothing to me.’
‘Nevertheless, it is all arranged. Mevrouw Blom will stay until five o’clock and I shall sit with the patient. The doctor has given me the telephone number of a doctor should anything happen, so you have no need to worry.’ She beamed at Augusta. ‘It is wonderful to have you here, for we are now three old women and not very good at looking after ourselves when we are not well. Now I will go upstairs and sit with your aunt while you prepare yourself for the night.’
The night was very long—Augusta, filled with the false energy of overtiredness, wrote several letters, pausing for gentle chat from time to time until her aunt was lulled into a sense of security and closed her eyes, leaving her free to read. She had prudently combed the house for reading matter earlier in the evening; now she picked up De Telegraaf and read it conscientiously from cover to cover, thinking smugly how much it would improve her Dutch. This salve to her conscience having been achieved, she opened up a paperback she had begged from Maartje, only to find that she had already read it in English under another title. She flung it down rather crossly, and crept across the room to look at the few books on her aunt’s bedside table: the Bible, Jacob Cats, Pieter de Vries and Joost van den Vondel. She chose Cats and Vondel and spent the next few hours alternating between the former’s easily understood poetry about ordinary, everyday things and people; and the latter’s lofty tragic sagas about Biblical characters.
But by one o’clock she had had enough of seventeenth-century poetry, and her aunt was sleeping soundly. She went quietly from the room and stole through the quiet house to the kitchen, where she gathered together a trayful of odds and ends to eat, and bore them, with a mug of coffee, upstairs. The meal revived her; she picked up Cats again, but after a little while her attention began to wander, so that she closed the book and gave herself up to her thoughts, which were largely of Doctor van Lindemann and becoming more and more hazy. She had told herself sternly that evening that she would ignore his kiss—she had been kissed before, and there was nothing unusual in it. She repeated this several times, uneasily aware that even if he hadn’t found it unusual, it had affected her in some strange way. She tried to decide exactly how this could be, and fell asleep in a woolly cloud of half dreams, which, like all dreams, made complete sense.
She awoke an hour later—it was almost five o’clock and the dawn was already paling the lamplight in the bedroom. She got up, yawning and stretching and feeling more tired than ever. Perhaps, now that Tante Marijna had had a good night’s sleep, she wouldn’t mind her sleeping close by, within call. She crept around the house, making tea and eating an apple while she waited for the kettle to boil, and presently, much refreshed, she washed and dressed with a good deal of coming and going to make sure that her patient was still sleeping.
The first pale sunshine was creeping over the street outside as she once more took her seat by her aunt’s bed. That lady wakened half an hour later, feeling much better, and as a consequence, inclined to be peevish because she wasn’t allowed to get up, let alone wash herself. However, the promise of a light breakfast and something a little more interesting for lunch put her in a better humour, and the morning proceeded comfortably enough. Augusta, breakfasted and fresh from a visit to the kitchen to confer with Tante Emma on the day’s meals, reached the front door in time to open it for Doctor van Lindemann. He said ‘Dag,’ and subjected her to a cool stare which she was beginning to find disconcerting.
‘No sparkle this morning?’ he inquired lightly. He stood beside her, wearing the slightly smug air of a well-rested, well-fed man who was pleased with himself and his world. Augusta thought sourly of her wakeful night. Hashing verbs and tenses into icy Dutch, she said coldly, ‘You appear to be confusing me with one or other of your numerous acquaintances,’ which remark for some reason made him shake with laughter. ‘Never,’ he said at last, ‘never shall I confuse you with any—er—other female.’ He allowed his gaze to rest upon the pale copper of her hair, so that she pinkened with anger, but before she could speak: ‘How’s our patient?’ he asked in a suddenly professional, lofty tone which gave her no opportunity to vent her ill-humour.
She became a nurse again, standing beside the bedside while he examined his patient at some length, quelled the old lady’s impatient wish to get up and make sure that the house was being run properly, and advised her to do as she was told for the time being, because it was the only way in which to get better quickly. ‘I’m going to take your niece out this afternoon,’ he continued, ‘a run in the fresh air will do her good. I have arranged for you to be looked after for an hour or two. I’ll pick her up at two o’clock.’
He smiled charmingly at her and then at Augusta, who hadn’t been expecting it and scowled across the bed at him because he was arranging everything without having bothered to find out if she wanted to go. He ignored the scowl and said cheerfully, ‘Ready at two, then,’ and took himself off.
She had had to hurry to be ready for him. The aunts, bless them, had very little sense of time. She would have liked to have done something elaborate with her hair, and spend more than a few scrambled minutes on her face. She flung on the dress she had worn to Bergen, aware that the front door bell had sounded at least five minutes earlier. He would have to wait! When she arrived in the sitting room, she had half expected some comment upon her tardiness, but he said nothing at all, beyond wishing Tante Emma a polite goodbye. The Rolls-Royce was outside, taking up a great deal of space in the narrow street. He ushered her into its comfort and got in beside her, and because she was very aware of him, she said hastily, ‘What a lovely car, but is it practical for Alkmaar—all these narrow streets?’
‘I don’t use it for the practice—I’ve a Mini, but this one’s useful for long trips.’ She gave him a rather startled look. ‘And for taking out pretty girls,’ he added suavely.
She said, a little breathless, ‘Thank you for boosting my morale, but I’m not pretty, you know.’
He trickled the big car down to the end of the street and turned into the town’s main thoroughfare, past the great St Lawrence church and out on to the road to Bergen. Only then did he say, ‘Allow me to be the best judge of that.’ He then began to talk about nothing in particular. She had liked his voice; now she thought that she had never heard one so quiet and soothing as his. She said very little, because there was no need and she was sleepy. Her eyelids became too heavy to hold open any longer—she would have to close them just for a moment. She did so, and slept.
When she opened them again, she was lying comfortably within the circle of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. She sat up, putting an instinctive hand up to her hair. It felt all right. She looked at him sideways, and said contritely, ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry. I didn’t mean to go to sleep, truly I didn’t.’
She looked out of the car window; they were parked on a cobblestoned space before a large town house. She looked around her for a second time more carefully, and trying to gather woolly wits. She w
as sure she had been here before, or somewhere very like it. She said in a small, ashamed voice:
‘I’m not sure…where are we, please?’
‘Alkmaar.’
She turned round and looked at him properly then and said with palpable relief, ‘Oh, so we haven’t started.’
He smiled very nicely. ‘On the contrary, we have had a pleasant drive round the country—Bergen, Schoorl, and then across the canal to Schagen and Benningbroek, through Hoorn to Avenhorn. The country looked delightful and we didn’t hurry.’
She was mortified to feel tears prick her eyes. She repeated, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and sniffed.
‘Up all night, were you?’ His voice was so kind that she had to fight the tears. ‘I should have thought of that. Couldn’t you bring yourself to tell me?’
She answered truthfully, ‘No. It was so kind of you to take me out, and I thought I’d be able to stay awake. I—I was looking forward to it.’ She had quite forgotten her annoyance.
‘So was I,’ he said briefly.
‘You’ve wasted a whole afternoon. Why did you bother, with me snoring beside you?’
‘But it wasn’t wasted—you could have woken up at any moment.’
‘Only I didn’t. I’ve made a mess of your afternoon. I—I think I’d better go home.’ She peered around her. ‘I can’t quite remember where we are, though I must have been past here.’
‘Of course you’re not going home, you silly girl. You’re coming in to have tea.’ He sounded as though he was laughing.
‘Where?’ She looked uncertainly at the lovely old red brick façade of the house before them. ‘Not here?’
‘Why not? It’s my home.’
She said uncertainly, ‘It’s rather grand.’
He didn’t laugh or even smile, but said simply, ‘Is it? Perhaps—but it’s home too and has been for generations of us. There’s nothing grand about that, is there?’
‘No. I’d like to come to tea, thank you.’ She sat up straight. ‘Do I look awful?’
He sighed and said gently, ‘Oh, my dear Miss Augusta Brown…’ and she said sharply, ‘You always call me that. My name’s Miss Brown, but mostly I get called Augusta—but never the way you say it, as though I were different.’
‘But you are different.’ He spoke lazily, with a little smile, so that she was sure that he was teasing.
He got out of the car and opened the door for her and they went together across the cobblestones and up the double steps and in through the great carved door with its handsome fanlight.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE HALL WAS exactly as Augusta had imagined it would be—black and white tiles underfoot; dark, panelled walls and a plaster ceiling of great beauty. The furniture was in keeping—there was an oak draw-table in its centre, its bulbous legs betraying its Flemish origin, and along one wall was a vast walnut cupboard, ornately carved and flanked by two chairs, which she recognised as Indo-Dutch; Burgomaster chairs in ebony and cushioned in blue velvet. Against the opposite wall was a carved oak wall table, decorated with a great deal of strap work and having a marble top upon which rested a vast Delft china soup tureen, filled with hyacinths. A large mirror, its gilded wood frame also carved, hung above it. The staircase was at the back of the hall, mounting to a half landing and then branching left and right to the floor above. All the furniture were museum pieces, but there was nothing of the museum in the atmosphere of the old house; it was warm and fragrant, and lived in. She turned to remark upon this to her host, but before she could do so, a shrill voice from somewhere upstairs cried, ‘Papa, Papa!’ and a small girl, perhaps four or five, came down the stairs at a great pace, to stop halfway and look at them and say, ‘Dag…’ and then descend the remaining stairs quite slowly.
Dr van Lindemann went to meet her, swung her off her feet, kissed her soundly and said, ‘Come and meet Miss Augusta Brown, Johanna.’
The moppet obediently offered a small hand, at the same time observing that she was delighted to make Miss Brown’s acquaintance…and Augusta, not to be outdone, answered in a similar vein before being led through one of the doors in the hall. The room they entered was presumably the drawing room and very magnificent. The walls were covered in tapestries and the marble fireplace was flanked by gilded pillars, most elaborately carved. The plaster ceiling was as fine a one as that of the hall, and there was a thin, silky carpet covering most of the wooden floor. This much Augusta was able to see without actually staring, but her surroundings were not those to be taken in at a glance—she hoped that they would have tea there, so that she could look around her. In the meantime she had another more urgent problem. Who was the small creature dancing across the room to look out of the window? The doctor hadn’t said, but she had called ‘Papa’ as she had come downstairs. The thought depressed Augusta, for although she had told herself many times that he was probably married, the concrete evidence of this was hard to accept. She would have to find out, for her interest in him was getting too great for her peace of mind. She was given the opportunity almost immediately, for the doctor, after ushering her to a chair, begged to be excused while he made an important telephone call. As soon as the door had closed behind him, she got up and wandered over to the window. It overlooked a fair-sized garden traditionally Dutch in its symmetrical neatness, and planted with row upon row of spring flowers. She exclaimed, ‘Oh, how pretty!’ and Johanna came a little nearer and looked up at her, and said with the engaging candour of extreme youth:
‘I like you, though your hair’s a funny colour.’
‘Thank you, Johanna.’ Augusta was careful not to smile. ‘I think you’re nice too.’ And then, because she wanted to know so badly, ‘Whose little girl are you?’
The small creature stared at her with round eyes. ‘Papa’s, of course,’ she uttered succinctly.
‘And Mama?’ prompted Augusta gently, the better side of her nature aware that she wasn’t behaving well—but she did want to know.
‘Mama is in Paris.’
Augusta, staring at a bed of scarlet parrot tulips and not seeing them at all, remembered that Miss Susan Belsize was in Paris—and then dismissed the thought which followed it as absurd. But was it absurd? She had seen that the doctor and Susan Belsize had been on very good terms with each other—the easy, casual terms of long friendship, or husband and wife. Perhaps Miss Belsize was an actress and preferred to be known by her maiden name. It sounded silly, but silly things had a habit of not being so silly upon occasion. The longer she reflected upon it, the more feasible it seemed.
‘You’re not talking,’ remarked a small accusing voice.
She made haste to remedy this. By the time Doctor van Lindemann returned, they were deep in lively discussion as to the exact dress Johanna intended to wear when she was grown up enough to be a bride.
Augusta found it a little difficult to meet the doctor’s eye as they sat down. He had observed as he came in that tea would be coming at any minute, and she had gone back to her chair, to find that he had taken the chair opposite her—it was an eighteenth-century sleeping chair of some magnificence, but its comfort appeared to have little effect upon its occupant, who looked wide awake and likely to remain so. He said at once:
‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve just had bad news.’
It came as a shock to her to realise that it had been bad news. She had allowed him to loom large in her thoughts—a state of affairs she would have to correct immediately if she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself.
She said now, sedately, ‘Bad news? How could I possibly…?’
His pale gaze held hers. ‘I’ve no idea at the moment—but I shall find out.’ He smiled suddenly at her and then transferred his attention to Johanna, who had settled herself in a winged armchair by the window. He put out a long arm and pulled a small stool close to his own chair.
‘Come and sit by me, Johanna—you’ll make crumbs in that chair and then Jannie will tear us both limb from limb.’
As he
spoke the door opened and a small round woman trotted in with the tea tray. She began, as she crossed the room, ‘What nonsense you do talk, Doctor—to listen to you, one would think I was a tyrant!’
She chuckled richly at the very idea and he laughed with her, then looked at Augusta. ‘This is my housekeeper and friend, Jannie… Miss Brown is staying with Juffrouw van den Pol, Jannie—a niece from England, but her Dutch is not bad—not bad at all.’
Augusta, who was proud of her command of that language, drew an indignant breath, but before she could speak, he went on, ‘Be mother, will you, Augusta? It’s something we lack at the moment!’
She wondered, as she poured tea from the bullet-shaped silver teapot, if he had been offering her an opening for her questions, and decided not. He wasn’t a devious man—probably he had made the remark without thought. They drank their tea from Amstel china teacups, painted delicately with rural scenes, and ate paper-thin sandwiches and tiny cakes from matching plates. They talked about gardens and birds and animals, and Johanna joined in.
‘Have you any animals?’ she wanted to know of Augusta.
‘Yes, three dogs, two cats and a donkey.’ She and the child discussed Bottom at some length, while the doctor sat back in his chair, watching them.
They had almost finished tea when the door behind Augusta opened and Johanna jumped off her stool, her small face radiant. As she ran across the room she shouted ‘Papa— Papa!’ and Augusta, taken unawares, looked up, the expression on her face unguarded, to meet the doctor’s eye. Her cheeks grew pink at the thought of the mistake she had so nearly made, and pinker still under his interested gaze. Before she could look away, his expression changed—he looked at her with narrowed eyes, and began to shake with laughter.
‘Well, I’ll be damned! So that was the bad news…And you don’t have to look so guilty. After all, I was only conforming very nicely to the character you have seen fit to saddle me with, was I not? What a pity it is that I cannot live up to your lively imagination, my dear Augusta. I can admit only to being Johanna’s uncle—and despite your worst fears, she has a mother who is legally and very happily married to my brother.’
