by Betty Neels
She watched in helpless fascination while the walls of the quarry swayed and dipped around her, and wondered if she would be able to hold on. She would have to. She longed to see how far he had got, but she didn’t dare to move, indeed, she could not, locked as she was in an icy panic which suddenly got the better of her, so that she opened her mouth to scream and then bit the sound off as he called calmly:
‘Lean against the flints, Augusta—press into them. And relax, dear girl, relax, you aren’t going to fall. I’m coming down.’
His voice quietened her, so that she did as she was told with a slow clumsiness. It seemed an age before she heard him coming and felt his arm around her shoulders. She relaxed completely then. She had never felt so safe, and when he said in the same unhurried calm voice:
‘You’re going to hold my hand, and we shall climb up to the top together, Augusta,’ she managed to turn her head to look at him.
‘I can’t,’ she said flatly, ‘I feel sick.’
His smile became tinged with gentle mockery. ‘Good lord, girl, take a hold of yourself. Here’s my hand. You shall be as sick as you like once we’re at the top.’
She answered childishly, ‘I’m so frightened…’ then stopped because she wasn’t really frightened any more, at least, only a very little. His smile lost its mockery, leaving a tenderness which made her close her eyes. When she opened them a second later, he wasn’t smiling at all. She swallowed carefully. ‘No, I’m not frightened any more now. You’re not, are you?’
His eyebrows soared. ‘No, but then I’m not allergic to heights and you obviously are, Augusta. Did you slide down with your eyes shut?’ She nodded. ‘You must be sore.’
She nodded again. ‘Rex tore my slacks too.’
‘Yes, I noticed. You’re barely decent.’
She gave the ghost of a giggle and in that moment found herself inexplicably on her feet, her hand in his cool firm grasp.
It was surprising how easy it was, after all. Just the same, when they stood at last on the rough grass, with the little boy and the dog lying close by, she turned a white face to his and said with hurried and wholly unnecessary politeness, ‘Excuse me…’ and fled, only to find him beside her when it was over, mopping her up very efficiently with a large white handkerchief. Presently, almost herself again, she said:
‘Thank you, that was kind. I’m all right now. I’m sorry I funked…’
He interrupted her quite sharply. ‘Nonsense. If you had—er—funked it, you wouldn’t have gone down in the first place.’ He pulled her to her feet. ‘Let’s get this child to hospital.’
He picked the little boy up and started off through the coarse grass and the dense thicket, the dog and Augusta hard on his heels.
‘Are you sure this child’s from Buller’s?’ he asked over his shoulder as they went.
‘Yes—they’re on the telephone. Perhaps they will let us ring up from the hospital.’
He grunted, ‘Good idea,’ and they went on in silence until they reached the wider, rougher track she had followed earlier in the afternoon. They walked side by side, the dog padding along between them. Constantijn spared her a brief glance. ‘All right? The car’s not far.’
She didn’t reply, only nodded, for she was tired and hot and sore in a great many places, and over and above all this, she was extremely happy.
The Rolls stood by the side of the narrow road, sleek and polished and exuding a quiet power which didn’t need advertisement. Like its owner, thought Augusta, as he helped her in, put the child carefully on her lap, ushered Rex into the back of the car and got in himself. They drove in silence while she pondered the fact that he should be there at all. After her first surprise, his appearance had seemed quite natural at the quarry, but that was because she had been scared and had wanted him. She was prevented from following this interesting train of thought by the child on her lap, whose sudden restlessness held her attention until they reached the hospital at Sherborne. It should have surprised her that the doctor seemed well known there, but somehow it seemed perfectly natural. The boy was whisked away, Constantijn went off to telephone Buller’s Farm and she herself was led away to a cubicle where she was given what he had called ‘the appropriate and soothing treatment’, and joined him again in time to hear that Mr Buller was already on his way to the hospital and that the X-rays confirmed a mild concussion and the fractured clavicle.
‘You don’t mind if we wait until the boy’s father gets here?’ Constantijn wanted to know. Augusta shook her head and accepted a cup of tea, but Mr Buller arrived before she had time to finish it. She listened while the doctor explained what had happened. He told the story succinctly, with due emphasis on her prompt and level-headed behaviour, so that she blushed hotly, hideously aware of tangled hair and torn clothes. She endured Mr Buller’s thanks politely, promised to telephone him later to find out about the little boy, and went outside to the car with Constantijn, who, having restored Rex to his master, held the door open for her. But she held back. ‘It was very kind of you to rescue us,’ she began inadequately. ‘I won’t keep you any longer—I hope we haven’t spoilt your afternoon. I’ll—I’ll telephone someone to come for me.’
He didn’t appear to have heard a word she had been saying, but, ‘Do get in,’ he said in a mild no-nonsense voice, so that she did so. Only after he had turned into the main road did she venture to remark that he would need to take a turning.
‘Yes, I know. Niptree Petherton, the stone house standing back from the road on the left, just before you come to the church. Funny, I must have passed it a hundred times.’
She echoed faintly, ‘A hundred times?’ and shot him a startled glance. ‘You don’t live here as well as in Alkmaar?’
He laughed. ‘Well, no, but Dr Soames is my godfather. When he needs a holiday or feels off colour I get my partner to look after my side of the practice and come over. It’s strange that we’ve never met before.’
Augusta let this pass. ‘I didn’t know Dr Soames was ill.’
He negotiated a corner before he answered. ‘He’s not. I wrote and asked him if he knew of a vet by the name of Brown who lived on the Somerset-Dorset border and owned a donkey called Bottom.’
Augusta digested this in silence. She thought of several answers and discarded them all. She said instead, ‘We keep meeting.’
‘So we do,’ he agreed silkily. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No.’ She took a quick look at his profile—the arrogant nose and the high forehead, the firm curved mouth with the familiar little smile at its corners. She knew then what had happened to her and why she had felt so happy. She was in love with him. The idea made her feel peculiar and set her pulse racing, but her happiness oozed slowly away before the doubt that he felt the same about her. She blinked her beautiful eyes against the sudden warmth of tears and when he remarked mildly, ‘I thought I’d come over for a few days,’ she was able to reply in a cheerful voice that it was a nice time of year to have a break and the country looked wonderful. It was fortunate that he was turning the car between the gateposts of her home, for she could think of nothing further to say except a rather breathless goodbye. But he got out too and went round the car’s bonnet to help her out and walked to the door with her. ‘Your mother asked me to come back,’ he explained casually.
Augusta paused in the open doorway. ‘Mother? When did you see Mother?’
‘This afternoon,’ he explained patiently. ‘I called to see you and your mother told me where you might be and asked me back for tea.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We’re a bit late, I’m afraid.’
She led the way to the back of the house and opened the kitchen door. Her mother was at the table in the centre of the old-fashioned, comfortable kitchen, carefully turning a cake out of its tin. She looked up as they went in.
‘There you are—how late.’ Consternation swept over her face. ‘Roly, whatever has happened?’
Augusta turned in time to see a quiver, instantly suppressed, pass over the doctor
’s face, and went pink. The pink deepened when her mother came nearer, to take in her tattered appearance in one all-embracing glance. ‘Your blouse—and you’ve grazed your arm—and your slacks! Darling, they’re in ribbons! Why, I can see your b—’
‘Mother!’ said Augusta awfully, and fled upstairs.
She came down ten minutes later, to find the doctor leaning against the kitchen dresser, his hands in his pockets, on the best of terms with her mother. They both looked up as she went in; her mother’s look was quick and missed nothing, the doctor’s was leisurely and it also missed nothing. She had washed her face and hands and tugged the tangles out of her hair, and with the perversity of the female in love, had chosen to put on a mouse-coloured linen dress which rendered her as inconspicuous as her hair and eyes would allow. Her mother turned away at once and said briskly, ‘I’ve made the tea, darling—you must be dying for a cup, and I’ve cut the cake. Constantijn doesn’t mind the kitchen.’
Augusta advanced to the table and sat down on the chair he had thoughtfully pulled out for her. Constantijn indeed, she thought with a sudden flash of temper—he had, of course, turned on the charm. Obedient to her mother’s request, she put milk in three cups, refusing to look at him, nor did she look up when her mother sat down opposite her, indicating that their guest should sit beside her.’
‘How beastly for you, darling, stuck in the old quarry like that. Going down must have been awful, all on your own. Did you shut your eyes?’ Augusta nodded, drinking tea. ‘Constantijn tells me you were sick afterwards,’ went on her mother, with all the loving tactlessness of a doting parent. ‘Do you remember the time the Grant boys dared you to go up the church tower? You were bilious for days after.’
Augusta, who loved her mother dearly, threw her a waspish look. ‘I was ten, Mother,’ she explained painstakingly. She caught Constantijn’s look and was instantly aware that he was trying to imagine what she looked like at that age. She offered him more cake to distract his thought, but without success, for he asked blandly, Why are you called Roly?’
She looked at her mother, who had pretended not to hear. ‘It’s a silly name that Charles—my brother—used to call me when I was a little girl.’ She paused. ‘I was fat.’ She gave him a defiant look, which he countered with a stare as bland as his voice had been.
‘I find that hard to believe,’ and then, to infuriate her, ‘You seem to have—er—trimmed it down very nicely.’
Augusta spoke with dignity. ‘I’ve never done a thing about it, it just went, and it’s never come back, I stay the same,’ and went brightly pink when he murmured, ‘And a very delightful same, too,’ forestalling any answer she might have made by glancing at his watch with the remark that he would be forced to go as he had promised to take his godfather’s evening surgery. He got up and Mrs Brown said comfortably, ‘Well, do come again—any time you’ve half an hour to spare, you might like to see round the dispensary.’
Augusta went with him to the door, wondering when she would see him again. It was a pity that she would have to go back to hospital in three days’ time, and tomorrow was the Jumble Sale and she had promised to go with her mother. He stopped by the front door, standing beside her, saying nothing. For lack of anything better, she asked, ‘How can you take Dr Soames’ surgery?—I mean, you’re a foreigner.’
He smiled a little. ‘I’ve a Cambridge degree as well as Leiden.’ She waited for him to enlarge a little upon this; apparently he didn’t intend to, so to fill another awkward gap, she said, ‘Oh, I see—it must make havoc of your own practice.’ He made no comment upon this either and she was forced to be satisfied with this morsel of information about him. She tried to picture him at Cambridge and wondered how old he was; she should have asked the aunts. The silence having got a little out of hand, she said politely, ‘Thank you for helping us out of the quarry.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ he said on a laugh. ‘I don’t know when I have enjoyed myself so much’; and with the touchiness of the newly in love she snapped, ‘Well, I’m glad you found it amusing!’
He raised his brows. ‘Did I say that I was amused?’ he queried softly. He turned to go and she longed to be able to say something so interesting and compelling that he would stay, even if only for a few minutes. Instead she mumbled goodbye and watched him get into his car and drive away.
When she got back to the kitchen her mother was pottering to and fro, getting supper. Augusta went over to the sink and started to wash the tea things with her back safely towards her mother’s eye. Presently she said brightly, ‘Constantijn liked your cake, darling—it was super.’
Her mother said ‘Yes, dear,’ in a thoughtful voice and Augusta braced herself for the steady flow of questions she expected. But they weren’t forthcoming. Beyond observing that she had fancied the doctor to be a much older and duller man. Mrs Brown said nothing, which was far worse than the questions would have been, for Augusta was longing to talk about him.
The Jumble Sale was to be opened at three o’clock, but the committee ladies were at the Vicarage, where it was to be held, long before that hour. Augusta, who had taken her mother down in the car, made herself generally useful, setting out teacups and filling kettles in the huge Victorian kitchen at the other end of the house. This done, she helped to arrange the vast mass of things for sale on the various tables and benches set out in the drawing room. She rather enjoyed this—it was fun to recognise the various hats that had been in church each Sunday morning throughout the winter, and drape dresses and coats with all the wrong hemlines. The shoes too—evening slippers, as good as new and hopelessly out of date; discarded wellington boots, and last summer’s sandals. She helped with the White Elephant stall too and noted several odds and ends of china worth buying.
There was a fairing there, a married couple, sitting sedately side by side in bed with the words ‘Married Bliss’ painted in gold letters on the bedhead, and a tiny Victorian pincushion in velvet, heart-shaped and beautifully embroidered in beadwork. She wanted that too; she was contemplating doing a secret deal with the curate’s wife, who was in charge of the stall, when Mrs Grimble, the vicar’s wife, bore down upon her. ‘There’s such a crowd outside,’ she announced happily. ‘Augusta, will you go and put another kettle on—there’s a large one in the stillroom. We never use it, but we will today.’ She beamed with great good humour at Augusta, whom she had known since she was a baby, and went away to meet the first rush of visitors as the garden gate was opened.
Augusta trailed off again through the house, which was large, rambling and badly planned. She reached the kitchen and went through it, pausing to inspect her person in the long mirror which some bygone owner had hung on the wall of the small, unnamed room leading out of it. She had always liked to think that the maids were able to make use of it when they weren’t toiling up and down the numerous staircases. She poked at a few hairpins to make sure that they were secure, examined a bruise on one arm, and smoothed her dress. It was of lawn, with a full skirt and a great many small tucks on the bodice, it had long ballooning sleeves with tight cuffs, and its colour was a very pale, soft yellow. She hadn’t worn it before and the only reason she had put it on now was because she wanted to look her best just in case she should meet Constantijn. That the village jumble sale was the last place he was likely to visit made it all the more important that she should look nice.
She sighed deeply, squinted horribly at her reflection, and went in search of the kettle. It proved hard to find, for the stillroom door was locked, which meant that she had to search through the kitchen until she found the key—which she eventually did, in a jar marked Sugar in one of the many cupboards. She had been aware of faint clapping while she hunted; the opener, whoever he was, was obviously performing his task; she would never get back in time to buy the fairing or the pincushion. She poked around the stillroom and found the kettle—a huge castiron vessel from another age—and bore it gingerly back to the kitchen. She was halfway across its vast flagstoned floor when Cons
tantijn came in from the opposite door.
‘Mrs Grimble said the kitchen,’ he remarked casually, ‘but she didn’t warn me that it was a day’s march away.’ He took the kettle from her hand and examined it with some interest. ‘Good God, what’s this? A museum piece?’ and when she didn’t answer he gave her a cool stare and said, ‘Augusta, close your mouth—you look exactly like a goldfish.’
She gave him a look of outrage. She had, after all, gone to a lot of trouble to dress with extra care, for although she hadn’t expected to meet him, she had wanted to look her best if she did. She said rather crossly, ‘That museum piece, as you call it, has to be cleaned and filled with water and put on the stove.’
‘Well,’ he said genially, ‘you can’t do it, not all dressed up like that.’
She allowed this unfeeling remark to pass without comment—she would deal with it later. Ignoring the amused lift of his eyebrows, she said merely, ‘Thank you, Doctor. The sink’s here.’
She led the way through another door into a small dark room, rather mousy and damp; it had an enormous stone sink in one corner with an innocuous heater above it. She watched while he cleaned the kettle, filled it with water and set it among its more modern fellows on a small enamel gas stove in the kitchen, where it was wedged between a bread oven and a blackleaded monstrosity which might have found favour with Mrs Beeton. This done, he went back to the sink to wash his hands.
