Tempestuous April

by Betty Neels

  ‘You’re peaked. You must be sickening for something.’

  Harriet made haste to deny this. ‘Of course I’m not, William—I told you, I’m just tired.’ There was an edge to her voice; he heard it and frowned. She was his favourite sister and she wasn’t at all her usual serene self.

  She used the same excuse for her mother, who, however, wasn’t so easily satisfied with her explanation.

  ‘Harriet told me she was tired,’ she mused as she and her husband were getting ready for bed. ‘She’s never tired—not that sort of tired,’ she added obscurely. ‘And you’re not going to tell me that she finds her job too much for her.’

  Her husband yawned. ‘I had no intention of telling you anything, my dear, but our Harry has certainly lost her zest for life. Anaemic, perhaps?’

  Harriet’s mother gave him a withering look. ‘Anaemic!’ she snorted. ‘She’s in love, of course. She looked like this when she came home from her holiday and everyone said it was the journey. It’s that partner in Franeker—that Dr Eijsinck. She mentioned him in every letter, but she’s not so much as breathed his name since she came back.’

  ‘Couldn’t you ask her?’ queried the doctor.

  His wife paused in her hair-brushing. ‘No, dear. She’ll tell me if and when she wants to.’ She started brushing again with unnecessary vigour. ‘Poor little Harry!’

  The village street looked very pleasant as Harry strolled along on her way to the village stores, the following afternoon. It was warm and sunny, and at that hour of the day, when the children had gone back to school and their mothers were still tidying up after dinner in their cosy thatched cottages, it was very quiet indeed. The late spring sunshine beat down on her neatly piled hair, turning it to an even brighter gold; she was wearing a sleeveless knitted dress, the same pale pink as the washed walls of the cottages, and she looked prettier than ever despite her dismal feelings. There was no one in Mr Smallbone’s shop; only Mr Smallbone himself, standing behind his polished counter. It was dim inside and smelled pleasantly of biscuits and coffee and, more faintly, of cheese. She put her basket down on the counter in front of him and he took off his glasses and beamed at her and said in his creaky old voice,

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Harriet. Home again, I see.’

  He always said that, ever since she had gone to hospital to start her training, and as always, she smiled and said, ‘Yes, Mr Smallbone. Days off again. I’ve brought Mother’s order.’ She waited while he went through the small ritual of writing the name and address in his order book in a large crabby hand. This done, he put the pencil down, reached under the counter and brought out a tin of chocolate biscuits and proffered them with an air of long custom—which indeed it was; she could remember Mr Smallbone’s biscuits back through the years. She took one now and started to nibble at it the while she started on her list. They were debating the type of bacon she should purchase when she heard the shop door open behind her. Mr Smallbone looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ and Friso’s voice answered him.

  Harriet had no breath in her body and her heart was thumping madly. She looked unseeingly at the side of bacon Mr Smallbone was holding up for her inspection, then cautiously turned her head and stared unbelievingly. She closed her eyes and opened them again; Friso was still there. Her heart had got into her throat, making it hard for her to speak. She swallowed it back and managed, ‘Friso,’ in a dieaway voice, and then, ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘In person, my dear girl. And how is Miss Slocombe? Are you enjoying your new status as Ward Sister?’ He studied her carefully with a faint smile. ‘I can’t say it’s improved your looks. Maybe it isn’t your true vocation in life, after all.’

  She had been feeling pale, but this remark brought a fine flush to her cheeks, and because she felt uncertain she said rather crossly,

  ‘If that’s all you came to say, you can go away again!’

  She turned her back on him, although it cost her an effort to do so, and said loudly to Mr Smallbone, ‘I’ll take the small back, I think, cut on number seven.’ And heard Friso say, just as though neither Mr Smallbone or the bacon had been there, ‘No, it is by no means all I came to say, and I have no intention of going away.’

  Mr Smallbone finished writing about the bacon and looked up, not at her but over her shoulder at the doctor. He said nothing, but his blue eyes twinkled as he took the list from her unresisting hand, laid it tidily in the order book, and came from behind his counter to cross the shop to the door, where he turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, pulled down the old-fashioned linen blind and turned the key in the lock. With the faintest glimmer of a smile at them both, he walked back again, opened the lace-curtained door at the back of the shop and disappeared behind it. In the utter silence which followed, his voice could be heard—a faint dry murmur, followed by an unmistakable chuckle. Harriet still had her back to Friso, but when he said quietly, ‘Turn round, Harriet,’ she did so. After all, she couldn’t stand for ever with her back to him. She did it reluctantly, though, holding her shopping basket in front of her like a shield. There was a loose strand of cane in the handle, and she began twisting it and untwisting it; it was something to do. She watched Friso, wondering what he would say, and was conscious of disappointment when he remarked casually,

  ‘I’ve been to see your parents.’

  She thought about this for a moment; there seemed no suitable answer, so she said ‘Oh?’ in a cool voice, which, despite her efforts, held a small tremor. She said ‘Oh’ again in a quite different voice, however, when he thundered, ‘Leave that damn basket alone and attend to me, Harry!’

  He was, she saw, quite exasperated and very tired. The sight of him so made her want to cry, but crying was something she had done a great deal of in the last two weeks, and she had no intention of starting again.

  He smiled suddenly and tenderly and the tiredness vanished.

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s you I shall marry, my pretty.’

  ‘But how can I be your pretty?’ She had lost control of her voice and was appalled to hear it spiral into a near-wail.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he interposed, ‘I should have explained, but seeing you again has emptied my head of all good sense.’ He walked towards her, coming so close that she was forced to tilt her head back to see his face. His great arm folded around her to crack her ribs with its strength.

  ‘This first,’ he said quietly, ‘for I have no more patience.’ He bent and kissed her mouth with a tender fierceness that blotted out the ache in her ribs. ‘My dear darling,’ he said presently, ‘I’ve loved you since we first met—I fell in love with you five weeks ago when I saw you in Franeker, standing on the pavement staring at me with your great blue eyes and smiling.’

  ‘Did you really?’ asked Harriet with interest. ‘You looked at me as though I were a lamp-post!’ She was prevented from enlarging upon this nonsensical idea by the simple expedient of being kissed again—something which proved so satisfactory to them both that there was quite a pause before Friso said,

  ‘I couldn’t quite believe that I had found you at last.’

  ‘But you drove away.’

  His eyes were dancing, though he answered gravely enough.

  ‘Against my inclination, my lovely girl—luckily common sense prevailed. You see I was pretty sure who you were; I knew that I should see you again—and soon. I could hardly leave Roswitha in the middle of Franeker while I…’

  ‘Roswitha,’ said Harriet rather sharply. ‘The brunette—the beautiful brunette…’

  ‘The dominee’s daughter—occasionally I give her a lift in the car. She works in Alkmaar.’

  ‘And the beautiful blonde—the one at Sieske’s party?’

  ‘The daughter of an old friend—I had to bring someone, you know.’ He was laughing at her until she said, ‘Oh, Friso, dear! Please explain. Taeike told me you were going to be married.’ She looked at him, appalled at her muddled thoughts which so
mehow had to be voiced. She had her mouth open to speak when he put a gentle finger on her lips.

  ‘No, listen, my dear love, listen to me. You shall scold me later if you wish. I promise that I will be meek.’

  She was between laughter and tears. ‘Friso, you’re never meek!’

  ‘Am I not? In that case, I daresay we shall quarrel a great deal when we are married—that is, if we can find the time, for I shall have my patients and you will have the children.’

  She felt his arms tighten and sighed deeply, a sigh of pure content. ‘Shall we go sailing in your botter?’ she asked. ‘You said once that it was very suitable for children.’

  He said, his deep voice full of laughter, ‘I can see that, what with quarrelling and sailing and bringing up children, we are going to lead a very busy life; although there will be time for other things—such as this.’ He bent his head again, and for the moment at any rate, Harriet forgot all about the botter. Rendered breathless, she nevertheless managed to repeat, ‘Please explain, Friso. I’ve been so unhappy.’

  ‘It was Taeike—and I blame myself; for it should never have happened. You see, dearest, I have known her since she was a toddler and to me she was—is still a child. But she’s fourteen, you know, and has her mind full of dreams and fancies—’ he paused. ‘She saw that we loved each other and she tried to stop us. When you were in Amsterdam she came to see me—she told me that you were going to marry someone in England, she showed me a snapshot of you both. I had no reason to disbelieve her. It could have been true, for sometimes you behaved as though you couldn’t stand the sight of me, and I had let you see that I cared, but I had to be sure that you felt the same way.’ He stopped and kissed the top of her head in a contemplative manner. ‘I learned the whole a few days after you left; she told me then that she had told you a similar story, but she likes you very much, Harry, and she couldn’t bear to make us unhappy any longer.’ He chuckled. ‘It was a snapshot of your brother, by the way.’

  ‘Poor Taeike,’ said Harriet, in a voice comfortably muffled in his shoulder.

  ‘She’ll get over it, darling—already has, for I told her that when she would be old enough to marry me I should be as old as her father. I fancy I shall be looked upon in the light of an uncle in future.’

  Harriet reached up and clasped her arms around his neck. ‘None of it matters, does it?’ she said. They smiled at each other and then drew apart; the faint squeak of the door sounded almost apologetic.

  Mr Smallbone peered at them with a conspiratorial air. ‘The afternoon trade,’ he murmured.

  Friso loosed Harriet. ‘Of course,’ he said, and went and changed the sign round again, pulled up the blind and opened the door on to a small group of puzzled and slightly indignant housewives. He smiled at them with charm, so that they smiled back, mollified, their ill-feelings forgotten. He ushered them into the shop and went back to stand by Harriet. He looked across the counter at Mr Smallbone, and said loudly enough for everyone there to hear him.

  ‘Thank you for your kindness, Mr Smallbone. Perhaps we can repay it in some small part by inviting you to our wedding—tomorrow morning at eleven. In the church, of course.’

  He took Harriet by the arm and led her out of the shop amidst a sudden outbreak of excited talk. Outside in the road she stopped and peeped up at him, and said almost timidly,

  ‘Friso, dear Friso, you can’t mean eleven o’clock tomorrow.’ Her voice wavered. ‘The hospital—my work— Mother and Father—no clothes…’ her voice faltered and rose to a squeak. ‘The licence!’

  He tucked her arm rather more firmly into his. ‘I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything,’ he said with calm. ‘My dear love, why do you suppose it took me so long to come to you?’

  They started to walk down the road, between the cottages. Harriet felt her hand taken and held in Friso’s own. It all seemed impossible, but if he said that everything had been arranged…they would be together for always. As though he had read her thoughts, she heard him say, ‘Remember our Friesian oath, darling? I told you then that loving is for ever.’

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4879-3

  TEMPESTUOUS APRIL

  Copyright © 1970 by Betty Neels.

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