The Edge of Winter

by Betty Neels

  CHAPTER SIX

  ARAMINTA, NATURALLY ENOUGH, spent a great deal of the night deep in thought, a circumstance hardly likely to improve her day, which, when it came, was far worse than anything she could have imagined. Bertram had been fetched after breakfast, to spend yet another day at his friend’s home, and that had left Thomas and herself. She had cleared up while he gloomed round the flat, making no effort to help her, and it wasn’t until she was almost finished that he disclosed the fact that a dozen or so people would be coming back after the funeral.

  Araminta paused in her carpet sweeping. ‘Thomas, you never said a word! Will they want coffee and sandwiches? There’s no time…’

  ‘Naturally I shall offer my friends refreshment,’ he told her. ‘I’ve arranged for sandwiches to be sent in, all that’s required of you is to make and serve the coffee.’

  He was hateful! She felt her temper rising and tried to subdue it so that she could answer him in a normal voice. ‘I’ll do my best—and Thomas, I’ve had no chance to tell you, but you must have guessed, anyway. I’m going back to St Katherine’s tomorrow—an early morning flight.’ That wasn’t quite true, but he might argue with her unless she was quite definite. She would have to make arrangements later on; she didn’t want to stay any longer now, she had done all she could, and a thankless task it had been, too. She listened, not very attentively, to his prosy voice going on and on about her lack of loyalty, her selfishness and the impossibility of coping with the flat, the shopping, Bertram and above all, his work. When he paused for breath she observed sensibly: ‘Well, Thomas, you’ve had two or three days in which to find a housekeeper, and surely your friends will rally round—they always do, you know.’

  ‘Naturally they will,’ he said stiffly, ‘but I’m more than surprised that you should bring up the subject of leaving today of all days.’

  She turned to face him, very pink. ‘But today isn’t any different from any other for you, is it? You aren’t grieved about Thelma, are you, so why pretend?’

  She had gone to the kitchen and started banging the cups and saucers on to the trays, longing for the day to be over.

  Four hours later, listening to the church bells ringing out one o’clock, she realised that there was still a lot of the day left. Thomas’s friends had come back with them, and sat around drinking the coffee she handed round, and the sandwiches—not nearly enough—had all been eaten up so that she had had to go to the kitchen and cut more. They had talked in loud, high voices, commiserating with Thomas while they cast accusing looks at Araminta. Thomas had obviously got them all on his side—and no one mentioned Thelma. Araminta disappeared into the kitchen as soon as she could and began on the piles of crockery. She had no wish to wash up, but it would be something to do, and it would be better to clean the cups and saucers than throw them around the kitchen, an action which would have suited her mood exactly. She was half was through her task when the door bell rang; no one would hear it in the living room, judging from the hubbub of talk going on there, so she wiped her hands down the front of her apron and went to see who it was.

  Crispin slid his bulk round the door, and the mere sight of him sent such a wave of happiness through her that she had much ado not to clasp her soapy hands round his neck.

  He closed the door gently behind him and surveyed her slowly before observing: ‘You look like Cinderella—why are you covered in an apron?’

  ‘I’m washing up—Thomas’s friends came back here…’ she choked suddenly and felt his arm on her shoulder.

  ‘Go and take that thing off and put on a coat and something on your head, for it’s cold—we’re going out.’

  ‘Out?’ she repeated foolishly. ‘What about the hospital—your patients—it’s only a little past one o’clock…’

  ‘What a girl you are for keeping my nose to the grindstone! Occasionally I give myself a half day—I’m having one now. Go and get your coat.’

  ‘Thomas?’

  He smiled, looking all at once forbidding and quite frighteningly remote. ‘Leave Thomas to me,’ he advised her blandly.

  Going downstairs with him five minutes later she asked apprehensively: ‘Was he angry?’

  ‘So-so, my dear, so-so. At what time do you leave tomorrow?’

  She stopped on the landing the better to explain. ‘Though it doesn’t really matter, just as long as I can get away from here early. There must be dozens of flights—anyway, there are boats too,’ she added vaguely.

  ‘Leave it to me. I’ll telephone presently and get you a morning flight, if that’s what you want. Have you telephoned the hospital?’

  Araminta’s lovely eyes grew round. ‘Oh, no, I quite forgot—there’s still time?’

  ‘Of course there is, goose. Have you enough money?’

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world that he should ask her that, so she answered him matter-of-factly: ‘Yes, thank you. I took a single ticket when I came because I didn’t know how long I’d be here.’

  Crispin took her arm and they went out into the bleak afternoon and crossed the pavement to where a Rolls-Royce Carmargue was parked. When the doctor unlocked its door and invited her to enter, she hesitated. ‘But where’s the Jensen?’ she wanted to know.

  He went round the beautiful bonnet and got in beside her. ‘At home. When I take a long trip I use this one.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘I hope it makes up for the kaas broodje.’

  ‘I’ve never been in a Rolls before,’ she confided, and then remembered what he had just said. ‘You were saying a long trip…’

  ‘Not so very long; to the sea to blow some colour into that white face of yours and then up to Friesland and back through the Veluwe—that’s one of the prettiest parts of Holland, although it will be dark long before we get there—all the same, you’ll see a little of the country.’

  ‘How lovely’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘The day’s been beastly, and now it’s marvellous!’

  She didn’t see the gleam in his eyes as he allowed the Rolls to slide into the traffic. They didn’t talk much as he drove through the city and out of it again on to the motorway to den Haag. Here there was room and to spare on the broad road even though the traffic was heavy. The car shot forward into a silent speed and the doctor asked abruptly: ‘Do you want to talk about this morning? It will help, you know.’

  Araminta drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, may I? Just—just to get it off my chest.’

  ‘Quite—talk on, my dear.’

  She wasn’t his dear—at least she didn’t think so. He liked her, it had been wonderful to discover that, but it was just possible that he wanted her to go away so that he could discover if he did more than like her. Falling in love, she reflected, must come in a number of ways. It had hit her on the head; a great thump from which she was still recovering, but perhaps for some people it was a slow process and they weren’t quite sure about it for a considerable time.

  ‘I’m listening,’ said Crispin patiently, and she abandoned her thoughts and plunged into an account of the morning. She paused a good deal and started any number of sentences she never finished, but she knew that she had her companion’s attention. She petered out finally and he said in a kind voice: ‘That’s better, isn’t it? We’re just coming into den Haag; we’ll go on to Scheveningen and take a quick walk by the sea, that should blow the last unhappy thoughts from your head.’

  He began to point out the places which he thought might interest her as they edged their way through the crowded streets and then picked up speed again for the last mile or two to the coast.

  It was hardly the day for a walk. There was a howling gale blowing into their faces and great grey clouds sweeping in from the sea to smother the colourless sky above them. Araminta, with the doctor’s arm through hers, stepped out briskly into the teeth of the wind, her gorgeous hair streaming from beneath her scarf, her eyes watering, and with barely enough breath to breathe with, let alone talk. But it made her feel wonderful, and when they turned back, bowling along now at a
fine pace, she cried: ‘This is great!’

  Crispin came to a halt and turned her round to look at her. ‘Pink cheeks,’ he observed, ‘and a pink nose too.’ He bent to kiss it lightly and walked on, sweeping her along with him.

  ‘Tea?’ he suggested when they reached the car.

  She could think of nothing nicer, and then clapped her hand to her head. ‘But I can’t; not like this—my hair’s all over the place.’

  ‘Put it back where it belongs then.’ He sat patiently, holding pins and comb and anything else she thrust at him, assuring her finally that she looked very nice as she tied her scarf back on.

  They had tea at Maison Krul, in a delightful atmosphere redolent of Queen Victoria. It was still early in the afternoon and there were few customers. Araminta, eating some of the richest cakes she had ever seen in her life, suspected that Crispin had brought her there because it was exactly the kind of teashop a girl would like, a thought which triggered off another, not so pleasant idea. Perhaps he was in the habit of bringing all his girl-friends here. She frowned so fiercely that he wanted to know what ailed her. ‘Nothing,’ she declared hastily, and added ingenuously: ‘What do you usually do when you have a free afternoon?’

  She had asked for it—that mocking little smile, that pleasantly snubbing voice: ‘Why, Araminta, exactly what I am doing now, of course, taking the prettiest girl I know out to tea.’

  She bent her head over her plate, feeling a fool. And yet he had hinted at all kinds of things—or hadn’t he? Had she been indulging in wishful thinking? After a moment she said in a cold voice: ‘I’m sure they must enjoy that very much.’

  Crispin seemed bent on needling her. ‘I enjoy it too.’ He grinned at her across the little round table. ‘Have another of these cakes.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She wondered how many other girls he had said just those words to, and as though he had read her thoughts, he said quietly—and there was no mockery now: ‘You’re not just a pretty girl I’m taking out to tea, Araminta.’

  On the road once more they travelled fast, bypassing Leiden, which, the doctor pointed out, needed several days in order to explore it properly, and then racing up the motorway to Alkmaar, to turn off across the rather bare countryside along the road leading to the Afsluitdijk. The afternoon was clearer now, with a watery sun getting low in the sky, and it was still possible to see something of the country around them. The doctor kept up a running commentary and Araminta, wishing to miss nothing, peered from side to side, asking endless questions, which he answered with remarkable patience.

  They seemed to flash across the Afsluitdijk and once on the mainland of Friesland, they skirted Harlingen to turn off on to a minor road so that she might see something of Franeker and its splendid town hall. Leeuwarden, when they reached it soon after, was already brightly lighted, its streets bustling with shoppers, for it was getting dark now, but the Rolls’ powerful headlamps lighted the road ahead of them as they took the road south, through Heereveen and Steenwijk and Meppel and on to Deventer. Araminta couldn’t see much now, but the soundless speed of the car was very soothing; she could have gone on for ever and she had lost count of the time. It was only when Crispin observed: ‘We’re going to have a meal soon, just a few miles the other side of Amersfoort,’ that she realised how hungry she was.

  They left the motorway at Amersfoort and took a country road to Scherpenzeel, a large village where Crispin parked the car outside an old country inn with which Araminta instantly fell in love. The food matched its attractive appearance, too; she ate with a good appetite, her cheeks still nicely pink, her eyes sparkling. They didn’t hurry over their meal; the restaurant was almost empty and no one seemed impatient for them to go. Araminta, her tongue loosened by the warmth and good food, had quite a lot to say, more than she had intended perhaps, led gently on by her companion’s quiet comments and questions. She forgot the time completely, and it wasn’t until they were in the car again, driving the last thirty odd miles back to Amsterdam that she looked at the clock and exclaimed in a bemused voice: ‘It’s after nine o’clock! I had no idea—we must have driven miles…’

  He flashed her a smile. ‘About three hundred miles.’

  ‘It seemed… I’ve forgotten this morning,’ she confessed.

  ‘That is what I hoped.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything about my seat on the plane—it’s too late.’

  ‘I think not. We’ll call in at the house and telephone Schiphol.’

  She relaxed again. It was lovely to be taken care of, not to have to make plans and worry about times and flights and cooking meals. She closed her eyes in a happy daze and presently her tired head slid sideways on to Crispin’s shoulder.

  He wakened her gently when they reached the house, and she apologised, feeling foolish, until he told her: ‘Your head fitted very nicely into my shoulder—I enjoyed the experience.’ He smiled at her and her heart jumped a little. It was a good thing that Jos opened the door then and they went inside, into the softly lighted hall and thence to the cosy little room at the back of the house, where Araminta was told to sit down while the doctor telephoned. Jos appeared seconds later with coffee, and Crispin broke off his conversation to ask her to pour out, something she did very carefully from the beautiful silver coffee pot. She handed him a fragile porcelain cup and said: ‘I ought to be at the flat—it’s late.’

  He only smiled as he sat down opposite her. ‘I’ve booked a seat for you on the midday flight tomorrow, I have to be at the hospital, but Jos will call for you and drive you to Schiphol.’ And when she protested. ‘No, Araminta, don’t argue.’

  She stammered a little. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she began awkwardly.

  ‘There’s something more than kindness between us,’ he told her quietly.

  Her cup rattled in the saucer as she set it down, and she said quickly for something to say: ‘It will be awfully strange working in hospital again—it seems like another life.’

  ‘But not for long. I’ll make no promises about seeing you again, Araminta, because it isn’t easy for me to make plans and keep to them. You understand that?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She smiled brightly, but her mouth had gone dry. Did he mean that he didn’t intend them to meet again? she wondered—perhaps it would be as well if she believed that. She went on, her voice stiff with her efforts to keep it casual: ‘Thank you for being so helpful—I don’t know what I should have done without you. It was strange that we should have met again, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not strange at all,’ he corrected her. ‘These things are meant. Do you know your Tennyson? Doesn’t he say something about: “Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed…”’ He stared at her for a long moment. ‘You’re twenty-five, Araminta, and I am almost forty. Fifteen years is a big difference—not for me, perhaps, but for you, with those great blue eyes and golden hair.’ He sighed, and she sought for words to tell him that the years didn’t matter at all, that she was quite sure, but before she could speak Crispin had got to his feet. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he begged her. ‘When you’re back in England, whatever you feel now, you will probably forget me.’

  A remark so unjust that she almost cried out in protest. But he gave her no chance to speak, but caught her by the arm and marched her to the door for all the world as though he wanted to be rid of her. All of a sudden he had become remote and ill-humoured—she knew that whatever she said, she wouldn’t be able to reach him. She allowed herself to be driven back to the flat, chattering in a meaningless fashion as they went, desperate that he shouldn’t see that she was hurt and bewildered as well as angry. She had been given no chance…

  He took the key from her at the flat door and opened it for her. ‘Jos will be here at half past ten,’ he told her. He was the casual, kind-hearted friend again; his kiss was light and quick and meant nothing at all. He was whistling as he went back down the stairs.

  Araminta went to bed and cried herself to sleep. How could a girl tell a man she loved
him when he didn’t I want to be told? She woke up in the morning with a fearful headache, and the knotty problem, returning the moment she opened her eyes, made it even worse.

  It was raining when she opened the door of her little flat, and she put on all the lights and turned on the gas fire before she took off her coat. The place looked more cheerful then. A cup of tea, she told herself resolutely, fighting an overpowering loneliness, and then she would telephone her father and let him know that she was home again. She went through to the bedroom with her case; she would unpack presently, it was still early afternoon and there was nothing for her to do for the rest of the day. She shied away from the thought. It was a good thing that she was going on duty in the morning; there was nothing like hard work to make the days go quickly. She sat down to drink her tea and think about her journey. It had been easy; Jos had arrived at the flat in good time to drive her to Schiphol. Thomas had gone to work by then, bidding her a grudging goodbye and an even more grudging thanks, so that Jos’s appearance had cheered her up a little. He wasn’t a chatty man, but he answered her small talk with respectful monosyllables, saw to her luggage and her ticket, and bought her a pile of magazines before seeing her off in a fatherly manner, waiting until she was aboard the plane. She had turned to look for him at the last moment and had seen him in the distance and waved goodbye. Not just to him, but to a great many other things as well. She refused to put them into coherent thought.

  She got up at last, washed the tea things and went to unpack. She would have to go to the shops, for there was nothing in the house to eat and she would never have time to shop in the morning; she would have to go and see Miss Best too. She sighed. The prospect of returning to St Katherine’s had suddenly become dull and uninteresting. Perhaps a change of job? Another part of the country, or a week or so at Dunster? She toyed with the idea and rejected it just as the door bell rang.