by Betty Neels
In the room she snatched up her jacket and put it on, found her overnight bag, stuffed it with whatever caught her distracted eye, picked up her gloves and handbag and hurried through the quiet house and out of its door. She still felt very peculiar and her mind wasn’t as clear as it should have been, which was probably why, when she reached the station and joined the ticket-buying queue, she discovered that she had left her wallet and almost all her money, as well as her passport, behind. She could go back, but the risk of encountering Jos was great and she would never be able to think up a plausible story as to why she had gone out with an overnight bag.
The woman in front of her bought a ticket to Valkenburg, and Araminta bought one too, because she remembered that it was a long way from Amsterdam, and that was important… Her state of mind didn’t allow her to realise that her ticket had cost her considerably more than half the money she had with her.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ARAMINTA WAS AWARE that the time spent sitting in the train should be put to good use deciding what to do next, but her mind refused to work. She stared out of the window at the unfamiliar scenery, her head empty of anything but deep misery, and when she saw the woman who had been in front of her in the queue gather up her bags, took her own small bag from the rack, guessing that they would be nearing Valkenburg. When the train came to a halt in the well-kept station, she followed her out on to the platform, gave up her ticket and walked out into the street.
It was already dusk and the wind was decidedly fresh. She thanked heaven that she was wearing her tweed suit and a wool jumper under it, took a reassuring grip of her paltry luggage, and looked around her.
There were several hotels across the quiet street—she dismissed two of them at once; that they were spotlessly clean she had no doubt, but their black net curtains and purple lighting proclaimed them as ultra-modern and frequented by those addicted to pop music. The third hotel was large, brilliantly lighted and quite obviously much too expensive. The thought of the very small sum she had in her purse sent a shiver down her already cold spine, although it didn’t weaken her resolution. Telling herself that there would be any number of small, suitably cheap hotels in a town given over almost entirely to the summer tourist trade, she started briskly for the end of the street. It led in its turn into a wider, busier thoroughfare filled with a fair amount of traffic and lined with more hotels, all regrettably closed for the winter, and so it proved with all the smaller hotels.
Araminta walked, not quite so fast now, round the main streets of the compact little town, with its ruined castle brooding over it. There were several bars open now, filled with cheerful, noisy groups, mostly men, but she was tired and the idea of wrestling with enquiries about a room which might cost too much money, and the difficulty of explaining that she could only afford a certain amount, and that before a crowd of strangers who would probably not understand a word she said, made even her stout heart quail. She retraced her steps, out of the town’s centre, up the hill once more and over the level crossing by the station, feeling a little desperate. She had been a fool to leave Crispin’s house without making sensible plans; without taking sufficient money with her…even as she thought that she knew that she couldn’t have stayed another minute, even though it had been the silliest thing she had ever done in her whole life.
She blinked back tears, gave a defiant sniff, and looked about her. There were a few shops in the street and a number of hotels and guest-houses, all closed, but at the top of the hill there were welcoming lights. Recklessly Araminta walked towards them, longing only for a place in which to put her head for the night. They streamed invitingly from a large hotel standing back from the road; a pleasant place, surrounded by trees and flower beds. It looked warm and cheerful, and without stopping to think she made for its entrance—at least she could have a cup of coffee there.
It was delightfully warm inside and the faint clatter of knives and forks reminded her of her hunger. A little lightheaded at the thought of a meal, she went to the desk and asked if they had a room.
They had, and its cost would take all but a couple of gulden of her money, but she really didn’t care any more. She filled in the form she was offered, took the key and followed the receptionist through the foyer, past the dining room and into a quiet hall, where she was advised to mount the staircase at its centre. ‘Number fifty-five,’ said the receptionist, and left her.
The room was small but well-furnished and warm. Araminta took out the meagre contents of her overnight bag and laid them on the bed: a nightgown, a change of undies, writing paper and envelopes—she wondered why she had put those in—a brush and comb and a bag of hastily collected toilet articles, and that was the lot. She stared at them at though by doing so she could turn them all into the things she had left behind, then picked them up despondently and arranged them on the wash-stand and in a drawer of the dressing table. Even for one uncertain night, one should remain tidy. Then she combed her hair, put her jacket back on again and went downstairs and out into the street. She had noticed a potat frites stall in the town—chips would be filling and only fifty cents a portion, which would leave her enough to buy a cup of coffee at the hotel before she went to bed, pay her bill and still have almost a gulden over—sufficient for a glass of milk, perhaps… She would worry about that in the morning; a good night’s sleep and breakfast would give her back her usual resourcefulness and energy.
She found the stall, bought her paper poke of chips and walked along munching them. She had never eaten chips from a paper bag before and perhaps it wasn’t very good manners, but they hardly mattered now; there was no one to see her, and even if there had been, she didn’t care; the chips were crisp and their warmth was decidedly heartening. She polished off the last crumb and started back to the hotel, feeling much better.
She hadn’t realised that there were quite so many people staying there; middle-aged and downright elderly, they sat at the small round tables covered with Persian rugs, the men drinking beer or gin, the women sipping glasses of wine. There was a band in one corner of the foyer, too; a man at the piano and another younger one, sitting in the centre of an assortment of instruments, with an accordion on his knee, and when the waitress brought her coffee she told Araminta in a mixture of Dutch and English that there was to be an evening’s music for the benefit of the old people’s club staying at the hotel on their annual outing.
Araminta sipped her coffee, making it last, and bent her mind to her problems, but not for long. The band, making up for its lack of size by its enthusiasm, burst into a gay tune which had everyone round her stamping and clapping and presently singing too. The noise was overpowering, but it drowned her sad, frightened thoughts while she sat on, long after her coffee cup had been drained, glad that thinking had become an impossibility.
But presently, despite her determination to stay where she was in such cheerful surroundings, her eye lids began to droop and she made her way up to her room. A good night’s sleep was what she needed; she was tired and headachy and she would need a clear head in the morning. She got ready for bed, laid her head on the pillow and was instantly asleep.
She wakened in less than an hour, her mind crystal clear, ready to tackle all and every problem. Hours later, listening to a chorus of clocks chiming seven, she was forced to the conclusion that none of her problems were surmountable; ideas had raced round and round inside her weary head with all the energy of mice in a wheel, and none of them had been of any use to her at all. She got up and made a slow toilet, unable to do much to her poor white face, for she had only her powder compact and lipstick with her, then she rammed her miserable bits and pieces back into her overnight bag, and went down to breakfast.
The old people’s club were making an early start for home. The more active members were already hatted and coated and waiting for the bus which would take them back to Amsterdam, while the laggards finished their breakfast. Araminta sat down for her own breakfast at a small table in a corner of the dining room and e
yed the basket of assorted breads upon it with hungry pleasure. Despite her headache, she made a good breakfast, washed down by the milkless tea the waiter fetched for her, and felt all the better for it, so that when she had paid her bill and carefully counted the handful of coins which was all she had now, she still felt quite able to cope with whatever the day might bring.
During breakfast the half-formed notion that she might hitchhike her way to Rotterdam and there borrow her fare home from the British Consul had been taking shape in her mind. She had never thumbed a lift in her life, but thousands did, and if they could, so could she. She buttoned her jacket, wishing for a scarf to tie over her head, pulled on her gloves, and pot-valiant from her breakfast, left the hotel. The road north ran past the hotel. She walked along it for a mile or more until she was quite clear of the town and took up her position.
For a little while cars streamed past her, but none of them stopped. She walked on, stopping every few yards to lift her hand at a passing motorist, but her stops became less frequent, for the sky, which had been a cold, unfriendly grey since early morning, had become darker, the clouds whipped up by a mean wind. She had no idea what the time was; she had left her watch behind too—like a fool, she told herself fiercely—and she was on a stretch of road now with no houses in sight and almost no traffic. She had thought innocently enough that she had only to stand by the side of the road and lift a hand for someone to stop. That her appearance was spoiling her chances was something she hadn’t guessed at; a well-dressed young woman, with neat hair and gloved hands holding a smart overnight bag, was so unlike the usual type of lifter that the majority of drivers hardly noticed her, and once or twice, when she had stepped into the road to attract attention, the irate drivers had merely shaken their fists at her.
She stood irresolutely, trying to make up her mind what to do; she could walk on and hope that sooner or later someone would stop, but supposing they didn’t? She might be better off in the town, after all, and a few drops of icy rain decided her. She retraced her footsteps, making plans as she went. She would go to the police station and ask someone there to lend her enough money to get to Rotterdam… She frowned; they would want to know why she wanted the money in the first place, and when she explained, why she had left Crispin’s house in such a hurry, and they would certainly want to know why she had come to Valkenburg, which was, after all, miles away from Amsterdam. If only she had gone to Rotterdam—with enough money—and gone down to the Hoek and got on a boat to Harwich, but she hadn’t, and on second thoughts the police would be no good, they might even clap her in prison. She didn’t know anything about Dutch Law, perhaps it was the same as France where one was sent to prison until one could prove one’s innocence.
She was back in town by now and surprised to find that it was already past two o’clock. She fingered her purse. The thirty-five cents in it weren’t enough for a cup of coffee, but they would be sufficient for a roll or a small bar of chocolate. Araminta settled for the roll, counting the money carefully into one hand as she crossed one of the little bridges over the narrow river which ran through the town between the shopping streets. It was sheer ill-chance that a passer-by in a hurry should bump into her so that she lost her balance, clutched at the bridge railing to keep her feet, and let every single coin in her handfall into the water below.
Araminta stared down at the sluggish little river, and being a girl of some spirit, voiced her thoughts aloud, which, while relieving her pent-up feelings, did nothing to help her. She was now quite penniless, and the sensation wasn’t a pleasant one. She thought of the roll she had been going to buy with passionate longing and told herself in a loud, cross voice because there was no one to hear her: ‘This is the last straw!’
But it wasn’t. The very last straw of all came in the form of more icy rain; it had been falling in a desultory fashion on and off for the last hour, and now it became a sudden torrential downpour, soaking her within seconds.
There was no shelter on the bridge, but at its end she could see what appeared to be an old castle set in a small enclosure of trees and shrubs which would afford some shelter at least, she lost no time in making for it.
It was indeed a castle, half hidden by ivy and bushes against its walls, and although it was small, its vast front door stood open with steps leading down to a second door, firmly shut. But it gave some shelter. Araminta perched gingerly on the bottom step, and presently, with her bag beside her to lean her head on, she went to sleep.
It was still light when she woke up, although the doorway was considerably darkened by Crispin, whose bulk was blocking it. She couldn’t see his face properly, but his voice, icy with rage, set her shivering.
‘You silly little fool,’ he said with suppressed violence, and she remembered in a bemused way that the very first time they had met on the patch of sand below the Cornish cliffs, he had said just that.
He leaned down and plucked her to her feet and caught up her bag. Her empty purse fell to the ground as he did so, and he picked that up too and turned it over in his gloved hand. There was no expression on his face now and she couldn’t understand what he said, but it sounded violent and not quite nice, and even though she wasn’t sure if she were awake or dreaming she said tartly: ‘Don’t you swear your beastly Dutch oaths at me!’
He gave a crack of laughter. ‘Had you no money at all?’ His voice still held that icy anger to make her shiver again; Araminta felt defeated and so unhappy that she had no anger left. She told him in a dreary little voice: ‘I had thirty-five cents, but someone bumped into me on a bridge…it was in my hand and it fell into the water.’
She waited for him to laugh, but he only sighed deeply and said: ‘The car’s in the Dekkerstraat, just over the bridge. Come along.’
‘No,’ said Araminta—a waste of breath, for he took no notice at all, but caught her by the arm and marched her back the way she had come, back over the bridge and across the covered pavement to where the Rolls stood. He opened the door, tossed her on to the front seat and said curtly: ‘Get that wet jacket off—and your shoes.’
Not her shoes, she warned herself silently. She couldn’t run away without shoes, and she would have to do that somehow or other; to go back to Crispin’s house with him was unthinkable. She fought with the buttons of her jacket with numb fingers while the idea of getting money from him in some way or other crept into her tired head, until the doctor took her hands from the buttons and undid them for her in an impatient manner, then tossed her jacket on to the back seat in very much the same way as he had tossed her on to the front one, then he took off her shoes and reached behind him for a mohair rug, into which he wrapped her with impersonal care before unscrewing a small silver flask.
‘Drink this,’ he commanded her in a no-nonsense voice, and when she said: ‘No, I won’t,’ went on, still in the same icy rage: ‘If you don’t, I shall pour it down your throat.’
Araminta opened her mouth then and gulped and spluttered and coughed, and by the time she had her breath Crispin was in the car beside her and the engine was purring gently. The brandy spread its warmth around her insides, creeping into her arms and legs; it also made her feel very peculiar. She made an effort to think clearly, for undoubtedly she would have to have it out with Crispin, and what better time than now? She was wide awake now and not quite as cold as she had been, and she was curious to know just how he had found her. Once they were clear of the town she would ask him to stop and they could each say what they had to say… She essayed to tell him so, gave a small hiccup, and went to sleep.
Her companion made a small sound which might have been a laugh, slowed the car long enough to draw her close so that her head rested against his shoulder, and then sent the Rolls scything its way through a fresh downpour of rain. It was pitch dark now and the curtain of water made it difficult to see, but Crispin didn’t slacken speed. They had joined the motorway now, going north to Eindhoven, and there was almost no traffic. Presently the rain became torrential and far ahea
d of them there was a flicker of lightning. The doctor glanced at the dashboard clock and then at Araminta curled up beside him, dead to the world, and pulled into the next parking bay.
It took a few minutes to waken her and even then she wasn’t in full possession of her wits. ‘When did you eat last?’ he wanted to know.
Araminta opened her eyes unwillingly. ‘Breakfast.’
‘Supper before that?’
She shook her head, and shook it again when he asked: ‘And did you sleep at all last night?’ and then feeling that she wasn’t being polite, she mumbled ‘No,’ before her head tumbled sideways against him again.
The doctor started the car once more, driving slowly now, looking for the signpost he sought. Presently he turned off the motorway into a narrow country lane, awash with water, which led through a small village and then beyond it, curving through fields until it made a final bend into a much larger village with a cobbled street with high walls on either side of it. Its centre was taken up by a church, dimly lighted by a few street lamps, and facing it a row of houses showing a lighted window here and there. Crispin stopped the car and got out into the downpour, to cross the road and inspect the largest of the buildings which bore the appearance of an hotel—which it was, but empty and dark and closed for the winter months. He muttered something under his breath and was about to retrace his steps when he noticed that a few doors down the street there was an inn, its lighted windows revealed it to be small and distinctly cosy, with lace curtains at its windows. Someone inside was playing an accordion and there was a good deal of cheerful noise besides.
