by Betty Neels
‘Doctor Trouw will be here this evening, I believe. He speaks English and will explain all there is to know about my uncle. I hope it has been made clear to you that you are a guest here as well as a nurse, although you will doubtless find yourself called upon frequently enough if my uncle becomes particularly difficult.’
She raised surprised eyes to his. ‘A guest? But I understood Grandfather to say that I was to take care of your uncle, I know he’s not in bed, but he needs someone, and he’s a lot more ill than he allows, isn’t he? And he said himself that nurses don’t stay. Does he really dislike your cousin looking after him?’
He gave a short laugh. ‘I assure you that he does, nor does she like looking after him. Do as you think fit, but I for one shall not hold you to your promise, for you had no idea what it might entail when you gave it, and nor, I believe, did your grandfather. Uncle Georgius is going to get worse very soon now, and he will be what you so aptly describe in your language as a handful.’
‘Look,’ said Mary Jane patiently, ‘you came over to Grandfather when he sent for you and it must have been inconvenient, but I don’t think you would have refused, would you? Well, neither shall I.’
She gave him a determined little nod and the corner of his mouth twitched a little. ‘Very well,’ he said blandly, and turned to go.
‘Just a minute,’ she was self-conscious again, ‘I want to thank you for making my journey so comfortable and for doing so much for us.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘You didn’t know any of us well, you could so easily have refused—you had every right. I—I heard what your uncle said about your backlog of patients.’
‘Like you, I keep my word,’ he told her. ‘Goodbye.’
She watched the Rolls slip away between the trees and told herself that she was well rid of such a cold, disagreeable man, and the feeling which she ascribed to relief at his going was so strong that she very nearly burst into tears.
Mary Jane slipped into the life of the big, silent house quite easily. She was an adaptable girl and her training had made her more so. In only a few days she had taken over all the tiresome chores which Emma van der Blocq disliked so much; the persuading of the old gentleman to rise in the morning when he flatly refused, the coaxing of him to go to bed at a reasonable hour—more, the battle of wills which was fought daily over the vexed question as to whether his pills were to be taken or not. But at least he slept well once he was in his bed and she had turned out the lights save for one small lamp, turned his radio to a thread of sound, arranged the variety of odds and ends he insisted upon having on his bedside table and wished him a cheerful goodnight, however grumpy he was. She was free then, but too tired to do anything other than write an odd letter or so or leaf through a magazine. She was free during the day too, as she was frequently told, both by Jonkheer van der Blocq and his daughter, but somehow it was difficult to get away, for if the old gentleman didn’t want her, Emma van der Blocq did, even if only for a gossip. It wasn’t until several days after her arrival that Mary Jane, during the course of one of these chats, asked her hostess why Jaap always referred to her as Freule—a question which kept Emma van der Blocq happy for an entire afternoon, explaining the intricacies of the Dutch nobility. She added a wealth of information regarding their titles, their houses and lands to a fascinated Mary Jane, who at the end of this dissertation, asked, ‘So what do I call Fabian? He’s a surgeon—is he Mister or Doctor?’
Cousin Emma looked slightly taken aback. ‘But of course you have not fully understood. He is also Jonkheer, he is also a professor of surgery, you comprehend? Therefore he is addressed as Professor Jonkheer van der Blocq.’
‘My goodness,’ observed Mary Jane, ‘what a mouthful!’ Now she knew why he had looked so amused when she had addressed him as Mister. It had been nice of him not to say anything, though it surprised her that he hadn’t taken the opportunity of discomfiting her. Her companion went on earnestly, ‘I am old-fashioned enough to set great store upon these things, but I believe that the young people do not. Fabian may not be young any more, but he does not care in the least about his position, he…’ She was interrupted by the entry of Corrie, the maid, begging her to ask Miss to go at once to the master of the house, and as Mary Jane got obediently to her feet, she said: ‘What a blessing you are to us all. You do not know the relief I feel at not having to answer every call from Papa’s room.’
And Mary Jane, skipping up the stairs for the tenth time that day, could well believe her. She was a little puzzled that nobody had offered to relieve her of her duties from time to time—it would be all right for a week or so, but she began to feel the need for a little relaxation and exercise and for some other distraction other than card games and Cousin Emma’s rather theatrical conversation.
It was the next afternoon, when after a fruitless effort on her part to escape for a walk, she was playing cards with her patient, that he wanted to know what she thought of Fabian.
‘I don’t know him well enough to form an opinion,’ she told him in a matter-of-fact way. ‘He saw to every thing very nicely—we couldn’t have managed without him, and Grandfather liked him.’ She paused and searched her memory. ‘Everyone liked him,’ she said in surprise.
‘But not you?’
Until that moment she hadn’t realised that she had never analysed her feelings towards Fabian. ‘I’ve not thought about it.’
The old gentleman persisted, ‘Perhaps he doesn’t like you?’
She shuffled the cards and dealt them. ‘Probably not. One gets on better with some people than others.’
‘You’re not much to look at.’
‘No—it’s your turn.’
He slammed down a card. ‘Men fall for a pretty face.’
‘So I should imagine.’ She smiled at him across the card table and he glowered back.
Presently he went on, ‘A pretty face isn’t everything. You’re delightful company, Mary Jane; it was good of your grandfather to let me share you. You don’t mind staying a little while?’
She shook her head. ‘Not in the least. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.’
He snorted. ‘Don’t let us wrap up our words. You know as well as I do that I shall probably be dead in a week or so. You’re not bored?’
It was difficult to answer that, because she was, just a little. She longed to get away for an hour or so each day; she had known that she would spend some time with Jonkheer van der Blocq each day, but even private nurses were entitled to their free periods, and she wasn’t a private nurse—Fabian had told her that. He had spoken of trips to Groningen and getting a mount from the nearby stables; so far she had had no time for either, indeed she had no idea where the stables were, and when, on the previous day, she had mentioned going for a walk to Freule van der Blocq, that good lady had reacted quite violently to the suggestion; it seemed that the idea of being left with her father was more than she could bear, so Mary Jane had said no more about it. When Doctor Trouw paid his next visit, she would have a little talk with him and see what could be done.
She had hoped that Fabian would have come, even for half an hour to see how she was managing, but although the telephone rang frequently, she had no means of knowing if any of the calls were from him; it was really rather mean of him, and she decided that she liked him even less than she had supposed, and told herself forcefully that she didn’t care if she never saw him again.
He came the very next morning, while Mary Jane, after a protracted argument between her host and his daughter, was in church. Emma went to church each Sunday, driven by Jaap in the Mercedes Benz which was housed, along with a Mini, in the garage at the back of the house, and she had seen no reason why Mary Jane shouldn’t accompany her. ‘Jaap will be here,’ she had pointed out to her enraged parent, ‘he can help you dress and we shall be back very shortly.’
Her father pointed out testily that if Jaap drove them to church, there would be no one to dress him, and he certainly wasn’t going to wait while Jaap drove around
the countryside just because she wanted to go to church.
Mary Jane, feeling a little like a bone between two dogs, felt her patience wearing thin round the edges. ‘Look,’ she offered when she could make herself heard ‘can’t I drive the Mini? It’s no distance, and that would leave Jaap free.’
So they had gone to church and on the return journey when she turned the little car carefully into the drive once more, it was to find a silver-grey pre-war Jaguar SS 100 parked before the door. She got out and went to inspect it with a good deal of interest; it wasn’t an original but a modern version of it, she discovered as she prowled around its chassis, wondering to whom it belonged, and when Cousin Emma cried happily: ‘Oh, good, Fabian’s here—this is his car,’ Mary Jane, her inquisitive person bent double over the dashboard, remarked:
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not?’ It was Fabian who spoke and startled her so much that she turned round in a kind of jump, and when she didn’t speak, he repeated impatiently, ‘Why not?’
‘Well,’ she said slowly, ‘it’s unexpected—I hardly thought that you…’
‘I’m too old for it?’ His voice was suave.
‘What nonsense, of course not, it’s just that…’ She gave up, staring at him silently. After a moment he laughed and turned to his cousin.
‘Well, Emma, how are you? I’ve been with Oom Georgius. He seems in fine shape, considering all things, though a little annoyed because Mary Jane wasn’t at home.’
He looked at Mary Jane as he spoke, and she, aware of his faintly accusing tone, went red, just as though, she thought crossly, she were in the habit of tearing off for hours at a time, whereas the morning’s outing, if it could be called that, had been the first since she had arrived. She turned on her heel and walked into the house as Cousin Emma burst into voluble speech.
She was in Jonkheer van de Blocq’s room fighting her usual battle over his pills when Fabian came in. He sat down by the fire without speaking, watching her while, with cunning and guile, she persuaded the old man to swallow them down. He still said nothing as she prepared to leave them, only walking to the door to open it for her. She barely glanced at him as she passed through.
They all lunched together in the dining room, and Jonkheer van der Blocq, a little excited at Fabian’s visit, talked a great deal, repeating himself frequently and forgetting his words and showing little flashes of splendid rage when he did. The meal took some time and when it was at last finished he was tired, so that for once, when Mary Jane suggested that he might like to lie down for half an hour, he agreed meekly. She accompanied him upstairs again, tucked him up on the chaise-longue in his room, thoughtfully provided him with a book, his spectacles, the bell and the tin of fruit drops he liked to suck, bade him be a good boy in a motherly voice, and went downstairs.
She was crossing the hall when she heard Fabian’s voice, usually so quiet and measured in its tones, raised in anger and as she reached the door she could hear Cousin Emma doing what she described to herself as a real Sarah Bernhardt. Her hand on the heavy brass knob, she wondered if she should go in, and had her mind made up for her by a particularly loud squawk. At any moment, she thought to herself vexedly, she would have strong hysterics to deal with, thanks to Fabian. She flung open the door to find Freule van der Blocq standing in a tragic pose in the middle of the room, and Fabian lounging against one of the Corinthian pillars which supported the vast fireplace. He spoke sharply.
‘There you are! Perhaps you can answer my questions without weeping and wailing. Have you been out at all since you arrived here?’
‘Oh yes—to church.’
‘Don’t infuriate me, I beg of you, you know very well what I mean. Have you had time to yourself each day, to go out, to ride, to visit Groningen?’
‘Well I…’
‘Yes or no?’ he ground out.
‘You see…’
‘I see nothing, largely owing to your inability to answer my questions.’ He frowned at her. ‘There seems to be some gross misunderstanding; you are here as a guest, to give some time and company to Uncle Georgius at your grandfather’s request. That does not mean that you have to spend each day cooped up in the house at everyone’s beck and call.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Mary Jane told him calmly, ‘just because you’re annoyed. It’s your fault anyway. You should have explained exactly what I was supposed to do—you didn’t tell me much, did you, and I dare say you didn’t tell Freule van der Blocq anything either. I refuse to be blamed, and I won’t allow you to blame her either.’
He gave her a hard stare. ‘Oh? Am I supposed to apologise to you, then?’ his voice was silky and very quiet.
‘No, I don’t suppose any such thing, because I can’t imagine you apologising to anyone, though you could at least say you’re sorry to your cousin. It’s unkind of you to make her cry.’
His eyes had become black, he was still staring at her, rather as though he had never seen her before, she thought uneasily. She shook off the feeling and prompted him, ‘Well, go on—or perhaps you would rather not do with me here.’
She whisked out of the room before he could reply and crossed the hall to the long drawing room, a very much gilded apartment, with a wealth of grand furniture and huge display cabinets full of silver and porcelain. Not at all to her taste; she hurried over the vast carpeted floor and into the verandah room beyond where there was a piano. With the doors shut she was sure no one could hear her playing, and really, she had to do something to take her mind off things. It was a beautiful instrument. She sat down on the stool before it and tried a scale with the soft pedal down and then went on to a rambling mixture of tunes, just as they came into her head. She played tolerably well, disregarding wrong notes and forgetting about the soft pedal but putting in a good deal of feeling. Halfway through a half remembered bit of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, Fabian stalked in, taking her by surprise because he entered by the garden door behind her. She stopped at once, folded her hands tidily in her lap and waited to hear what he had to say.
‘You are the most infuriating girl!’ he began in a pleasantly conversational tone. ‘I have apologised to my cousin; if I apologise to you will you be kind enough to listen to what I have to say?’
‘Of course—though why…’
‘Just listen. I apologise for a start, and now to other matter. It seems that Cousin Emma was so glad to have someone in the house who could handle my uncle that she took advantage of that fact. Unintentionally, I should add. In future you are to take what time you wish for yourself. I know that I can depend upon you to do what you can for Uncle Georgius if and when he becomes worse—I imagine Trouw will give you good warning of that, if it is possible. You are free to go where you wish, is that understood? Have you any money?’
‘Not much.’
‘I will arrange for you to have sufficient for your needs. I will also see Uncle Georgius and explain to him.’
Mary Jane got up and closed the piano. ‘You won’t upset him? He’s such a dear, I like him.’
He gave her a considering look. ‘So do I. If you care to do so, I will drive you over to the riding stables in half an hour and arrange for you to hire a mount.’
‘I should like that—are we going in that Jag?’
Fabian looked surprised. ‘Of course.’ He opened the door and they went through together. ‘You play well.’
‘Thank you—I hope no one minds.’
‘No one will mind.’ They were in the hall again, where he left her to go to his uncle’s room, and she went into the sitting room where his cousin greeted her in a melodramatic manner and a fresh flood of tears. She was still eulogising Fabian, Mary Jane and then Fabian again when the object of her praise walked in, bidding Mary Jane to fetch her coat and go with him—something she was glad to do, for much as she liked Cousin Emma, a little of her went a long way, especially when she was upset.
It was cold in the car, but she had tied her head in a scarf and Fabian had tucked a rug arou
nd her. She sat, exhilarated by the fresh air and their progress through the narrow country roads. The stables were a mile or so away; the journey seemed too short; for once Fabian was being pleasant—she allowed him to choose a quiet mare for her use with the secret resolve to pick out something a little more lively once he was safely back in Groningen—there was no use in annoying him over such a small matter, especially as he seemed disposed to be friendly, indeed he seemed in such a good frame of mind that she was emboldened to ask him how his work was going and whether he was still busy.
‘Yes, just at the moment, but I shall be able to come over from time to time—in any case, there will be some papers for you to sign in a few days—some stocks I am transferring.’ She looked a little blank and he went on smoothly, ‘It seems to me to be somewhat of a paradox that you should trust me without question to attend to your affairs while at the same time you dislike me.’
She bit her lip and wished he wouldn’t say things she couldn’t answer. After a little thought, she said carefully, ‘Well, I haven’t much choice, have I?’ and was annoyed when he laughed.
He went away after tea and she spent most of the evening trying to convince Jonkheer van der Blocq that just because she wanted to go out sometimes it didn’t mean that she didn’t like his company. She played three games of Racing Demon with him to prove her point.
The best time to go riding was in the morning. Mary Jane had an early breakfast and took the Mini over to the stables and rode for an hour. By the time she got back to the house, her host was awake and clamouring for her and his daughter was wanting her company. It worked very well, for they hardly noticed her absence, and she, refreshed by her morning exercise, felt prepared to be at their disposal for the rest of the day. And Fabian had telephoned each day too, to make sure that she was doing as he had asked, and she had answered truthfully enough that she was riding each day. Time enough to go to Groningen—at present the old gentleman needed her company, so did his daughter. She had no great opinion of herself, but she could see that the two of them rubbed each other up the wrong way, and a third party was necessary for peaceful living.
