by Betty Neels
She left the hospital the following day, just before noon, and was driven to Fabian’s house by Klaus, who called to fetch her from her room in the private wing of the hospital, explaining that his chief had told him to do so—further-more, he was to see her safely installed with Mevrouw Hol and call daily until such time as her guardian told him not to. Mary Jane, now she was up and about, was disappointed to find that she still had a headache, it made her irritable and she would have liked to have disputed this high-handed measure on Fabian’s part, but she couldn’t be bothered. She accepted the news without comment and closed her eyes against the dullness of the city streets.
But inside Fabian’s house it wasn’t dull at all, but gay with flowers and warm and welcoming. Mevrouw Hol was a dear; round and cosy and middle-aged with kind blue eyes and a motherly face. Mary Jane, whose headache had reached splitting point, took one look at her and burst into tears, to be instantly comforted, led to a chair by the fire in the sitting room where she had tea with Fabian, divested of her outdoor things, told not to worry, and given coffee while Klaus tactfully left them to fetch her case and carry it upstairs. He joined her for coffee presently, ignoring her blotched face, and when they had finished it, ordered her to lie down the minute she had eaten the lunch Mevrouw Hol was even then bringing to her on a tray. He gave her some tablets too, with strict instructions to take them as directed. ‘And mind you do,’ he warned her kindly, ‘or the chief will have my head.’ He got up. ‘I’m going now, but I shall be here tomorrow morning to see how you are. Mevrouw has instructions to telephone if you feel at all under the weather.’
Mary Jane smiled shakily at him. ‘You make me feel as though I were gold bullion at the very least!’
‘Better than that,’ he grinned, ‘above rubies.’ He lifted a hand. ‘Be seeing you!’
She ate her lunch under Mevrouw Hol’s watchful eye and went upstairs to lie down. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking a very small paved courtyard, set around with tubs full of Algerian irises and winter-sweet. The room was delightful, not very large and most daintily furnished in the Chippendale style with Toile de Jouy curtains in pink and a thick white carpet underfoot. She looked round her with some interest, for it didn’t seem at all the kind of room Fabian would wish for in his home. She had always imagined that above stairs, the rooms would be furnished with spartan simplicity. She didn’t know why she had thought that, perhaps because he was a bachelor, but of course, the house would have been furnished years ago, for everything was old and beautiful. As she closed her eyes she thought how nice it would be to live in the old house, nicer than her grandfather’s even.
She felt much better the following morning. She had done nothing for the rest of the previous day, only rested and eaten her supper under Mevrouw Hol’s kindly eye and gone to bed again, and now after a long night’s rest she felt quite herself again, even her headache had gone.
Perhaps it was her peaceful surroundings, she thought, as she accompanied the housekeeper on a gentle tour of the kitchen regions, for it was peaceful back in the hall she stood still, listening to the rich ticktock of the elaborate wall clock before wandering into the sitting room to sit, quite content, in one of the comfortable chairs, doing nothing. The sound of the great knocker on the front door roused her though and she got up to greet Klaus, who, after carrying out a conscientious questioning as to her state of health, joined her for coffee. He stayed for half an hour, talking gently about nothing in particular, and when he got up to go, promised to return the next day. When she assured him that this was quite unnecessary, he looked shocked and told her that he had been asked to do so by the chief and would on no account go against his wishes. Nor would he allow her to go out, not that day, at any rate.
‘Well,’ said Mary Jane, a little pettish, ‘anyone would think that I had a subdural or a CVA or something equally horrid. I only bumped my head…’
‘And caught a cold,’ he told her, laughing.
Two more days passed and she felt quite well again. Even her cold had cleared up and Klaus, looking her over carefully each morning, had to admit at last that he could find nothing wrong with her, a remark which caused her to ask: ‘Well, when’s Professor van der Blocq coming back?’
Klaus put down his coffee cup and looked at her in bewilderment. ‘Coming back? But he has never been away.’ His pleasant face cleared. ‘Ah, you mean when does he come back to his house? Very soon, I should suppose, for I am able to give him a good account of you today, so surely he will not allow you to return to your home.’ He grinned at her disarmingly. ‘He is not of our generation, the chief—he holds old-fashioned views about things which we younger men think nothing of.’
She went a bright, angry pink. ‘Don’t talk as though he were an old man!’ she said sharply. ‘And I share his views.’
Klaus smiled ruefully. ‘I see that I must beg your pardon, and I do so most sincerely. You must not think that I mock at the chief—he is a mighty man in surgery and a good man in his life and much liked and respected—I myself would wish to be like him.’ He looked at her with curiosity. ‘You knew, then, that he was living in the hospital until you are well enough to leave his house?’
‘Of course.’ Her voice, even to her own ears, sounded satisfyingly convincing. ‘I am his ward, you know. It’s like having a father…’
The absurdity of the remark struck her even as she made it. Fabian was no more like a father than the young man sitting opposite her. ‘Well, not quite,’ she conceded, ‘but you know what I mean.’
He agreed politely, although she could see that he had little idea of what she meant; she wasn’t certain herself. He got up to go presently, wishing her goodbye because he didn’t expect to see her again, ‘Although I daresay that you will visit your guardian from time to time,’ he hazarded, ‘and I expect to be here for some years.’
She gave him a smiling reply, longing for him to go so that she could have time to herself to think. To learn that Fabian had been in Groningen all the time she had been at his house, and had made no effort to come and see her, had been a shock she was just beginning to realize. Maybe he was old-fashioned in his views, she was herself, and she could respect him for them, but not even the most strait-laced member of the community could have seen any objection to him going to see her in his own house—or telephoning, for that matter—and surely he could have said something to her? There was only one possible explanation, he was quite indifferent to her; considered her a nuisance he felt obliged to suffer until she was fit to return home. It would have been nice to have confronted him with this, but then he might ask her how it was that she knew he had been in Groningen, and unless she could think of some brilliant lie, poor Klaus would get the blame for speaking out of turn. She allowed several possibilities, most of them highly impractical, to flit through her head before deciding regretfully that she was a poor liar in any case, and she would not have the nerve, not with Fabian’s dark, penetrating gaze bent upon her, so she discarded them all to explore other possibilities.
She could run away—a phrase she hastily changed to beating a retreat—if she did that, it would save Fabian the necessity of arranging her journey and at the same time save her pride and allow him to see that she was quite able to look after herself. She didn’t need his help, she told herself firmly, in future she would have nothing to do with him. Doubtless he would be delighted—had he not told her that she was tiresome to him? Mary Jane paced up and down the comfortable room, in a splendid rage which was almost, but not quite, strong enough to conceal her love for him. But for the time being, it served its purpose—she would write him a letter, thanking him for all he had done… She began to plot, sitting before the fire in the pleasant room.
By lunch-time she had it all worked out, she would leave that very afternoon. She wouldn’t be able to take her case with her, but Klaus had said that she might go for a short walk if she had a mind to. He had told Mevrouw Hol this—it made it all very easy; she had her passport and
plenty of money still, she could buy what she needed as she went, and this time she would fly—it would be quicker and she supposed that there would be several flights to London once she got to Schiphol. She ate her lunch on a wave of false excitement and over her coffee began the letter to Fabian.
Her pen was poised over the paper while she composed a few dignified sentences in her head when the door opened and he walked in. If he saw her startled jump and the guilty way she tried to hide her writing pad and pen, he said nothing.
‘Young Vliet tells me you’re quite recovered,’ he began without preamble. ‘I’ve arranged for you to travel home this evening.’
She gazed at him speechlessly, feeling dreadfully deflated after all her careful planning, and when she didn’t speak, he went on, ‘I expected you to express instant delight, instead of which you look flabbergasted and dreadfully guilty. What have you been doing?’
‘Nothing—nothing at all.’ Her voice came out in a protesting, earnest squeak. ‘I’m surprised, that’s all. I—I was—that is…’ She remembered something. ‘Did you have a nice time in Utrecht?’
‘Yes. I see you’re writing letters—leave them here and I’ll see that they’re posted.’
She was breathless. ‘No—that is, they’re not important—there’s no need…’ She tore the sheet across and crumpled it up very small and threw it on the fire. She had only got as far as ‘Dear Fabian,’ but she didn’t want him to see even that. She sighed loudly without knowing it and said with a brightness born of relief, ‘There, I can write all the letters I want to when I get home.’
Fabian had seated himself opposite her and was pouring himself the coffee which Mevrouw Hol had just brought in. ‘Not to Mervyn, I hope?’
‘Mervyn?’ She stared at him, her mouth a little open. She had forgotten about Mervyn because there wasn’t anyone else in the world while Fabian was there. ‘Oh, Mervyn,’ she said at last, ‘no, of course not. I don’t know where he is.’ She stared at the hands in her lap. ‘I don’t want to know, either.’
‘The temptation to say “I told you so” is very great, but I won’t do that.’ He put down his cup. ‘The train leaves here about six o’clock—do you need anything or wish to go anywhere before you leave?’
He wanted her out of the way. She got to her feet and said coldly, ‘No, thank you—I’ll go and put a few things together…’
‘Five minutes’ work,’ he was gently mocking, ‘but it’s as good an excuse as any, I imagine.’ He went to the door and opened it for her. ‘I shall be in the study if you should want anything,’ he told her.
She made no attempt to pack her case when she reached her room; he was right, five minutes was more than enough time in which to cast her few things in and slam the lid. She sat down in the little bucket chair by the window and stared down into the little courtyard, not seeing it at all. It was a very good thing that she was going away, although perhaps not quite as she had planned. She should never have come in the first place, only Fabian had been so insistent. She allowed her thoughts to dwell briefly on Cousin Emma and Doctor Trouw and wondered if she would ever see them again—perhaps they would come and stay with her later on, then she would get news of Fabian. Although wasn’t a clean break better? He had told her that her affairs were now in good order, anything which needed seeing to could be done by letter or through Mr North.
She got up and prowled round the room, touching its small treasures with a gentle finger—glass and porcelain and silver—Fabian had a lovely home and she would never forget it. Presently she sat down again and dozed off.
Mevrouw Hol wakened her for tea, bustling into the room, wanting to know if she felt well and was she cold, or would she like her tea in her room. Mary Jane shook her head to each question and went downstairs. There was no sign of Fabian; she ate her tea as she had always done, from a tray on the small table by the fire. He must have gone back to the hospital. She poured a second cup, wondering if he had left instructions as to how she was to get to the station.
She finished her tea and went back upstairs to ram her things into her case in a most untidy, uncaring fashion, not in the least like her usual neat ways, and, that done, went back downstairs and out to the kitchen where Mevrouw Hol was preparing dinner. Mary Jane watched her for a moment and asked in her frightful Dutch: ‘People for dinner?’ and when Mevrouw Hol nodded, felt a pang of pure envy and curiosity shoot through her. ‘How many?’ she wanted to know.
The housekeeper shot her a thoughtful glance. ‘Three,’ she said, ‘two ladies and a gentleman.’
‘Married?’ asked Mary Jane before she could stop herself.
Mevrouw Hol nodded, and Mary Jane, her imagination at work again, had a vivid mental picture of some distinguished couple, and—the crux of the whole matter—a beautiful girl—blonde, and wearing couture clothes, she decided, her imagination working overtime. She would have a disdainful look and Fabian would adore her. She got down from the edge of the table where she had perched herself. ‘I’ll get ready,’ she said in her terrible Dutch.
She went downstairs at twenty to six, because Fabian had said that the train went at six o’clock, and perhaps she should get a taxi. She was hatted and coated and ready to leave and there was no sign of anyone. Fabian came out of his study as she reached the hall. He said briefly: ‘I’ll get your case,’ and when he came downstairs again she ventured, ‘Should I call a taxi—there’s not much time.’ She searched his tranquil face. ‘I didn’t know you’d come back,’ she explained.
‘I’ve been here all the afternoon—I had some work to do. If you’re ready we’ll go.’
‘Oh—are you taking me to the station? I thought…’
‘Never mind what you thought. Don’t you agree that as your guardian the least I can do is to see you safely on the way to England?’
She had no answer to that but went in search of Mevrouw Hol, who shook her by the hand and wished her ’Tot ziens,’ adding a great deal in her own language which Mary Jane couldn’t understand in the least.
The journey to the station was short, a matter of a few minutes, during which Mary Jane sought vainly for something to say. She couldn’t believe that she was actually going—that perhaps she might not see Fabian again for a long time, perhaps never, for he had no reason to see her again.
She looked sideways at his calm profile and then at his gloved hands resting on the wheel. She loved him very much; she had no idea that loving someone could hurt so fiercely. She went with him silently into the station and on to the platform and found the train already there. She watched while Fabian spoke to the guard, took the tickets which he handed to her and thanked him in a small voice.
‘There’s a seat in the dining car reserved for you,’ he told her. ‘Someone will fetch you. The guard will see about a porter for you when you reach the Hoek. Just go on board, everything is arranged. There’s a seat booked on the breakfast car from Harwich. Have you your headache tablets with you?’
‘Yes, thank you, and thank you for taking so much trouble, Fabian.’
‘You had better get in,’ he advised her, and disappeared, to reappear within a few minutes with a bundle of magazines. ‘Don’t read too much,’ he told her.
She lingered on the steps. ‘I must owe you quite a bit—for the journey—shall I send it to you?’
‘Don’t bother. Mr North will settle with me.’ He put out a hand. ‘Goodbye, Mary Jane, have a good trip.’
She shook hands and answered him in a steady voice—how useful pride could be on occasion! She even added a few meaningless phrases, the sort of thing one says when one is bidding someone goodbye at a railway station. He dismissed them with a half smile and got out of the train. She watched him getting smaller and smaller as the train gathered speed and finally went round a curve, and then he was gone.
The journey was smooth and so well organised that she had no worries at all; it was as though an unseen Fabian was there, smoothing her path. She wondered to what trouble he had gone to have m
ade everything so easy for her. It was a pity that his thoughtfulness was partly wasted, for she spent a wretched night and no amount of make-up could help the pallor of her face or the tell-tale puffiness of her eyelids. She arrived, thoroughly dispirited, at Liverpool Street station in the cold rain of the January morning, and the first person she saw was Mrs Body.
CHAPTER NINE
LATER, LOOKING BACK on that morning, Mary Jane knew that she had reached the end of her tether by the time she had reached London, although she hadn’t known it then, only felt an upsurge of relief and delight at the sight of Mrs Body in her sensible tweeds and best hat. She had almost fallen out of the train in her eagerness to get to her and fling herself at the older woman, and Mrs Body, standing foursquare amidst the hurrying passengers, had given her a motherly hug and sensibly made no remark about her miserable face, but had said merely that the dear doctor had been quite right to ask her to come to London, much though she disliked the place, for by all accounts Mary Jane had had a nasty bang on the head. She then hurried her into a taxi and on to the next train for home, and Mary Jane, exhausted by her feelings more than the rigours of the journey, slept most of the way.
She had been home for almost a week now, a week during which she had filled her days with chores around the house and long walks with a delighted Major trailing at her heels. Her evenings she spent chatting with Mrs Body, talking about the village and what had happened in it while she had been away, various household matters, and the state of the garden. Of Holland she spoke not at all, excepting to touch lightly upon the wedding and her fall, and to her relief neither Mrs Body nor Lily had displayed any curiosity as to what she had done while she was there, nor, after that one remark Mrs Body had made on Liverpool Street station, had Fabian been mentioned. It should have made it all the easier to erase him from her mind, but it did no such thing; she found herself thinking of him constantly, his face, with its remote expression and the little smile which so disconcerted her, floated before her eyes last thing at night, and was there waiting for her when she wakened in the morning; it was really very vexing.
