by Betty Neels
Aap went away and returned within a few minutes. The bicycle was still in the shed, he reported impassively.
‘So he’s fishing.’
Aap shook his head. All the rods were in their rightful places; he had looked on his way back from the garages. The doctor frowned, took another look at the rain and wind outside, then opened the french window and glanced around. It was while he was doing this that he became aware of the insistent blast of the horn.
He listened for a moment. ‘Someone is sending out what I presume to be an SOS,’ then: ‘My God, it’s the Mireille—that young devil’s got her out on the meer!’ He swung round. ‘Aap, get me a jacket. Mrs Cresswell, don’t worry, I’ll be back with Willy and Phyllida very shortly.’
He took the anorak Aap was holding out to him, gave a satisfied grunt when he saw that Aap was putting on a similar garment, and made for the garden. Mrs Cresswell watched the pair of them walking briskly across the lawn, to disappear presently behind the shrubs at the far end.
The moment they were out of sight they broke into a run, the doctor covering the ground with his long legs at a great rate, and Aap, for all his stoutness, close on his heels. They followed the path Phyllida had taken and reached the edge of the meer in time to see the yacht veering away towards the opposite shore.
‘What the hell…?’ began Pieter furiously. ‘Aap, I believe they’ve lost the rudder, and why don’t they get the sail down?’ His face was coldly ferocious. ‘We’ll get the speedboat out and get alongside her. Stay here—I’ll pick you up.’
He went back, running fast, to the boathouse by the lake, and within a very short time came tearing through the canal, to pick up Aap and then roar out into the choppy water.
Phyllida, wrestling with the oar, watched his rapid approach with mixed feelings—relief, because she didn’t want either Willy or herself to drown, and she could see no alternative at the moment, the way they were careering around and the weather getting nastier at every moment—and apprehension as to Pieter’s reaction to seeing his lovely yacht exposed to some of the worst handling he might ever witness. Willy, hanging on to the oar beside her, gave a gusty sigh.
‘It’s like one of the gods coming to wreak vengeance! I’m scared. Are you, Phylly?’
‘Not in the least,’ she screamed at him above the wind, and felt her insides turn to ice with fright. Pieter, she decided, was going to be far worse than the storm.
It looked as though she were right as the speedboat drew near. The doctor was standing, his face like a thundercloud, tearing off his anorak and then stooping to pick up a rope. If he threw it, she thought miserably, she would never catch it, she was rotten at catching things— Willy would have to do it; presumably they were to be towed in. The yacht, caught in a gust of wind, made a sweeping turn and started off merrily in the opposite direction so that she lost sight of the speedboat. But only for a moment; it roared into view once more, almost alongside, and she gave a gasping shriek as Pieter, the rope in his hand, jumped into the water. He was a powerful swimmer; before the yacht could turn again he had pulled himself on board and was tying the rope, turning to shout to Aap, still in the speedboat, taking no notice at all of her or Willy.
Aap shortened the distance between them and when he was alongside Pieter said: ‘Over you go, Willy, into the boat with Aap, and look sharp!’
There was no question of disobeying him; he might be sopping wet, his hair plastered on his head, water dripping off him in great-pools, but that made no difference to his air of command. Willy did exactly as he had been told without so much as a word, landing awkwardly beside Aap, who grinned at him and nodded directions to sit down. Phyllida, expecting to go next, clutched the oar to her as though it were an old familiar friend and had it taken from her, none too gently.
‘I would expect Willy to play those schoolboy pranks,’ said the doctor in a voice which did nothing to reassure her, ‘but you, Phyllida, what the hell possessed you?’
He had dumped her down on the deck and was reefing the sail with swift expertise, and she didn’t bother to answer. Let him think what he liked, she thought furiously; she was cold and still frightened and wet and smelly and nothing mattered any more.
Aap was sidling away from the yacht, going ahead of her and turning slowly in the direction of the canal, and presently Phyllida felt the yacht turn too, obedient to the pull of the tow rope. Pieter was hanging over the rudder, examining the break which had caused all the trouble. He turned his head to say: ‘Well, you haven’t answered my question. Why did you let Willy get on board in the first place?’
She pushed her soaking fringe out of her eyes. ‘I didn’t,’ she raged at him, ‘he was already in the middle of the meer. I had to swim out to help him.’
She choked at his amused smile. ‘Swam, did you? Brave girl!’ He turned away to do something to the tow rope and she said angrily to his enormous back: ‘I certainly wouldn’t have got on to your rotten old boat for any other reason.’ Her voice shook. ‘I thought Willy would drown!’
The yacht was dancing along through the rough water, the speedboat ahead, and they were almost at the canal. Pieter finished what he was doing and squatted down on the deck beside her. ‘Are you very angry?’ she asked in a small voice.
He flung a heavy wet arm round her shoulders. ‘When I was ten—eleven, I did exactly the same thing, only the rudder didn’t break. I got quite a long way before my father caught up with me. I was punished, of course, but the next day he took me out and taught me how to sail a boat.’ His rage had gone, the smile he turned on her was very gentle. ‘I think we’d better teach Willy how to sail too before he sinks everything in sight.’
‘I’m sorry—we’ll pay for the damage…’ She had forgotten her rage. ‘And I didn’t mean it—about it being a rotten old boat.’
‘I didn’t think you did. Can you sail?’
‘No.’
‘Then I shall have to teach you too.’
‘There won’t be time.’
He had got to his feet, as they were entering the canal. ‘All the time in the world, love.’
They were at the boathouse and he was shortening the tow rope, calling to Aap. ‘And don’t do that again, Phylly.’
She was on her feet too, relieved to see the jetty and dry land but reluctant to leave him. ‘Do what?’
‘Terrify me to my very bones.’ He said softly: ‘You could have drowned.’
He lifted her on to the jetty, fetched a blanket from the boathouse and wrapped her in it. ‘Whose idea was it to send an SOS on the horn?’ he wanted to know in an ordinary voice.
‘Phylly’s,’ said Willy, ‘and I did it.’
‘Next time, boy, get it right. OSO isn’t quite the same thing, only I happened to recognise the Mereille’s horn. Off to the house with you, tell your mother you’re safe and get dry and into other clothes—you can have fifteen minutes. After lunch you and I have to talk.’
Willy went red but met the doctor’s eye bravely enough. ‘Yes, you’ll want to punish me. I’m sorry I did it.’ He darted off, and the doctor spoke to Aap, busy with the boats, and took Phyllida’s arm. ‘And a hot bath and dry clothes for you, too.’ He was walking her along so rapidly that she had to skip to keep up with him.
Steadying her chattering teeth, she asked: ‘Am I to be talked to too?’
‘There’s nothing I should enjoy more,’ he assured her, ‘but we’ll keep that until a more suitable time.’ A remark she didn’t take seriously.
They lunched at last, the doctor making light of the whole episode so that Mrs Cresswell shouldn’t be upset. And afterwards he and Willy went along to the study, leaving Phyllida sitting uneasily with her mother in the drawing room.
‘It was most considerate of Pieter to treat the whole thing as a joke,’ remarked Mrs Cresswell. ‘I hope he’s giving Willy the talking-to of his life. Is he angry with you, too, dear?’
Phyllida glanced at her mother. She had thought they had done rather well at lunch, glossing over the whole adv
enture, but for all her vague ways, her parent was astute. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said slowly.
‘I should be very surprised if he were,’ observed her mother. ‘That girl—what’s her name? is coming to tea— I heard Pieter on the telephone while you were upstairs.’
‘But Mother, you can’t understand Dutch.’
She was treated to a limpid stare. ‘No, dear, but I happened to be sitting near him and he’s far too well-mannered to speak Dutch when he knows I don’t know a word.’
‘Mother,’ began Phyllida, ‘you could have walked away.’
‘So I could—I never thought of it. She’s coming at four o’clock. Why not go and wash your hair properly, darling? You did it in a great hurry before lunch, I expect. It looks so soft and silky when it’s just been done.’
‘Mother!’ said Phyllida again, then laughed. ‘All right, I’ll go now.’
She was glad presently that she had taken such pains with her hair and her face and that she had kept on the jersey shirtwaister. Its soft amber gave her a nice glow and contrasted favourably with Marena’s flamboyant striped dress. Not that the girl didn’t look quite wonderful—how could she help it with looks like hers?
Marena had driven herself over, greeted Pieter effusively, turned her charm on to Mrs Cresswell and smiled at Phyllida, dismissing her as not worth bothering about, just as she ignored Willy. A rather quiet Willy. After tea, when the other three had gone into the garden Phyllida asked him: ‘Was he very cross, Willy? Did he suggest that we went back sooner, or anything like that?’
He shook his head. ‘No—he gave me a good lecture.’ Her brother swallowed. ‘He’s great, Phylly, and I like him a lot, but he can make you feel an inch high…when he’d finished he said he’d take me on the lake tomorrow if the weather was right and show me how to handle a boat.’ He sighed loudly. ‘I wish he was my brother.’
‘You don’t need any more brothers,’ declared Phyllida crossly, and added severely: ‘And don’t you dare do anything else silly!’
The others came back then, Marena with her arm through Pieter’s, looking like a sweet little kitten who’d found the cream jug.
They sat about talking for a little while longer and Phyllida did her best not to look at Pieter and Marena. The girl was at her most tiresome, talking about people only the two of them knew, leaning forward to touch his arm, smiling into his face. It was really more than Phyllida could bear. If only something would happen, she mused, something to change Pieter’s manner towards her. He had always been friendly and kind and teased her a little, but she had been wrong in thinking that he was even a little in love with her. That had been wishful thinking on her part. Trying not to see Marena’s lovely little hand patting Pieter’s sleeve while she talked to him, Phyllida guessed that the next few days before they went home weren’t going to be either easy or happy ones for her. She pinned a smile on her face now, and listened to Marena being witty about her holiday in Switzerland. To add to everything else, it seemed that she was expert on skis and even better on ice skates, and the horrid girl, drawing Phyllida into the talk, asked her the kind of questions that showed her up as a perfect fool on skates and an ignoramus when it came to skiing.
In the end, sick of the girl’s barbed witticisms, Phyllida said a little too loudly: ‘I’m no good at anything like that, but at least I can drive a car.’ Which was a palpable hit because Marena, when she had arrived that afternoon, had knocked over a stone urn by the sweep, gone into reverse by accident, hit a tree, dented her bumper and then left all her lights on. Everyone had laughed it off at the time, but Phyllida, her gentle nature aroused, didn’t see why she should get away with it.
Marena glared at her when she got up to go and ignored her as she said her goodbyes and went to the door with the doctor. When they were out of earshot Mrs Cresswell whispered, ‘You were very rude, darling, but she deserved every word!’
Phyllida felt better about it then, but the feeling didn’t last long, for when Pieter came back it seemed to her that his manner towards her was a little distant. Not that she cared about that in the very least, she told herself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS disappointing that Phyllida didn’t see Pieter all the next day until the evening. She had been shopping with her mother in the morning, lunching out and shopping again afterwards; they hadn’t bought much, small presents for family and friends, but they had spent a good deal of time gazing into the enticing windows. By the time Aap had picked them up at the agreed rendezvous it was late afternoon, but there was no sign of their host as they sank into comfortable chairs in the small sitting room behind the drawing room and drank their tea, soothed by the peace and quiet of the old house.
‘Bliss!’ observed Mrs Cresswell on a contented sigh. ‘I could hear a pin drop.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘When is Willy coming back?’
‘Well, Pieter said he’d be staying to tea at the dominee’s house.’
Mrs Cresswell ate a biscuit and followed her train of thought.
‘Five more days. What a wonderful holiday we’re having—I shall never forget it.’
‘Nor shall I,’ agreed Phyllida; she was going to remember it for the rest of her life, although perhaps not for the same reasons as her mother. ‘I wonder where Pieter is—he’s usually home just about now.’
Her mother darted her a look over her tea-cup. ‘Well, dear, he’s a busy man. Besides, he must have any number of friends—after all, we don’t know a great deal about his life, do we?’ She took another biscuit. ‘I shall get fat, but these are so delicious. A pity we aren’t likely to meet again once this holiday is over. I expect we shall exchange Christmas cards and I daresay Willy will write to him.’ She sighed. ‘The world is full of nice people one never gets to know.’
Phyllida, surveying a future without Pieter, felt like weeping. ‘The minute I get back,’ she told her mother with entirely false enthusiasm, ‘I shall start looking for a job. I’ll try for something in Bristol, it’s not far from home and it’ll make a nice change.’
‘Yes, dear. Have you heard from Philip since you left?’
‘Philip?’ Phyllida looked blank. ‘Oh, Philip—no, but I didn’t expect to.’
Willy came in then, full of his day and all he had done and what he intended to do the next day. He was looking very well; the holiday had done him good at any rate, thought Phyllida; it had done her mother good too—she wasn’t sure about herself.
She was pouring second cups when she heard the front door close, a murmur of voices in the hall and then Pieter’s firm tread. Her colour was a little high as he sat down beside her mother, although she replied to his enquiries as to her day with composure.
It was her mother who brought up the subject of their return home. ‘Ought we to book our places?’ she asked, ‘and will you tell us which is the best way to go, Pieter?’
He took a large bite of fruit cake. ‘With me, of course—in the same way as we came, in the car.’
‘Oh, but we couldn’t—to take you away from your work…’
He got up and handed his cup to Phyllida, and when she had refilled it, sat down beside her. ‘Well, you know, Mrs Cresswell, I am able to arrange my work to suit myself to a large extent, and it so happens that I’ve been asked by a colleague to see a patient in London within the next week or so. I can combine business with pleasure.’
Mrs Cresswell beamed at him. ‘Won’t that be nice— and of course you’ll stay at least one night with us— longer if you can manage it.’
He glanced sideways at Phyllida’s charming profile. ‘That depends on circumstances, but I hope that I shall be able to accept your invitation.’
He uttered this formal speech with such blandness that Phyllida looked at him, to be met with a sleepy gaze which told her nothing at all. She occupied herself with the teapot and left him and her mother to make conversation.
But her mother got up presently, with a murmured observation that she was to visit the rockery with Bauke before it got
too late, and since Willy was bidden to accompany her, Phyllida was left with the doctor. She sat for a minute or two, thinking up plausible excuses for going away too, and had just settled on the old and tried one of having to wash her hair, when her companion spoke.
‘No, Phylly, your hair doesn’t need washing, nor do you wish to write letters or take them to the post. Just relax, love, I shan’t eat you.’
He lounged back beside her, his eyes half closed, contemplating his well-shod feet. He looked placid and easygoing, and if truth be told, sleepy, and yet Phyllida was aware that underneath all that he was as sharp as a needle, ready to fire awkward questions at her and make remarks she couldn’t understand.
‘Any plans?’ he asked casually.
She hesitated. ‘Vague ones—well, not so vague, really. It’s time I got back into hospital again.’
‘London?’
Her unguarded tongue was too ready with an answer. ‘No, Bristol, I thought,’ and then, furious with herself for having told him that: ‘Probably not—I haven’t decided.’
He had moved closer, one arm along the back of the sofa, behind her. ‘That’s good; I rather wanted to talk about your future, Phylly. We haven’t seen as much of each other as I should have wished, all the same…’ He paused and she held her breath, her heart thumping nineteen to the dozen while common sense told her that she was being a fool. In a minute she would know…
Aap propelled his cheerful rotundity through the door with a lightness of foot which made the doctor mutter something forceful under his breath.
‘A gentleman to see Miss Cresswell,’ announced Aap, ignoring the mutter.
Phyllida, brought down from the improbable clouds where she had been perched, said quickly: ‘But I don’t know any gentlemen,’ and Pieter laughed. ‘Ask him to come in, Aap,’ he said in such a casual voice that she wondered if she had imagined the urgency in his voice not two minutes earlier.
Aap went away, to reappear almost at once, ushering in Philip Mount.
