by Betty Neels
An assumption which proved to be only too true. She didn’t see him at all for two days and on the third day, although he did a ward round, he didn’t appear to see her. She had hardly expected him to stop and speak to her on the ward, but he could surely have managed a smile. She went down to her dinner in a temper, made worse by her unhappiness. He had forgotten, or worse, merely made a casual remark which hadn’t meant a thing. She pranced down the staircase, frowning fiercely, and walked right into Wim Tolde, one of the junior housemen who had from time to time spoken to her. He stopped now and caught her by the arm.
‘Hey, what is wrong with you, Zuster Becky? So cross, and such a frown.’ He smiled at her kindly. ‘You are having a bad day?’ And when she nodded: ‘Then something must be done—I have tickets for the concert in the Town Hall this evening, my girl-friend cannot come and I would be glad if you will accompany me instead; I do not like to be alone.’
Becky hesitated; she accepted the fact that he was asking her because he wanted someone to go with, not because it was her as a person, but he was a nice boy, still scared stiff because he had only just qualified, and it would be an excuse to wear the new dress, too. She said that yes, she would like to go very much, thank you.
Wim seemed pleased. ‘I must go now.’ He turned on his heel and called over his shoulder: ‘I will be at the front entrance at seven o’clock. Do not be late—I don’t want to miss a single moment…’
Becky wondered why he suddenly looked so uncomfortable, staring over her shoulder and then hurrying away and she turned round to see. The Baron was quite close, a few yards from her; he must have heard every word. He said quietly: ‘You are going out this evening?’
Becky nodded. ‘Yes. To a concert.’ And then because he looked so bad-tempered about it, added defiantly: ‘I like going out, too.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Just exactly that, sir.’
He frowned down at her. ‘You go out often? I somehow imagined…’ He looked quite fierce. ‘I hope you choose your friends carefully, Becky.’
She said steadily: ‘You have been very kind to me, I can’t forget that, but you don’t have to feel responsible for me any more, you know—I’m making my own life now.’
She couldn’t tell from his face what he was thinking; it was impassive as it so often was. He said merely: ‘Of course, Becky,’ and went past her, up the stairs.
There was no pleasure in putting on the new dress. She had bought it because she was going out with Tiele, and now she wasn’t and there was really no reason to dress up for Wim; he already had a girl-friend and besides, she hadn’t the least interest in him. All the same she met him with a cheerful smile exactly on time and walked with him to the Town Hall, listening to his rather pompous remarks about his work. He was going to carve a career for himself, he told her, so that he and his Elsa could get married; he had done well in his exams and very soon his superiors would realise how clever he was—another year on the medical side and then a junior partnership if he could get the money together. ‘Of course, Doctor Raukema van den Eck could help me. He has great influence—he knows everybody of importance…’ Wim puffed out his chest. ‘One day I shall be as important as he is, too, although of course I am not of the Adel.’
‘Surely that doesn’t have anything to do with being a good doctor?’
‘No, of course not, but he has much money and is greatly respected.’ He added honestly: ‘He is also a very good doctor.’
‘I had noticed.’
The Gemeente Huis was packed. It wasn’t until they were seated in the middle of the seats on the ground floor that Becky saw that there was a gallery encircling them above; presumably the élite were to sit there, as there were flowers arranged along the balcony’s edge and the seats looked more comfortable than the hard wooden one she was seated on. She accepted the programme Wim handed to her and read it slowly, realising with horror that it was chamber music, something she had never enjoyed, moreover the works of Bach, Handel and somebody called Antonio de Cabezon, of whom she had never even heard, predominated throughout the lengthy programme. She was a little cheered to see that there was a list of vocalists at the end. A little singing would help the evening along and at least she could study the lady singers’ dresses.
Sitting silently beside Wim, who was taking no notice of her at all, she listened to an unaccompanied work by Bach for violin and cello and presently cautiously looked around her. Everyone there was gazing raptly at the group of players on the platform— that was, everyone but the Baron. She saw him at once, sitting behind a bank of nicely arranged carnations, next to a stout lady who had her eyes shut. He was staring down at her and even in the semi-dark he looked bad-tempered. Becky returned her gaze to the players, composing her unremarkable features into what she hoped was a look of intense interest, and kept it like that until the music ended, when she clapped just as heartily as those around her, though for a different reason.
‘A splendid rendering,’ pronounced Wim. ‘Bach expressed his deeper thoughts in such works, do you not think so?’
Becky looked wise and said, oh, yes, of course and kept her interested gaze on him while he went over the performance, note by note. When the lights were lowered and the musicians were well and truly into the next item she turned her head very slowly and peered upwards. The Baron was staring down at her again and she allowed her eyes to turn casually from one side to the other as though she hadn’t seen him, before riveting them on the platform once again. It was a long composition and except for a nervous cough from time to time, she could have heard a pin drop. The audience was attentive, nobody around her moved a muscle. Presently she looked down on to her lap and allowed her thoughts to wander. Now if it had been Sibelius or Shostakovich or Brahms she would have loved every moment of it. She sighed soundlessly; she had no culture; she knew very little about anything and in a country where everyone seemed to speak English as easily as their own tongue, she was the complete ignoramus. The lights went up and she concentrated on trying to understand what Wim was saying about the origin of chamber music: ‘And it is singing next,’ he told her. ‘You will enjoy that.’
The soloists filed on to the platform, a stout man in white tie and tails and two ladies in flowered tents. Becky had no doubt at all that they had excellent voices, but as they sang in German and it was a madrigal, she found her interest wandering. She turned a little in her chair so that she could peep upwards without it noticing. The Baron was sitting back with his eyes closed and now she saw Nina, until that moment hidden behind a massive arrangement of summer flowers next to him. She was looking bored and for once Becky felt strongly sympathetic towards her, although the feeling didn’t last long. Even at that distance she looked shatteringly lovely.
The singing ended, giving way to an interval during which almost everyone went into the foyer where there was a bar, but Wim stayed where he was, pointing out that there was such a crowd that their chance of getting anything to drink was small; they might just as well sit quietly where they were and discuss the performance. As far as Becky could see, everyone in the gallery had disappeared. Perhaps they were privileged and had a bar of their own… She lent an attentive ear to Wim’s knowledgeable remarks and wondered if he would take her to supper afterwards—or at least a cup of coffee; she had had only a snatched tea and she was famished.
She managed not to look up once during the second half of the concert and even when the lights went on at its end she kept her eyes fixed on the people around her. Wim looked at his watch. ‘It’s after ten o’clock,’ he told her. ‘We’d better get a tram; I’m on early duty in the morning.’
Becky agreed, outwardly cheerful while her insides rumbled, and followed him through the press of people to the street outside. When a hand fell on her shoulder she jumped, trod on someone’s foot, apologised and turned round.
‘A delightful concert, was it not?’ queried the Baron courteously. ‘Such splendid voices, and I particularly enjoyed the oboe.’ Wim ha
d stopped, looking awkward, and the Baron went on smoothly: ‘Ah, young Tolde, is it not? You are together? I’ll give you a lift back.’
He bore them inexorably forward, to be joined by Nina who had been talking to a group of people on the pavement. She looked annoyed when she saw them and still more annoyed when the Baron said briskly: ‘Nina, I’m going to drop these two off.’ They had reached the Rolls and he was opening doors and stuffing them inside so that no one had a chance to say much. ‘I’ll go to your place first. I’m afraid we’ll have to call off supper, Nina, something’s come up and I must get back to the hospital.’ He turned round and addressed Wim. ‘You first, Tolde. We can go past the hospital on the way.’ He seemed to have forgotten Becky.
Nina had a good deal to say, but Becky’s Dutch wasn’t up to understanding it, but she was annoyed, that was certain. She sat rigid presently while the Baron drove through Leeuwarden, deposited Wim at the hospital gates and then drove on again to a quiet street where he pulled up before a block of modern flats and got out with Nina. He wasn’t gone long, and when he got back he drove off again without speaking to Becky, still sitting in the back. She wondered if she should give a polite cough or say something light like: ‘I’m still here,’ or ‘I can walk home from here,’ when he asked: ‘Are you hungry, Becky?’
She said yes before she could stop herself and he said: ‘Good, so am I—let’s eat.’
‘But you’ve got to go to the hospital—you said something had come up…’
‘So it has, but not at the hospital. It’s too late to go to Waffum—we’ll go to ’t Pannekoekhuysje and eat pancakes.’
Which they did—enormous ones, a foot across, liberally sprinkled with crisp fat bacon, and lavishly damped down with black treacle. Becky, who hadn’t believed the Baron when he had described what he had ordered for them both, took a first mouthful in some doubt and then quickly decided that she had never tasted anything so suitable for an empty stomach. They washed it down with lager because, as it was explained to her, that was the correct drink to have with a spek Pannekoek. They didn’t bother to talk much to begin with. Only when they were half way through did Becky put down her knife and fork and observe: ‘This is absolutely delicious!’
‘Ah, but you should eat it on a raw winter’s day when the frost’s thick on the ground and your feet are frozen—there’s nothing like it then.’
Becky tried to imagine Nina sitting in her place, making inroads into the wholesome fattening food on her plate, and found it impossible. The Baron’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘You enjoyed the concert this evening?’
She cast around for an answer that wasn’t exactly a fib. ‘Well—I don’t know much about Bach or—or madrigals…’
‘And yet you appeared to be deeply absorbed— perhaps it was the flowered tents which interested you so much.’
Her eyes widened with laughter. ‘Oh, that’s what I called them too—they were, weren’t they?’
‘Why did you go?’ The Baron lifted a finger and ordered coffee.
‘Well, I thought it would be nice to go out.’ She sounded wistful without knowing it. ‘I didn’t know what kind of concert it was, though. If it had been Brahms or Sibelius I’d have loved it.’
‘Ah—a romantic. I must say I prefer them myself—the madrigal has never been my favourite form of music.’
‘Then why did you go?’
When he answered ‘Because you did,’ she goggled at him in amazement.
‘But Nina was there, I saw her…’
‘The poor girl! She had been expecting to visit one of her dear friend’s birthday party.’
Becky giggled despite herself. ‘Do you mean to say you took her to the concert without her knowing she was going?’
‘Something like that.’ He smiled at her and her heart melted against her ribs. ‘Why?’ she asked in a whisper.
He stared at her across the table, his eyes very blue and bright. ‘You know, Becky, I do believe that we are at last establishing a good relationship—isn’t that the modern jargon? Do you realise that we have been sitting here for upwards of an hour without a cross word to show for it? I must be a reformed character.’ He didn’t give her a chance to answer him but went on smoothly:
‘Has de Viske been to see Bertie?’
It seemed best to ignore the first part of his remark. ‘Yes—he’s pleased with him, he told me that Bertie was a fine healthy dog for his age—he gave me some pills for him. He looked at Pooch too, he said he might as well while he was there.’ She frowned faintly, thinking of the bill which hadn’t come yet; she shouldn’t have bought the new dress—a thought instantly cancelled out by the Baron’s quiet:
‘I like that thing you’re wearing—you should wear pretty things more often, Becky.’
She finished her coffee and didn’t say anything. Probably he had no idea what it cost to live, especially when you had two animals and were trying to save. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I ought to go home. I’m on at ten o’clock and I must take Bertie for his walk first and I’ve the shopping to do. Thank you for my supper.’
In the car he asked her: ‘Do you like young Tolde?’
‘Like him? He’s all right, and he was kind when I first started work—stopped to talk to me and showed me where the dining room was when I got lost. His girl-friend couldn’t come this evening and he just wanted company.’
The Baron said: ‘Ah, just so.’ He sounded so satisfied that she glanced at his profile in surprise, but it gave nothing away.
When they reached Mevrouw Botte’s house he got out too. ‘I’ll take Bertie to stretch his legs while you make the coffee,’ he told her, and followed her up the stairs.
Becky had had no intention of asking him in for coffee, but she found herself getting the pot from the kitchen shelf and going through the careful ritual. It was ready when he got back with Bertie, who sat down at once and looked starved until she offered a biscuit, which meant that Pooch had to have something too. The Baron poured milk into a saucer and then accepted his coffee. ‘A very pleasant evening,’ he pronounced, ‘and full of surprises.’
‘Surprises? I don’t think I was surprised.’
‘They were all surprises for me,’ he told her, which explained nothing, and put his coffee cup down. ‘You’re growing into quite a pretty girl, Becky.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘No, I’m not, thank you all the same.’ She added quite fiercely: ‘I wish I were beautiful, so that everyone stared at me…’
She looked away, ashamed of her outburst so that she didn’t see his smile.
‘There are so many kinds of beauty—have you ever looked in a small hidden pool in a wood, Becky? It’s full of beauty, but it’s not in the least spectacular, only restful and quiet and never-endingly fascinating.’ He got up and wandered to the door. ‘Someone said—and I’ve forgotten who- ‘‘Beauty is nothing other than the promise of happiness.’’ That’s very true, you know.’
He put out an arm and pulled her close and kissed her gently. ‘Good night, my pretty little mouse.’
A remark which gave Becky a sleepless night.
It was silly to get up ten minutes earlier so that she could take pains with her face and hair, especially as the Baron wasn’t to be seen all day—nor the day after, for that matter. On the third day, while she was having coffee with some of her new friends, she ventured to ask casually if Doctor Raukema van den Eck had beds in other hospitals.
‘But of course,’ she was told. ‘He has beds in Groningen, and he goes often to Utrecht and Leiden, for he lectures also. And as well as that he goes often to England; he is a busy man. He is in England now, I think.’
‘And does the so lovely Nina van Doorn go with him?’ asked a voice, and Becky let out a relieved breath which she hadn’t known she had been holding when someone else said: ‘No, because I saw her yesterday with a man—he was old, at least fifty, and fat. They were being driven in a Mercedes limousine.’
The speaker turned to Becky. ‘Y
ou have met this Nina? She is very beautiful, is she not? She is also greedy for money, therefore she is always to be seen with Doctor Raukema, who has a great deal of it. But perhaps this fat man has more. I hope so.’ There was general laughter in which Becky joined, praying quietly that the fat man would be a multi-millionaire. The Baron might be rich, but surely not as rich as all that.
He was back the next morning, coming on to the ward with his usual followers. Becky had seen him through the linen room door while she sorted sheets for the beds which had to be made up for the new admissions, so she stayed where she was until she judged that he would be well started—she could sneak up and along the other side and into the side ward.
Which she did, and since he had his back to her, she felt safe in assuming that he hadn’t seen her. She wasn’t quite sure why she didn’t want to meet him, for she loved him so much that she felt that she could never see enough of him, anyway. Possibly because the last time they had met he had called her a pretty little mouse. She turned her thoughts resolutely away from him and began a conversation with the student nurse who was helping her, a rather tiresome type who took pleasure in pointing out Becky’s many faults on every occasion. She was being called to task quite severely because she had got her tenses mixed as usual, when Zuster Trippe stopped rather suddenly, letting the blanket fall. Becky swept her side tidily up the bed, mitred the corner neatly and said, her Dutch all wrong as usual: ‘Why do you stop? You can’t have finished grumbling at my mistakes…’
