Fate Is Remarkable

by Betty Neels

  ‘That sounds as though I haven’t been happy, but I have—I like being married.’ It sounded naïve, but it was the truth anyway; as much as she would be able to tell him.

  He said, his deep voice thoughtful, ‘Thank you, Sarah. I believe that we—er—suit each other admirably.’

  After that they drove in a companionable silence until he suggested that as they were nearing Amsterdam, she might like to study the map.

  They were on the motorway again, passing Schiphol. She stared at it for as long as she was able, then applied herself to the map of Amsterdam.

  ‘It looks like a spider’s web,’ she said, to be told that she was a clever girl because that was exactly what Amsterdam was. He sent the car racing past an articulated lorry to join the steady fast-moving stream of traffic making for the city’s heart. ‘Our hotel is in the heart of Amsterdam,’ he explained. ‘A pity we aren’t staying longer, but next time we’ll spend a week here—or we can fly over for a weekend.’

  They were in the city now. Sarah peered out at the tall thin, quaint houses and the multitude of shops and the ever-recurring canals, and thought privately how nice it was to be able to take casual weekends whenever one felt like it. Her own family weren’t poor, but more than one holiday a year would strain the finances. It seemed that Hugo hadn’t exaggerated when he had told her not to worry about money. It was a pleasing thought.

  Hugo had slowed down. The street they were in was lined with shops and she craned her neck to look at them until Hugo said cheerfully:

  ‘I can see we shall have to have a quick look round before we leave tomorrow—as a matter of fact, we don’t need to get to Vierhouten until the evening, that will give us the whole day here.’

  She said hastily, ‘Oh, I don’t mind—really. Only it’s all strange and foreign and I’m as curious as a cat.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, we’re almost there. Here’s the Munttoren; the hotel’s across the bridge.’

  The hotel was delightfully situated close to a canal and inside it proved to be quietly and comfortably luxurious. Moreover, Hugo had been there before and was remembered. Sarah, standing beside him while he signed the register, wished that she understood even a little of what was being said, and even as she thought this, he remarked in English, ‘Forgive me speaking Dutch, Sarah. You’ll find the staff speak English—they’ll get you anything you want.’

  Her room was pretty and very comfortable and had a view of the canal. She stared out of the wide window for a few minutes, then wandered through the intervening bathroom to Hugo’s room. He looked up as she went in through its open door.

  ‘Will dinner in half an hour suit you? You can have the bathroom first.’

  She nodded. She wanted very much to unpack for him and talk, but there was an air of aloofness about him which prevented her from suggesting it. She went back to her own room and presently, dressed in a silk jersey dress printed in a glorious mixture of pink and cream, accompanied him down to dinner. That her appearance drew a number of admiring glances mattered not at all to her. What did matter was Hugo’s pleasant, ‘How charming you look, Sarah!’

  She ate her dinner with an excellent appetite and in a warm glow of content, and when they had finished their meal, accompanied him on a stroll through the nearby streets. The Rokin housed some mouth-watering antique shops, and although she wasn’t very knowledgeable about such things, she knew enough to appreciate the treasures he pointed out to her. There was some particularly fine Friesian silverware, and a variety of golden trinkets which, he explained carefully, probably constituted part of the dowry of some wealthy farmer’s daughter two hundred or more years ago.

  They parted in the hotel presently, he to read the papers, she to go to her bed, armed with a guide to Amsterdam and the latest Paris edition of Vogue which he had conjured from thin air for her delectation. Leafing through it, she decided that one of the many reasons why she loved Hugo was because he was untiringly considerate of her without once drawing attention to that fact.

  She was busy with her hair when he knocked on the door in the morning, and although she called a muffled ‘Come in’ through a mouthful of pins, he merely opened the door a couple of inches and after enquiring if she had slept well, asked her if she would make her own way down to breakfast when she was ready and he would meet her at table. It was another ten minutes before she was ready. She was wearing a new suit for the first time—a toffee and white tweed with a silk blouse beneath its jacket. It had swinging pleats and rather nice buttons. Sarah had been horrified when she had asked its price, but it had suited her when she tried it on, and now, taking a long careful look at herself, she had to admit that she had done well to buy it.

  Hugo was waiting for her, leaning against the table, reading De Telegraaf. He looked up as she approached and said to please her mightily, ‘That’s new—I like it.’

  She sat down, a little pink with pleasure, and at once perceived the small package by her plate. She looked at it and then at Hugo, who said, ‘Go on, open it—it’s for you, Sarah.’

  It was an old Friesian watch chain which she had admired the previous evening, remarking that it would make a gorgeous bracelet. She took it from its box exclaiming, ‘Oh, Hugo, it’s lovely! How kind of you, and thank you!’ She studied his face across the table; perhaps she would see something more than his habitual calm expression. She didn’t.

  ‘A trifle to remind you of Amsterdam,’ he observed, and took the chain from her and wound it round her wrist. ‘I’m glad you like it.’ He smiled then—the kind of smile, she told herself hopelessly, that her brother might have given her; mildly affectionate and good-natured.

  They had almost finished their breakfast when Hugo was hailed by a man who had just entered. He made his way rapidly towards their table and Sarah had time to observe that he was as tall as Hugo, although of a heavier build and about his age. Hugo held out a welcoming hand.

  ‘Jan, how delightful! What are you doing here? You must meet my wife.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘Sara, I must introduce you to one of my oldest friends in Holland—we went to school together. Jan Denekamp.’

  She shook hands and smiled delightedly when the big man said:

  ‘I’ve been wanting to meet you, Sarah—I may call you Sarah? We have all heard such tales of Hugo’s bride—all of which are understatements.’ He laughed, a deep, jovial rumble, and Hugo said, ‘We’ve almost finished, but do have breakfast.’

  His friend sat down at once, but declined his offer. ‘I breakfasted hours ago—saw you as I passed. I’m on my way to meet Jacoba and the children.’ He turned to Sarah. ‘You must meet my wife, and if you can bear the idea, my six children.’ He gave her no chance to do more than nod, but rattled on, ‘What do you think of Amsterdam? Do you stay long? You will visit Hugo’s family, I suppose.’

  Sarah said quickly before he could start again, ‘We arrived yesterday evening …’

  ‘And leave today,’ interposed Hugo. ‘I want to show Sarah something of Holland, and we plan to visit Gemma.’

  Jan raised his thick brow. ‘Quite a trip! I take it you’ve got the Iso Grigo with you. Do you like fast driving, Sarah?’

  ‘With Hugo, yes, I do,’ she answered promptly, and was rewarded by the look on Hugo’s face. Jan Denekamp rumbled pleasantly, ‘There speaks a good wife! But there, you have a good husband, unless he’s changed in the last year.’

  In another five minutes he took his leave, repeating his invitation to visit his home when they had the opportunity. ‘Next time you come, eh?’ he queried genially. ‘Now it would not be kind to ask you, for you are not long married and you wish to be together.’

  During the morning she asked Hugo if Jan was a doctor too—a question which made him laugh very much. ‘Heaven forbid!’ he replied. ‘He’s in shipping. Do you like him?’

  ‘Yes, very much. Does he ever come to England? I should like to meet his wife.’

  ‘They usually come over for a few days or so before Christmas. We could have them
to stay—you’ll like Jacoba.’

  ‘And the six children?’

  ‘You’ll like them too. I daresay we can find room for them all, could we not?’ He added, ‘Jan and Jacoba are devoted to each other.’

  She said slowly, ‘Yes, I thought perhaps they were. I mean, you can tell … the way he said her name.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, you can tell,’ she reiterated defiantly, just as though he had contradicted her, which he had made no attempt to do, saying merely, ‘Yes, I daresay you are right.’

  She had the absurd suspicion that he was secretly amused, but when she stole a look at him, he was contemplating a somewhat way-out trouser suit in the boutique window she had stopped to study; his eyes were half shut and there was no expression upon his face.

  They lunched at De Borderij—they had chicken on the spit and an excellent burgundy which she found a trifle heady, and then, because it looked so delicious, she ate trifle piled with whipped cream, remarking happily as she did so that it was fortunate that such things made no difference to her weight. Hugo, who had chosen cheese, agreed with her, pointing out with a twinkle that, under such a happy circumstance, she would be able to eat all the whipped cream she wished to—she had merely to ask.

  After lunch, he took her along the Nieuwe Spiegelstraat, which, Sarah was quick to point out, was not in the least new, its houses having been built a good two hundred years previously although they were now, almost all of them, antique shops. They strolled along its length and Hugo obligingly purchased her a carved koekeplank because she thought it might look rather sweet in the kitchen at Richmond. From there, the shops in the Singel were but a step, and in one of them, Sarah having been much taken with some old Dutch prints in its window, Hugo waited patiently while she chose a selection of them. While they were being wrapped and paid for, she prowled off on her own and when he joined her she was standing before a small bowl—a creamy porcelain, painted exquisitely with puce and pink flowers, touched with green and blue and yellow. When he enquired whether she liked it she said guardedly that yes, it was charming. She loved it, in fact, but if she said so, Hugo would buy it. ‘Where does it come from?’ she wanted to know. ‘I’ve not seen anything quite like it.’

  ‘Weesp,’ said Hugo knowledgeably. ‘Some time in the eighteenth century. It’s charming.’

  She forgot to be guarded. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous!’ She moved away. ‘Hugo, I should like to give you a present too. Is there something you like, something you could use or—or look at every day?’

  He said immediately, ‘Yes, there is. A pewter inkstand in the window, for my desk.’ He smiled at her charmingly. ‘Shall I leave you to buy it?’

  ‘Well—yes. Shall I be able to speak English?’

  ‘Certainly—and I’m here to help.’

  The inkstand was nice. Sarah bought it and opened her purse to pay, then asked, ‘Hugo, can I pay with English money?’

  ‘Of course. Presumably you have a good reason, for I seem to remember that you had a considerable amount of Dutch money with you.’

  She counted out her English pounds and while the dealer dealt with change she said, ‘Oh, yes, I have. It’s a silly reason. I want to pay for your present with my own money—money I earned. I had some left. You don’t mind?’

  ‘It makes it twice as acceptable, Sarah. Thank you.’ He strolled away to talk to the shop owner and presently she saw him handing over some money—probably, she surmised, paying for the prints.

  They left the hotel after tea. Vierhouten was some sixty miles away, but the late afternoon was pleasant and there was no hurry. Hugo forsook the motorway as soon as they had left Amsterdam behind them and took the road through Hilversum and Weesp, then turned into the small byroads which he seemed to know so well. The country was well wooded and the small towns looked prosperous, with villas set in neat gardens and here and there a solid, square house standing well back from the road, half screened by trees. At Soestdijk, Hugo drew up obligingly so that Sarah could take her fill of the royal palace, at the same time furnishing her with a concise history of the House of Orange, then circled away again, back to the country roads through the Veluwe, until they reached the hotel. It sat delightfully in a pocket of woodland—not large as hotels went, perhaps, but comfortable to the point of luxury. Sarah, changing her dress, looked round her room and reflected that Hugo was a man who expected, and obtained, the best things of life.

  Later, as they sat over dinner, he asked, ‘You like this place, I hope, Sarah? I have always found it pleasant. It has only been reopened for a couple of years, but it’s comfortable and the food is good.’

  She was eating smoked eel by way of a starter.

  ‘It’s delightful. Tell me, Hugo, do you know all the best hotels in Europe?’

  ‘Oh, my dear girl, you credit me with too much,’ he answered carelessly. ‘And to be honest, I have never found anything better than my—our home.’

  ‘The cottage?’ she asked, and saw his eyes smile.

  ‘Ah, the cottage—my bolthole, shall we say? Or rather, our bolthole now, isn’t it? Each time I go there, I have the feeling that something wonderful will happen.’

  ‘Perhaps it will,’ said Sarah, forgetting to be nonchalant. Her grey eyes stared into his, momentarily lost in a dream world which held her and Hugo and the cottage.

  ‘Don’t you feel like it anywhere else?’ Her voice was eager, and he gave her a brief, bright glance before replying. ‘Now you mention it,’ he answered blandly, ‘I have recently experienced the feeling on several occasions—and what is more, I have—er—no doubt that sooner or later that same feeling will become substance.’

  Sarah fell silent. Surely he wasn’t expecting to meet Janet again, not after all those years? She opened her mouth, intent on asking him, when he said quickly, ‘You were asking me about the Veluwe—let me explain …’

  The explanation lasted for the rest of the meal, and continued throughout the stroll they took afterwards. Presently Sarah went to bed, stuffed with useful information, and quite out of humour.

  They spent the following day doing nothing because Hugo had said that she needed a quiet day before embarking on a round of visits. They walked in the countryside in the morning, and in the afternoon played tennis. Sarah, who was rather proud of her game, was soundly beaten, but consoled herself with the knowledge that Hugo had paid her the compliment of playing his usual game. She was consoled still further in the evening by being taken to dine at De Ouwe Stee—a restaurant housed in an eighteenth-century farm. Its interior was exactly what Sarah had been led to expect from her perusal of Old Dutch interiors, and she quite forgot her dinner while she stared around her, asking a great many questions which Hugo answered with competent brevity. Finally he said on a laugh, ‘Look, my girl, if I promise to bring you here again, may we dine now?’

  She smiled enchantingly, showing a dimple in one cheek which he hadn’t previously noticed, and answered him saucily, filled with a reckless desire to egg him on. She knew that she looked nice—she was wearing the pink patterned jersey again, and the soft lighting was most helpful. She allowed her long curly lashes to sweep her cheeks, and allowed the dimple to appear once more. She asked demurely:

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘Oh, yes, several times. With Jan.’

  ‘Just the two of you?’ she wanted to know.

  He began to smile. ‘Naturally Jacoba was with Jan; did I not tell you that they were a devoted couple?’

  Sarah studied the fine diamond of her engagement ring as though she had only just recognised its magnificence. ‘Oh? Three’s such an awkward number.’

  ‘I must agree with you,’ he answered in a hatefully bland voice. ‘But of course we were a foursome.’

  She poked at the poulet Grand’mère on her plate with a pettish fork wishing with all her heart that she had never begun the silly conversation. As though she minded with whom he had been! And if he was going to be secretive about it, she couldn’t care less …


  Hugo chuckled. ‘Do ask,’ he invited.

  She gave him a fleeting, fuming glance. ‘Ask what?’ she demanded.

  ‘Don’t you want to know about the girls I brought here?’

  She raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a dignified surprise, and then, because she couldn’t help it, met his amused look.

  ‘I don’t care,’ she said crossly, and was dumbfounded when he said instantly and with an air of patience:

  ‘Why, Sarah, of course and quite rightly, you don’t care. That’s why our marriage is so—er—rational. We are, after all, two level-headed and mature people, not young things whose good sense is blinded by our emotions.’ He smiled blandly at her and she wished rebelliously that she was a young thing, and not a mature woman whose emotions didn’t seem to take age into account. She heard him say:

  ‘I can recommend the ice pudding—would you care for some?’

  She said ‘No, thank you—just coffee’ in a politely wooden voice which barely concealed curiosity and rage and frustration, but he didn’t appear to notice but beckoned the waiter and gave the order, and went on talking as though she had never interrupted him.

  ‘The first time I came here I brought a—let me see—yes, she was blonde, tall and handsome.’ He frowned in thought. ‘And for the life of me I cannot recall her name. No matter. She ate a great deal—no, don’t look like that, Sarah—you appreciate your food as you appreciate everything else in life. She had no interest in anything else.’ He sighed. ‘She was a dead loss.’

  Sarah stifled a giggle and then looked severe, but he went on, undeterred, ‘We came again a year or so ago. I brought Elsa—a charming redhead, very small and dainty; she had a dainty appetite too because she was dieting—she ate almost nothing and we, perforce, with her. I remember when I had taken her home, I returned for Jan and Jacoba and we went to a village café and ate Kaas Broodjes and Patat Frit and washed them down with Pils. Jacoba was charming about it, but she is a charming woman.’