by Betty Neels
It was Basil who saw her and came romping back to say hello and although Mr van der Beek didn’t look up he called over one shoulder, ‘I should like a cup of tea…’
‘Well, you shall have one if you come into the kitchen now,’ said Patience tartly, ‘and wipe your boots and leave them on the mat.’
She didn’t wait for an answer but went back to the kitchen, made the tea and set out a small tray ready to carry to the study. As soon as he had had it and gone upstairs to make himself presentable for his breakfast she would nip in and get the fire raked out and lighted.
Basil came prancing in, delighted with the weather, and his master with him, looking meek in his socks. ‘I’ll take the tray through to the study,’ said Patience.
‘Indeed you will not. It’s freezing there. I’ll have it here. Where’s Miss Murch?’
‘I expect she will be down presently to cook your breakfast.’ She picked up the teapot and he put three mugs down on the table.
‘Let’s not be dainty. I like two lumps of sugar. Is there a towel I can use to rub Basil dry?’
‘Behind the door. I’ll fetch a clean one for us to use.’
Miss Murch, coming into the kitchen, paused in the doorway. Her, ‘Good morning, Mr van der Beek,’ was glacial, but he didn’t appear to notice that.
‘I’m going to shave,’ he told her cheerfully, ‘and I’ll have my breakfast here where it’s warm—twenty minutes?’ He gave her a charming smile, whistled to Basil and went out of the room.
‘I made a pot of tea,’ said Patience. ‘Would you like a cup, Miss Murch? The Aga’s going nicely and Mr van der Beek has cleared a path to the woodshed so there’ll be plenty of coal and logs. Would you like me to see to the fire in the study first?’
‘Well, since there’s no one else. We had better have our breakfast when Mr van der Beek has finished his. If you could light the study fire it would soon be warm enough for him.’ She sounded almost apologetic.
Patience got into the apron Mrs Perch used when she came to work, collected bucket, shovel, paper and kindling, and went off to the study. It was getting light now; she drew back the curtains to find that the snow had heaped itself up against the windows so that she had to stand firmly on tiptoe in order to see out; really she might just as well have left the curtains drawn…
She had a nice fire going and was sitting back on her heels admiring it when Mr van der Beek came in.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he wanted to know, and she glanced up in surprise; it didn’t sound like him at all.
She said in the kind of voice she might have used to a child who needed something explained, ‘I’m making sure that the fire is going to burn.’
‘I can see that for myself. In future, until this crisis is over, I shall light the fires, fetch the wood and the coals and dispose of the ashes.’
Patience looked at him with interest. ‘Do you know how?’ she asked, and at his icy look added, ‘Oh, don’t look like that, I don’t mean to be rude but I dare say in your home you don’t need to lift a finger.’
‘You consider that I am a man of leisure?’
‘Well, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I’ve got eyes—you drive a lovely car and Miss Murch says you are very successful—I dare say you lead a very pleasant life with lots of friends and theatres and so on.’
Mr van der Beek, slavishly revered by those students lucky enough to be under his tuition, tirelessly devoted to his work and his patients, so generous with both his time and his money, agreed meekly.
Patience laid another piece of coal exactly where it was most needed and got up. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer,’ she told him gratefully, ‘but if you aren’t used to doing it, lighting a fire can be very tiresome.’
‘And you’re good at it?’ His voice was bland. ‘What else are you good at, Patience?’
‘Me?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Why—nothing much—I can cook and mend things—sew and knit—change plugs, mend fuses, that kind of thing.’
‘You have no wish to do anything else?’ He spoke casually with just the right amount of interest.
‘I’m not clever and I’m plain—Aunt Bessy says I’m the plainest girl she has ever seen, but if I could be clever and charming and pretty I’d like to spend a week in London going to the theatres and the kind of restaurants where there are candles on the tables and waiters and the menu is in French—and shopping of course… Your breakfast will be ready, Mr van der Beek.’ Her voice was all of a sudden brisk. ‘Now there’s a fire I can bring a tray in here…’
‘I actually said I would have my breakfast in the kitchen,’ he reminded her, and now he didn’t sound friendly any more.
He was adamant that Miss Murch and Patience should have breakfast with him too but he was no longer casually friendly; the conversation was strictly businesslike and concerned the possibility of being snowed in for a further day or so and how to make the best of it. ‘Close the rooms we don’t need,’ he told Miss Murch. ‘This kitchen is the warmest place in the house; we can eat here—the study and the small sitting-room will be all right with fires. Are there enough candles and lamps?’
Miss Murch looked at Patience. ‘Plenty of candles but there’s not a great deal of oil left,’ said Patience. ‘We could keep the lamps for the study and take the candles with us when we go from room to room; they’ll last ages that way.’
‘Food?’
Miss Murch replied with dignity. ‘I trust I am a sufficiently good housekeeper to ensure a fully adequate supply of food for several days at least, and that of course over and above my normal store of groceries.’
‘There’s plenty of greenstuff in the greenhouse,’ said Patience. ‘If Mr van der Beek could dig a path I can go and collect as much as we’re likely to need before it’s frozen solid.’
‘Mr van der Beek has better ways of employing his time,’ observed Miss Murch sharply.
Mr van der Beek took another slice of toast and buttered it lavishly. ‘Indeed I have,’ he agreed. ‘On the other hand can you, in all fairness, conceive of Patience digging her way through a snowdrift? There’s not enough of her.’
Patience bore the scrutiny of two pairs of eyes with equanimity. ‘I am very strong,’ she observed in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘The exercise will do me good,’ said Mr van der Beek in the kind of voice with which one couldn’t argue.
It took him the whole morning with the briefest of intervals while he drank the hot coffee which Patience, wrapped in one of Miss Murch’s cardigans on top of her own woolly, took to the garden door.
‘You’re doing very nicely, Mr van der Beek,’ she said encouragingly. ‘There’s a little dip just before you get to the greenhouse; take care you don’t trip up.’
A giant of a man, rock-steady on his large feet, he nevertheless thanked her politely for the warning.
It was very cold and the wind, which had died down, started up again with renewed ferocity. Patience, scuttling around the house, stoking the study fire, making beds and cleaning vegetables at Miss Murch’s bidding, worried about the aunts. True, the little house was easy to keep warm and Mrs Dodge had promised to keep an eye on them. The news, on Miss Murch’s portable radio in the kitchen, held out little hope of the weather improving for at least twenty-four hours, perhaps longer.
‘Really, I do not know what the world is coming to,’ observed Miss Murch crossly. ‘How am I to get fresh meat in this weather?’
It wasn’t worth answering. ‘As soon as I can get to the village I shall need to go and see if my aunts are all right, Miss Murch…’
‘At the same time you can call at the butcher.’
There was no point in telling her that Mr Crouch got his meat for the most part from local markets and farms and transport would be difficult for several days.
Miss Mu
rch, despite her ill humour, contrived a delicious soup, cheese and onion pasties and a large pot of coffee. Mr van der Beek, glowing with good health and a certain smugness, ate hugely and went away to his study. ‘A cup of tea at four o’clock,’ he asked, ‘and on no account am I to be disturbed until dinner—at half-past seven if that is possible, Miss Murch?’
He walked away without waiting for an answer.
Patience cleared the table and began to wash the dishes. ‘It is ridiculous that there is no dishwasher,’ remarked Miss Murch, making no effort to give a hand. ‘I shall lie down for a time, Patience; I have a headache.’
‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea just before four o’clock?’
‘Yes, thank you. I find this snow very trying.’
Left to herself, Patience saw to the Aga, cast an eye on the fire in the sitting-room and looked out of the window. It was snowing again.
She laid a tray for Mr van der Beek’s tea and another for Miss Murch and herself and took herself off to the sitting-room, to curl up before the fire with the only book she could find—Beeton’s Household Management. It made interesting reading and was profusely illustrated with coloured plates of mouth-watering food.
Miss Murch didn’t look very well when she took her a cup of tea but she came down to the kitchen presently and cut delicate sandwiches of Gentleman’s Relish to add to the pot of tea on Mr van der Beek’s tray.
‘Don’t go in before you’re told to,’ she admonished Patience, ‘and don’t stop and talk either. Just put the tray down and come away at once.’
Patience’s gentle tap was answered by an impatient voice bidding her enter and when she did so he snapped, ‘You may look like a mouse, but you don’t have to behave like one—I don’t bite.’
‘I should hope not, indeed,’ said Patience briskly. ‘I was told to make no noise and not to come in until I was told…’ She added kindly, ‘I dare say you’re busy with your book—is it about surgery?’
‘Er—some aspects of it, yes—a reference book…’
‘Like Mrs Beeton’s cookery book, I dare say, full of instructions about the best way to cook food, written by an expert.’
Mr van der Beek’s eyelids drooped over an amused gleam. ‘If that is a compliment, Patience, thank you. I cannot compete with Mrs Beeton in her own field, but I venture to admit to being moderately well known in my own.’
Miss Murch’s headache had returned; Patience, taking care not to usurp that lady’s authority, did as much as she could to help her so that by the time dinner was ready there was an appetising meal on the table.
Mr van der Beek was in the sitting-room by the fire, with Basil at his feet. He had taken the trouble to change into a collar and tie and a good tweed jacket, and Patience, sent to fetch him to the kitchen, was made aware of her own appearance. With an eye to the weather she had come to work in a thick tweed skirt and an equally thick sweater over a shirt blouse and she had nothing with her to make this prosaic outfit more becoming, but at least her hair, strained back into a large bun, was tidy, and she had powdered her nose.
Miss Murch had done them proud, there were leeks in a french dressing, boeuf bourguignon and sautéd potatoes and an egg custard with a variety of cheeses to round off this heartening fare. Mr van der Beek made polite conversation and made no comment at Miss Murch’s lack of appetite; only when the meal was finished did he ask casually, ‘You’ve got a headache, Miss Murch?’
‘A slight one, sir.’
‘May I suggest a bed, a warm hot-water bottle and a hot drink? I’ll let you have some paracetamol. If you don’t feel better in the morning, stay in bed—there’s nothing like a day in bed to discourage a cold.’
He smiled kindly at her and bade her goodnight before turning to Patience. ‘Will you see that Miss Murch does just that?’ He glanced at the table. ‘These can wait for the time being.’
So Patience filled a hot-water bottle, urged Miss Murch upstairs to her cold bedroom and went away to get her a hot drink. It would have to be tea; the milk was running low. Miss Murch was in bed by the time she got back; she handed the pills, fetched a glass of water for the night and waited while the hot drink was swallowed. ‘I’ll pop in tomorrow morning,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you’re not feeling well; a good night’s sleep will probably put it right.’
When she got back to the kitchen it was to find the dishes washed and the kitchen more or less tidy. She was standing rather aimlessly when Mr van der Beek put his head round the door. ‘Go to bed, Patience. I’ll see to the Aga. Good night.’
It didn’t turn out to be a good night, though.
CHAPTER THREE
PATIENCE WAS AWAKENED just after one o’clock by Miss Murch, standing by her bed and thumping her on the shoulder. She held a lighted candle and in its meagre light her appearance to the sleepy Patience was alarming.
‘I am cold,’ snarled Miss Murch. ‘Get me a hot drink and refill my bottle, this house will be my death…’
Patience nipped out of bed and put a comforting arm around the housekeeper. It was startling to feel how hot she was despite her shivers. ‘Come back to bed,’ she coaxed. ‘I’ll be back in no time with a drink and a hot-water bottle; I’ll bring a spare blanket too…’
She was creeping down the stairs when Mr van der Beek loomed on the landing.
‘Now what?’ He sounded resigned. ‘Miss Murch?’
‘Yes. She says she’s cold but she feels very hot. I’m going to get her a hot drink and fill a bottle…’
‘You have nothing on your feet.’
‘Well, I didn’t bring an overnight bag with me, did I?’ She spoke reasonably, not waiting for an answer as she skimmed along to the kitchen.
When she got back to Miss Murch’s room, Mr van der Beek was there, sitting on the side of the bed, looking at the thermometer in his hand. His expression told her nothing and he said cheerfully, ‘Well, Miss Murch, you have a touch of flu. You will stay in bed for a few days until you feel more the thing and we will nurse you. I am going to give you some tablets which you will take but first I am going to give you an injection—an antibiotic which will give the tablets a boost.’ He looked at Patience. ‘More pillows and another blanket?’ he asked.
She soon got them off her own bed and together they propped up Miss Murch, and, when he had given her the injection, tucked her up warmly.
Mr van der Beek cast a brief glance at Patience. ‘Borrow Miss Murch’s slippers and dressing-gown,’ he told her, ‘or you’ll be in bed too. Go down and get a cup of tea. I’ll be down in a few minutes. We have to talk.’
Miss Murch’s dressing-gown was red and woolly and several sizes too large; so were the slippers but their warmth was bliss. Patience, mindful of the slippers, trod carefully down to the kitchen, trailing her garments behind her. She put on the kettle, talking to Basil, curled up cosily before the Aga, arranged mugs, the teapot and sugar on the table and, when she heard Mr van der Beek’s steady tread on the stairs, made the tea.
It was only then that she realised that he hadn’t yet been to his bed, for he was still fully dressed, which perhaps accounted for his impersonal manner. He pulled out a chair and told her to sit down and went to sit opposite to her at the table.
‘Miss Murch won’t be on her feet for a few days,’ he told her. ‘Can you cope? I’ll see to the fires, we will live and eat here in this kitchen and share Miss Murch between us. I fancy she will be a handful. Go through the cupboards and see how we are off for food—you’ll have to do the cooking.’
Patience nodded and drank her tea, longing for her bed. She looked ridiculous, reflected Mr van der Beek, with her head sticking out of Miss Murch’s high-necked nightgown, her hands engulfed in the dressing-gown’s sleeves. Her hair was a bird’s nest—a very clean bird’s nest, though, framing her tired face.
‘Go to bed,’ he told her an
d took the hot-water bottle she had brought down for herself and filled it from the kettle. ‘I shall look in on Miss Murch presently but she should sleep soundly until the morning. I shall leave her door open—is there a bell…?’
‘In the dining-room. I’ll fetch it.’
‘No, no, you go to bed. I’ll bring it with me presently. Goodnight, Patience.’
He had got up to open the door for her and, as she went past, said with wry amusement, ‘We mustn’t make a habit of this, must we?’
She mumbled a reply and made her way to her room, where she had to make her bed again, creeping to and fro fetching more pillows and a blanket from the linen cupboard on the landing. Miss Murch, she was thankful to see, was asleep… She left her own door open and got into bed, hugging the hot-water bottle, and fell asleep at once. She had found some night lights and left one burning on the bedside table and presently, by its feeble light, Mr van der Beek, on his way to cast a professional eye over Miss Murch, studied her sleeping face, puzzled as to why he should find it interesting. He shrugged his shoulders and went to look at his housekeeper and then at last took himself off to bed.
It was snowing again in the morning. Patience put on all the clothes she had, made sure that Miss Murch was still sleeping and that the bell was within her reach and went downstairs. It was still early but Mr van der Beek was already in the kitchen, wearing a thick sweater, raking the Aga and pouring on the coal. They had a cup of tea before he went off to make a fire in the study while she got breakfast. There was still plenty of food in the house; she made porridge, although there was no milk to spare—what there was must be saved for Miss Murch—and fried bacon and slices of bread. There were still eggs but they again might be needed for Miss Murch. There was, however, butter, marmalade and plenty of coffee. She was just ready when Mr van der Beek came back, washed his hands at the sink and sat down at the table.
