Stars Through the Mist

by Betty Neels

  ‘Shall we go into the sitting room and share the pot between us?’

  She loathed coffee so late at night, but she would gladly swallow pints of it if he wanted her to talk to. Perhaps the operation had been a bit of a strain—she had no idea who the important patient might be and she had too much sense to ask. All the same, when she had poured coffee for them both she asked him: ‘I’d love to hear about the op if it wouldn’t bore you—which method did you use?’

  She had done the right thing, she could sense that. He told her, using terms he had no need to explain, describing techniques she understood and could comment upon with intelligence. It was very late when he had finished, and when he apologised for keeping her up she waved a careless hand and said in a carefully matter-of-fact voice: ‘I enjoyed it.’

  She took the tray back to the kitchen, wished him goodnight and went quickly upstairs, because she couldn’t trust herself to preserve her careful, tranquil manner any longer.

  She and Maureen were to be ready at half past one on the following afternoon, and at exactly that time Gerard came for them. He was preoccupied but, as always, courteous during the short drive. The Grotehof hospital was in the centre of the city, tucked away behind some of its oldest houses. The building was old too, but had been extended and modernized until it was difficult to see where the old ended and the new began. The entrance was in the old part, through a large, important door leading to a vast tiled hall. It was here that Gerard, with a muttered word of apology, handed them over with a hasty word of introduction to a young and cheerful houseman, Paul van Goor, who, obviously primed as to his task, led them through a labyrinth of corridors to the children’s ward, talking all the time in excellent English.

  From there they went to the surgical block, the medical block, the recreation rooms, the Accident Room, the dining room for the staff and lastly the theatre block, the newest addition to the hospital, he told them proudly. It consisted of six theatres, two for general surgery, one for ENT, one for cardiothoracic work and two for orthopaedics. They couldn’t go inside, of course, although Deborah longed to do so, and when she peered through the round window in the swing doors she felt a pang of regret that it was no longer her world; she amended that—the regret was because it was still Gerard’s world and she no longer had a share in it, for at least at Clare’s she worked with him. Now she was a figurehead in his house, running it smoothly and efficiently, dressing to do him credit, living with him and yet not sharing his life.

  She sighed, and Paul asked her if she was tired and when she said no, suggested that they might like to go back through the hospital garden, very small but lovingly tended. They returned via lengthy staircases and roundabout passages, Deborah deep in thought, Maureen and Paul talking earnestly. They were passing a great arched doorway when a nurse flung it open and coming towards them from the other side was Gerard, a different Gerard, surrounded by a group of housemen and students, his registrar, the Ward Sister and a handful of nurses. If he saw them he took no notice; Deborah hadn’t expected him too. She managed to snatch at Maureen’s hand as she lifted it to wave to him.

  ‘No, you can’t, darling,’ she said urgently. ‘Not here, it wouldn’t do. I’ll explain later.’

  She had done her best to do so on their way to Mevrouw van Doorninck’s flat in the taxi Paul had got for them, but all Maureen said was: ‘Oh, Debby, how stuffy you are—he’s my brother-in-law, and you’re married to him, of course he can wave to us if he wants to; important people do just what they like and no one minds.’

  She was inclined to argue about it; fortunately she was kept too occupied for the rest of the afternoon, for Gerard’s mother had gathered the family together to meet Maureen and the party was a merry one. ‘Only,’ as Mevrouw van Doorninck declared to Deborah, as they drank their tea and nibbled the thin sugary biscuits, ‘it’s such a pity that Gerard can’t be here too. I had hoped now that he was married…it is as though he is afraid to be happy again.’ She glanced at Deborah, who said nothing at all, and went on presently: ‘He seems very fond of Maureen, such a sweet child. I look forward to meeting the rest of your family, my dear.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re just as eager to meet you, Mevrouw van Doorninck.’ Deborah was relieved that they had left the subject of Gerard. ‘They’re all coming over to spend Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas?’ Her companion gave her another sharp look. ‘A great deal could happen by then.’

  Deborah would have liked to ask her mother-in-law what, in heaven’s name, could happen in this well-ordered, well-organised world in which she now lived. A flaming row, she told herself vulgarly, would relieve the monotony, but Gerard was difficult to quarrel with—he became at once blandly courteous, placidly indifferent, a sign, she had decided forlornly, that he didn’t consider her of sufficient importance in his life to warrant a loss of temper.

  She and Maureen got up to go presently, walking back to the house in the Keizersgracht, to curl up in the comfortable chairs in the sitting room and discuss the delights of Christmas and the not so distant pleasures of the next day when Gerard had promised to take them out.

  He telephoned just before dinner, to say that he was detained at the hospital and would dine with a colleague and she wasn’t to wait for him. All the same she sat on, long after Maureen had gone to bed and Wim and Marijke had gone to their rooms. But when the clock struck midnight and there was no sign of him, she went to bed too, but not to sleep. She heard his quiet steps going through the quiet house in the early hours of the morning and lay awake until daylight, wondering where he had been and with whom.

  He was at breakfast when she got down in the morning, looking, Deborah thought, a little tired but as impeccably dressed as he always was, and although she wanted very much to ask him why he had come home so very late the night before, she held her tongue, remarked on the pleasant morning and read her letters. She was rewarded for this circumspect behaviour by him saying presently:

  ‘I promised to take you both out this afternoon. I’m sorry, but it won’t be possible. Could you find something to do, do you suppose?’

  She wouldn’t let him see her disappointment. ‘Of course—there are a hundred and one things on Maureen’s list. She’ll be disappointed, though.’

  ‘And you.’ His glance was thoughtful.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be disappointed too; I love sightseeing. As it’s her last day, I’ll take her to Schevingenen. She’ll love it there, and your mother was telling me of a lovely tea-room near the sea.’

  She smiled at him, a friendly, casual smile, to let him see that it was of no importance whatever that he had had to cry off, and picked up the rest of her post, only to put it down again as a thought struck her.

  ‘Gerard, would you rather not take Maureen back tomorrow? I can easily take her in the Fiat. Rather a comedown for her after the BMW and the Citroën, I know, but I’ve been on the road several times now and you said yourself that my driving had improved…’

  He frowned at her across the table. ‘I don’t like the idea of you going that distance, though I must confess that it would be awkward for me to leave.’

  ‘That’s settled, then,’ she said briskly. ‘Only if you don’t mind, I think I’ll spend a night at home; I don’t think I’d be much good at turning round and coming straight back.’

  ‘An excellent idea.’ He was still frowning. ‘I wonder if there’s someone who could drive you—Wim’s taking Mother up to Friesland or he could have gone; there may be someone at the hospital.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Deborah quickly, ‘you’ve enough to do without that. I’ll be quite all right, you know, you don’t need to give it another thought.’

  ‘Very well. I won’t, though if it had been anyone else but you…’

  She was left to decide for herself if he had intended that as a compliment or not.

  They were on their way back from Schevingenen that afternoon when she found herself behind her husband’s car. He was driving the Citroën, and
seated beside him was a small, dark, and very attractive woman, a circumstance which made Deborah thankful that Maureen was so taken up with a large street organ in the opposite direction that she saw nothing.

  Presently the traffic allowed her to slip past him. Without looking she was aware of his sudden stare as she raced the little car ahead of the Citroën while Maureen chattered on, still craning her neck to see the last of the organ. Deborah answered her small sister’s questions mechanically while her thoughts were busy. So Gerard couldn’t spare the time to take them out, though seemingly he had leisure enough to drive around with a pretty woman during an afternoon which was to have been so busy. She had, she told herself savagely, two minds to stay home for a good deal longer than one night. There were, if her memory served her right, several social engagements within the next week or so—let him attend them alone, or better still, with his charming companion. She frowned so fiercely at the very idea that Maureen, turning to speak to her, wanted to know if she had a headache.

  Gerard was home for dinner. Deborah greeted him with her usual calm friendliness, hoped that his day hadn’t been too busy and plunged into an account of their outing that afternoon, pausing at the end of it to give him time to tell her that he had seen her, and explain his companion. But he said nothing about it at all, only had a short and lively conversation with Maureen and joined her in a game with Smith before shutting himself up in his study.

  Deborah exerted herself to be entertaining during dinner, and if her manner was over-bright, her companions didn’t seem to notice. After the meal, when Gerard declared himself ready to take Maureen on a boat tour of the lighted canals, even though it was almost dark and getting chilly, she pleaded a headache and stayed at home, working pettishly at a petit-point handbag intended for her mother-in-law’s Christmas present.

  She and Maureen left after breakfast the next morning to catch the midday ferry from Zeebrugge and Gerard had left the house even earlier; over breakfast he had had very little to say to her, save to advise her to take care and wish her a pleasant journey, but with Maureen he had laughed and joked and given her an enormous box of chocolates as a farewell present and responded suitably to her uninhibited hugs.

  They made good time to the ferry, and once on board, repaired to the restaurant where, over her enormous lunch, Maureen talked so much that she didn’t notice that Deborah was eating almost nothing.

  The drive to Somerset was uneventful. By now the little girl was getting tired; she dozed from time to time, assuring Deborah that she did so only to ensure that she would be wide awake when they reached home. Which left Deborah with her thoughts, running round and round inside her head like mice in a wheel. None of them were happy and all of them were of Gerard.

  They reached home at about midnight, to find her parents waiting for them with hot drinks and sandwiches and a host of questions.

  Deborah was answering them rather sleepily when the telephone rang and Mr Culpeper, annoyed at the interruption, answered it testily. But his sharp voice shouting, ‘Hullo, hullo’ in peremptory tones changed to a more friendly accent. ‘It’s Gerard,’ he announced, ‘wants to speak to you, Deb.’

  She had telephoned the house in Amsterdam on their arrival at Dover, knowing very well that he wouldn’t be home and leaving nothing but a brief message with Wim. She picked up the receiver now, schooling her voice to its usual calm and said: ‘Hullo, Gerard.’

  His voice was quiet and distinct. ‘Hullo, Deborah. Wim gave me your message, but I wanted to hear for myself that you had got home safely. I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.’

  ‘No. You’re up late yourself.’

  His ‘Yes’ was terse. He went on quickly: ‘I won’t keep you. Have a good night’s sleep and drive carefully tomorrow. Good night, Debby.’

  She said good night and replaced the receiver. He had never called her Debby before; she wondered about it, but she was really too tired to think. Presently they all went to bed and she slept without waking until she was called in the morning.

  She was to take Maureen back to school after breakfast and then continue on her return journey. It seemed lonely after she had left her little sister, still talking and quite revived by a good night’s sleep. There hadn’t been much time to talk to her mother while she had been home, and perhaps that was a good thing; she might have let slip some small thing…all the same, it had been a cheerful few hours. Her parents, naturally enough, took it for granted that she was happy and beyond asking after Gerard and agreeing eagerly to the Christmas visit they had said little more; there had been no chance because Maureen had so much to talk about. It would have been nice to have confided in someone, thought Deborah, pushing the little car hard along the road towards the Winchester bypass, but perhaps not quite loyal to Gerard. The thought of seeing him again made her happy, but the happiness slowly wilted as the day wore on. There had been brilliant sunshine to start with, but now clouds were piling up behind her and long before she reached Dover, it was raining, and out at sea the sky showed a uniform greyness which looked as though it might be there for ever.

  She slept for most of the crossing, sitting in a chair in the half-filled ship; she was tired and had been nervous of getting the car on board. Somehow with Maureen she hadn’t found it frightening, but going up the steep ramp to the upper car deck she had quaked with fright; it was a relief to sit down for a few hours and recover her cool. She fetched herself a cup of coffee, brought a paperback and settled back. They were within sight of land when she woke and feeling tired still, she tidied herself and after a hasty cup of tea, went to the car deck.

  Going down the ramp wasn’t too bad, although her engine stalled when she reached the bottom. Deborah found herself trembling as she followed the cars ahead of her towards the Customs booth in the middle of the docks road. Suddenly the drive to Amsterdam didn’t seem the easy journey she had made it out to be when she had offered to take Maureen home. It stretched before her in her mind’s eye, dark and wet, with the Breskens ferry to negotiate and the long-drawn-out, lonely road across the islands, and Rotterdam…she had forgotten what a long way it was; somehow she hadn’t noticed that when she was with Gerard, or even when she had taken Maureen back, but then it had been broad daylight.

  She came to a halt by the Customs, proffered her passport and shivered in the chilly night air as she wound down the window. The man smiled at her. ‘You will go to the left, please, Mevrouw.’ He waved an arm towards a road leading off from the main docks road.

  Deborah was puzzled; all the cars in front of her were keeping straight on. She said slowly so that he would be sure to understand: ‘I’m going to Holland—don’t I keep straight on to the main road?’

  He was still smiling but quite firm. ‘To the left, Mevrouw, if you will be so good.’

  She went to the left; possibly they were diverting the traffic; she would find out in good time, she supposed. She was going slowly because the arc lights hardly penetrated this smaller side road and she had no idea where it was leading her, nor was there a car in front of her. She was on the point of stopping and going back to make sure that she hadn’t misunderstood the Customs man, when her headlights picked out the BMW parked at the side of the road and Gerard leaning against its boot. In the bad light he looked enormous and very reassuring too; she hadn’t realized just how much she had wanted to be reassured until she saw him there, standing in the pouring rain, the collar of his Burberry turned up to his ears, a hat pulled down over his eyes. She pulled up then and he walked over to her and when she wound down the window, said: ‘Hullo, my dear. I thought it might be a good idea to come and meet you and drive you back—the weather, you know…’

  She was still getting over her surprise and joy at seeing him. Her ‘hullo’ was faint, as was her protesting: ‘But I can’t leave the Fiat here?’

  She became aware that Wim was there too, standing discreetly in the background by his master’s car. Gerard nodded towards him. ‘I brought Wim with me, he’ll take the
Fiat back.’ He opened the car door. ‘Come along, Deborah, we shall be home in no time at all.’

  She got out silently and allowed herself to be tucked up snugly beside him in the BMW, pausing only to greet Wim and hope that he didn’t mind driving the Fiat home.

  ‘A pleasure, Mevrouw,’ grinned Wim cheerfully, ‘but I think that you will be there first.’ He put out a hand to take the car keys from her and raised it in salute as he walked back to her car.

  As Gerard reversed his own car and swept back the way she had come Deborah asked: ‘Oh, is that why he told me to come this way and not out of the main gate?’

  ‘Yes—I was afraid that we might miss you once you got past the Customs. Did you have a good trip back?’

  For a variety of reasons and to her great shame her voice was drowned in a sudden flood of tears. She swallowed them back frantically and they poured down her cheeks instead. She stared out of the window at the outskirts of the town—flat land, dotted here and there with houses, it looked untidy even in the dim light of the overhead street lamps—and willed herself to be calm. After a minute Gerard said ‘Deborah?’ and because she would have to say something sooner or later she managed a ‘Yes, thank you,’ and spoilt it with a dreary snivel.

  He slid the car to the side of the road on to a patch of waste land and switched off the engine. He had tossed off his hat when he got into the car; now he turned his handsome head and looked down at her in the semi-dark. ‘What happened?’ he asked gently, and then: ‘Debby, I’ve never seen you cry before.’

  She sniffed, struggled to get herself under control and managed:

  ‘I hardly ever do—n-nothing’s the m-matter, it’s just that I’m tired, I expect.’ She added on a small wail: ‘I was t-terrified—those ramps on the ferry, they were ghastly—I thought I’d never reach the top and I didn’t notice with Maureen, but when I was by m-myself it was awful, and the engine stalled and it was raining and when I got off the ferry it s-seemed s-such a long way to get home.’ She hiccoughed, blew her nose and mopped her wet cheeks.