by Betty Neels
The man answered in a laboured English which was more than adequate. ‘He tells me that also, Mevrouw. You have your papers?’
She managed to open the car’s battered door and took them out of her handbag. He examined her licence and then looked at her. ‘You are wife of Mijnheer Doorninck, chirurg at the Grotehof hospital.’
She nodded.
‘You are not injured, Mevrouw?’
‘I don’t think so—I feel a little shaky.’ She smiled. ‘I was scared stiff!’
‘Stiff?’ He eyed her anxiously.
‘Sorry—I was frightened.’
‘I shall take you to the hospital in one moment.’ He was writing in his notebook. ‘You will sit in your car, please.’
Deborah did as she was told and he went back to talk some more to the lorry driver, who presently got into his cab and drove away.
‘It will be arranged that your car’—his eye swept over the poor remnant of it—‘will be taken to a garage. Do not concern yourself about it, Mevrouw. Now you will come with me, please.’
‘I’m quite all right,’ she assured him, and then at his look, followed him obediently to the police car behind the crowd, glad to sit down now, for her legs were suddenly jelly and one arm was aching.
They were close to the hospital. She was whisked there, swept from the car and ushered into the Accident Room where Gerard’s name acted like a magic wand; she barely had time to thank the policeman warmly before she was spirited away to be meticulously examined from head to foot. There was nothing wrong, the Casualty Officer decided, save for a few painful bruises on her arm and the nasty shock she had had.
‘I will telephone and inform Mijnheer van Doorninck,’ he told her, and she stifled a giggle, for Gerard’s name had been uttered with such reverence. ‘He’s not home,’ she told him, ‘not until late this evening or tomorrow morning—he’s in Arnhem. In any case, I’m perfectly all right.’
She should have suspected him when he agreed with her so readily, suggesting that she should drink a cup of tea and have a short rest, then he would come back and pronounce her fit to go home.
She drank the tea gratefully. There was no milk with it, but it was hot and sweet and it pulled her together and calmed her down. She lay back and closed her eyes and wondered what Gerard would say when he got back. She was asleep in five minutes.
She slept for just over an hour and when she wakened Gerard was there, staring down at her, his blue eyes blazing from a white face. She wondered, only half awake, why he looked so furiously angry, and then remembered where she was.
She exclaimed unhappily: ‘Oh, dear—were you home after all? But I did tell them not to telephone the house…’
‘I was telephoned at Arnhem. How do you feel?’
Deborah ignored that. ‘The fools,’ she said crossly, ‘I told them you were busy, that there was no need to bother you.’
‘They quite rightly ignored such a foolish remark. How do you feel?’ he repeated.
She swung her legs off the couch to let him see just how normal she was. ‘Perfectly all right, thank you—such a fuss about nothing.’ She gulped suddenly. ‘I’m so sorry, Gerard, I’ve made you angry, haven’t I? You didn’t have to give up the case or anything awful like that?’
His grim mouth relaxed into the faintest of smiles. ‘No—I had intended returning home this evening, anyway. And I am not angry.’
She eyed him uncertainly. ‘You look…’ She wasn’t sure how he looked; probably he was tired after a long-drawn-out operation. She forced her voice to calm. ‘I’m perfectly able to go home now, Gerard, if that’s convenient for you.’
He said slowly, studying his hands: ‘Is that how you think of me? As someone whose wishes come before everything else? Who doesn’t give a damn when his wife is almost killed—a heartless tyrant?’
She was sitting on the side of the couch, conscious that her hair was an untidy mop halfway down her neck and that she had lost the heel of a shoe and her stockings were laddered. ‘You’re not a heartless tyrant,’ she protested hotly. ‘You’re not—you’re a kind and considerate husband. Can’t you see that’s why I hate to hinder you in any way? It’s the least I can do—I’d rather die…’
She had said too much, she realized that too late.
‘Just what do you mean by that?’ he asked her sharply.
Deborah opened her mouth, not having any idea what to say and was saved from making matters worse by the entry of the Casualty Officer, eager to know if she felt up to going home and obviously pleased with himself because he had come under the notice of one of the most eminent consultants in the hospital and treated his wife to boot. He was a worthy young man, his thoughts were written clearly on his face, Deborah thanked him cordially and was pleased when Gerard added his own thanks with a warmth to make the young man flush with pleasure. She hadn’t realized that Gerard was held in such veneration by the hospital staff; the things she didn’t know about him were so many that it was a little frightening—certainly they were seen to the entrance by an imposing number of people.
The BMW was parked right in front of the steps; anyone else, she felt sure would have been ordered to move their car, for no one could get near the entrance, but no one seemed to find anything amiss. Gerard helped her in and she sat back with a sigh. As he drove through the hospital gateway she said apologetically: ‘The police said they would take the Fiat away and they’d let you know about it. It—it’s a bit battered.’
‘It can be scrapped.’ His voice was curt. ‘I’ll get you a new car.’
That was all he said on the way home and she could think of nothing suitable to talk about herself. Besides, her head had begun to ache. Wim and Marijke were both hovering in the hall when they got in. Gerard said something to them in Dutch and Marijke came forward, talking volubly.
‘Marijke will help you to bed,’ Gerard explained. ‘I suggest that you have something to eat there and then get a good sleep—you’ll feel quite the thing by the morning.’ His searching eyes rested for a brief, professional minute on her face. ‘You have a headache, I daresay, I’ll give you something for that presently. Go up to bed now.’
She would have liked to have disputed his order, but when she considered it, bed was the one place where she most wanted to be. She thanked him in a subdued voice and went upstairs, Marijke in close attendance.
She wasn’t hungry, she discovered, when she was tucked up against her pillows and Marijke had brought in a tray of soup and chicken. She took a few mouthfuls, put the tray on the side table and lay back and closed her eyes, to open them at once as Gerard came in after the most perfunctory of knocks. He walked over to the bed, took her pulse, studied the bruises beginning to show on her arm, and then stood looking down at her with the expression she imagined he must wear when he was examining his patients—a kind of reserved kindliness. ‘You’ve not eaten anything,’ he observed.
‘I’m not very hungry.’
He nodded, shook some pills out of the box he held, fetched water from the carafe on the table and said: ‘Swallow these down—they’ll take care of that headache and send you to sleep.’
She did as she was bid and lay back again against the pillows.
‘Ten minutes?’ she wanted to know. ‘Pills always seem to take so long to work.’
‘Then we might as well talk while we’re waiting,’ he said easily, and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘Tell me, what is all this about Sien? Wim tells me that you went up to Domwier because she had cut her hand.’
‘Yes—the doctor wasn’t there and it sounded as though it might have needed a stitch or two—she had six, actually. I—I thought you would want me to look after her as you weren’t home.’
He took her hand lying on the coverlet and his touch was gentle. ‘Yes, of course that was exactly what I should have wanted you to do, Deborah. Was it a bad cut?’
She told him; she told him about their visit to the hospital at Leeuwarden too, adding: ‘They knew you quite well there�
�I didn’t know…’ There was such a lot she didn’t know, she thought wearily. ‘I got the doctor there to find out if Sien had any friends or family—I fetched her niece, they seemed quite happy together.’ She blinked huge, drowsy eyes. ‘I forgot—I said I would telephone and make sure that Sien was all right. Could someone…?’
‘I’ll see to it. Thank you, my dear. What a competent girl you are, but you always were in theatre and you’re just as reliable now.’
She was really very sleepy, but she had to answer that. ‘No, I’m not. I bought that terribly expensive dress just to annoy you—and what about Claude? Have you forgotten him? You thought I was quite unreliable with him, didn’t you?’
She was aware that her tongue was running away with her, but she seemed unable to help herself. ‘Don’t you know that I…?’ She fell asleep, just in time.
She was perfectly all right in the morning except for a badly discoloured arm. All the same, Marijke brought her breakfast up on a tray with the injunction, given with motherly sternness, to eat it up, and she was closely followed by Gerard, who wished her a placid good morning and cast a quick eye over her. ‘I’ve told Wim,’ he said as he was leaving after the briefest of stays, ‘that if anyone telephones about the Fiat that he is to refer them to me. And by the way, Sien is quite all right. I telephoned last night and again this morning. She sends her respects.’
Deborah smiled. ‘How very old-fashioned that sounds, and how nice! But she’s a nice person, isn’t she? I can’t wait to learn a little of her language so that we can really talk.’
He smiled. ‘She would like that. But first your Dutch—it’s coming along very nicely, Deborah—your grammar is a little wild, but your accent is impeccable.’
She flushed with pleasure. ‘Oh, do you really mean that? Professor de Wit is so loath to praise. I sometimes feel that I’m making no headway at all.’ She smiled at him. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’
He opened the door without answering her. ‘I shouldn’t do too much today,’ was all he said as he went.
If he had been there for her to say it to, she would have told him that she didn’t do too much anyway because there was nothing for her to do, but that would have sounded ungrateful; he had given her everything she could possibly want—a lovely home, clothes beyond her wildest dreams, a car, an allowance which she secretly felt was far too generous—all these, and none of them worth a cent without his love and interest. She had sometimes wondered idly what the term ‘an empty life’ had meant. Now she knew, although it wouldn’t be empty if he loved her; then everything which they did would be shared—the dinner parties, the concerts, the visits to friends, just as he would share the burden of his work with her. Deborah sighed and got out of bed and went to look out of the window. It was a cold, clear morning. She got dressed and presently telephoned Adelaide van Essen and invited her round for coffee.
It was two days later that Deborah mentioned at breakfast that she had never seen Gerard’s consulting rooms and, to her surprise, was invited to visit them that very day.
‘I shan’t be there,’ he explained with his usual courtesy. ‘I don’t see patients there on a Thursday afternoon—it’s my heavy afternoon list at the Grotehof, but go along by all means. Trudi, my secretary, will be there—her English is just about as good as your Dutch, so you should get on very well together.’
He had left soon afterwards, leaving her a prey to a variety of feelings, not the least of which was the sobering one that he had shown no visible regret at not being able to take her himself. Still, it would be something to do.
She went after lunch, in a new tweed suit because the sun was shining, albeit weakly. She was conscious that she looked rather dishy and consoled herself with the thought that at last she was being allowed to see another small, very small, facet of Gerard’s life.
The consulting rooms were within walking distance, in a quiet square lined with tall brick houses, almost all of which had brass plates on their doors—a kind of Dutch Harley Street, she gathered, and found Gerard’s name quickly enough. His rooms were on the first floor and Deborah was impressed by their unobtrusive luxury; pale grey carpet, solid, comfortable chairs, small tables with flowers, and in one corner a desk where Trudi sat.
Trudi was young and pretty and dressed discreetly in grey to match the carpet. She welcomed Deborah a little nervously in an English as bad as her Dutch and showed her round, leaving Gerard’s own room till last. It too was luxurious, deliberately comfortable and relaxing so that the patient might feel at ease. She smiled and nodded as Trudi rattled on, not liking to ask too many questions because, as Gerard’s wife, she should already know the answers. They had a cup of tea together presently and because Trudi kept looking anxiously at the clock, Deborah got up to go. Probably the poor girl had a great deal of work to do before she could leave. She was halfway across the sea of carpet when the door opened and Claude came in. She was so surprised that she came to a halt, her mouth open, but even in her surprise she saw that he was taken aback, annoyed too. He cast a lightning glance at Trudi and then back to Deborah. ‘Hullo, my beauty,’ he said.
She ignored that. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, ‘I’m quite sure that Gerard doesn’t know. What do you want?’
He still looked shaken, although he replied airily enough. ‘Oh, nothing much. Trudi has something for me, haven’t you, darling?’
The girl looked so guilty that Deborah felt sorry for her. ‘Yes—yes, I have. It’s downstairs, I’ll get it.’
She fled through the door leaving Deborah frowning at Claude’s now smiling face. ‘What are you up to?’ she wanted to know.
‘I?’ he smiled even more widely. ‘My dear girl, nothing. Surely I can come and see my friends without you playing the schoolmarm over me?’
‘But this is Gerard’s office…’
‘We do meet in the oddest places, don’t we?’ He came a step nearer. ‘Jealous, by any chance? Gerard would never dream of looking for us here…’
‘You underestimate my powers,’ said Gerard in a dangerously quiet voice. ‘And really, this time, Claude, my patience is exhausted.’
He had been standing in the open doorway. Now he crossed the room without haste, knocked Claude down in a businesslike fashion, picked him up again and frogmarched him out of the room. Deborah, ice-cold with the unexpectedness of it all, listened to the muddle of feet going down the stairs. It sounded as though Claude was having difficulty in keeping his balance. The front door was shut with quiet finality and Gerard came back upstairs. He looked as placid as usual and yet quite murderous.
‘Is this why you wanted to visit these rooms?’ he asked silkily.
She had never seen him look like that before. ‘No, you know that.’
‘Why is Trudi not here?’
‘Trudi?’ She had forgotten the girl, she hadn’t the least idea where she had gone. ‘She went to fetch something for Claude—he didn’t say what it was.’
‘She is downstairs, very upset,’ he informed her coldly. ‘She told me that she hadn’t been expecting anyone else—only you.’
Deborah gaped at him. ‘She said that? But…’ But what, she thought frantically—perhaps what Trudi had said was true, perhaps she hadn’t expected Claude. But on the other hand he had told her that he had come to fetch something and that Trudi was an old friend.
‘Oh, please, do let me try and explain,’ she begged, and met with a decided: ‘No, Deborah—there is really no need.’
She stared at him wordlessly. No, she supposed, of course there was no need: his very indifference made that plain enough. It just didn’t matter; she didn’t matter either. She closed her eyes on the bitter thought, all the more bitter because she had thought, just once or twice lately, that she was beginning to matter just a little to him.
She opened her eyes again and went past him and down the stairs. Trudi was in the hall. Deborah gave her a look empty of all expression and opened the door on to the square. It looked peaceful and q
uiet under the late afternoon sky, but she didn’t notice that; she didn’t notice anything.
Once in the house, she raced up to her room and dragged out a case and started to stuff it with clothes. There was money in her purse, enough to get her to England—she couldn’t go home, not just yet at any rate, not until she had sorted her thoughts out. She would go to Aunt Mary; her remote house by Hadrian’s Wall was exactly the sort of place she wanted—a long, long way from Amsterdam, and Gerard.
She was on her way downstairs with her case when the front door opened and Gerard came in. He shut it carefully and stood with his back to it.
‘I must talk to you, Deborah,’ his voice was quiet and compelling. ‘There’s plenty of time if you’re going for the night boat train. I’ll drive you to the station—if you still want to go.’
Deborah swept across the hall, taking no notice, but at the door, of course, she was forced to stop; only then did she say: ‘I’ll get a taxi, thank you—perhaps you will let me pass.’
‘No, I won’t, my dear. You’ll stay and hear what I have to say. Afterwards, if you still wish it, you shall go. But first I must explain.’ He took the case from her and set it on the floor and then went back to lean against the door. ‘Deborah, I have been very much at fault—I’m not sure what I thought when I saw Claude this afternoon. I only know that I was more angry than I have ever been before in my life, and my anger blinded me. After you had gone Trudi told me the truth—that Claude had come to see her. She is going to Nice with him, but they had planned it otherwise—I was to know nothing about it until I arrived in the morning and found a letter from her on my desk.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It seems that since Claude could not have my wife, he must make do with my secretary. None of this is an excuse for my treatment of you, Deborah, for which I am both ashamed and sorry. What would you like to do?’
‘Go away,’ said Deborah, her voice thick with tears she would rather have died than shed. ‘I’ve an aunt—if I could go and stay with her, just for a little while, just to—to…I’ve not been much of a success—I’d do better to go back to my old job.’
