by Betty Neels
He said urgently: ‘No, that’s not true. No man could have had a more loyal and understanding wife. It is I who have failed you and I am only just beginning to see…perhaps we could start again. You really want to go?’ He paused and went on briskly: ‘Come then, I’ll take you to the station.’
If only he would say that he would miss her—She thought of a dozen excuses for staying and came up with the silliest. ‘What about your dinner, and Wim—and Sien?’
‘I’ll see to everything,’ he told her comfortably. ‘You’re sure that you have enough clothes with you?’
Deborah looked at him in despair; he was relieved that she was going. She nodded without speaking, having not the least idea what she had packed and not caring, and followed him out to the car. At the station he bought her ticket, stuffed some money into her handbag and saw her on to the train. She thought her heart would break as it slid silently away from the platform, leaving him standing there.
By the time she reached Aunt Mary’s she was tired out and so unhappy that nothing mattered at all any more. She greeted her surprised relation with a story in which fact and fiction were so hopelessly jumbled together that they made no sense at all, and then burst into tears. She felt better after that and Aunt Mary being a sensible woman not given to asking silly questions, she was led to the small bedroom at the back of the little house, told to unpack, given a nourishing meal and ordered with mild authority to go to bed and sleep the clock round. Which she did, to wake to the firm conviction that she had been an utter fool to leave Gerard—perhaps he wouldn’t want her back; he’d positively encouraged her to go, hadn’t he? Could he be in love with some girl at long last and wish to put an end to their marriage and she not there to stop, if she were able, such nonsense? The idea so terrified her that she jumped out of bed and dressed at a great speed as though that would help in some way, but when she got downstairs and Aunt Mary took one look at her strained face, she said: ‘You can’t rush things, my dear, nor must you imagine things. Now all you need is patience, for although I’m not clear exactly what the matter is, you can be certain that it will all come right in the end if only you will give it time. Now go for a good long walk and come back with an appetite.’
Aunt Mary was right, of course. After three days of long walks, gentle talk over simple meals and the dreamless sleep her tiredness induced, Deborah began to feel better; she was still dreadfully unhappy, but at least she could be calm about it now. It would have been nice to have given way to tears whenever she thought about Gerard, which was every minute of the day, but that would not do, she could see that without Aunt Mary telling her so. In a day or two she would write a letter to him, asking him—she didn’t know what she would ask him; perhaps inspiration would come when she picked up her pen.
The weather changed on the fourth day; layers of low cloud covered the moors, the heather lost its colour, the empty countryside looked almost frightening. There was next to no traffic on the road any more and even the few cottages which could be seen from Aunt Mary’s windows had somehow merged themselves into the moorland around them so that they were almost invisible. But none of these things were reasons to miss her walk. She set off after their midday meal, with strict instructions to be back for tea and on no account to go off the road in case the mist should come down.
Sound advice which Deborah forgot momentarily when she saw an old ruined cottage some way from the road. It looked interesting, and without thinking, she tramped across the heather towards it. It was disappointing enough when she reached it, being nothing but an empty shell, but there was a dip beyond it with a small dewpond. She walked on to have a closer look and then wandered on, quite forgetful of her aunt’s words. She had gone quite a distance when she saw the mist rolling towards her. She thought at first that it must be low-lying clouds which would sweep away, but it was mist, creeping forward at a great rate, sneaking up on her, thickening with every yard. She had the good sense to turn towards the road before it enveloped her entirely, but by then it was too late to see where she was going.
Shivering a little in its sudden chill, she sat down; probably it would lift very shortly. If she stayed where she was she would be quite safe. It would be easy to get back to the road as soon as she could see her way. It got too cold to sit after a time, so she got to her feet, stamping them and clapping her hands and trying to keep in one spot. And it was growing dark too; a little thread of fear ran through her head—supposing the mist lasted all night? It was lonely country—a few sheep, no houses within shouting distance, and the road she guessed to be a good mile away. She called herself a fool and stamped her feet some more.
It was quite dark and the mist was at its densest when she heard voices. At first she told herself that she was imagining things, but they became louder as they drew closer—children’s voices, all talking at once.
‘Hullo there!’ she shouted, and was greeted by silence. ‘Don’t be frightened, I’m by myself and lost too. Shall we try and get together?’
This time there was a babble of sound from all around her. ‘We’re lost too.’ The voice was on a level with her waist. ‘Miss Smith went to get help, but it got dark and we started to walk. We’re holding hands.’
‘Who are you, and how many?’ asked Deborah. Someone small brushed against her and a cold little hand found her arm. ‘Oh, there you are,’ it said tearfully. ‘We’re so glad to find someone—it’s so dark. We’re a school botany class from St Julian’s, only Miss Smith lost the way and when the mist came she thought it would be quicker if she went for help. She told us to stay where we were, but she didn’t come back and we got frightened.’ The voice ended on a sob and Deborah caught the hand in her own and said hearteningly: ‘Well, how lucky we’ve met—now we’re together we’ve nothing to be afraid of. How many are there of you?’
‘Eight—we’re still holding hands.’
‘How very sensible of you. May I hold hands too, then we can tell each other our names.’
There was a readjustment in the ranks of the little girls; the circle closed in on her. Deborah guessed that they were scared stiff and badly needed her company. ‘Who’s the eldest of you?’ she enquired.
‘Doreen—she’s eleven.’
‘Splendid!’ What was so splendid about being eleven? she thought, stifling a giggle. ‘I expect the mist will lift presently and we shall be able to walk to the road. It’s not far.’
‘It’s miles,’ said a plaintive voice so that Deborah went on cheerfully, ‘Not really, and I can find it easily. My name’s Deborah, by the way. How about stamping our feet to keep warm?’
They stamped until they were tired out. Deborah, getting a little desperate, suggested: ‘Let’s sit down. I know it’s a bit damp, but if we keep very close to each other we shall keep warm enough. Let’s sing.’
The singing was successful, if a little out of tune. They worked their way through ‘This old man, he played one’, the School Song, ‘Rule Britannia’ and a selection of the latest pop tunes. It was while they were getting their breath after these musical efforts that Deborah heard a shout. It was a nice, cheerful sound, a loud hullo in a man’s voice, answered immediately by a ragged and very loud chorus of mixed screams and shouts from the little girls.
‘Oh, that won’t do at all,’ said Deborah quickly. ‘He’ll get confused. We must all shout together at the same time. Everyone call “Here” when I’ve counted three.’
The voice answered them after a few moments, sometimes tantalizingly close, sometimes at a distance. After what seemed a long time, Deborah saw a faint glow ahead of them. A torch. ‘Walk straight ahead,’ she yelled, ‘you’re quite close.’
The glow got brighter, wavering from side to side and going far too slowly. ‘Come on,’ she shouted, ‘you’re almost here!’
The faint glow from the torch was deceptive in the mist, for the next thing she knew Gerard was saying from the gloom above her head, ‘A fine healthy pair of lungs, dear girl—I’ve never been so glad to he
ar your voice, though I’m glad you don’t always bellow like that.’
Surprise almost choked her. ‘Gerard! Gerard, is it really you? How marvellous—how could you possibly know…’
‘Your Aunt Mary told me that you had gone for a walk and it seemed a good idea to drive along the road to meet you. When the mist got too thick I parked the car, and then it was I heard these brats squealing,’ there were muffled giggles to interrupt him here, ‘and I collected them as I came.’
‘You haven’t got the botany class from St Julian’s too?’ she gasped. ‘You can’t have—I’ve got them here.’
‘Indeed I have—or a part of it. A Miss Smith went for help and left them bunched together, but being the little horrors they are, they wandered off.’
‘There aren’t any missing?’
‘No—we counted heads, as it were. Seven young ladies—very young ladies.’
Deborah had found his arm and was clutching it as though he might disappear at any moment. ‘I’ve got eight of them here. What must we do, Gerard?’
‘Why, my dear, stay here until the mist goes again. The car is up on the road, once we can reach it I can get you all back to Twice Brewed in no time at all.’ He sounded so matter-of-fact about it that she didn’t feel frightened any more. ‘Your aunt has got everything organised by now, I imagine. She seemed to be a remarkably resourceful woman.’ His hand sought and found hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. ‘In the meantime, I suggest that we all keep together, and don’t let any of you young ladies dare to let go of hands. Supposing we sit?’
There was a good deal of giggling and a tremendous amount of shuffling and shoving and pushing before everyone was settled, sitting in a tight circle. Deborah, with Gerard’s great bulk beside her, felt quite light-hearted, and the children, although there was a good deal of whining for something to eat, cheered up too, so that for a time at least, there was a buzz of talk, but gradually the shrill voices died down until there was silence and, incredibly, she dozed too, to wake shivering a little with the cold despite the arm around her shoulders. She whispered at once in a meek voice: ‘I didn’t mean to go to sleep, I’m sorry,’ and felt the reassuring pressure of Gerard’s hand.
‘Not to worry. I think they have all nodded off, but we had better have a roll-call when they wake to be on the safe side.’
‘Yes. I wonder what the time is, it’s so very dark.’
‘Look up,’ he urged her, quietly. ‘Above our heads.’
By some freak of nature the mist had parted itself, revealing a patch of inky sky, spangled with stars. ‘Oh, lovely!’ breathed Deborah. ‘Only they don’t seem real.’
‘Of course they’re real,’ his whisper was bracing. ‘It’s the mist which isn’t real. The stars have been there all the time, and always will be, only sometimes we don’t see them—rather like life.’ He sighed and she wondered what he meant. ‘You see that bright one, the second star from the right?’
She said that yes, she could see it very well.
‘That’s our star,’ he told her surprisingly, and when she repeated uncertainly ‘Ours?’ he went on: ‘Do you not know that for every star in the heavens there is a man and a woman whose destinies are ruled by it? Perhaps they never meet, perhaps they meet too late or too soon, but just once in a while they meet at exactly the right moment and their destinies and their lives become one.’
In the awful, silent dark, anything would sound true; Deborah allowed herself a brief dream in which she indeed shared her destiny with Gerard, dispelled it by telling herself that the mist was making her fanciful, and whispered back: ‘How do you know it’s our star—it’s ridiculous.’
‘Of course it’s ridiculous,’ he agreed affably, and so readily that she actually felt tears of disappointment well into her eyes. ‘But it’s a thought that helps to pass the time, isn’t it? Go to sleep again.’
And such was the calm confidence in his voice that she did as she was told, to waken in the bitter cold of the autumn dawn to an unhappy chorus of little girls wanting their mothers, their breakfasts, and to go home. Deborah was engulfed in them with no ears for anything else until she heard watery giggles coming from Gerard’s other side, and his voice, loud and cheerful, declaring that they were all going to jump up and down and every few minutes bellow like mad. ‘It’s getting light; there will be people about soon.’ He sounded quite positive about that. So they jumped and shouted, and although the mist was as thick as it ever was, at least they got warm, and surely any minute now the mist would roll away.
It did no such thing, however. They shouted themselves hoarse, but there was no reply from the grey blanket around them. First one child and then another began to cry, and Deborah, desperately trying to instil a false cheer into her small unhappy companions, could hear Gerard doing the same, with considerably more success so that she found herself wondering where she had got the erroneous idea that he wasn’t particularly keen on children. She remembered all at once what he had said about Sasja who hadn’t wanted babies—the hurt must have gone deep. It seemed to her vital to talk about it even at so unsuitable a time and she was on the point of doing so when the mist folded itself up and disappeared. It was hard not to laugh; the little girls were still gathered in a tight circle, clutching each other’s hands. They were white-faced and puffy-eyed, each dressed in the school uniform of St Julian’s—grey topcoats and round grey hats with brims, anchored to their small heads by elastic under their chins. Some of them even had satchels over their shoulders and most of the hats were a little too large and highly unbecoming.
There was an excited shout as they all stood revealed once more and a tendency to break away until Gerard shouted to them to keep together still. ‘A fine lot we would look,’ he pointed out good-naturedly, ‘if the mist comes back and we all get lost again.’ He looked round at Deborah and smiled. ‘We’ll hold hands again, don’t you think, and make for the road.’
They were half way there when they saw the search party—the local police, several farmers and the quite distraught Miss Smith who, when they met, burst into tears, while her botany class, with a complete lack of feeling for her distress and puffed up with a great sense of importance, told everyone severally and in chorus just how brave and resourceful they had been. It took a few minutes to sort them into the various cars and start the short journey to St Julian’s.
Deborah found herself sitting beside Gerard, with four of the smallest children crammed in the back. She was weary and untidy, but when he suggested he should drop her off at Aunt Mary’s as they went past, she refused.
On their way back from the school she began, ‘How did…?’ and was stopped by a quiet: ‘Not now, dear girl, a hot bath and breakfast first.’
So it was only when they had breakfasted and she was sitting drowsily before a roaring fire in Aunt Mary’s comfortable sitting room that she tried again. ‘How did you know that I was here?’
‘I telephoned your mother.’
‘Oh—did she ask—that is, did she wonder…’
‘If she did, she said nothing. Your mother is a wise woman, Deborah.’
‘Why did you come?’
He was lying back, very much at his ease, in a high-backed chair, his eyes half shut. ‘I felt I needed a break from work, it seemed a good idea to bring the car over and see if you were ready to come back.’ He added: ‘Smith is breaking his heart—think about it. Why not go to bed now, and get a few hours’ sleep?’
Deborah got up silently. Smith might be breaking his doggy heart, but what about Gerard? There was no sign of even a crack; he was his usual calm, friendly self again, and no more. She went up to her little room and slept for hours, and when she came downstairs Aunt Mary was waiting for her.
‘I told you to have patience, Debby,’ she remarked with satisfaction. ‘Everything will come right without you lifting a finger, mark my words.’
So when Gerard came in from the garden presently, she told him that she was ready to go back with him when he wished. Sh
e woke several times in the night and wondered, despite Aunt Mary’s certainty, if she had made the right decision.
CHAPTER NINE
IT WAS two days before they returned to Amsterdam, two days during which Gerard, who had become firm friends with Aunt Mary, dug the garden, chopped wood and did odd jobs around the house, as well as driving the two ladies into Carlisle to do some shopping.
They left after lunch, to catch the Hull ferry that evening, and Deborah, who had been alternately dreading and longing for an hour or so of Gerard’s company, with the vague idea of offering to part with him and the even vaguer hope that he would tell her how much he had missed her, was forced to sit beside him in the car while he sustained a conversation about Aunt Mary, the beauties of the moors, the charm of the small girls they had met and the excellence of his hostess’s cooking. Each time Deborah tried to bring the conversation round to themselves he somehow baulked her efforts; in the end, she gave up, and when they reached Hull, what with getting the car on board, arranging to have dinner and their cabins, there wasn’t much need to talk. Quite frustrated, she pleaded a headache directly they had finished dinner and retired to her cabin. She joined him for an early breakfast, though, because he had asked her to; he had, he told her, an appointment quite early in the morning at the hospital and didn’t wish to waste any time.
He talked pleasantly as they took the road to Amsterdam and Deborah did her best to match his mood, but at the house he didn’t come in with her, only unloaded her case and waited until Wim had opened the door before he drove away. She followed Wim inside. Gerard hadn’t said when he would be home, nor had he spoken of themselves. She spent a restless day until he came home soon after tea and, as usual, went to his study. But before he could reach the door she was in the hall, a dozen things she wanted to say buzzing in her head. In the end she asked foolishly: ‘What about Trudi? Did you get someone to take her place?’
