by Betty Neels
‘Just for us?’ Matilda wanted to know.
‘Yes.’ He was watching her happy face. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s super. What did you say was the name of this hotel?’
‘Botanico—it’s close to the botanical gardens.’
‘Is the pool heated?’
‘Yes. Shall we have a swim before dinner?’
She wasn’t a good swimmer but she felt safe enough, for the pool wasn’t large and, besides, Rauwerd was there. She left him still ploughing strongly through the clear water and went to dress. The patterned chiffon, she decided, and debated whether she should buy another evening gown; the guests in the bigger hotels dressed for the evening and she had only the two crêpe dresses besides.
The chiffon did her justice; she did her face carefully, brushed her hair until it shone and went into the sitting-room. Rauwerd was already there. ‘Shall I ring for drinks or shall we go down to the bar?’ he asked.
She felt suddenly shy of him. ‘Oh, the bar.’ She spoke too quickly and he gave her a hard stare before opening the door. She caught the tail end of it and wondered if he was annoyed, but the smile which followed the stare was bland, so she decided that she had been mistaken.
The evening was delightful; they dined and danced and presently wished each other goodnight. If every day was going to be like this one, Matilda told herself, then the week was going to be a success; she had felt at ease with him as well as so much enjoying his company. She got into bed, eager for the morning so that she would be with him again.
They had agreed to swim before breakfast and he was already in the pool when she lowered herself cautiously into the shallow end. But once in, she found the water exactly right and the morning sun, shining from a blue sky, was warm on her as she swam sedately backwards and forwards.
‘Why not try something else?’ asked Rauwerd, loitering along beside her. ‘The crawl, perhaps? I’ll stay beside you.’
She splashed and splattered her way to and fro and finally she gave up. ‘I don’t think I’m built for it,’ she observed, ‘and I hate to get underwater.’
His eyes flickered over her shapely person. ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed gravely while his eyes gleamed beneath their lids. ‘Shall we have breakfast on the balcony? I’ll order it while you are dressing. Orange juice and croissants and coffee?’
They spent the day pottering round the shops and having another swim at the lido on the promenade before lunching out of doors at a nearby restaurant. In the afternoon they went back to the shops along the seafront because Matilda had seen a dress she had rather liked in the window of one of the chic boutiques there.
‘Buy it,’ said Rauwerd lazily, ‘I like you in pink.’
The dress, very pale pink voile with a tiny bodice and yards of stole to match it, was a perfect fit. At the elegant jeweller’s shop next door Rauwerd bought her pink coral earrings to go with it.
Another lovely day, mused Matilda, sliding into bed hours later. The dress had been a success and they had danced for hours. She sighed with a half-understood happiness and went instantly to sleep.
They would take the car in the afternoon, said Rauwerd over breakfast the next morning, and go north through the mountains to Bajamar. ‘It’s a small seaside resort, not particularly pretty, but to get to it one must drive along a magnificent road with some splendid views. We’ll stop at the Pico del Inglés and you will be able to see for yourself.’
They went to the lido again after breakfast and had an early lunch at the hotel. It was still a bright day but as they drove north they could see dark clouds above the mountains ahead of them.
‘I’ll take you to the African market tomorrow morning,’ said Rauwerd. ‘This place we’re coming to is San Andrés—a fishing village.’
They didn’t go right into the village but turned sharply and began to climb, presently leaving the scattering of houses behind them. The road was rather frightening, cut into the sides of the mountains looming all around them with a steep gorge on one side of it and towering sombre rock on the other. It wound up and up in a continuous bend and from time to time made a U-turn so tight that the car seemed to hang over the edge of the road as Rauwerd pulled it round. The higher they drove, the more awesome were their surroundings, with clouds dipping and swirling through the giant pines and beech trees, cutting them off from the outside world.
‘You’re not enjoying it?’ said Rauwerd presently.
‘Oh, yes, it’s magnificent… Well, perhaps not quite. How did you know?’
‘Your hands, so tightly clasped; besides, I can feel you stiffen at every bend.’
She said quickly, anxious to reassure him, ‘It’s really an experience—I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘All the same, you’re scared. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, not that. You’re here.’ She spoke simply. ‘With anyone else I would be, though. I’m overawed; it’s so lonely, it could be the end of the world.’ And, to make sure that he didn’t think that she was complaining, ‘It’s a marvellous road…’
‘Yes. Well used, too, though there is not much on it today.’
He took another U-turn and she remembered not to clasp her hands, only to grip them hard and let out a startled breath as he braked hard at the end of an S-bend to avoid two cars ahead of them, tangled together on the road. They must have met head on, for the back wheels of one of them were hanging over the edge of the ravine and the bonnet of the second car was crushed against the rock of the mountain side.
Rauwerd slid to a halt. His calm, ‘Dear me,’ soothed Matilda into instant obedience when he said, ‘Take that red scarf of yours, my dear, and go back to the bend and hang it on to a handy branch—anything, just as long as it can be seen.’
He turned to study the road ahead of them. The road wound round the mountain in a wide sweep; any car coming that way would be able to see them.
‘Off you go and take care.’ He leaned across to open her door and kissed her hard. ‘I’m going to have a look.’
Matilda got out of the car aware, over and above the horrors of the moment, of his kiss. She found a branch, tied the scarf—a new one she had bought only that morning—and hurried back, to stop short at the sight of Rauwerd, head and shoulders through the window of the car teetering so dangerously on the edge of the road.
‘Don’t come any nearer, Tilly.’ His voice sounded loud and calm and she did as she was told, watching him with her heart in her mouth as he took the wheel and slowly pushed the car away from the edge. He emerged then, dusting his hands, breathing rather hard.
‘We must get that man out—thank heaven you’re a big strong girl.’ He ignored her indignant glance. ‘He is unconscious. There are two in the other car, but I think he is the more urgent.’
He had the door open and was heaving gently at the man behind the wheel. Matilda didn’t wait to be told what to do; she could see for herself. They laid him gently on the side of the road and she fetched a rug from their car and put it under his head.
‘The others first,’ said Rauwerd and wrenched the second car’s door open. The woman in the back was easily lifted clear but the driver took a good deal longer. He looked in a bad way, his breathing shallow and his colour ashen.
‘Undo his shirt,’ said Rauwerd and, ‘Just as I thought, his lung is pierced—look at that bruise. See what you can do about it, Tilly.’
Just as though I had a dressing trolley handy, thought Matilda, and ripped off the hem of the flowered cotton skirt she was wearing. It was first aid of the crudest kind but at least it stopped the bleeding and his pulse when she took it was regular, even if it was weak.
She crossed the road to where Rauwerd was bending over the woman. ‘Broken arm, concussion, a nasty cut from glass.’
She tore another strip from her skirt and used it to good effect.
‘I need a sling,’ said Rauwerd.
There was a Gucci scarf still in its elegant packet; she had bought it for
Rose. She went to the car and fetched it and offered it silently.
‘I’ll buy you a dozen,’ said Rauwerd.
The second man was a more serious matter; his chest was already showing massive bruising, he was cold and clammy and his pulse was a mere thread. Over and above that he had a broken leg. Rauwerd straightened it as best he could and tied it to the sound one with the man’s leather belt while Tilly found cushions and more rugs.
Rauwerd got to his feet. ‘I’m going to drive back until I find a phone—there was a house a few miles back. It’ll be light for some hours yet and I’ll leave you the torch.’
‘You’re going to leave me here?’ Indignation and fright made her voice squeaky.
‘I must, Tilly, dear. I can’t let you drive, you couldn’t on this road.’
She swallowed panic. ‘You won’t be long?’
‘Not a second longer than I must be. If anyone comes along, stop them and make them stay, too.’
‘Make them stay—how?’
He grinned. ‘You are a beautiful girl—they’ll stay.’ He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Take care,’ he told her and got into the car, reversed carefully round the bend and, after what seemed an age, turned it. Moments later she saw the car going dangerously fast along the road curving round the next ravine.
There wasn’t much she could do but she did it faithfully—pulses and breathing to check and colour to watch. After an hour she sighed with relief to find them all still alive.
It was another half-hour before she was able to see the car intermittently as it climbed the steep curving road below her, then a further ten minutes before Rauwerd pulled up gently beside her and got out.
The wish to fling herself at him and burst into tears was overwhelming but she fought it hard.
‘That’s my girl. How are they? There is a police car and an ambulance on their way from Bandama—there’s a first-aid clinic there and they can be sent on to Santa Cruz as soon as they have been examined.’ He patted her shoulders and went to look at the three prone figures.
The police were there five minutes later; she heard the siren long before she saw the blue light flashing along the road ahead of them. They didn’t waste much time in talk but set to, with Rauwerd helping them to move the wrecked cars to the side of the road. They had just finished when the ambulance arrived.
It took time to load the three patients into it; first it had to turn round, for it would have to return the way it had come from Bandama. When it was at last on its way, there were questions to be answered for the police, taking twice as long because every word had to be translated by Rauwerd. But they finished at last, shook hands all round, and, in their turn, drove back the way they had come.
It was quiet once more and the mist had turned the afternoon into twilight evening. Rauwerd walked back to the bend and fetched her scarf and then stood holding it, smiling at her. She had a nice safe feeling seeing him standing there. It was strange to think that when they had first met she had thought she disliked him. She stared back at him, her lovely mouth slightly open with the sudden surprise of knowing that she was in love with him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MATILDA felt like someone who had taken a step which wasn’t there at the bottom of a staircase. With difficulty she closed her mouth but she couldn’t stop the colour leaving her cheeks; emotion had washed over her leaving her with her bones changed to water, and she almost choked with her efforts not to voice her feelings.
Rauwerd was watching her closely, no longer smiling. ‘Are you all right?’ he wanted to know. ‘Come and sit in the car.’ He came and took her arm and the touch of his hand started her shaking. ‘We’ll drive on to Bajamar and find you a stiff drink. You were marvellous, Tilly.’ He glanced down at her ruined skirt, smiling a little.
‘Well, I am a nurse,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s only that it was so sudden. I’m quite all right now.’
She was still trembling, but not because of the accident. This nonsense must stop! she told herself silently as he started the car and drove on once more.
The road was just as bad but it could be no worse than the last hour or two; she averted her eyes from the ravines below and after a few miles heaved a sigh of relief as trees closed in on them on either side and the cloud blotted out the awe-inspiring views.
They began to go downhill and presently the road wound itself gently down to green fields and rows of tomatoes and potatoes and wild flowers rioting at the roadside. She could see the sea now and a cluster of white-walled and red-roofed houses—Bajamar, a disappointingly ordinary little town with one or two hotels, a row of shops facing the sea, and a series of pools corralled from the ocean. Rauwerd stopped before the row of shops, all of them still open, and ushered Matilda into a coffee shop at the end of the row. It was pleasant inside, full of customers, but there was an empty table in a corner. He sat her down at it and ordered tea for her and coffee for himself. He ordered two brandies, too, and made her drink hers at once. That, and the hot, milkless tea, stopped her trembling and sent the colour back into her cheeks. She had had time, during the drive down the mountains, to pull herself together.
Rauwerd ordered more tea for her. ‘That’s better. It was quite an experience, wasn’t it?’
Common sense had taken over once more. She said steadily, ‘Yes, I shall never forget it.’ She wasn’t thinking of the accident.
They sat for half an hour, during which time Rauwerd carried on a placid flow of small talk, and presently she was able to get into the car beside him, carefully not looking at him, although it was difficult for her to keep her eyes off his large, capable hands on the wheel.
He drove back another way. They had driven through Santa Cruz on their way to the mountains; now he followed the coast south for a few miles before joining the main road at Tacoronte and so along the coast still to Puerto de la Cruz. Back at the hotel he recommended that she should take a bath and, if she felt like it, a nap before changing for dinner and she complied, grateful for the chance to have time to herself in which to think.
She lay in tepid, fragrant water and tried to see into the future. Ten minutes’ hard thinking convinced her that this wasn’t at all a wise thing to do. It was going to be a difficult enough task living with Rauwerd on the friendly casual basis he took for granted, taking no part in his life other than running his household and playing hostess to his friends. Which brought her to another worry: Nikky. She hadn’t liked her in the first place; now she seethed at the mere thought of her. She would have to form a plan of campaign if she intended to be happy ever after, and that meant Rauwerd falling in love with her…
He had shown no romantic interest in her so far; pleasure in her company perhaps, but no more than that. She would have to change, become more like Nikky—lose weight for a start; Nikky had almost no curves. Matilda studied her own charming person with a frowning eye. And a new hairstyle. There was a beauty salon in Leiden; she would go there and have a facial and make-up. She would have to diet and perhaps have sessions of those slimming techniques she had never thought much of. She couldn’t do much about it until they got back to Leiden, only eat less…
She wore the pink with the stole again, ate a splendid dinner, quite forgetful of her resolve to slim drastically, and danced until one o’clock in the morning. Rauwerd was his usual calm self, although a little withdrawn, which was just as well for it reminded her that from his point of view, at least, nothing had changed. Even if her whole world had been turned upside down, she must never let him see it.
He took her to the African market after breakfast the next morning; they strolled from stall to stall, looking at the cheeses and fruit and the fish and flowers, and then they went to the lido and swam and sat in the sun with fruit drinks. They were both nicely tanned; Matilda was beginning to look like a magnificent gypsy and Rauwerd’s hair had become pale gilt.
They sat for an hour doing nothing after lunch, in the cool of their sitting-room, and then, after an early cup of tea, he drove her to Ico
d de los Vinos to see the Dragon Tree. ‘It’s reputed to be three thousand years old,’ he told her, ‘and it certainly looks it.’
They got out of the car and sat in its shade until a busload of tourists sent them on their way again. They were much nearer Pico del Tiede now but Rauwerd turned away from it. Instead he drove back the way they had come and turned off to La Orotava, where he parked the car and took her wandering up and down its steep streets to admire the lovely old houses and pleasing buildings and presently to sit outside in Calle San Francisco, the most interesting street of them all, and to drink small cups of dark, rich coffee in a café. Later they went back to their hotel, driving through the lovely Orotava Valley, bright with flowers and every kind of tree and bush. The road was a series of S-bends, but the scenery wasn’t sombre or frightening and Matilda loved every moment of it.
She told Rauwerd so when they got back to the hotel, lifting a happy face to his, carefree of anything but the delight of the moment. ‘Oh, it was gorgeous,’ she told him. ‘What shall we do tomorrow?’
He smiled down at her and then bent and kissed her cheek. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, my dear. Supposing we drive right round the island? We can take our swimming things and stop somewhere quiet for lunch.’
They danced again after dinner. Such a pity, grieved Matilda silently, that when they got back to Leiden she would spend her evenings endlessly alone or entertaining his friends—Nikky… She shuddered at the very thought of her and his arm tightened round her. ‘You’re cold? You feel all right?’
She assured him that she had never felt better, speaking into the crisp whiteness of his shirt front, afraid to meet his eyes.
It was remarkable, she reflected as she got ready for bed, how well she had taken herself in hand. No one would ever guess that she was besotted over her husband, least of all her husband. She derived a wry satisfaction from the thoughts and then burst into tears.
