by Betty Neels
He took the M40 out of London. Traffic was light and the Rolls ate up the miles in a well-bred silence while they talked in a desultory fashion about nothing much, bypassing High Wycombe and then Oxford and finally stopping in Burford at the Lamb Inn for coffee and to allow Richard to stretch his legs. The village was charming and very peaceful, and they walked for ten minutes or so, content to be silent in each other’s company.
They turned on to the road to Stow-on-the-Wold presently and then to Adlescombe, a village of no great size with houses built of yellow Cotswold stone—most of them cottages around the church. Professor van Rakesma drove down the narrow main street and into a short, gateless drive.
The cottage was bigger than its neighbours, with small, latticed windows, a solid front door with a little porch, and dormer windows in a slate roof which was old and moss-covered in places. There was a nice arrangement of shrubs and flowers all around.
A delightful little house, thought Mary, very much aware of his great arm flung around her shoulders as he helped her out of the car.
‘You must want to come here very often.’
‘Yes. It’s delightful, isn’t it? Come inside.’
He unlocked the door and she went past him into a small lobby and then into the room beyond, which was low-ceilinged and beamed, with an inglenook and windows at both ends of the room. The furniture was exactly right—oak and simple, with comfortable easy chairs and two vast sofas on either side of the fireplace. The floor was wooden, worn by the years and covered with several lovely, slightly shabby rugs. There was dust on the gateleg table by the far window, although everything was tidy and clean.
‘A good polish,’ said Mary, and Professor van Rakesma gave a shout of laughter.
‘But you like it?’
‘It’s exactly right.’
She looked questioningly at him and he said easily, ‘I spent a long time getting exactly what I wanted to furnish the cottage. Some of the furniture I brought back from Holland.’ He opened a latched door. ‘Come and look at the kitchen.’
It was small and rather bleak. There was an Aga against one wall, and cupboards and shelves, an old porcelain sink and a solid table with Windsor chairs. There was everything there but no colour.
‘Pale yellow walls, rush matting, a picture or two, and another shade on the light.’
There was an old-fashioned dresser opposite the Aga. There were plates and cups and saucers on it, obviously bought without any thought of a colour scheme. ‘Orange and blue,’ said Mary. ‘Glasses and jugs—and flowers, of course.’
‘Of course,’ agreed Professor van Rakesma gravely. ‘Come and see the dining-room.’
It was a small room, with exactly the right wallpaper, a round mahogany table with four chairs round it, and a Georgian sideboard with nothing on it. The curtains were chintz, the same as those in the sitting-room, and there were cushions piled on the window-seat. There were a few paintings on the walls—gentle landscapes, nicely framed.
‘Perfect,’ sighed Mary, and followed him through the narrow door in one wall, behind which were narrow stairs. They led to a roomy landing with several doors. He opened them all and invited her to look around.
Three bedrooms, charmingly furnished, two bathrooms, and a small room which she could see would be very handy for a number of purposes—a sewing-room, somewhere to do the ironing or write letters, even put an unexpected guest or house a baby’s cradle.
She joined him on the landing. ‘It’s all quite perfect. Just the kitchen needs something done to it.’
‘Yes—come back downstairs; there’s one more room to see.’
Just outside the kitchen door was another, opening on to a large, pleasant room, quite empty. ‘I thought this might be turned into a bed-sitting-room for the caretaker...’ He leaned his vast person against one wall and waited for Mary to speak.
‘It’s big enough to divide up. A shower-room at one end; no need for a kitchen but he’d need an electric kettle. A divan bed, chairs and a table, warm curtains and some sort of a fire. A nice russet-red, so that it looks welcoming.’ She paused. ‘That’s only what I think,’ she said apologetically. ’I dare say you have your own ideas.’
‘I asked you to give me some advice, Mary. I’m grateful. I’ll get the whole thing started as soon as possible.’
‘Will you? But perhaps whoever comes here might not like it—the colours and so on.’
‘I don’t imagine that the caretaker will mind what colour his curtains are as long as the kitchen functions; he won’t bother his head with colour schemes.’
She gave him a candid look. ‘I wasn’t thinking of the caretaker. Supposing you marry?’
‘Ah, yes. Well, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.’ He added slowly, ‘Probably she will change her mind and I shall have it redecorated—that will be no problem.’
I must be mad, thought Mary, offering ideas about the place when it should be Ilsa doing so. Why didn’t he bring her down here while she was staying with him?
‘Did Ilsa come here?’ The question popped out before she could stop it.
He seemed to find nothing strange in her question. ‘No, not this time.’ He closed the door and they went back into the kitchen. ‘Shall we have our picnic? We could go into the garden.’
It wasn’t just sandwiches; there were little rolls, butter in a covered dish, several cheeses, chicken drumsticks, miniature sausage rolls and a pork pie, as well as custards in little glasses, strawberries and clotted cream. There were china plates, cutlery, linen napkins and bottles of tonic water and lemonade. They sat on a wooden bench at the end of the garden, and even though it was still rather a dull day it was full of colour.
‘You must have a very good gardener,’ said Mary, her mouth full of chicken.
‘He comes in each week, and I enjoy pottering around when I’m down here.’
He made no demur when she suggested that they might go back. ‘If you don’t mind,’ she added, ‘but Mother expects us for tea.’
Richard, happily tired after a day nosing around the garden, flopped on to the back seat and went to sleep, and Mary, nicely full, envied him. It would never do to fall asleep, though; she racked her brains for small talk and was affronted when Professor van Rakesma said, ‘Don’t bother to make conversation. Have a nap if you like.’
Which caused her to be wide awake on the instant. ‘I am not in the least tired,’ she told him frostily. All the same, she kept quiet, sensing that he was busy with his thoughts. It must be because I love him, she decided silently, that I can guess his moods. I do hope Ilsa loves him too.
She mustn’t think about that. For lack of anything better, she began to recite silently ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’ which, while boring her, kept her mind off him.
Polly came running out as he drew up outside the house. ‘Good, just in time; I’ve put the kettle on...’
He had got out to open Mary’s door and free Richard. ‘I must drive straight back, Polly. I am so sorry; I would have enjoyed having tea with you all, but I have an appointment and I’m going away very early in the morning.’
To Holland, thought Mary miserably, and said brightly, ‘Then we mustn’t keep you. Thank you for a lovely day; I enjoyed it.’
‘I too, Mary. Please make my apologies to your parents.’ He whistled to Richard, dropped a kiss on Polly’s cheek, got into his car and drove away.
‘Did you have a lovely day?’ asked Polly.
‘Quite perfect.’ There would never be another day like it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS on the following Saturday, shortly before Mr Bell closed his shop, that Professor van Rakesma came into it. Mary, parcelling up books for a peppery old retired colonel, faltered at the sight of him, so that the brown paper came loose and she had to begin all over again while the colonel muttered. Her heart was thumping so loudly that she felt sure that everyone there could hear it, and no amount of self-control could prevent the colour in her cheeks.
Professor van Rakesma, pausing in the doorway, studied her from under lowered lids, wishing that he could forget her and get on with his hitherto satisfactory life. But somehow she had disrupted it woefully. He bade her a cool good day and went in search of Mr Bell, collected the books put aside for him and went to the door where, much against his will, he turned round and went to the shelves that she was tidying before going home.
‘I should like some more of your advice, Mary.’
He sounded faintly annoyed so she answered coolly, ‘I’m going home in a few minutes, Professor van Rakesma. Perhaps another time?’
‘Now, I’m afraid. A question of crockery for the kitchen at the cottage. I’m going there tomorrow and the decorator will be there. Would you come back with me to my flat now and tell me which to have? It won’t delay you for more than an hour; you can phone your mother from my car.’
‘He who hesitates...’ Mary hesitated, and was lost. ‘Very well, just as long as it doesn’t take more than an hour.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll be outside.’
She had had no idea where he lived. The graceful house in Cheyne Walk enchanted her; she stood on the step before the door and looked over her shoulder at the river across the road; to live there would be very satisfying. The door opened and Fred, his face composed into no expression, held it wide.
‘Ah, Fred. Miss Pagett has come to advise me on the china. It’s in the kitchen? Mary, this is Fred, my manservant and right hand.’
Mary put out a hand and shook Fred’s.
‘A pleasure, miss,’ he said, and meant it. Here was a fine-looking young lady, with lovely brown eyes and an enchanting smile, worth a hundred of that Mrs van Hoeven. Fred, a staunch Methodist, sent up a brief and urgent prayer on behalf of his master.
He led the way to the kitchen, so that this delightful lady could look around her, and offered her a chair. The crockery was spread all over the solid kitchen table. There were several samples of various patterns and colours and she studied them carefully.
‘They are all pretty; I like that one there, the biscuit-coloured background with the yellow crocuses and the green handles.’
‘Good,’ said Professor van Rakesma. ‘Fred, where did we put the patterns of materials?’
Fred opened a drawer. ‘Here we are, miss.’ Mary sat down again and fingered the samples. They were all lovely, but she made her choice finally and the professor said, ‘While you are here what about the curtains for the bed-sitter?’
She chose those too, and then got up to go with a murmur about getting home.
‘A cup of tea first; Fred, we’ll be in the sitting-room.’
‘Really—’ began Mary.
‘Yes, yes, I know. Tea will only take ten minutes, though, and you’ll be home at the time you told your mother. Come in here.’
‘Oh,’ breathed Mary, rotating slowly in the middle of the room. ‘How beautiful and—lived in, if you see what I mean. You must be very happy living here.’
‘I’m glad you like it. Come and sit down. You’re still enjoying your work at Mr Bell’s shop?’
‘Yes, very much—and he is so kind; I know so little about the book world, but I’m learning.’
Fred came in then with the tea-tray; silver teapot, china cups so thin that one could almost see through them, a plate of little cakes and another of tiny cucumber sandwiches. These he placed on a small table beside Mary. It was the best he could do at such short notice; if she came again he would make sure that he had one of his chocolate cakes ready for her...
She thanked him with a smile and the professor, watching, admired the way her tip-tilted nose wrinkled when she smiled. A charming nose, he conceded, and accepted a cup of tea while he talked easily about this and that. She answered him readily enough, but he sensed her reserve behind the pleasant manner and wondered why it was there. He had to admit that he found her interesting; he would like to know more about her...
He was secretly amused when she said briskly, ‘Thank you for my tea. I must go home now.’ He wasn’t a conceited man, but he was well aware that he was sought after by the younger ladies of his acquaintance—not one of whom would have wished to leave him so promptly.
He said, ‘Of course,’ so readily that she wondered if she had stayed too long, and made no bones about going then and there.
Fred, on the look out, was there to open the door for them. He beamed his thanks at her appreciation of her tea and stood watching them drive away. Now that, he reflected, was the right kind of young lady for his master to wed—not that he had shown any special interest in her, more was the pity. He went back to the kitchen and phoned his Syl, who listened patiently and finally said, ‘Well, we have to leave it to fate, don’t we?’
‘If fate needs a hand I’m more than willing,’ said Fred.
Invited to come indoors with rather a lack of enthusiasm, Professor van Rakesma made himself agreeable to Mrs Pagett, allowed himself to be led away by Mr Pagett to look at some old document in Anglo-Saxon, spent ten minutes with Polly and Richard in the garden, declined coffee or a drink and then went back home, his goodbyes affable and, in Mary’s case, cool.
“The girl is taking up too much of my time,‘ he told Richard. ’What is more, I find her unsettling.’
Mary finished getting the supper which Polly had started to cook. He was going to his cottage but he hadn’t invited her to go again. There was no reason why he should. She knew quite well that she wasn’t at her best in his company; her efforts to behave as though she considered him a mere acquaintance were inhibiting. All the same...perhaps lisa would be coming soon, to see the place for herself and approve the alterations. She wouldn’t approve, of course, if she discovered that Mary had chosen the curtains and china.
‘Well,’ said Mary reasonably, ‘neither would I!’ Bingo, eating his supper, raised his head for a moment and stared at her; his feline ears had caught the unhappiness in her voice.
The professor didn’t go alone; his new caretaker went with him. Nathaniel Potts had made a good recovery. He was a small man but wiry, with a round face and a fringe of grey hair. His eyes were blue and guileless and Fred, having met him, had pronounced him just the job. ‘Nice old codger,’ he’d observed. ‘Just the thing for the cottage, sir. He’ll settle in a treat.’
It was apparent immediately he followed Professor van Rakesma into the place that he was just right there. ‘I can live here?’ he wanted to know. ‘Why, sir, it’s beyond my wildest dreams.’
‘Good. We’ll go into your duties presently; I suggest that we go along to the pub and have a sandwich, then we can come back here and make sure that you have everything you need. I’ll be down some time next weekend. Sometimes I come on the spur of the moment, so keep a stock of basic food in the fridge. See that you eat properly and look after yourself. The doctor here is a good man; I know him slightly. Go to him if you are worried. You have my phone number; Fred will always be able to get hold of me if I’m needed.’
The professor drove back to Cheyne Walk that evening. Nathaniel Potts had settled in quickly, a look on his face as though he had just won the pools. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he had said to him. ‘I’d just about given up... You won’t regret it, sir...’
Mary had little opportunity to brood over her own worries; her father had told her that he still owed the bank money. ‘I shall have to repay it from my capital,’ he explained, ‘which leaves our circumstances still more strained. I shall be unable to give you any money this week, my dear, as what I have must pay the gas bill.’
‘Don’t worry, Father, I can manage the housekeeping—although there’s not much over for paying any bills. How is the book going?’
‘Another month or so.’ He looked anxious. ‘Of course it will need to be typed before I can take it to my publishers. An expense...’ He sighed. ‘There is talk of a publishing date for Christmas.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Mary, and managed a smile. Christmas was months away—Polly would need a winter coat before then, a
nd she wanted a new hockey stick for her birthday. Perhaps Mr Bell would suggest that she worked an extra day. She went away to do the ironing, thinking of all the dreadful things she would do to the man who had swindled her father. A waste of time, she told herself, but it would be nice if there was someone she could moan to—Professor van Rakesma, for instance.
There were fewer customers in the bookshop that week; it was high summer now, and people had gone on holiday. It gave her the opportunity to do some much needed sorting out and rearranging while Mr Bell shut himself in his office and browsed happily. It also gave her the opportunity to think about the professor. Her imagination ran riot, picturing him in his fine flat, entertaining friends, driving to their houses in his splendid car—and perhaps Ilsa was there too. She had said that she would be returning ...
Professor van Rakesma was certainly driving his splendid car—to and from the hospital or to his consulting-rooms, or speeding up one or other of the motorways, lending his skill for the benefit of some patient. Certainly he had no leisure to entertain his friends or to visit them; it seemed to him that there was a positive epidemic of people with heart conditions requiring his aid, and his leisure was so sparse that when he did get a quiet hour or so all he wanted to do was to sit quietly at his desk and get on with his book.
Fred served him tempting meals, tut-tutting to himself when his employer didn’t come home until all hours or left the flat at some unearthly time in the morning. A wife was what he needed, observed Fred to his Syl, but not that nasty woman who never said thank you and looked at him as though he ought not to have been there. ‘In my own kitchen too,’ said Fred.
By the end of another week things had quietened down a little; the professor had his meals at almost normal times and left the flat at a reasonable hour each morning. Life was back to normal again, allowing him time to think about Mary. It was some time since he had last seen her. He promised himself that on the following Saturday he would go along to Mr Bell’s shop and see how she was getting on. They might go to the cottage on Sunday. Perhaps it would be a good idea to take Polly with them...
