by Betty Neels
* * *
The professor, sitting at his desk watching Julie’s charming back view as she typed, abandoned the notes he was preparing for a lecture and reviewed the situation; after three days there had been no obvious signs of Julie responding to his overtures of friendship. On the contrary, she was, if anything, decidedly tart. A lesser man might have been warned off, but the professor was made of sterner stuff. He brought his powerful brain to bear on the problem and reflected that he was enjoying himself.
The next day he told Julie that he would be going to Holland that evening. ‘A few days’ holiday,’ he told her airily, ‘and most conveniently Dr Walter’s secretary is off sick, so you will be standing in for her. Perhaps you will look in here each morning and check through the post.’
Julie put the folder of papers down on his desk. However would she get through the days without him? To see his empty desk each morning and wonder what he was doing and with whom... ‘How long will you be gone, sir?’ she asked him.
He glanced up at her. ‘A week—ten days. I’m not sure. I intend to see something of my family and friends and I want to spend a few days at least at my home. It rather depends on circumstances. George Wyatt—his registrar—will deal with anything which may crop up.’
‘Very well, sir. If you should see Mevrouw Schatt give her my kind regards.’
‘Of course.’ He turned briskly to his desk. ‘I see that in my diary you have a note reminding me to phone Mrs Venton. Perhaps you would be good enough to do that for me and tell her that I shall be away for the next week or so.’
‘Very well. Is she the lady you were dining with at the Café Royal?’
He stared at her and she couldn’t read the expression on his face.
‘Since you ask—yes, Miss Beckworth.’ He opened his eyes wide. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I’m a nosy parker!’ said Julie flippantly, and picked up the phone as it started to ring.
She rang Mrs Venton while he was on the wards and relayed his message in an impersonal voice.
‘Who are you?’ asked Mrs Venton rudely.
‘Professor van der Driesma’s secretary.’
‘Where has he gone? You must know that. And when is he coming back?’
‘I have no idea when he will be returning, Mrs Venton, and I have given you his message exactly as he gave it to me.’
‘He’s there now, isn’t he?’ Mrs Venton wasn’t going to give up.
‘No, Mrs Venton, he isn’t here.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ snapped Mrs Venton, and slammed down the receiver.
In an expressionless voice Julie reported the conversation when the professor returned. It was most unsatisfactory that all he did was grunt.
At five o’clock he looked up from his computer. ‘That will be all for today, Miss Beckworth. Good evening.’
She tidied her desk and wished him goodbye and a pleasant holiday.
That night she had a good cry, thinking of him on his way to Holland. He’ll probably come back married, she thought miserably. It was easy to account for his friendly manner now, he must have been happy...
* * *
The professor wasn’t exactly happy, he realised that he would never be quite happy again unless he had Julie for his wife, but he was pleased enough with his careful planning. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, he reminded himself as he drove down to Dover, and if he wasn’t distracted by the sight of Julie’s beautiful face each day, he would be able to mull over the more likely schemes he had in mind.
It was very late by the time he reached his home in Leiden, but Siska and Jason gave him a warm welcome. He ate his supper while she told him all the latest news, took a delighted Jason for a walk and went to his bed, where he slept the dreamless sleep of a man who knew what he wanted to do and would do it.
* * *
To Mrs Beckworth’s bright enquiry as to how the professor did, Julie, when she got home, replied briefly that she didn’t know because he had gone away.
‘Not for good?’ Mrs Beckworth asked in a dismayed voice.
‘No, no. He’s going to Holland this evening for a holiday; he doesn’t know how long he’ll be away. I’ve been loaned to Dr Walters—his secretary’s ill.’
‘Oh, well, that will make a nice change, darling. Is he nice, this other doctor?’
‘He’s a medical consultant. He’s all right in a dull kind of way.’
A not very satisfactory answer, thought her mother. ‘Let’s hope Simon has a nice break. I’m sure he deserves one.’
Julie mumbled a reply and went off to help Esme with her maths.
* * *
Dr Walters was pleased to see her in the morning. Miss Frisby, his own secretary, he explained, hadn’t been feeling well for some days—something to do with her teeth. ‘I’m afraid the filling and so forth has got rather neglected—she didn’t feel up to it.’
Discovering the havoc in the filing cabinets, Julie concluded that Miss Frisby couldn’t have been feeling up to it for weeks—even months. The muddle would keep her busy for hours, not to mention the routine work that she was expected to do as well. Perhaps if her teeth didn’t improve Miss Frisby would resign. Julie knew her by sight—a washed-out girl with straggly hair and a loud and refined voice—but they had never said more than hello. They weren’t likely to.
The post piled up on the professor’s desk, and she quickly decided that she would have to go in to work an hour earlier each morning, so her days were busy. When she got home in the evening there was always plenty to keep her occupied—Esme to help with her homework, her mother to talk to and Luscombe to help around the house. Despite all this, the days dragged.
The professor had been gone for several days when Esme received a postcard from him. It was from Leiden, showing a view of the Rappenburg. He had written in his almost unreadable scrawl: ‘I’ll show you this one day. Ask your sister if she remembers it.’
Esme, proudly handing it round, said reflectively, ‘He never calls you Julie, does he? Do you call him Simon?’
‘Certainly not.’ Julie hadn’t meant to sound snappy, and she added quickly, ‘That would never do—he’s rather an important person at the hospital.’
Esme persisted. ‘Yes, but when you’re alone with him?’
‘He’s still my boss.’
‘I wonder what he’s doing?’ mused Esme.
Julie wondered too, but she didn’t say so.
* * *
Simon was sitting at the head of his table in the rather gloomy dining room of Huis Driesma. A large square house, its exterior belying its interior, redolent of a bygone age, it stood in grounds bordered by water meadows on a lake fringed by trees and shrubs, fronting a narrow country road. Out of sight round a bend in the road was a small village, its cottages petering out as it wound away into a tranquil distance.
There were a number of people seated at the table: Simon’s mother faced him at its foot, then his two brothers and their wives, and his youngest brother, still a medical student, sat beside the youngest of all of them—a girl of almost seventeen.
The conversation had been animated, for although they were a close family they lived at some distance from each other, and for them all to be together was seldom possible. The house was Simon’s, inherited from his father, and until he should marry his mother lived there with his sister and—whenever he could get away from the hospital—his younger brother, Hugo.
His mother was saying now, ‘I wish you would marry, Simon; it is time you took over this house. I know you have a charming house in Leiden, but you should spend more time here. Weekends, perhaps? I know you have your work at St Bravo’s, but travelling is so easy these days...’
Celeste, the baby of the family, chimed in. ‘You must meet any number of girls. What about all the nurses, or a
re you too lofty for them?’
‘They are all so pretty and young and already spoken for,’ said Simon lightly.
‘When I phoned your secretary answered. Is she as pretty as her voice?’ asked the younger of his sisters-in-law. She laughed. ‘I didn’t say who I was—at least, I said I was Mevrouw van Graaf. I thought you might not like her to know about your family... Hospitals are gossipy places, aren’t they?’
The professor sat back in his chair and said placidly, ‘She is even prettier than her voice. I hope you will all meet her some day, for I intend to marry her!’ He looked down the table at his mother. ‘You will like her, Mama.’
His mother smiled. She was a handsome woman whose dignified appearance concealed a gentle nature. ‘If you love her, my dear, then I shall too. Will you bring her here to meet us all?’
‘I hope to, but not just yet.’ He smiled. ‘I believe that she doesn’t like me very much.’
There was a ripple of laughter. ’Simon, what do you mean? Why doesn’t she like you? Have you been horrid to her?’ This from his youngest sister.
‘No, no. I have behaved with great correctness towards her. Somehow we started off on the wrong foot—and she has a sharp tongue.’
‘Just what you need,’ said Celeste. ‘I’m going to like her very much. What is her name?’
‘Julie—Julie Beckworth. She has green eyes and bronze hair, very long and thick, and she is what the English call a fine figure of a woman.’
‘All curves?’ asked Celeste.
‘All curves,’ agreed Simon.
Dinner over, they gathered in the drawing room on the other side of the wide hall. It was a splendid room, the polished wood floor covered with lovely rugs, their colours muted by age. The windows were tall and narrow, draped in old rose brocade, and the same colour covered the comfortable chairs scattered around. There were vast cabinets against the walls and a very beautiful long-case clock between the windows.
Arranged here and there there were lamp-tables, as well as a sofa-table behind the enormous sofa facing the stone fireplace. A fire was burning briskly and Jason, asleep before it, roused himself to go to his master, although an elderly labrador, his mother’s dog, merely wagged her tail and went back to sleep.
‘You’ll be able to stay for a few days?’ asked his mother. ‘It was such a quick visit when you were last here.’
‘Two days. I must go back to Leiden for a few days...’
‘Does Julie know when you’re going back?’ asked Hugo.
‘No. I’m not absolutely sure myself.’
Jan, who looked after the house with his wife Bep, brought in the coffee and they sat talking until late. It was midnight before they all dispersed to their rooms.
Simon, strolling round the garden in the chilly night while the dogs had a last run, wished very much that he had Julie with him. He wanted to show her his old home and he wanted her to meet his mother and his family, but he would have to be patient.
The dogs settled in the kitchen, he went up the oak staircase at the back of the hall and along the wide corridor to his room. As he passed his mother’s door she opened it.
‘Simon, dear, I’m so very happy for you. I was beginning to think that you would never find her—your ideal woman—but now that you have I shall welcome her with open arms.’
He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Father would have approved of her, my dear.’
* * *
He went back to Leiden two days later, to Siska, waiting for him with a splendid supper and anxious to hear the news from Huis Driesma. ‘I hope I’ll be seeing you again soon,’ she observed. ‘I’m that happy about the young lady—took to her at once, I did.’
The professor, hardly able to wait before he should see Julie again, nevertheless delayed his departure so that he might meet several of his friends and colleagues at the hospital. But three evenings later he drove down to the Hoek, boarded a ferry and sailed for England.
It was cold, misty and overcast when the ferry docked at Harwich. He drove up to London and let himself in to his cottage. Blossom might be getting on a bit, but his hearing was excellent—he was in the hall almost before the professor had shut the door.
‘Welcome back, sir.’ He uttered the words with grave pleasure. ‘Breakfast or an early lunch? You probably fared indifferently on board the ferry.’
‘Breakfast would be nice, Blossom.’ The professor glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll miss lunch, but I’ll dine here this evening. I’ll have a shower while you cook.’
The temptation to go straight to St Bravo’s and see Julie was very great, but first he must get his affairs in order. Having eaten a splendid breakfast, he got into his car and drove to his consulting rooms.
Mrs Cross, his receptionist, was there at her desk. ‘Oh, good you’re back,’ she observed. ‘I wasn’t sure when you would be back—you didn’t say.’ She cast him a reproachful look. ‘But I’ve booked several appointments for tomorrow, starting at four o’clock. I said I’d phone if you weren’t back today.’
‘Splendid, Mrs Cross. Anything in the post that I should know about?’
‘Plenty. Can you spare the time now, or will you be in tomorrow morning?’
‘I’ll see to them now. If you bring your notebook I’ll give you the answers and you can get them out of the way.’
The afternoon was well advanced by the time he had finished dictating. He drank a cup of tea with Mrs Cross and then drove to the hospital. The late afternoon traffic was building up and it took much longer than usual. Perhaps Julie would already have gone home...
It wasn’t quite five o’clock as he opened his office door. She was kneeling on the floor, sorting a pile of papers into neat heaps. The overhead light shone on her hair, turning it to russet streaked with bronze, and he paused for a moment to relish the sight.
As he closed the door she turned her head, and he wished that her face wasn’t in shadow. He had wanted to see how she looked when she saw him.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ said Julie. ‘I’m not nearly ready with all this.’ She sounded cross, and he thought ruefully that it wasn’t quite the greeting he had hoped for.
‘Well, now I am here,’ he said placidly, ‘supposing I give you a hand?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PROFESSOR SQUATTED down beside her but she didn’t look up. His hands, large and well-shaped, sorting the papers, sent her insides fluttering with the sheer delight of seeing them—to look at him would have been fatal. Her own hands were shaking—something which he noticed at once with satisfaction, although he reminded himself ruefully that she might be shaking with rage at his sudden return.
He asked politely, ‘You have been kept busy? Is Miss Frisby not yet back?’
Julie said in an indignant voice, ‘Not for another two days...’
‘You had difficulty coping with her work?’ he asked gently.
‘Difficulty? Difficulty?’ Julie slapped a pile of papers with some force. She drew a deep breath. ‘Her teeth must have been giving her a great deal of trouble.’
The professor suppressed a grin. ‘You have reduced chaos to a tidy state?’
‘Yes. Do I have to stay there until she returns, now you’re back?’
‘Certainly not. I shall probably erupt into a maelstrom of work which won’t leave you a moment for anyone else. What are all these papers?’
‘Referred notes from patients you have been asked to examine. Some of them are from other hospitals. I’ve classed them as far as possible.’
She got to her feet and he did the same, towering over her. ‘Your post is on your desk, sir. I’ve dealt with the routine stuff and your private mail is on your blotter. You may wish to take it home with you.’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Get your coat; I’ll drive you home.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need...’
‘I don’t think need comes into it. Get your coat, Miss Beckworth.’
‘I have just said—’ began Julie, and stopped when she caught his eye.
‘Julie,’ said the professor, in a voice which she didn’t care to ignore. Besides, he had called her Julie. A slip of the tongue, or deliberately said to persuade her?
She fetched her coat, and when he opened the door went past him without looking at him. He must have had a splendid time in Holland, she reflected, and most certainly he must have seen the girl from Groningen. Perhaps the way now lay clear for them to marry. She closed her eyes for a second at the thought and tripped over the doormat.
The professor scooped her up neatly and stood her back on her feet. The temptation not to let her go was so fierce that he was compelled to release her briskly, an act which unfortunately she misinterpreted.
Her lovely face was a mask of haughtiness as she got into the car—something he chose to ignore, talking cheerfully of nothing in particular as he drove the short distance, and when she asked him in a quelling voice if he would like to come in, her stony face daring him to do so, he remarked that he would be delighted.
The warmth of Mrs Beckworth’s and Esme’s welcome more than made up for Julie’s coldness. He was offered coffee and Luscombe produced an apple cake he had just taken from the oven.
‘Glad ter be back ’ome?’ he enquired chattily. ‘Not but what you’ve an ’ome in foreign parts. Still, I dare say you’ve friends in London?’
‘Us,’ said Esme. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘Of course you are,’ declared the professor. ‘And that reminds me—I have tickets for La Bohème—Saturday evening. I would be delighted if you would be my guests?’
Esme flung herself at him. ‘Oh, yes—yes, please. Opera—and it’s that marvellous singer.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Mother, say yes, do please...’
‘That’s very kind of you, Simon. It would be a wonderful treat.’ Mrs Beckworth looked as delighted as Esme.
Julie didn’t say anything at all.
