Philomena's Miracle (Betty Neels Collection)

by Betty Neels

  The brief journey was taken up with the details of the case and as they got out, Walle observed: ‘Can you manage half an hour? I told them to delay dinner, but you’ve earned a drink first.’

  Philomena went up to her room, to find that someone had laid the green dress on the bed with her slippers on the carpet; the lighted room looked welcoming, as did the bathroom, its door invitingly open, towels draped ready for her use. Feeling cosseted, she bathed and changed and went downstairs with five minutes to spare, conscious that she had made the most of herself and if the doctor didn’t notice the difference then he must be blind.

  All useless, she discovered as soon as she entered the drawing room on the heels of Mathias, waiting in stately patience for her in the hall. Tritia was standing in the glow of a standard lamp between the windows, its shadowy rose light making the most of the white gossamer creation floating around her slim body, her hair hanging round her lovely face, her pretty, useless hands clasping her glass so that the pink-tinted nails glinted and caught the eye. Philomena, taking in the fact that Mevrouw van der Tacx was in a long dress too, had a strong desire to turn and run, but Walle, handsome in his black tie and dinner jacket, was already coming towards her.

  He put a kindly arm across her shoulders and remarked in a voice just as kindly: ‘What a wretched piece of bad luck, Philly—such things happen so seldom, and that it should have been today of all days! Come over here and have that drink.’

  He sounded like an elder brother, she thought, sipping her sherry, and probably he regarded her in much the same light, and what was the use of fussing over her mediocre person when he didn’t even look at her long enough to see that her hair was up and not in a plait? She had vowed that she would make him eat his words, but she could see now that that was nonsense; she might have given up then and there, only she looked up and caught Tritia’s mocking, amused eyes on her. She smiled brilliantly at the girl and made a resolution not to give up however useless it seemed.

  Dinner was as pleasant as lunch had been. Philomena, hungry after her unexpected journey, ate her way through hors d’oeuvres, sole in cream sauce, roast pheasant and a delicious sweet, a nice change from Mevrouw de Winter’s wholesome, plain fare, and while she ate she listened to Walle and his mother smoothly guiding the conversation from one topic to the next, sweeping her along with them while Tritia, looking exquisite, ate with a bird’s appetite and when she spoke it was in a soft little voice which would have charmed the stoniest-hearted man. And why couldn’t she be like that, wondered Philomena, so that men—and by men she meant Walle, looked at her as though she were something extra special to be pandered to and spoilt. Just thinking about it made her feel gloomy, but the gloom was dispelled when, over coffee, he asked her if she would like to go riding again in the morning, and even when Tritia broke in prettily and asked if she might go with them, she didn’t mind. ‘Only I simply must have Beauty,’ she declared with a pout, ‘You know how frightened I am of Bess.’ She glanced at Philomena. ‘I know Philomena had Beauty today, but I’m sure she won’t mind…’

  Walle gave her an indulgent smile. ‘Of course she won’t—will you, Philly?’

  Philomena had liked Beauty, and probably Bess wouldn’t be half such a good mount, but after all, she was only a guest, there for a day or two, so she agreed pleasantly and added that it was marvellous to have the chance of a ride anyway, and earned an approving look from the doctor for saying it.

  Bess, when Philomena saw her early the next morning, proved to be a piebald mare, with a wicked eye, but the doctor’s easy: ‘She’s lively, but you’ll manage her easily enough,’ she took to be a compliment so that she swung herself happily into the saddle while Tritia, in beautifully cut jodhpurs and silk shirt which made fun of Philomena’s slacks and cotton sweater, made a small feminine fuss about Beauty’s bridle, which she insisted on Walle attending to.

  But it didn’t take Philomena long to realise that the girl didn’t like riding; she sat uneasily and each time Beauty attempted more than a walk, she was checked. The three of them ambled along, across the park towards the river and then turned into a narrow lane and eventually into a water meadow beside the river. ‘Bess could do with a bit of exercise,’ Philomena ventured. ‘Would anyone mind…?’

  It seemed that the meadow was Walle’s anyway and he raised no objection, so she touched Bess’s flanks with a heel and the mare tossed her head and broke into a gallop. They circled the field and then, dropping to a more sober pace, rejoined the others. The exercise had put a glow into Philomena’s cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, she beamed at Walle: ‘That was fun! Bess is a darling…’ and had the satisfaction of hearing his: ‘We must have a race some time, Philly,’ a remark which sent Tritia into the sulks for the rest of their ride.

  They all went to church later on, driving to the village in a Daimler Sovereign with Tritia sitting in front with the doctor, demanding prettily that he must do this, that and the other thing for her before they could set out; peeping at Philomena to see if she was watching. But Philomena looked carefully the other way, talking to Mevrouw van der Tacx, telling herself that after all, if Tritia liked to make an exhibition of herself that was her business, and if Walle couldn’t see through her silliness then that was his business too.

  And after lunch they played croquet on the lawn at the side of the castle—it could have been late Victorian England, Philomena reflected, eating tea under the trees; cucumber sandwiches and cherry cake and a maid to carry out the tea things. She had no idea that people still lived in that style. And after tea when she suggested diffidently that it was time she returned to Ommen, Walle wouldn’t hear of it.

  ‘You’ll stay for dinner,’ he told her, ‘and I’ll drive you back later. You haven’t seen Tinker and her puppies yet—she’s over in the stables for a few days in peace and quiet.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a dog—I’ve seen two cats…’

  ‘Mieps and Tom. Tinker had her puppies four days ago and she’ll be coming back with us in another day or so. I take her out early in the morning and again about this time when she’s been fed.’ He got out of his chair. ‘Come with me now, if you like—Tritia doesn’t like dogs, so we won’t ask her.’

  Tinker was a long-haired Alsatian and the puppies were adorable, and when Philomena gave her her fist to sniff she was accepted as a friend at once. They walked the dog for half an hour, the doctor covering the ground fast with his long legs and Philomena skipping along beside him, throwing sticks for Tinker while they talked and occasionally argued in a friendly fashion; they were back at the castle far too soon for Philomena.

  Contrary to her expectations, dinner passed off successfully. Tritia, a vision in pale blue, was all sweetness. Her tinkling laugh made Philomena grit her teeth, but she didn’t allow it to spoil her pleasure, and presently, ready to leave, she ignored her mocking smile as she wished her goodbye.

  ‘Back to work,’ said Tritia, ‘but of course you are used to that. A glimpse of life—our sort of life in this so magnificent castle—must have given you pleasure.’

  Walle was talking to his mother, but he paused to intervene blandly: ‘How incredibly pompous you sound, Tritia! I’m going back to work too, you know, and living in a country house is no new thing for Philomena. Her own home is a charming one in England with surroundings just as lovely as these.’

  He kissed his mother, waved to Tritia and shook his head at her as he opened the car door for Philomena, but he didn’t mention Tritia’s rudeness during the short drive, talking about nothing much until they arrived at Mevrouw de Winter’s door where he stood quietly while Philomena thanked him for her weekend.

  He looked down at her, smiling a little. ‘It was rather spoilt, wasn’t it? We must make up for it next time.’

  She had the sad thought that there was unlikely to be a next time, Tritia would see to that, and perhaps it would be as well, her suddenly surprised mind warned her; falling in love with one’s rich, handsome employer was something
which happened in novels, not to real girls such as she was. Returning his look, she wished him a sober goodbye, unable to detect the smallest sign that he shared her unexpected discovery. She went slowly indoors and up the cramped little stairs to her room. Cupid, she decided, was a wash-out…or perhaps he had run out of arrows.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS AS WELL for Philomena that she saw very little of Walle during the next few days. Discovering that she was in love with him had taken the wind completely out of her matter-of-fact sails, although when she thought about it, she supposed that she had been in love with him for quite a time; since the moment she had first seen him, even, and since it was hopeless to imagine that he would ever take more than a kindly interest in her, the quicker she nipped her feelings for him in the bud, the better. She was helped considerably in this praiseworthy resolution by the measles, which, neatly stamped out in Vilsteren, reared its spotty head in Dalfsen and Ommen, giving all three doctors and Philomena a good deal of extra work, and when she did find herself alone with Walle it was always in the company of a distraught young mother and small peevish children, so that any conversation they might have was brief, businesslike and strictly medical in flavour.

  So it was all the more surprising, as well as making nonsense of her good resolutions to avoid him, when Walle put his head round the door as she was clearing the surgery after the last session for the day and asked her if she would like to go riding on Sunday. The next day; she thought rapidly, then looked him in the eye and lied briskly in what she hoped was a convincing manner. ‘Actually,’ she told him, ‘I’m spending the day with Hubert,’ and was disconcerted by his slow smile, although she was reassured the next instant by his:

  ‘Ah, of course. Somewhere nice, I hope?’

  ‘Friesland,’ she improvised wildly, ‘just—just to look around, you know.’

  The smile came and went again. ‘Of course—he has an aunt near Leeuwarden—I expect he has told you about her.’ His voice was bland.

  ‘Yes, he has,’ declared Philomena, bent on bolstering up her fibs and completely at sea. ‘She—she seems a very interesting person.’

  Her companion’s firm mouth twitched its corners, but all he said was: ‘Another time, perhaps? Enjoy yourself, Philly.’

  Left alone, she finished her clearing up and went back to Mevrouw de Winter’s house, wondering what she would do with her free Saturday afternoon. Take the Mini for a run? Perhaps if she scouted round Leeuwarden a little just in case Walle asked questions later? But her landlady, when asked how far that city was away, thought that it might be close on ninety kilometres, which, allowing for time to eat her dinner and get there and back, left little time to look around the place. Philomena reluctantly gave up the idea for a circular tour of the surrounding countryside which brought her back in nice time for one of Mevrouw de Winter’s substantial suppers.

  Sunday, when she woke, proved to be glorious weather. Looking from her window at eight o’clock in the morning, she wished heartily that she had accepted the doctor’s invitation. She got up and put on a sleeveless cotton dress, piled her hair elaborately and then took it down again and tied it back, for after all, there was no one to see, and went down to breakfast. Her landlady had gone to church and from there intended to visit a nephew on the other side of the town. Philomena was to eat a good breakfast, said the carefully written note on the mantelpiece, and make herself coffee, and if she went out, she was to be sure and see that the cat was in and the back door locked.

  Philomena ate her meal leisurely, washed up, tidied the table and sat down to decide what to do with her day. Leeuwarden seemed the logical answer—it was a pity that Hubert wasn’t there to take her; she hadn’t liked telling lies to Walle. As if in answer to her wish there was a resounding thump on the front door knocker. ‘That’s him,’ she told herself aloud, and was conscious of reluctance to spend a whole day with him after all, despite the fact that it would wipe out all her fibbing.

  She went to the door, her face expressing a mixture of annoyance and relief, both of which were wiped away at the sight of Walle outside.

  His good morning was placid although his eyes held a pronounced twinkle, but she didn’t notice that as she mumbled an uncertain good morning back at him.

  ‘Not gone yet?’ he asked chattily.

  ‘No—no…’ She paused because for the life of her she couldn’t think of anything to say. At length: ‘A case?’ she sounded almost hopeful.

  ‘No, Philly. Neither of us is on call.’ He added gently: ‘What a shocking little liar you are.’

  She went pink. ‘Me? Oh!’

  ‘Oh, indeed. You should do your homework before you start making up stories about going out for the day. Hubert is on duty this weekend, and he certainly has no aunts in Friesland. Now I have got a grandfather in Schouwen Duiveland, a genuine relation with whom I intend having lunch. I thought you might like to come along too.’

  She drew a slow breath. ‘Well…’ she paused, frowning. ‘I told you a lot of—of lies. I’m sorry. It’s very kind of you to ask me, but I can’t come, thank you all the same.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ He looked up at the blue sky; it really was a splendid day. ‘I expect I should have done exactly the same thing if I had been you,’ he observed in a nice impersonal voice. ‘Besides, I told Grandfather that I should be bringing you.’

  Philomena gaped at him. ‘But you didn’t ask…how could you know?…and how very high-handed,’ she finished haughtily. She spoilt it by adding: ‘Isn’t there anything else you’d rather do?’

  He looked as though he was going to laugh. ‘Not a thing. Mother has gone visiting and Tritia is fully occupied with one of her youthful hangers-on.’

  So that’s why I’ve been asked, thought Philomena sadly, he’s at a loose end. She looked up and caught his eye and he shook his head at her.

  ‘Your thoughts are clear on your face, Philly, and they’re all wrong. Where’s Mevrouw de Winter? Shall we let her know?’

  ‘She’s at church and she’s going to have coffee with a nephew; if I go out I’m to let the cat in and lock the back door—and I must do my hair…’

  ‘It looks quite all right as it is, leave it alone. I’ll write a note for Mevrouw de Winter while you see to the cat.’

  He went past her into the hall and sat down at the kitchen table, where he got out a notebook and pen and began to scrawl rapidly. By the time Philomena had settled the cat, fetched her handbag and found the front door key, he was standing waiting for her. Five minutes later they were out of the little town, heading south.

  ‘It’s about a hundred and seventy miles,’ he explained as they took the road to Deventer. ‘We’ll keep to the motorway for a good deal of the way; we can join it at Appeldoorn, go on to Utrecht and Rotterdam and turn off for Willemstad. Coming back we’ll take the country roads as much as we can, that way you’ll see something of Holland.’

  Philomena, rather vague as to where they were going, said how nice and settled back to enjoy the pleasure of the moment. It struck her forcibly that although she had been in his car on several occasions, the journeys had been short and usually taken in haste. Now she had the chance to savour the luxury of the car’s interior. She sighed with pleasure. The road ran before them, tree lined and as yet, fairly empty of traffic, it was almost thirty miles before they would reach the motorway, the weather was perfect, and the whole long day stretched before her. She buried Tritia deep in the back of her mind and prepared to enjoy herself.

  Something in which Walle was prepared to share; they talked and laughed together as the miles flew past and presently, through Amersfoort, and with Utrecht already on the horizon, they stopped for coffee at a roadside café before he took the car through the heart of the city to join the motorway on its other side. ‘Sunday,’ he explained, ‘and not much traffic, although I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who doesn’t know Utrecht blindfold.’ They seemed to be in the outskirts of Rotterdam in no time at all and Philomena
lost all sense of direction as Walle drove his way round and south once more to Barendrecht. The roads were busy by now, but he didn’t seem to mind, only drove steadily and very fast, never hesitating. They didn’t go into Willemstad but kept on the motorway still, leaving the pretty little town with its windmill and harbour to fade into the distance. They were almost there, Walle told her, pointing out that they were among the islands of Zeeland now, with water all round them, alive with sailing boats and Zierikzee signposted straight ahead. ‘Only we’re not going as far as that,’ he went on, ‘we turn off here.’

  The village they were going through was commonplace enough and Philomena felt vague disappointment—she had expected something picturesque and old and away from the main road. But she wasn’t disappointed after all. The country road they had turned into was narrow and brick-built, running between flat fields full of cows. The motorway seemed very far away, and after a few minutes’ driving, Walle turned off this road too, into a still narrower one which dived suddenly between tall trees.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said, and slowed to round the gentle curve in the road.

  The village of Schuttebeurs was small, nothing indeed, but the country road shrouded by trees and lined by a handful of pleasant villas, a nice old country house which had been skilfully modernised into an hotel and one or two large houses, standing well back from the road as though, because of their size and age, they had no intention of mixing with their more modern neighbours. It was before one of these that he stopped the car; a tall, flat-fronted mansion, almost concealed by trees and shrubs and enclosed by a high iron railing. There was nothing remarkable about it, but it looked solid and peaceful, its high wide windows sparkling in the sunshine, the formal flower beds on either side of the short drive filled with flowers. Philomena, skipping out as Walle opened the door for her, rotated slowly, admiring it all until he took her arm and marched her up to the door, a solid affair with a heavy brass knocker and an old-fashioned bell-pull beside it.