by Betty Neels
Mrs Wyllie-Lyon kissed her warmly. ‘You’ve had a busy week, I’m sure; now you shall enjoy yourself, my dear. This snow won’t last—you will be able to go skiing after lunch.’ She offered a cheek to her son. ‘A successful week, Jake?’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Before he could say any more they were engulfed by the rest of the family, and, sure enough, by the time they had lunched the skies had cleared and the sun was shining.
Charity got into her slacks and woollies and went outside to where Jake was waiting with her skis. He latched them on for her, commanded some of the smaller fry to keep an eye on her while he went to get his own skis, and went round the corner of the house, leaving her poised on the crest of a long slope which ran almost to the fjord’s edge.
Charity was never quite clear what happened next; she must have moved her feet, made some involuntary movement forward; she shot down the slope over the newly fallen snow, brandishing her sticks in a manner which might have given the casual observer the impression that she was an expert but to her was the only way in which she could summon help; terror had taken her tongue and it was her good fairy, not her skill, which kept her skis from tangling with each other.
The slope was a gentle one but it was still a slope, going downhill; it emerged on to what was during the summer months a road running alongside the fjord, but now the snow was deep enough to have covered everything to a depth of several feet; she saw, in one terrified glance, that there was nothing at all to stop her hurtling pell-mell into the smooth grey water ahead of her. She had very little breath but she used it now to cry for help; a silly squeak of sound, of no use at all. She closed her eyes, trying hard to remember what she must do with her feet to stop her headlong rush.
‘You can’t ski with your eyes shut,’ said Jake loudly. ‘Open them at once, turn your feet to the left and slow down.’
Sound advice which she should have heeded, but delight at finding him beside her was all she could think of; she turned a face alight with relief to him, crossed her skis and fell in an untidy heap, quite unable to get up. He pulled her to her feet and stood her upright.
‘Not hurt? Good. But scared out of your wits, no doubt.’ He put an arm around her and kissed her glowing cheek. ‘Now we’re going back up the slope again and this time you’ll stop without falling over.’
Charity said with some heat, ‘You’re a monster—I’ll do no such thing.’
‘Scared? Don’t be—I’ll be beside you.’
There was really nothing to do but go back up the slope with him, placing her skis just so under his critical eye and then, her heart in her mouth, starting off down it once more.
But this time she discovered that she wasn’t scared any more. Jake, enormous and sure of himself and her, was beside her and the worst that could happen would be that she might fall again. When he instructed her to stop she did. Rather untidily, but at least she kept her feet.
He was a hard taskmaster even if he was generous with his praises; they went back up the slope again and at the top he said, ‘I’m going ahead of you—I shall be waiting for you at the bottom,’ and not giving her time to protest he swept away with effortless ease. She glanced round her—there was quite an audience, smiling and encouraging her. When Jake gave her a shout, she took a deep breath and launched herself carefully. She had to remind herself several times that it was all right; he was there, waiting for her; she was quite safe. She gained speed and almost fell over at his ‘Whoa there’, but she managed to keep her feet, even if untidily.
‘Very nice,’ said the professor. ‘We’ll try the slope behind the house in the morning. Had enough?’
She surprised herself very much by saying that no, she hadn’t. ‘But I expect you want to go off on a long run. I’m fine now, I’ll practice on that flat bit at the top.’
But he stayed with her until the brief daylight dimmed and they went indoors for tea, and after tea the entire family sat round the big circular table, playing Scrabble in Norwegian, everyone shamelessly cheating and helping Charity, declaring that it was a splendid way in which to learn the language.
There was a ski trail behind the house, winding in and out of the trees. A little too advanced for Charity, Jake allowed, though there was no reason why she shouldn’t keep to the lower slopes of it, so she spent a couple of hours after breakfast working away with fine enthusiasm under his instruction, but when they went in for coffee she declared that she had had enough. Not true, actually, but it was their last day and surely Jake would want to have a few hours in which to ski without being lumbered by her clumsy efforts.
She watched them all disappearing into the trees behind the house and then went to sit with Mrs Wyllie-Lyon, who laid aside her knitting and proceeded to ask questions, put so disarmingly that Charity found herself answering them all without rancour.
‘I shall be coming over to London in a few weeks’ time,’ observed Mrs Wyllie-Lyon, ‘I dare say I shall see something of you, Charity.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose so,’ said Charity doubtfully. ‘I’m at Jake’s rooms all day, but I’m working…’
‘Jake lives close by, doesn’t he?’ enquired his mother artlessly, ‘I expect you have seen his house.’
‘Well, just to go in and see the dog he rescued…’
‘Ah, yes, of course. You met the admirable Snook and his wife, I dare say.’
‘Yes.’
‘Jake has a great many friends. I sometimes feel that it is a great pity that he is so wrapped up in his work. He should marry and have a family.’
‘But he is going to…’ Charity stopped and went very red. ‘I’m sorry; that’s none of my business—Only something I heard—hospitals are hotbeds of gossip.’
Her hostess agreed gravely. ‘Although I have never known Jake to take any notice of gossip. Do I sound revoltingly smug if I say that he is a good man?’
‘He is, oh, he is—and I hope that he will be very happy when he marries.’ Charity looked at her companion, her heart in her eyes, and that lady nodded her head and smiled slowly. ‘He will be,’ she said. ‘He has always known what he wanted and when he gets it, he is content.’
Charity looked out of the window at the polished steel of the fjord, trying to imagine Brenda Cornwallis making Jake content for the rest of his life. Love, she was discovering, was an unpredictable emotion making no bones about disrupting anyone’s life.
They left the following morning while it was still only half light, waved away by everyone in the house, and took the ferry to Gudvangen. It meant going down one arm of the fjord and up another but it was the only way to reach the road to Bergen and although it was bitterly cold the awesome scenery of towering mountains with here and there solitary houses hugging their foot more than compensated for cold hands and feet. At Gudvangen, Jake took her to the hotel on the small waterfront and plied her with hot coffee before they took to the road. He had said very little but somehow that didn’t matter; it struck her that they had reached a stage in their friendship where talk didn’t matter overmuch. They were at ease with each other and she wondered rather forlornly if that was the norm between employer and secretary, but the prospect of a day in Bergen with him was delightful enough to wipe out self-pity; she settled back beside him and prepared to enjoy the drive.
Bergen, when they reached it, delighted her. They had crossed by another ferry, coming into the town from the country behind it, and there had been only brief glimpses of the sea. Jake parked in front of the Hotel Norge close to a formal park and facing a square and he took her inside. They were expected. She was taken up to her room while he saw to their luggage and she barely had time to thrust her head out of the window to take a look round when the porter, followed by Jake, came in.
‘A walk before lunch?’ he asked as he tipped the man. ‘The quay’s only ten minutes away, we can stroll down and decide what we’ll do this afternoon.’ He gave her a brisk nod. ‘Fifteen minutes downstairs in the foyer?’
When he had gone Charity explore
d her room. It was comfortable; more than that, luxurious, and the adjoining bathroom was the last word in elegance. She took off her coat and did her face and hair, crammed her woolly hat back on and went downstairs, eager to see all she could.
The wide main street, lined with shops, was pleasant and Jake pointed out the houses built on the side of the mountain behind the town. ‘There’s a funicular to Floien—that’s the mountain you can just see. We’ll go up there tomorrow. Now we are going to look at the market.’ He walked her briskly past the shops down to the bottom of the street to the wide quay at the head of the fjord and then slowed his pace so that she might admire the flower stalls, carefully sheltered against the cold, and the fish stalls with their piles of prawns and neat rows of cod. The fjord was a hive of activity, with ferries crossing from one side of the harbour to the other, local ferries coming and going, and any number of fishing boats.
Charity, oblivious of the icy wind and the snow underfoot, stood and took it all in, listening to Jake’s quiet voice telling her about the Bryggen—a row of medieval buildings facing the harbour—and King Haakon’s Hall at the end of the wharf.
‘What a bustling place—and in mid-winter too,’ observed Charity.
‘Well, the express coastal boats leave here each day—they sail to the very north as far as the Russian border. Five days there, five days back, but except in the tourist season most of the passengers only go from one port of call to the next, or perhaps to Trondheim—that takes two days.’
‘I’d like that. Have you been?’
‘Oh, yes—several times. It’s the best way of reaching the villages in the north, although there is a good road all the way to North Cape, the ferries hold you up.’
She turned to take another look at the market. ‘It’s not like St John’s Wood…’
The professor tucked an arm under hers and started walking her back to the hotel. ‘Not in the least. You like it?’
‘Oh, I do.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if Brenda liked it, too, but she stopped herself in time; only just, for he asked, ‘You were about to say something?’
‘No—Oh, no.’
‘If you would like to we’ll go to Troldhaugen, Edward Grieg’s home—it’s closed during the winter, but I know where the curator lives—I dare say he’ll let us look round. We’ll be back in time for you to shop if you want to. There’ll be time to go up Floien in the morning before we drive to the airport.’
They lunched in the hotel restaurant: gravlaks—salt and sugar cured salmon flavoured with dill—served with a mustard sauce, and plain boiled potatoes which Charity had decided the Norwegians served with all their fish, followed by riskrem—boiled rice, whipped cream and raspberry sauce; so delicious that Charity had two helpings. It was not yet two o’clock by the time they had had their coffee. Troldhaugen was barely ten minutes’ drive and proved to be a wooden house built in the typical Norwegian style and surrounded by a quite large garden, now buried under the snow. True to his word the professor went off to find the curator and the three of them wandered around the pleasantly cluttered rooms. ‘It’s as though Grieg had just got up from the piano and gone out for half an hour,’ said Charity. The curator beamed at her. ‘That is exactly what we hope those who come here will feel,’ he told her.
From Troldhaugen they drove back to Bergen, this time leaving the main road and passing the Bergen residence of the royal family and then following the road until they joined the E68 once more. It was already dusk and cold; Jake parked the car at the hotel and crossed the square and ushered her into the warm and cheerfully lit tea room on its far side.
It resembled the kind of tea room it was so hard to find in England nowadays, with small tables, a counter loaded with cream cakes and bustling waitresses. What was more, the tea, when it arrived, came in a large pot, hot and strong. She beamed across the table at Jake, her cheeks glowing, her eyes sparkling, just for the moment gloriously happy.
She was happy for the rest of the day; they shopped in a light-hearted way before going back to the hotel, had a leisurely dinner and then danced. There wouldn’t be another day like that one, thought Charity, lying in bed thinking about it. She would be home, in her own bed, twenty-four hours later and Jake would be Professor Wyllie-Lyon once more, and Brenda, so happily absent, would have become part of his life again. Charity, usually so sensible, had a good cry before she at length went to sleep.
She went down for breakfast heavy-eyed and with a faintly pink nose but the professor, after one quick glance, made no comment.
‘We’ll have to leave here about half past twelve. If you have your bag packed we can have a quick meal here before we go. Mrs Kemp will have tea for us when we get back.’ He glanced outside. ‘It’s a splendid morning, though I think it might snow later. Wrap up warm, it’s chilly on Floien.’
He chatted easily while they had breakfast and then bustled her away to get her outdoor things so that she had no time to think. They walked through the main street and turned off up a narrow side street leading to the funicular, a new way of travelling to Charity. She sat staring out of its window at the town unrolling itself below as the funicular climbed steadily up the side of the mountain. ‘It’s very high,’ she said and was reassured by Jake’s placid, ‘And safe.’ All the same, he took her hand in his and held it until they reached the top and then he tucked it under his arm and led her to the restaurant, sat her down at a table where the view was at its widest and loveliest and ordered coffee. They sat there for half an hour while he pointed out the various interesting buildings and presently they took one of the paths away from the restaurant, zigzagging down to the town and walking back to the hotel through King Oscar’s Gate. There they sat straight down to sandwiches and coffee before she went to tidy herself while her bag was fetched. Everything was going too fast, though, she thought unhappily, pulling her woolly cap down over her curly hair. In an hour or so they would be in the plane and these two weeks would be a lovely dream. She hurried down to the foyer and found the professor, unconcerned and calm. Anyone would think we were going to catch a number 10 bus, she thought peevishly, instead of a flight to Heathrow. He caught her eye and smiled faintly. ‘There is plenty of time,’ he told her soothingly.
The airport was some twelve miles to the south of Bergen and once they were clear of the town the country was beautiful. The drive ended all too soon; there they were in the small reception area, going through the customs, sped on their way to the plane. Charity wanted to turn round and go back. If only time would stand still…
The plane took off and she watched the snowcovered land beneath her merge into the sea. It was difficult not to burst into tears, and still more difficult when the professor undid his briefcase and, with a vague kindly smile, buried himself in a sheaf of papers.
CHAPTER EIGHT
IT WAS AS GOOD a time as any to sort herself out; she must tuck away to the very back of her mind these last two weeks and remember that she was the professor’s secretary. She might even, she decided, get out and about more often, meet some suitable man, and marry him, thus getting shot of the professor for ever. She was far too unhappy to realise the silliness of this so that the flight was largely taken up with the most improbable schemes. There was a short period of good sense when they were served tea and biscuits, but since the professor paused from his reading only long enough to consume these, make one or two commonplace remarks about the flight and then bury his nose in his papers again, she was left free once more to pursue her unhappy thoughts. She had come to no sensible solution by the time the plane began the descent to Heathrow.
Snook was waiting for them with the Bentley; he greeted them with Cockney warmth, stowed their bags in the boot and got in beside the professor after ushering Charity into the back seat, where she sat, a prey to unhappy thoughts, listening to him talking in a desultory, comfortable fashion with Snook. At the consulting rooms she got out and Snook slid into the driving seat.
‘My case,’ Charity pointed ou
t. ‘It’s in the boot…’
‘We’ll pick it up later. A chance for you to see Bones. I’ll drive you home.’
‘There’s no need…’ began Charity, but she didn’t go on because the professor’s face had assumed the bland expression which by now she knew covered a determination to have his own way.
Mrs Kemp was waiting for them, the kettle boiling and the teapot warmed.
‘It’s been lonely without you both, even though I’ve only been in and out as it were. There is a mass of post and I’ve written down the phone calls, Professor. Miss Cornwallis has phoned three times since I got here and that nice Dr Kemble twice—for you, Charity.’
Charity, taking off her jacket and cap turned to look at her. ‘Me?’ Somehow the phone calls made the professor seem even more remote; circumstances were hedging both of them in once more; the two weeks in Norway had been a lovely dream and that was all. She had better forget them smartly.
Mrs Kemp made the tea and Jake went to his consulting room and sat down at his desk and Mrs Kemp carried a cup into him, coming back with a handful of letters. ‘You will have your hands full, love—here’s the start of it. But have your tea first and tell me if you had a good time?’
‘Super. A lovely hotel and a typewriter in my room…’
Mrs Kemp laughed. ‘I bet you had your nose to the grindstone. I’ve made a lot of appointments. Will you have time to run through them before you go home?’ She glanced at the clock.
‘Yes, I’ll make time.’ Charity opened her bag and produced the troll. ‘I thought you might like this—they’re a bit like our Dartmoor pixies only they live in the mountains and only come out at night.’
They drank their tea quickly and Mrs Kemp said, ‘I’ll see if the professor wants me; if he doesn’t I’ll nip off home.’
She disappeared into his room and came out a few moments later. ‘See you in the morning, love. Don’t work too hard, now—tomorrow’s another day.’