by Betty Neels
Georgina shivered, but not with cold, and he pulled her close and kissed her gently. ‘My poor girl, you must be frozen.’ He kissed her again, with the same gentleness—as though, she thought miserably, I were Beatrix—and took her arm and helped her over the heaving deck until they came to her door. He said, ‘Don’t hesitate to call the stewardess if you need her. Good night,’ and was gone.
She went inside and shut the door. The ship was dancing madly, but she didn’t notice it; she was choking down the knowledge that however highly Julius regarded her as a nurse, she need be in no doubt that as a woman she roused in him no more than a kindly, amused tolerance, tinged with a kind of detached interest. She forced the fact down with the desperate resolution of someone swallowing a more than usually bitter pill, undressing as she did so. When she was ready she went to the mirror and peered at her reflection. It did nothing to reassure her, and in any case, she couldn’t see it very clearly, because she was crying.
She spoke to its blurred image with severity. ‘You’re not his type, my dear—admit it once and for all. And what’s more, he really hasn’t ever given you cause to suppose that you were.’ She blew her nose with vigour and lay down on the bed, but not to sleep. She would be seeing a great deal of Julius during the next two weeks; that meant that she would have to be the nurse engaged for Cor, and nothing else. That being settled she advised herself to think about something else, and opened her handbag; she would examine her Dutch money, or something. She had forgotten the letter; she had received it that morning, stuffed it into her bag and forgotten it. It was from St Athel’s. She opened it slowly, to find that it was from Matron, offering her the post of Casualty Sister, as from March the first next. She read it through several times, busy with her thoughts, so busy in fact that she quite forgot about seasickness and never noticed the gyrations of everything around her; indeed, after a while she dozed off. When she awoke a couple of hours later, she made her way across the heaving floor to find her writing case. It was after four o’clock when her letter was finished. She washed and dressed and did her hair even more severely than usual, and sat quietly until the stewardess brought her tea. She was a pleasant woman, disposed to chat after a busy night.
‘It’s been a bad crossing,’ she observed. ‘I must say, miss, I was surprised you didn’t ring for me—Professor Eyffert warned me particularly to come to you at once. Did you sleep?’
‘Oh, yes,’ lied Georgina pleasantly. ‘This is such a delightful little room and I was tired…I wonder, would you post this letter for me when you get back to Harwich? I quite forgot it.’
She gave it to the woman quickly, before she could change her mind, and asked if Dimphena had been called.
‘No, miss, not yet. The steward has roused Professor Eyffert and the little boy though, and he sent a message to say that if you wished to help the little boy, would you go over at half past six. I was only to give you it if you were feeling quite yourself.’ She smiled, ‘I must say you look very pale, miss.’
‘I’m excited, that’s all,’ Georgina replied. ‘I’ll go over at half past six—could someone let the Professor know, please?’
After the woman had gone, she poured herself a cup of tea. Her letter would reach Matron the following day, or at any rate, the morning after. Her future was settled; she would have that to remember if the Professor should say or do anything to weaken her intentions. She finished her tea, and tapped on the girls’ door, and presently was helping Beatrix to dress.
When she knocked on the Professor’s door and went in, she found him in his shirtsleeves, brushing his hair, too. He turned to look at her and said shortly, ‘You haven’t slept—were you sick? I told the stewardess to keep an eye on you but not to disturb you.’
‘I slept very well,’ she said cheerfully, ‘and I wasn’t seasick, and no one disturbed me.’ But he went on looking at her in a rather unnerving fashion, so that she found herself rattling on, ‘What a pity it’s so dark—I should have liked to see Holland from the sea.’ And then, because he still had said nothing, ‘Shall I come back presently?’
He spoke then. ‘No, I’ll go. Send someone for me when Cor’s ready.’
It was easier when he’d gone; she was able to laugh and joke with Cor and even try out some of her peculiar Dutch at his insistent demand. Breakfast was all right too, because she sat between the two children, and their chatter precluded her from joining in any conversation with the others.
They were the last to leave the boat, so that there were no delays at all. They went through the customs; and then the restaurant; out on to the station platform and so to the road, to where the Professor, who had gone on ahead with the porters and luggage, was waiting by a dark blue Aston-Martin DBS saloon. He stowed his passengers away with the same businesslike rapidity as the porters stowed the luggage, and Georgina found herself in the back seat with Dimphena and Cor wedged carefully between them. Beatrix he lifted into the seat beside him. He strapped her in securely, dropped a kiss on her small pink cheek, looked at his watch, and said over his shoulder:
‘I’m going the quickest way. It’s rather dull, but we’ll see that you go sightseeing later.’ He let in the clutch.
Perhaps it was dull for someone who had been there before. She stared out of the window and found a great deal that was distinctly foreign and strange. The houses were different; disappointingly square with old-fashioned sash windows, but the town was small; they left it by a wide road lined with villas, each standing in its own garden, windows glistening even on the grey windy morning. They had the neatness of well-cared-for doll’s houses. It was strange, too, travelling on the wrong side of the road, although this didn’t seem to trouble the Professor at all. They joined a main road presently, and then, a few miles further, the motorway to Rotterdam. Here the car came into its own, for there was no speed limit on the open highway; only as they reached Rotterdam did Julius slow down, giving her a chance to glimpse the great blocks of flats and streets of old houses with steeple roofs and red brick walls. It was still early, but there were plenty of people on the streets, and even more on bicycles; they leaned negligently against the car’s sides each time they halted at traffic lights, and then pedalled away with an inch to spare with a sang-froid which the Professor shared, for he took no more notice of them than if they had been flies.
Georgina remarked on the people at such an hour on a Sunday morning, and the Professor said laconically, ‘Church,’ and gave his attention to driving once more. They left the city behind, and she was able to study the tranquil country they were passing through. It was a pity, though, that the road skirted the villages, for they looked charming, even at a distance, but when she remarked on this, the Professor merely observed, ‘I told you it would be dull.’
Dimphena agreed that it was dull, but added, ‘Let’s take George to Oudewater and weigh her on the witch’s scales, and we can go to Gouda too.’ ‘And Delft,’ said Cor; and not to be outdone, ‘Amsterdam,’ Beatrix reminded them.
‘All in good time,’ said Julius. ‘Here’s Utrecht ahead.’ They turned off at the great roundabout outside the city, however, and cut across it and on to the Maarternsdijk road. The country had changed; it was delightful with little copses and meadows, intersected by narrow waterways, and when they had gone through Maartensdijk, it became even prettier, with lanes leading off from either side and houses amongst the bare trees. They passed through a cluster of houses and then down a winding lane, running between trees. There were one or two houses at first, and then nothing but the woods on either side, although it was only a few hundred yards before the Professor turned the car through a high old-fashioned wrought-iron gate and on to a short drive, running as straight as a ruler to the house facing the gate. Georgina loved it at first sight. It was solidly square, with large sash windows and a vast front door, before which they stopped.
The Professor said over his shoulder, ‘Welcome to Bergenstijn, Georgina,’ and got out. It seemed that he was as well served here as he w
as in England, for the door had opened and an elderly man advanced to meet him. He had a faintly ecclesiastical air, due to a certain portliness and a quantity of snow-white hair allied to a splendid moustache. He shook the Professor by the hand and received a rapturous hug from Beatrix, who had climbed out of the car and was skipping around in wild excitement. He had a warm greeting from Dimphena too; Georgina began to wonder who he was and her unspoken thought was answered by Julius, who had come to fetch Cor.
‘This is our house steward, Hans. He has been with the family for more than forty years and deals with everything. He is devoted to us all and we are just as devoted to him. Come and meet him.’
She met the faithful Hans’ searching blue eye with a smile and an outstretched hand and as he took it, he said formally in slow, difficult English, ‘I am happy to know you, miss.’ It was a relief to her when his many-wrinkled face broke into a smile, because somehow it mattered that he should like her.
Inside, the house was as unlike Dalmers Place as it was possible to be. The rooms were large and square, like the house; with lofty ceilings and important fireplaces. A large house for a large man, thought Georgina; no wonder he liked it so much, the house and the man were made for each other. She was sitting in what the others had called the ‘little room’, drinking coffee in their company. It overlooked the gardens, and its windows were hung with plum-coloured curtains and topped with elaborately draped pelmets tied with thick silk cords. She had never seen anything like them outside the glossy magazines or the cinema. The carpet was plum-coloured too, but the deeply comfortable chairs and sofas were covered in cream velvet. She frowned a little, thinking of cleaning problems—probably there were no dogs in the house… There were. They came in together, a Great Dane and a very small black dog, and made straight for the Professor, who made much of them before they deserted him for Cor, who was sitting beside Georgina.
She pulled gently on the big dog’s ears. ‘What is his name?’ she asked. ‘And that small creature…’
‘Anderson,’ Cor told her, ‘and this one’s called Flip. He’s a Schippershond.’ She repeated it after him, and he was too polite to laugh at her clumsy rendering of the word. ‘They live on boats,’ he explained, and she, none the wiser, would have probed the matter more deeply had it not been for the Professor getting up and coming over to say, ‘Lenie will take you to your room, Georgina. She’s our housekeeper. She doesn’t speak English, but Dimphena will go with you. You would like to unpack, I expect, and when you are ready, we will decide what is best for Cor, shall we?’
She got to her feet at once, and went up the staircase at the back of the tiled hall with Dimphena chattering beside her, and Lenie, a large, silent woman, walking ahead. The room she was shown into was large too, although it appeared smaller by virtue of the heavy mahogany furniture with which it was furnished. It was of the Empire period, its well-polished gleam offset by the pale green hangings and bedspread. The carpet was a dull pink, a colour echoed in the lampshades. There was a small open fire burning in the steel grate, and a high-backed chair drawn up to it. It looked welcoming—as welcoming as the bowl of hyacinths on the night table by the bed. Lenie caught her eye, and smiled her way across the room to a door in the wall. It led to a bathroom, and thence to the room Cor was to occupy.
Left alone, she unpacked a little, did her hair and her face and went downstairs again, to find everyone sitting much as she had left them. But the Professor got up at once and led her across the hall to another, smaller room with paneled walls and a massive desk set against its window. There were bookshelves everywhere, and a round closed stove whose warmth lent its surroundings an air of cosy intimacy. His study, she deduced, taking the smaller of the two chairs by the stove which she eyed with interest. It was almost a museum piece, of much decorated iron and capped with a metal cap that gleamed like silver. Being of a practical turn of mind, she wondered about its fuel consumption. Probably vast, she thought, and for the hundredth time wondered about the Professor’s life; so very different from her own, even though he worked just as hard, if not harder, than she did herself.
Julius had stretched himself out in the leather chair facing her. He looked relaxed and contented, and when he smiled her heart began its familiar pounding. For a second she allowed the gossamer illusion that they were sharing their own hearth—their lives as well—to wreathe its hopeless way across her mind. Unable to help herself, she smiled back.
He said mildly, ‘That’s better—you looked so forbidding; for one moment I thought you had taken a dislike to Bergenstijn.’
She stirred, her brown eyes wide. ‘Dislike it? Here? But how could I, it’s beautiful. The house when you first see it, and my room with those pink hyacinths and this lovely old stove—and I saw a lake from my window…’ She paused. ‘It’s covered in ice, just like the painting at the top of the staircase—the very small one next to the old gentleman with the wig.’ She went on, happily incoherent, ‘There’s a ginger kitten asleep on the window seat outside my room.’ She smiled at the thought of it, and looked beautiful. ‘It’s home, just as Dalmers Place is home. Some houses are, you know.’
He smiled gently and with a triumph she didn’t notice. ‘You are the most extraordinary girl. You find pleasure in things that a great many people don’t even see.’
She said shyly, ‘I think you do too.’
He was serious now. ‘Yes, it matters to me, Georgina, that you should like my home.’
His eyes were twinkling again; he was charming and kind and he was staring at her in a way she found disturbing…She forced herself to meet his gaze coolly and before she could be trapped into saying something impulsive she might regret later, she observed in a thin voice:
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s so much easier to work in a place you like.’
The small sound which escaped his lips might have been a laugh; she wasn’t sure. He said merely, ‘So you noticed the painting upstairs—it’s a Van Ruydael, painted before this present house was built, though we still have the original cellars and an underground kitchen which isn’t used any more. I’m delighted that you like your room, though I can’t take any credit for the kitten asleep on the window seat.’
They both laughed, and she felt the dangerous delight she always felt when she was in his company beginning to steal over her. She remembered her resolutions made during the night. ‘You wanted to give me instructions about Cor, Professor.’
She thought he would never answer. And then, very blandly, ‘Do you disapprove of me so very much, Miss Rodman?’
She felt her face grow hot. She stuttered indignantly, ‘Disapprove of you? Me? Of course I don’t. What a ridiculous notion! And why do you say that?’ she demanded.
He was laughing again. ‘You are so very anxious not to waste time with me—a fact I greatly deprecate.’
She looked at him helplessly, for there was nothing to say. To agree with him would be easy and untrue; to disagree would mean that he would want to know why…
‘How unkind of me to tease. I’m sorry.’ He spoke lightly without looking at her, and settled himself deeper in his chair, crossed one long leg over the other and contemplated his shoes. ‘Now, this business of Cor.’
Between them, they drew up a simple routine for the little boy. There was always the danger that he would do too much now that he was on his feet again. That had to be prevented while at the same time he mustn’t feel that he was being pampered. There would, it seemed, be guests coming on Wednesday—he gave no names—and Karel and Franz would arrive on the following Sunday and stay for several days. Cor would need a firm hand and constant supervision. When they had finished, Georgina said jokingly:
‘Now I know why you were so anxious for me to come.’ She got up. ‘I’ll get the children ready for lunch.’
He went to the door with her, saying casually, ‘You are free to think whatever you wish of my reasons for wanting you to come, Georgina. At the moment, I have no intention of telling you.’
They all lunched together, and a round-faced dumpling of a girl with flaxen hair and bright round eyes served them. Dimphena introduced her as Pankie, which Georgina found rather peculiar until it was explained that it was a shortened form of Pancratiana, which, upon reflection, she found even more peculiar. She shook hands and said with great difficulty because she was shy of speaking any language other than her own, ‘Goeden Dag, Pankie,’ and was rewarded by a shout of triumph from her youthful teacher and more subdued applause from the others, who, throughout the meal, egged her on to air what she had learned, sometimes with the most amusing results.
Afterwards Cor, protesting hotly that he had no desire to rest, was carried up to his bed, but when he found that Beatrix and Georgina were to accompany him, he submitted with a good grace to having his calipers taken off and being tucked up, while Georgina did the same for Beatrix on the day bed under the window. This done, she poked up the fire, produced a copy of The Tale of Benjamin Bunny and began to read. The children were asleep within ten minutes, leaving her free to curl up in her chair and stare at the flames. Presently she would write a long letter to Aunt Polly and another one to the girls at St Athel’s; tomorrow she must buy postcards; perhaps there was a shop in the little village they had gone through… Her eyes closed.
She awoke on a dream—a delightful one in which she was being kissed by Julius. The joy of it was still real in her mind when she opened her eyes and found him standing beside her chair. Just for a moment dream and reality were a pleasurable whole, then she discarded the dream, sat up, looked at the sleeping children and asked:
‘Is anything the matter? I must have dropped off.’
He had his hands in his pockets, his face very placid. He answered softly, ‘Nothing is the matter—it’s teatime.’
She got up. ‘Oh, then I’ll wake the children and bring them down. I can’t think why I went to sleep.’
‘Surely a natural thing to do,’ he answered smoothly, ‘when you have had a sleepless night.’