by Betty Neels
They drove down to Tenterden two evenings later, after their day’s work. They went in Loveday’s elderly Morris 1000, a car which, while hardly noted for its breathtaking speed and racy lines, maintained a steady forty miles an hour and seldom gave her any trouble. She would have liked something fast and eye-catching even though she was devoted to the Morris; it got her home with unfailing certainty and was, moreover, the result of two years’ hard saving on her own part. Rimada laughed at it, and Loveday, understanding to someone who had never known any other car but a large Mercedes or a Porsche, the Morris was something of a joke, didn’t mind in the least. Its steady speed gave her ample opportunity to talk, and that was what she wanted to do now.
Her plan was received rapturously. ‘You are a genius,’ declared her friend. ‘I have thought and thought and I have been in despair.’ And Loveday, used to Rimada’s dramatic turn of speech, said reassuringly:
‘Well, now you can cheer up, it’s all quite simple really. I’ve a pile of brochures with me, and there’s a cruise to Madeira and the Med in three weeks’ time—that will be the very end of September. You can book for the whole cruise and leave the ship at Madeira—with Terry, of course—I’ll go on, at least, I haven’t thought about that yet. You and Terry can stay there until you get married and then let your guardian know. It’s the last cruise of the summer for this particular ship and the agency says it won’t be heavily booked, so I daresay we’ll get a cabin easily enough.’
‘Clothes?’ asked Rimada urgently.
‘Well, I suppose we’ve both got enough to get by—I can’t afford to buy anything much…’
They were nearly at Tenterden. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ she advised. ‘We’ll be home in a few minutes.’
Home was a nice old house on the outskirts of the pleasant little town. They went up the wide main street, lined with its trees and old-fashioned shops and houses, and turned off at the top of the hill into a narrow lane disappearing into the gentle Kentish countryside. The house stood on a curve, all by itself, a nice example of Elizabethan building, the last of the evening sunlight giving its tiled roof a glow and touching the garden around it with a splash of vivid colour. Loveday, who had a deep fondness for the old place, sighed with content as she caught sight of it, and just for a moment wished that she was spending her holiday at home instead of plotting against Rimada’s guardian. She squashed this thought immediately, however. He deserved all he got and a lot more besides, and she would be delighted to prove to him just how right he had been when he had called her a meddlesome busybody; the words still rankled.
Her parents were waiting for them. Rimada had visited them several times and they considered her almost one of the family and once the first greetings were over, she was whirled away by Loveday’s younger sister, Phyllis, a fourteen-year-old, home for the weekend from her boarding school nearby, and who considered the Dutch girl an authority on clothes, a subject very dear to her heart, leaving Loveday to have a brief chat with her mother before going into the garden with her father. He had retired as senior partner in a firm of solicitors in Maidstone and now he spent his days amongst his flowers, keeping the books of various local organizations in good order, and tinkering with his beloved vintage Humber motor car. They went to the potting shed and settled down for a gentle talk about seed catalogues, bulbs for the following spring and which roses he should order—he was good with roses, and Loveday, studying his thin good looks and a few extra lines which hadn’t been in his face a year ago, entered wholeheartedly into the discussion because she knew how important these things were to him now that he didn’t go to the office every day, and presently, in answer to his query as to when she was coming home for a week or two, she told him the vague plans she and Rimada had made for their cruise.
He was disappointed, she knew that, and her heart misgave her for a moment. ‘I should have liked to have come home for a week or two,’ she told him with regret, ‘but I’ve another week in November, I’ll come then. There’ll be the roses to prune and plant out and those fruit trees you want to replace and the hedges to cut—I shall be very useful.’
They both laughed as they started to walk back to the house.
Mrs Pearce was rather more enthusiastic about the trip. Loveday worried her a little; rising twenty-eight and still not married, and heaven knew it wasn’t for the lack of chances. Beryl, her twenty-two-year-old sister, had been married for six months, and her brother, the eldest of the family, intended marrying the following year now that he had a junior partnership in his father’s firm, and Phyllis was still only a schoolgirl—if her darling eldest daughter didn’t find someone soon she would be what Mrs Pearce persisted in calling an old maid. She never spoke her fears out loud, of course, but Loveday, gently cross-questioned each time she went home, was well aware of them. Sometimes she shared them too; as her mother knew, she had chances enough, and once or twice she had been on the point of saying yes, and each time something had made her hesitate even while common sense had told her that she was being foolish, waiting for someone she couldn’t even picture in her mind.
They all studied the brochures that evening; it was going to cost quite a lot, Loveday calculated, but she would have enough if she were careful, but Rimada was quite positive that she hadn’t nearly sufficient money.
‘I am not good with money,’ she explained to the Pearce family. ‘I buy things…’
‘Get your guardian to let you have some,’ struck in Loveday.
Rimada gave her a shocked look. ‘I would never…’ The look changed to one of delighted surprise. ‘But I have thought of something—of course, I will ask Mama—she gives me anything I want.’
‘Would you like to telephone her now?’ asked Mr Pearce helpfully.
She shook her head. ‘Better than that, I will visit her. She will send money for me to travel to Holland and I will arrange that I have four days off together—next week, I think. I will ask her and she will be pleased to give me all the money I need.’
Her companions looked at her with interest. Rimada’s faculty for getting her own way always interested them; they were moderately well off themselves, but it would never have entered Loveday’s head to ask her parents to pay for a holiday she could well afford for herself provided she saved for it. Not that they weren’t generous, but she was a grown woman, earning a sufficient income to keep her independent, and independence was vital to a girl on her own; especially, as Mrs Pearce frequently thought, rather sadly, if she didn’t intend to marry.
‘If your mother has no objection, dear,’ she murmured to Rimada, who looked surprised.
‘How can she object? I am her only child and my happiness is most important to her. She will arrange a ticket for me to fly home and she will arrange that Loveday will come with me, and pay for her too.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Loveday quietly. ‘I couldn’t possibly get away—besides, even if I could, I can well afford the fare, Rimmy.’
But Rimada was persuasive; at the end of half an hour’s argument Loveday had agreed to go with her; it would mean juggling with the off-duty, but that could be managed, she thought. But she insisted that she would pay her own fare to Holland and had to laugh when Rimada said plaintively: ‘I find you so strange, Loveday, to spend your own money when there is someone else to pay for you.’
They went back to the hospital two days later, early in the morning, their plans crystallized by numerous telephone calls, a number of lengthy discussions as to the clothes they should take with them on the cruise, and a close study of the brochures. Moreover, Loveday had a cheque in her purse which her father, in the privacy of the potting shed, had pressed upon her—to cover her fare to Holland, he had explained briefly. It only remained for them to book their flight to Schiphol for the end of the following week and reply suitably to Rimada’s mother, who had arranged, after a lengthy telephone call, for her daughter to draw enough money for her flight from an old family friend in London, and at the same time she had said a f
ew words to Loveday, making her welcome in a charming little speech.
Some days later, Loveday, packing a small case ready for their early morning flight, reflected that the time and trouble taken in adjusting theatre duties so that she could be free over the weekend had been well worth it; she was looking forward to seeing Rimada’s home, and although her friend had assured her that there was absolutely no chance of her meeting her guardian, she found herself, against her will, wishing that there was. Only, of course, so that she might let him see that his peculiar behaviour had made no impression upon her. He would have to find himself another pretty girl to kiss, she told herself crossly; as many pretty girls as he wanted, she added savagely, not liking the idea at all.
She had known that Rimada’s home was a comfortable one, and she had supposed, without wasting too much thought about it, that her family were a good deal better off than her own; Rimada’s remarks about her fortune she had always taken with a pinch of salt, for her friend was inclined to flights of fantasy, so she really was surprised when they were met at Schiphol by a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. No hired car, this, for the man was obviously a well trusted servant and friend, greeting Rimada with the respectful familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time.
‘This is Jos,’ said Rimada. ‘He’s been with us ever since I can remember. He doesn’t speak English, but he’s a wizard driver.’
They tore along the motorway in the direction of Den Haag; Rimada’s home was to the north of that city, north too of Wassenaar, its fashionable suburb. As they went, she pointed out the more interesting aspects of the countryside through which they were passing and while Loveday obediently looked from left to right so as to miss nothing, she wondered if Rimada had been wise in her decision not to tell her mother the true purpose of her cruise. A decision which, she had assured Loveday, Terry had agreed with. If it were I marrying, thought Loveday, frowning thoughtfully at a windmill, I would have wanted Mother and Father to know—I would have wanted them to meet him too. But perhaps it wasn’t quite the same in her friend’s case. She settled back more comfortably and murmured her appreciation of a particularly fine church in the distance.
If she had been surprised at the car and the chauffeur, she was even more surprised at the sight of Rimada’s home; a large villa, embellished with balconies, turrets and fancy brickwork, set in the midst of a garden so precise that it might have been ruled out with a set-square, and so perfectly kept that it appeared to have been embroidered upon the ground rather than growing in the earth. The massive mahogany and glass door was flung open by a tall angular woman, whose rather harsh features broke into a smile as they got out of the car. ‘Jaantje,’ introduced Rimada as they went inside, and hardly pausing, crossed the thickly carpeted floor to a half-open door.
The room they entered was lavishly furnished in a style to make Loveday blink, and in the middle of its superabundance of velvet curtains, brocade chairs, cushions, little tables loaded with silver photo frames, lamps and overstuffed chairs, sat Rimada’s mother. It could be none other; here was Rimada, shorter and stouter and rather heavily made up, there were the blue eyes, as large as her daughter’s, and the sweet smile. The lady got to her feet as they went in, the folds of her gossamer garment—quite unsuitable for the time of day—floating around her in an expensive cloud of haute couture chiffon.
‘Lieveling—Rimtsje!’ She enfolded her daughter lovingly and with some difficulty, because Rimada was a head taller and very much larger than her mother. ‘And Loveday.’ She turned to smile. ‘I hear so much of you,’ she went on in perfect English, ‘you have been so kind to my little girl in her exile.’
Loveday shook hands and murmured; she had never thought of Rimada as being in exile before; perhaps her mother was given to embroider her conversation with the exaggerations which sometimes adorned her daughter’s. And she had never thought of her friend as a little girl, either; her mother had undoubtedly never seen her offspring making a play for the numerous young men who took her fancy at the Royal City.
They all sat down, and coffee was brought in presently while they talked—Rimada did most of the talking, to such good effect that by the time they had finished their second cups and nibbled the biscuits which went with them, she had coaxed more than twice the amount she needed for her holiday from her mother; nor did that lady seem in the least surprised at the sum her daughter asked for.
‘Dear child,’ she said earnestly, ‘it is quite ridiculous that Adam doesn’t allow you more money. The least he could have done after forcing you to take up nursing in that dreary hospital, was to see that you had sufficient with which to enjoy yourself. I have mentioned it to him on many occasions, you know, but he is as steel; my motherly feelings have no effect upon him; he is a hard man.’ She dabbed her eyes with a large chiffon handkerchief and went on with the same breath, ‘tomorrow we will go to Den Haag; I saw a delightful little dress in Kuhne’s, just right for you, dearest. A little expensive, I am afraid, but we must see what we can do.’ She smiled kindly at Loveday. ‘You like clothes, Loveday?’
The three ladies embarked happily upon this interesting subject and were only interrupted by the entrance of Jaantje, inquiring if the young ladies would like to tidy themselves before lunch, and if so, she would show Miss her room.
Loveday found her bedroom to be as elaborately furnished as the sitting-room; its comfort amounting to luxury. But not quite to her fancy, she decided as she walked round it, picking things up and putting them down again. It was a room to suit Rimada’s mother down to the ground; Rimada too, she rather thought, but for her own taste it was a little too ornate and over-furnished. She found her way to the bathroom leading from it and eyed the gold-plated taps with something like awe; she had never quite believed Rimada when she had said that her mother was rich, but she could see now that she had been mistaken. She washed her face and hands, re-did her hair and face and went downstairs for lunch.
They went shopping the following morning. At least Rimada and her mother shopped while Loveday admired and tried not to envy. She considered Den Haag a lovely city and longed to explore, but it was obvious that there was to be none of that; Rimada, in the excitement of choosing a wardrobe of new clothes, had no thought for anything else; naturally enough. Loveday, with an eye to her slender purse, purchased one or two trifles for her family and refused to be coaxed or bullied, however gently, into buying anything for herself. It wasn’t as if, she told her friend later, she was going to be the bride, and it really didn’t matter a great deal what she wore as long as she was presentable. She had some nice clothes, perhaps not quite as new as she would have liked, but elegant and becoming; she had good taste and an eye for fashion and the fortunate attribute of wearing the right things at the right time. Later that day she sat on Rimada’s bed, staring out on to the flat, tranquil countryside, swept by September rain and a bustling wind, and applauded suitably each time her friend opened a box to reveal some new garment.
‘You’re sure, aren’t you, Rimmy?’ she asked suddenly.
Her friend held up a blue crêpe dress. ‘Well, of course. Look—it is exactly the colour of my eyes.’
‘Silly—I mean about marrying Terry. It’s easy enough for us to get a holiday and just go, but won’t he find himself without a job?’
Rimada nodded, not giving her whole attention. ‘I think so, but he does not mind that. He is far too clever for this job he has, you know. He will one day be a clever surgeon with an enormous practice.’
Loveday remembered his singular ineptitude in theatre and doubted it very much. All the same, he was qualified to a certain extent; he could always earn a living. Only, watching Rimada happily trying on her new clothes, Loveday wondered if that would be enough to content her. Just supposing her guardian didn’t relent? How would she react to being the wife of a comparatively poor young doctor—and how could he hope to be anything else for quite a number of years to come? He would have to work for his fellowship to start with, and that woul
d mean at least two years’ hard study. She voiced her doubts: ‘Supposing you can’t get your money, Rimmy, do you suppose it would be better for you to wait a bit? You could be engaged, you know, until Terry has made his way…if your guardian sees that he intends to make a success of surgery, he’ll probably help.’
She watched Rimada’s mouth set stubbornly. ‘No. I wish to marry now, and so does Terry—nothing shall stop us.’ She shot Loveday a speculative glance. ‘If you back out now, I will still get what I want.’ And Loveday believed her.
They went down to a rather splendid dinner presently, and friends came in afterwards. Loveday, introduced as Rimada’s closest friend, was passed from group to group, thankfully surprised to find that everyone there could speak English. She was having a lovely time, she told herself firmly, hiding what she was distressed to find was boredom: if this was living it up with the rich, then she was disappointed. Sitting around drinking something she didn’t much care about as well as not knowing exactly what it was; listening to chat about clothes, gossip about friends, little titbits of scandal about people she would never meet… She had difficulty in not yawning, feeling mean and priggish for not enjoying herself more. Perhaps tomorrow, she decided, smilingly listening to a young man with long hair carrying on about the latest pop record, she would be able to go for a walk and see something of her surroundings.