by Betty Neels
The door Betke opened revealed a large room, its long windows draped in cream brocade; the carpet was cream too. The bed was vast, a four-poster, with an old rose coverlet matching the cushions and coverings of the chaise longue and the two small easy chairs. There was a tallboy and a long table with a triple mirror upon it between the windows of some golden-coloured wood she didn’t recognise. It was a beautiful room and she said so.
Betke nodded and smiled. ‘And here, mevrouw...’ She swept open a door to reveal a bathroom, far removed from the small white-tiled draughty one at Fish Street with its temperamental old geyser. This one was large and warm, and a delicate shade of pink interlarded with cream. And there was everything that a girl could possibly want. Franny gazed at the deep bath and longed to get into it. And so she would, but she was hungry, too, and besides perhaps Marc would like her company after dinner. After all, it was their wedding day and they had hardly mentioned the fact...
Betke went away and Franny took off her hat and coat and did her face and hair. Then, feeling shy, she went downstairs.
Marc was waiting for her in the hall and she said at once, ‘Oh, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’
‘No. No. Come and say hello to Biddy. She’s a very placid beast although she gets rather excited when I come home.’
I shall get excited, too, thought Franny, although she didn’t say so.
The drawing room rather took her breath. It was high-ceilinged and large, its walls panelled, as the dining room, but here the curtains were a rich blue brocade and the two sofas and the several armchairs were upholstered in blue and honey-coloured chintz. The hooded fireplace sheltered a log fire and there were numerous tables—lamp tables, a rent table and a sofa table behind either sofa, their mahogany gleaming with years of loving polish. Franny breathed a sigh of sheer delight.
‘What a perfectly lovely room.’ She turned round slowly, taking in its delights. ‘Oh, and there’s a cat...’
‘Cato—joined us some years ago. He came in out of the rain and has been with us ever since. Come and sit down. What would you like to drink?’
‘Sherry, please; dry if you have it.’
Franny went to sit on one of the sofas, but if she’d hoped that Marc would come and sit beside her she was to be disappointed. He took his drink to a wing chair on the opposite side of the fireplace and Biddy went to sit at his feet. And there was to be no intimate chat about their wedding either; instead she was given a brisk résumé of the various commitments awaiting him while they were in Holland.
He would be free tomorrow, he told her. They would go round the house and the gardens and, if she liked, walk to the village and visit the parson, or dominee. ‘And my sisters and brother will be coming to meet you. They are all married, and I’ve rather lost count of my nephews and nieces. Three sisters and a younger brother, all agog to see you for themselves.’
Franny said, ‘Oh,’ in a worried voice. Supposing they didn’t like her? Supposing she didn’t like them? Although, of course, she would because they were Marc’s family and she loved him... ‘Your mother and father?’
‘My father died of a heart attack two years ago and my mother a few months later. She had flu and then pneumonia and she really had no wish to live. They were devoted.’
‘I’m sorry. Was your father a surgeon, too?’
‘Yes, and his father before him. My brother is a GP in Leiden. One sister lives in den Haag; she’s married to a solicitor. One is married to a vet and lives in Friesland and the youngest was married last year to the eldest son of a landowner in Limburg. We try and see each other as often as possible.’
‘You’re head of the family?’
‘Yes. There are aunts and uncles and cousins scattered all over Holland.’
Moule came in then, to tell them that dinner was waiting, and they crossed the hall together to the dining room. The professor allowed himself a fleeting memory of the family gathering there not so long ago—Sutske had said then that perhaps the next time they met he would be a married man...
They dined off roast pheasant and red cabbage and a rich pudding with whipped cream, and they drank champagne. Franny, slightly overawed by the splendours of the dining room, nevertheless ate a good meal. She was hungry, and although people weren’t supposed to have a good appetite if they were in love it didn’t seem to apply to her. And for the moment, at least, she was enjoying herself; Marc could be a splendid companion if he wished.
They drank their coffee in the drawing room, on excellent terms with each other, until the professor observed that she must be tired and might like to go to bed.
She was on the point of denying this when she saw his expression. She was puzzled by it—impatience? A wish to be rid of her company? She said cheerfully, ‘Oh, you won’t mind? It’s been rather a busy day, hasn’t it? What time is breakfast?’
‘Eight o’clock. Or would you rather breakfast in bed?’
‘In bed?’ She tried to remember when she had had such a luxury. ‘No, thank you, only if I’m ill.’
She was on her feet making for the door. ‘Goodnight, Marc.’
He was at the door before she reached it, holding it open. ‘Goodnight, Franny. Sleep well.’
‘I always sleep well,’ said Franny in a voice which dared him to think otherwise. For a hopeful moment she expected him to kiss her but he didn’t. She slipped past him and skimmed across the hall and up the staircase without looking back.
She got ready for bed quickly and then lay in the bath for a very long time. It was the most convenient place in which to be, for she could cry as much as she wished without having the bother of drying her eyes.
The professor went back to his chair. He had to admit that he had quite enjoyed his day. Franny had made no demands upon his attention and she had looked nice, too. Once they got to know each other he had no doubt that they would settle down nicely.
He liked her; he was even a little fond of her. He thought of her often and with pleasure. He had been in and out of love several times, but he didn’t remember liking anyone as much as he liked Franny. She was inclined to say what she thought without scruple and she had a habit of talking to anyone she happened to meet in such a way that they confided in her. Like Crisp, thought the professor wryly—I didn’t even notice that he had a streaming cold.
And she had faced up to bad luck and that frightful uncle of hers. It had been the least he could do to marry her and give her a secure future. The professor, who had arranged his life exactly as he wanted it for some years now, sat there arranging his future...
* * *
FRANNY, NICELY made up, and all signs of tears ruthlessly sponged away with cold water, went down to breakfast in good spirits once more. She didn’t know enough about the future to make plans; she would take each day as it came and hope for the best. The sight of Marc in casual tweeds coming in through his front door with Biddy at his heels sent her heart beating so fast that she caught her breath and stood still on the stairs. He looked up at her and smiled.
‘Good morning, Franny. Did you sleep well? It’s cold and dry, just right for a brisk walk later. Let’s have breakfast.’
They had their meal in a small room opposite his study, a cosy room with a small fire in the steel grate, a couple of easy chairs and a small table spread with a white cloth and what she saw at once was blue delft china. Moule came in with coffee and tea, hot toast, and boiled eggs wrapped in a napkin in a pretty basket. He added another basket of various breads, marmalade in a silver dish, and at a nod from Marc went away.
Franny, while longing to be with Marc, had been nervous of meeting him again, but she need not have worried. He talked easily of the house and the village, told her a little about his family and then interrupted himself to say, ‘I phoned Auntie and Finn last night. They sent their love—I told them you’d ring later. There’s a phone in yo
ur room and one here, and you shall have one to carry around with you.’
She thanked him. ‘I’ll phone after six o’clock,’ she told him. ‘It’s the cheap rate then—or perhaps you haven’t got that in Holland?’
He assured her without the hint of a smile that, yes, there was a cheap rate in Holland too, but she was free to use the phone at any time during the day.
‘Oh, silly of me. I got so used to cheese-paring I think of everything in terms of pounds and pence.’
The professor smiled then. ‘Well, try and get used to thinking in gulden and not bothering to count them too carefully.’
They went out presently and he took her round the gardens, which were large and, even at the tail-end of winter, a joy to the eye. A terrace at the back of the house led to an expanse of lawn, lightly frosted from the cold night. Beyond that paths led to a formal Dutch garden, with a fountain at its centre and arched walks which in summer, Marc assured her, were covered in roses. And further on still, through a narrow door in the high brick wall, was the kitchen garden with a long greenhouse at its end.
He opened another door to one side and ushered her through. ‘Do you ride? No? If you would like to learn there is a gentle mare here which would just suit you. Come and look at her.’
The stables were across a cobbled yard. ‘This is Beauty.’ Marc offered a piece of apple to the gentle-eyed horse looking at them over the stable door. He handed Franny more apple and she held it out and had it gently taken from her by velvety lips.
‘Oh, she’s lovely. And I’d love to learn to ride.’
‘Good. This one is Thunder...’
‘He’s yours? He looks a bit fierce.’
‘No, no. Spirited, perhaps, but a perfect gentleman.’
Thunder received his apple with a whinny and they moved on to the last door. ‘Punch,’ said the professor as a large equine head appeared.
‘He’s enormous—a shire horse... Does he work?’
‘Indeed, he does. We use him at the farm; there’s a home farm across the fields. He does all the work which a tractor would do. And he’s as gentle as a lamb.’
They left Punch chewing on his apple, crossed the yard and went out of the barred gate leading to the open fields.
‘A short cut to the village.’ He glanced down at her shoes. ‘It’s rather muddy.’
‘I’m wearing sensible shoes.’ Franny beamed up at him. ‘You must love your home, Marc. Don’t you wish you could live here for always?’
‘Frequently, but my work is important to me—the most important thing in my life—and that takes me away from home. But I have the best of both worlds, do I not? Work I love and a delightful home.’
Franny stopped suddenly. ‘Do you know, I don’t know how old you are?’
‘Thirty-five—twelve years older than you, Franny.’
‘You were a doctor—a surgeon—while I was still at school. When did you start specialising in heart surgery?’
‘Eight years ago.’
‘And you never wanted to marry?’
‘I never felt the need, not for some years.’
‘Is that why you married me? Because I was in a jam and needed help?’
He stood beside her, looking down at her upturned face.
‘Yes, but having said that I must tell you that it is something I shall never regret, Franny.’
‘You might fall in love...’
‘If I can find the time and inclination. The possibility is so remote that I believe it is something we need not concern ourselves with.’
He tucked her hand under his arm. ‘How serious we have become. Let us go to the village and call upon the dominee.’
He was a delightful man, Franny discovered, with a wife not much older than herself and twin boys, toddlers, as well as a very young baby girl. They had coffee together and talked about the wedding, the village and its inhabitants, some of the time excusing themselves and speaking their own language. The parson spoke excellent English and his wife had more than a smattering—enough to have a pleasant chat with Franny. ‘You must learn Dutch,’ she told her.
This was something Franny hadn’t thought about until that moment. Of course she would have to learn, even if Marc didn’t live in Holland all the time. When he retired he—they—would live here permanently. And by then, she reflected, he might love her.
They walked through the village on the way home and it seemed to her that Marc knew every single person living in it. She shook hands and smiled, and when someone spoke English replied thankfully. But mostly she was addressed in Dutch, which meant that she could only murmur suitably.
They spent the afternoon wandering round the house, stopping very often to examine the family portraits on its walls. The men of the family all looked alike and their ladies, she was glad to see, were on the whole small and undistinguished, although they looked happy. The portraits of his father and mother hung in the hall—his father an older edition of Marc, his mother with a sweet face and cosily plump.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t know them,’ said Franny as she followed the professor up the staircase.
There were a great many rooms, large and small, some facing onto the gallery, some lurking down narrow passages, but all of them charming and splendidly furnished.
‘There must be an awful lot of housework,’ said Franny. ‘Does Betke have plenty of help?’
‘Oh, yes. I don’t know exactly how much; there are maids who live here and I believe someone comes up from the village each day. You must talk to Moule about that.’
He sounded indifferent and she felt snubbed. Was she expected to act as mistress of his home, she wondered, or as an occasional visitor?
That evening he told her that on the following day he would be going to den Haag and that if she wished she might like to go, too.
‘I shall be at the hospital all day, but I’m sure you will find plenty to do. There are some good shops and I expect you can find something you like. We will have to leave quite early—just after eight o’clock.’
‘I should like that very much. I won’t be a nuisance?’
‘No, no, of course not. I’ll drop you off close to the shopping streets. I shall be at the main hospital. I’ll write the name and address down for you; all you need to do is take a taxi there. I should be finished by five o’clock. If I’m not, go to the reception and tell them who you are—someone will let me know you’re waiting.’
* * *
FRANNY WORE THE green coat and dress to go to den Haag, and the small felt hat she had bought to match them. Shopping would be fun, and she was sure that there would be plenty to see—museums and picture galleries. She got into the car beside Marc, ready to enjoy her day. She had her instructions safe in her bag and she was to buy anything she wanted.
It wasn’t until she was standing on the pavement by the Ridderszaal, watching the Rolls disappear into the traffic, that she realised that she had no money. She opened her handbag and searched through it. A handful of English coins, a ten-pound note and nothing else. She toyed briefly with the idea of going to the hospital and asking Marc for some money and then dismissed it; he would be in Theatre or on a ward round, taking a clinic or seeing patients. He would be nice about it but it would annoy him. His work, she reminded herself, was all-important. Well, she had ten pounds; she would change it and keep it for lunch and a taxi.
It was still early and the shops were barely open. She wandered round looking in their windows. They were elegant shops and she saw several things she would have liked to buy. She told herself that at least she would know where to come another time, and decided to have coffee. It was a small, pleasant café, and she drank her coffee slowly, ate the little biscuit with it and planned what she could see would be a long day.
The VVV—the tourist office—was just across the street.
A map would be a good idea, and some information as to the museums and interesting buildings. If she spent the morning looking at the shops, and had a sandwich lunch, she could spend the afternoon at one or other of the museums and then get a taxi.
The waitress offered her the bill and stood smiling. Surely there was a mistake? thought Franny. Such a small cup of coffee to cost more than two pounds? She paid from the small stock of gulden she had got from the bank and added a tip. Lunch would have to be a meagre affair.
There were several large stores close by, so she spent a long time in each of them, for it was warm inside and there was plenty to look at. The VVV had given her a map and recommended the Mauritshuis museum, and had told her that the entrance fee was very small. By midday she was hungry and her feet ached, but she had learned her lesson.
She walked around until she found a café crowded with people drinking coffee and eating broodjies. She found a place at a table and sat a long time over her cheese roll and coffee. She would have liked another cup of coffee, but she would need her last few gulden to take her to the hospital.
At the museum she queued for a ticket, and as it turned out the ‘small’ fee took most of her remaining money. There was nothing she could do about that. There were trams; one of them must go to the hospital or at least near it. She told herself not to worry and spent the next few hours enjoying the marvellous paintings the museum housed. On the way out she stopped to ask the attendant at the door where she should go for a tram to the hospital and, armed with directions, made her way back to the main streets.
The evening rush hour was just starting and she had to queue for a tram. The queue disintegrated when the tram arrived and it was everyone for himself. Franny, swept on board by powerfully built men and sturdy housewives, got her purse out.
But there wasn’t enough money in it. The conductor frowned and shook his head at her and, since she couldn’t understand a word he was saying, she waved the paper Marc had given her in his face. It was an elderly man sitting nearby who came to her aid. He spoke to the conductor, who took what money she had and gave her a ticket. The elderly man said, ‘You have a ticket to take you some of the way. Get off when he tells you; it is not far to walk.’