by Betty Neels
She said too quickly: “Oh, no, thank you—”
He had got to his feet and had strolled ahead of her to the door. “Please change your mind,” his voice was bland. “My grandmother is an old lady; I am afraid that we are all in the habit of indulging her every whim.”
She was instantly contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry, I hadn’t thought—of course I’ll come.” She went through the door he was holding open and crossed the waiting-room with him and through the back of the house to a door opening on to a narrow alley where the Daimler Sovereign was parked. She got in at his bidding and sat silent during the short drive, not from choice, but because she could think of nothing at all to say.
The interview hadn’t gone at all as she had planned; somehow the short, businesslike speech she had prepared and the swift, dignified exit which was to have followed it hadn’t taken place at all; the professor had had it all his own way. She was mad to go to his house; it was only prolonging a misery she would have to endure for a long time to come. A clean break, she had decided, but this long-drawn-out business was tearing her heart to pieces.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHARITY ALLOWED none of her true feelings to show in her face as she greeted the old lady, who beamed with pleasure at the sight of her, commanded her grandson to ring for tea; and ordered Charity to sit down beside her at once and tell her all her news.
“Well, I haven’t any,” declared Charity. “I’ve finished my case, you know, and now I have four days’ holiday. I’m going home the day after tomorrow.”
“A great pity,” observed Mevrouw van Tijlen, gruffly. “So far away,” she added a little obscurely, and was on the point of saying more when Potter came into the room with the tea things, giving Charity a smile of pleased surprise which caused her to give him a warm smile in return. She caught the professor’s eye as she did so—decidedly sardonic, she perceived; what a low opinion he must have of her!
She turned a shoulder to him and plunged into an over-bright account of the villa where she had stayed with the Boekercheks, long before she had finished the professor had excused himself on the plea of work, and walked away. He didn’t come back until tea was almost finished, a meal which Charity had enjoyed despite her hurt feelings. Years ago, when she had been quite small, her godmother had taken her for a treat to the Ritz for tea; she remembered to that day the paper-thin sandwiches, the little iced cakes, the delicate china—they were all here again, in the professor’s sitting-room, only he wasn’t there to share them with her. True, he accepted a cup of tea from his grandmother, ate a slice of cake in an absent-minded fashion and begged to be excused again, pausing only to tell her that he would drive her back to where the Mini was parked whenever she wished. And when she protested, he merely pointed out with marked patience that he had to return to his consulting-rooms.
When she got up to go half an hour later, Mevrouw van Tijlen caught at her hand and puzzled her completely by saying: “It is a great pity, you would have done very well.” The old lady nodded her head slowly. “You are a girl of character, and that is what is needed.”
Charity murmured; Mevrouw van Tijlen was very old, possibly she was confusing her with someone else, or even talking about something that had nothing to do with her at all. She felt genuine regret that she wouldn’t see the old lady again as Potter ushered her in a fatherly way to the front door where the professor was waiting, looking bored. He barely gave her time to reply to the man’s courteous goodbye before hustling her across the pavement and into the car. He wasn’t in a good mood, she could see that. She kept silent beside him as he took the car through the early evening traffic, and when he reached his consulting-rooms, she made haste to get out. His hand came down over hers as she put it on the door handle.
“No—not yet. We shall not meet again; before you go there are things which I wish to say to you.”
Very aware of his hand, Charity found her surprised voice. “I really haven’t time—there can’t be anything important you could possibly want to say to me—I think I should go.” That sounded rather rude, so she added: “I’m glad I saw your grandmother again. I—I enjoyed my tea.” She wondered why he gave a crack of laughter. “Now if you don’t mind, I think…”
“I do mind. You will be good enough to keep quiet and listen to me.”
He hadn’t moved his hand; it felt firm and cool on her own and when she tried to wriggle free, he tightened his hold.
“Our mutual friend Arthur C. Boekerchek has doubtless already thanked you for your services; I should like to thank you too, Charity. You are a good nurse, I expect you know that, and a hard-working and uncomplaining one, as well. You are also a very pretty and disturbing young woman—you know that too, I’m sure. If I allowed you to do so, you could disturb me profoundly, but I feel it is only fair to tell you that I never had intended, nor do I ever intend that to happen. You attracted me from the first moment I saw you, but other women have attracted me from time to time; I shall forget you, just as I have forgotten them, and in a short while I shall probably find myself a wife—someone suitable, someone who won’t disturb me and take my mind from my work, someone who will run my home and make no demands of me.”
She made a small sound and he went on coolly. “You find that selfish, no doubt—perhaps I am, but my work is important, more important than anything else in my life.” He turned to look at her. “You see, you had reason to dislike me.”
“Why are you telling me?” she asked in a colourless little voice.
“To give you the satisfaction of knowing that you were right not to like me.”
There was nothing to say to that. She couldn’t stay another minute, not like this, cool and calm and self-possessed when what she really wanted to do was scream and shout at him and indulge in a flood of tears. The thought of never seeing him again was something she couldn’t bear to think of, she would have to get away quickly before she made a great fool of herself. She said: “I’d like to go now, please,” and he took his hand from hers and got out of the car and went round to open her door.
It was very quiet in the street, the houses showed empty windows and there was no one about; everyone would be at their evening meal, husbands and wives and children—she shivered and said brightly: “Well, goodbye, Professor, I enjoyed the case and I’m glad it’s been such a success for you, I hope you’ll have many more.”
He brushed this pretty speech aside. “Dammit,” he uttered with a kind of cold anger, “I’ve had no peace since the moment we met!”
Charity stared up at him, her feelings congealing into a solid lump in her chest, and was pulled close quite roughly. “There,” said the professor savagely, “now perhaps I can get you out of my system,” and kissed her hard.
She was shaking with rage and misery, but she managed, to steady her voice to say in a strained way: “I hope you will find some girl to be your doormat, Professor, someone who can’t say boo to a goose and who will always agree with you and tell you how splendid you are and have dozens of simply horrid little doormats who have to wear glasses and won’t know how to be naughty…” she paused for breath, appalled at herself. “Goodbye!” she uttered, and fled across the road to where the Mini was waiting. His quite unexpected shout of laughter followed her.
Charity was actually packing the last of her things on the morning of her departure for England when Mrs Boekerchek came into her room, looking excited and worried and vaguely pleased all at once. “Honey,” she began, “honey, something’s come up. Mrs Malone—” one of her bosom friends “—she’s had a fall, concussion, the doctor says, and she’s so poorly and dead set on not going to hospital—Arthur’s just been on the telephone and Dr Segal wants to know if you would stay just for a week or so, and look after poor Kitty. They live on the other side of town, out towards Scheveningen. They’ve a lovely home and a dog and two of the dearest little children.” She paused and looked beseechingly at Charity. “Can you see your way, honey?” she begged.
Charity at down on th
e bed. “Well, it’s a bit of a surprise, but I suppose I can stay. Only I’ll have to cancel my flight and telephone Mother, and I’ve no uniform.”
Mrs Boekerchek gave her an impulsive kiss. “You are such a dear sweet girl, and don’t you worry about a thing just let me get back to Arthur.”
Everything was seen to; Charity telephoned her mother, chose some overalls from the selection Mrs Boekerchek had conjured up from some obliging shop and was driven away in an Embassy car to her new patient.
Mrs Malone was a thin woman, who, naturally plump by nature, had dieted herself into a state of stringiness. She hadn’t liked her hair either; she had changed its light brown to an unlikely blonde, and now that she was ill, neither of these factors stood up well under examination. Her pale, pinched face had a worried frown and she became excitable for almost no reason at all. Charity had gone to see her the minute she arrived, and then, with the promise to be back within the shortest possible time, had gone downstairs to meet Mr Malone and the children. Mr Malone was short, middle-aged and devoted to his wife and it took Charity a few minutes to convince him that she wasn’t going to die.
“She’ll have to stay in bed for a week, perhaps—I expect Dr Segal has already told you that,” she explained kindly, “this excited manner she has now will improve in a few days, so will the sickness, and then it will be just a question of keeping her quiet and content until she gets about again.”
The children were rather silent, though they greeted her nicely enough, a silence made up for by Tinker, the dog, who was obviously delighted to see another face around the house. Charity fended off his exuberant greeting in a kindly fashion and rather rashly promised to take both the children and the dog for a walk just as soon as she had got herself and her day organised, and went back to her patient.
When Dr Segal arrived half an hour later, he told her that there had been no fracture—the X-rays which had been taken in hospital were clear; a week or so, he considered with some caution, and Mrs Malone should be feeling almost herself. “She is,” he pointed out carefully, “rather an excitable person; she worries a good deal about her—er—appearance and she becomes quickly upset by small things.” He looked at Charity and away again. “The children are high-spirited—they go to school, but when they are home I think it is important that they should be kept as quiet as possible.”
So she was to keep an eye on Jack and Tracey too—she foresaw a busy week or so, with not much time to herself. But she was a practical girl; within a couple of days she had her chores organised, the children coaxed into quietness while they were in the house, and the daily housekeeper enlisted for a couple of hours each afternoon, to sit with Mrs Malone while Charity took herself and Tinker for a walk before driving the car into town to collect the children from school.
Days off were out of the question, she realised that, and when Mrs Boekerchek telephoned to ask her to lunch she had to refuse. “No days off?” asked Mrs Boekerchek, a little put out, “and those two darling children around the place—you’ll be in need of a rest, honey. When you leave Kitty, you’re to come straight here for a couple of days. Arthur and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Charity accepted the invitation with pleasure, it would be something to look forward to and something to occupy her mind. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Everard van Tijlen, but it was proving difficult, especially as she had seen him twice within the week. The first time she had been on the beach with Tinker, and the Lamborghini had torn along the boulevard, too far away to see if he had a companion with him, but the second time she had had a better view; she had been driving the children back from school and the Lamborghini had been in front of her and a little to one side, and she saw, in one quick look, that there was someone with him—a girl, made a little vague by distance.
“The doormat already,” Charity told herself bitterly, “being broken into her placid, secure and deadly dull future—good luck to them both,” she muttered between her nice even little teeth. She didn’t care if she never saw him again, a palpable lie—and useless, for he didn’t want to see her.
Fortunately for her peace of mind, she saw nothing more of him for the rest of her stay in Scheveningen. Mrs Malone had improved rapidly after the first week, quickly impatient with poor Mr Malone, who spoiled her to excess and got no thanks for it. The children were allowed to see her each day too, but that wasn’t entirely a success either, for she declared that they made her head ache almost as soon as they appeared.
Charity, prepared to give her patient the benefit of the doubt about the headache, found herself spending more and more time with the children, inventing games which didn’t make too much noise and offering, shamelessly, small bribes to ensure peace and quiet about the house. Mr Malone, when he wasn’t sitting by his wife’s bed, was at his office, and when he left his wife’s room, he tended to disappear into his study and stay there. Charity began to feel sorry for Jack and Tracey, and by the end of the second week she suspected that Mrs Malone was sufficiently recovered to take an interest in her home and family once more; her memory had returned, she read a good deal—too much—and her friends visited her frequently. She spent her days sitting about her room, doing her nails and worrying about her appearance.
But there was no mention of Charity leaving, although her duties were changing imperceptibly from nurse to nursemaid. She wanted to go back to England, now, away from everything which reminded her of Everard van Tijlen—to escape became her one aim, and when Dr Segal made one of his infrequent visits, she asked him outright if her patient was well enough for her to leave.
He assured her, a little unhappily, that she was, “But the children like you,” he pointed out. “I believe that Mr and Mrs Malone hoped that you might stay for a few weeks until she is quite strong again.”
“She’s quite strong now,” Charity pointed out sensibly, “and I’m a nurse, Dr Segal, not a governess, and that’s what the children need. I can’t think why Mr Malone doesn’t find one for them—someone young and fond of children.”
The doctor brightened. “That is a good idea—you would perhaps be prepared to remain until a governess is found?”
She shook her head. “I came to nurse Mrs Malone because it was an emergency, and now she’s well again. I was actually on my way home, if you remember, Doctor—I should like to leave as soon as possible.”
So it was arranged, not without entreaties from Mr Malone for her to stay, a bout of tears from Mrs Malone and an outburst of temper from the children, only stemmed by Charity telling them that their father was going to find them a governess who would take them for walks and read to them and play with Tinker. They wished her a regretful goodbye, but it was already tinged with excitement at the idea of having a governess.
The Boekercheks were delighted to see her again and pressed her to stay for as long as she wanted and when she told Mrs Boekerchek that she had plans to leave in three days’ time, her kind hostess almost burst into tears, she brightened almost immediately though.
“We’ll go shopping tomorrow,” she stated happily, “and in the evening we’ll go to the gala performance of that opera—” she was vague as to which one it was “—in Amsterdam. Arthur has some tickets, just in case you would be able to come with us—it will make a nice end to your stay in Holland.”
It sounded fun; Charity resolutely put all thoughts of Everard out of her head and settled down to a nice cosy chat about clothes. By the time Mr Boekerchek returned from his hour or so at the office, they had planned a pleasant morning shopping, and dinner was fully occupied with an animated discussion as to the best colour for Charity to choose for the new dress she intended to buy.
Mrs Boekerchek went to the best shops; she bypassed the big stores which Charity felt would have suited her pocket very well, and took her to the Plaats where there were a number of small and stylish salons. “You’ll find something here,” she assured Charity, leading the way into one of the plushiest of them. They came out a goo
d deal later with Charity carefully carrying a large box in which lay her dress—a long full-skirted and long-sleeved dream, with a demure neckline, outlined with a ruching of silk to tone with the muted blues and greens of the organza. But it wasn’t demure at all, declared Mrs Boekerchek as they got into the taxi to go home; it was splendidly eye-catching and very pretty and made Charity look like a wood nymph, or did she mean dryad?
Charity had no objection to being called anything her companion chose. The dress was gorgeous; buying it had helped her aching heart and given her what her father would have called a bit of stiffening. It had cost a great deal of money, but she had had no chance to spend much of her salary; she could well afford it. She would enjoy the opera and tomorrow evening she would fly home. Beyond that point she refused to think.
Mr Boekerchek, when he saw her dressed and ready, was suitably flattering, so were the other three members of the party who had joined them and when they arrived at the Municipal Theatre in the Leidesplein in Amsterdam, Charity was glad that she hadn’t been cheese-paring over her gown; the toilettes around her were quite splendid and the accompanying escorts very correct in their black ties. She followed the older ladies to the loge Mr Boekerchek had booked for his party, determined to enjoy herself, and when she had taken her seat beside Mrs Boekerchek she had a good look around her. The theatre was large and rather grand; it was also crowded. She was peering down at the stalls when Mrs Boekerchek exclaimed: “Why, look who’s over there!”
The professor—sitting in a loge directly opposite, staring at the curtained stage and taking very little part in the conversation of those with him. Charity borrowing her companion’s opera glasses with little ceremony, focused them briefly upon the girl sitting beside him. This, then, was the doormat, pretty in an insipid way, nicely and expensively dressed, not a hair out of place—probably her manners were perfect. Charity, built on generous lines herself, found her slim to the point of thinness. She gave the glasses back and centred her attention upon the stage as the lights faded out and the curtain rose on La Bohème. She had visited the opera in England on several occasions and had enjoyed it, this performance should afford her similar enjoyment; the orchestra was very fine, as was the singing, though it was unfortunate that Mimi should be a strapping size twenty, exuding splendid health with every note. Charity found that she could enjoy it better if she kept her eyes shut. When the lights went up after the first act she had to explain this to Mrs Boekerchek, who was worried that she wasn’t feeling well. “Giddy, or something, honey?” she breathed anxiously. “I was getting quite worried.”