by Betty Neels
They went through Noordwijk and past the main beach, until the professor finally stopped at a small secluded arc of sand, empty but for a couple of gaily striped tents, and a handful of the wickerwork hooded chairs so beloved by the Dutch and so coveted by the British. They came to life as the cars stopped. Adelaide recognised the professor's sisters and their children; she supposed the two men with them were their husbands. They were all enveloped in a happy laughing mass and hurried off to change and thence to the water's edge where a ball game was in progress.
She looked around for the professor and saw him in the water, on his back and supporting a small boy on each arm. The little boys were shouting and laughing; the professor appeared to be asleep. The ball game became hectic, with a great deal of splashing and short sharp bursts of swimming. Adelaide, racing to retrieve the ball, saw the diving board moored some distance out from the shore. She was a strong swimmer; it looked very tempting. She didn't think she would be missed if she swam quickly there, had a couple of dives, and then back. She ducked away, and when she was clear of the others, changed to the crawl, tunnelling through the clear water, head well down; so it was that she missed the professor as he passed her, going very fast and quietly. He was waiting for her when she reached the board and heaved her up with a powerfully muscled arm.
They sat side by side, getting their breath and dangling their feet in the water. The sun was still warm on their bodies. Adelaide was trying to think of something to say-she longed to know if the trip to England had been arranged, but perhaps it would sound a little too eager if she asked him. Instead she said:
`What a beautiful evening.'
`Very.'
She tried again:
`And such a beautiful beach.'
`Very beautiful.'
She went bravely on. `The water's warm too.'
`Yes.'
She was suddenly exasperated. `Don't you want to talk?'
She quite forgot to say 'sir'.
`Yes, I do, when you've finished discussing the landscape.'
Adelaide went pink. 'I'm making conversation; it's polite,' she snapped. She watched him laughing and almost choked on a childish rage which melted completely at his next words.
`You know about my eye, don't you?'
She turned and looked at him deliberately and said softly:
`Yes, I do. I'm sorry.'
He continued placidly. `I've been in Vienna; there's a good man there. Sometimes I get impatient-wanting a miracle, I suppose. The only one he gave me was a pair of new glasses.'
Adelaide tried to keep her voice normal. `And has it helped?'
`Oh, yes,' he said cheerfully. `The small grey blurs are now large grey blurs.'
She marvelled at the lack of bitterness in his voice.
`How did you find out that I knew?' Surely Mijnheer de Wit hadn't told him, or had she, shameful thought, made herself conspicuous by looking at him too often? She had to know.
`You always stand on my good side when we're at work.' He changed the conversation abruptly. `I've got the trip to England arranged.'
She gave a sigh of relief. `I thought that perhaps you had changed your plans, and we weren't going.' She frowned. `How did you know that I had arranged my holiday for the last two weeks in July?'
`I rang the Directrice.'
There was a great commotion behind them, at least half the picnic party were about to board them. Adelaide felt a large hand between her shoulders. `In you go,' said the professor, and gave her a push.
They all spent some time diving and swimming around the board, and when they were tired out, swam in a body back to the beach, where the lazier members of the party had set the picnic ready.
Adelaide surveyed the food spread out on the gay cloths with something approaching awe. Lobster patties, golden brown chicken legs, with elegant pink frills, vol-au-vents spilling something delectable over golden pastry, baby sausage rolls, minute pork pies, cheese of every sort, baskets of fruit. It seemed to her unsophisticated eye more like a banquet without its usual background than a picnic on the beach. She sat between a quiet youngish man, whom she identified as a brother-in-law of the professor, and a boy of about ten, who addressed the quiet man as Uncle. They plied her with food, and flattered her subtly by carrying on a conversation in Dutch, helping her unobtrusively when she stumbled over a word. It was, she thought, the nicest picnic she had ever been to. She turned to her companion and asked:
`Do you live here?' She looked round; there was no house to be seen on the dunes.
He waved vaguely inland. `We have a summer villa; we spend as much time here as we can in the summer. The whole family comeCoenraad is here most weekends. You should come too, Adelaide,' he added kindly.
`You're very kind, but I'm not often off duty at the weekends.' Too late she realized that she had taken it for granted that she would be invited with the professor, and her cheeks flamed. If her companion noticed he made no comment, but said merely:
`A pity, but you must come when you can.'
`Thank you, Mijnheer Tesselaar de Klerk.' She was pleased that she had remembered his name.
`And for heaven's sake call me Cor!'
It was cooler now; the girls had put on their beach coats and the men wore an assortment of sweaters and shirts. They looked like a band of gipsies. Only the smallest of the children were still tearing around in the briefest of garments. They drank the last of the fragrant coffee and started to pack up the remains of the feast. It was a leisurely task, interlarded with a considerable amount of talk; by the time they were ready, it was a deep twilight.
They wandered back to the cars and said protracted good nights while children were caught and stowed away, protesting sleepily. Adelaide started towards Piet's car, but was stopped by a hand on her shoulder. `Over here, Adelaide.' The professor opened the door of the Volvo; Zuster Steensma and Zuster Eisink were already in the back, the dogs sitting damply at their feet.
`In you get.' She got in, and watched him go round to the other side and slide into the seat beside her. He was wearing a baggy old sweater over his slacks, which made him seem very large in the dim light. He backed the car, and they went back the way they had come, through the quiet evening. The journey to the hospital seemed very short; afterwards she couldn't remember a word of what had been said, only that she had thanked him before
They had all got out of the car, and he had cut her short by saying:
`Please don't thank me-it is I who should thank my excellent nursing staff for their unceasing hard work.'
He had said it very pleasantly, but that hadn't prevented her from feeling that now that the picnic was over, she had been put firmly back in her place.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT was a glorious morning when the Rolls slid away from the hospital. It was still early, but the clinic staff were all there to give Adelaide and the professor a rousing send-off. Adelaide's case had been put in the boot, and the nurses had gathered round her, wishing her a happy holiday rather wistfully. She cheered them up with the news that she would be sure to bring back something for each of them, and got into the car, settled in her seat, and opened the road map the professor had thoughtfully provided for her. They were going via Utrecht and Breda and Bruges and then to Calais, because she didn't know that part of Holland; and although they wouldn't have much time to stop, it would be interesting to see another part of the charming little country.
They turned into the Churchilllaan, and were immediately hailed from the pavement by Margriet Keizer. Coenraad brought the car to a halt, and they sat waiting for her to reach them. She looked cool and crisp and beautiI'ully turned out in a white dress which Adelaide guessed was couture. She put a hand Ileetingly on the professor's, as it rested on the wheel, and smilingly greeted them both. Adelaide noticed with satisfaction that the professor gently removed the hand and put his own on his knee.
`Surely this is early for you to be out, Margriet?'
She ignored the edge of sarcasm in his voi
ce. `Yes, I know, but I have some shopping to do.' She glanced at Adelaide, eyeing her pale blue dress with thinly veiled contempt.
`How fortunate for you, Miss Peters, that Baron Van Essen is going to England, and you had the chance of a lift.' Her mouth curved in a smile that didn't quite reach her lovely eyes. `I do so admire you nurses, working for a pittance-barely enough to dress on, I should imagine.'
Adelaide was determined to keep her temper, and stated fairly:
`Well, we wear uniform for most of the day, so we don't need many clothes.'
Margriet's eyes flickered over the blue dress. `Yes, I expect you're able to make your things last for years.'
Adelaide remembered, just in time, that she was a clergyman's daughter. `Yes, I do,' she replied quite gently. Margriet turned back to Coenraad.
`Why didn't you let me know that you had planned a trip to England? I suppose you thought that I was booked up for the summer. We could have had a wonderful time.' She shot a quick look at Adelaide, sitting so quietly. `The Baron and I have known each other all our lives.' Her voice was honeyed.
`I've known that for a long time,' Adelaide replied, and before she could say more, the professor said curtly:
`I had always thought that you disliked England?'
Margriet looked put out, and then laughed.
`That's true, but I suppose that I could even like England if I were with you, Coenraad.'
Adelaide was looking steadily ahead of her, apparently engrossed in the passing traffic. She had no intention of allowing Margriet the small triumph of knowing that she had upset her. She went on watching the street in an unruffled calm until Margriet, finding the professor unresponsive, at last made her farewells and, with a final wave, left them. The professor started up the car once more without speaking, and Adelaide busied herself with her map. It was quite two minutes before he broke the silence.
`I must admire your forbearance, Miss Peters. Margriet is sometimes rather tactless, but I imagine that you are far too sensible a young woman to let anything she said annoy you.'
Adelaide closed the map with an unnecessary violence, her brown eyes flashing. To be addressed as a sensible young woman so soon after Margriet's thinly veiled sneers was really too much for her good nature. She sat upright, her hands gripping her handbag as though it were Margriet's throat. She spoke deliberately, between her teeth.
`Pray don't trouble yourself about my feelings, Professor-or should I say Baron?' Despite herself her voice shook a little. She kept her eyes on the road ahead of her, not caring if he answered her or not. They were travelling very fast; the professor seemed bent on overtaking everything in sight. She stole a quick peep at him. He was laughing. He said in gently mocking tones:
`You are in a bad temper, aren't you?' His voice changed, she had never heard it quite so harsh. `And you are not to call me Baron, now, or at any other time.'
She said stubbornly, `Why not?"
'Because neither my family nor my friends address me as such.'
She was in a mood to argue. `You forget, Professor, that I am a nurse, working for you.'`No, I haven't forgotten,' he smiled briefly, `but I count you among my friends, you know, and since we are friends I shall call you Adelaide until we get back to work, and then I promise that you shall be Miss Peters again. Could you not call me Coenraad, on the strict understanding, of course, that I become a professor again the moment I walk into the clinic?'
She had to laugh at this. `Yes, I should like that, and I'm sorry I was cross just now.' Her good temper was quite restored. She was, after all, on holiday. Margriet seemed very far away, and she had the whole day to look forward to. She opened the map again and started picking out their route. The breeze was blowing her hair gently on her downbent head, she put up a hand and brushed a loose strand away from her forehead, with the unselfconscious gesture of a child. She was absorbed in her map reading, and quite unaware of the charming picture she made.
They drove steadily south; the car needed little urging. Adelaide sat quietly, watching Coenraad. She liked the way he drove, with a minimum of movement and fuss. As they approached Breda, they were held up for a few minutes in a small village, where the local band, banners flying, was proceeding down the main street. They were playing Piet Hein, and Coenraad took up the refrain, whistling under his breath. Adelaide, who recognised the tune and had been taught to whistle by her brothers, joined in, and they whistled their way through a selection of tunes for the remainder of the road to the border, where the douane waved them by with a cheerful salute.
Adelaide abandoned her whistling for questions about the countryside through which they were passing, which the professor patiently answered. She was disappointed in Belgium; it looked untidy and faintly neglected after the neat houses and gardens of Holland.
It was a pity that there was no time to stop at Bruges; it looked delightful, but the professor drove straight through the town without pause. He had had to slow down because of the stretches of cobbled street, it was a relief when they were once more on the main road. They swept through Ostend, and presently, Veurne. It seemed the douane here was just as uninterested in them as the first one had been. Adelaide looked around her.
`I've been in three countries in one morning,' she said naively.
`Four by tea-time,' he reminded her.
That put her in mind of something, and she said rather shyly:
`Mother would like it if you would stay to tea with us.' She paused. `That is, unless you have other plans?'
`None,' he replied cheerfully, `and if you hadn't asked me, I daresay I should have invited myself. I hope you're hungry now, I thought we would have a meal before we go on board.'
They made their way through Calais down to the docks, and watched while the car was loaded aboard, then walked back to the town, where he took her to a small restaurant in a side street. It had red check tablecloths on the few tables scattered on the scrubbed floor; it surprised her to see that the people sitting at them were very smart. Adelaide had no idea that it was famous for its cuisine. She looked at the menu card and put it down again.
`I don't know anything about French food, so please will you choose for me?'
When it came, the food was delicious, and she paid him the compliment of eating a hearty meal and listening intelligently to his comments upon French cooking.
Afterwards, when Adelaide tried to remember the crossing on the boat, she found it difficult to recall any clear memories of it. She only knew that the professor had been a delightful companion, and that the time had flown so fast that she was amazed to see the cliffs of Dover looming up out of the summer haze.
It was just tea-time when they turned into the short curving drive of the rectory. Adelaide looked round happily. The rectory was a small Regency house, with a square porch and large windows on either side. It was shabby as to paint, but the garden was well tended and a riot of colour. She looked at Coenraad, who said before she could speak:
`It's delightful; I can't think of a better place in which to have tea.'
At that moment one of the windows opened and a grey-haired gentleman looked out. He waved and withdrew, to reappear a moment later at the front door, in time to engulf Adelaide, who had jumped out of the car, in a fatherly hug. She had time to introduce Coenraad before her mother came running out of the house. She was very like her daughter, with the same very red hair, beginning to fade a little, but still an arresting colour. She kissed her daughter and shook the professor warmly by the hand before summoning Adelaide's brothers, clamouring around their sister. They were sixteen years old, and identical twins, big for their age, with fair hair and their father's mild blue eyes. They said `how do you do' with proper respect, but within a very few minutes were involved in an animated discussion concerning the hidden beauties of the Rolls-Royce engine. The Reverend Mr Peters brought this to an end, however, by telling the boys to let Nellie know that Adelaide had arrived. The two gentlemen then repaired indoors to join the family for tea. As they
crossed the hall, a short, stout, elderly woman came through the baize door under the stairs, and stopped when she saw them.
`Tea's ready, Reverend.' She spoke to her master, but looked at the professor, her sharp old eyes raking him from his dark wellbrushed hair to his exquisitely polished shoes. He bore her scrutiny with good nature, and when she was introduced as the mainstay and friend of the entire family, remarked that they were indeed fortunate to have her. The two men watched as Adelaide came through the door and flung her arms round Nellie's neck, to be greeted with a `There, Miss Addy, it'll be nice to have you home for a bit, and now go and eat your tea, there's a nice wholesome cake I made. It'll do you good after all that foreign food.'
Tea was a gay meal, with a great deal of laughter and chatter. Adelaide, sitting by her mother, was able to watch the professor where he sat, discussing the works of Bacon with Mr. Peters. Listening to snatches of their talk, she decided that the professor must be a very clever man to earn her father's approbation on a subject in which he was considered something of an expert. They had eaten all the sandwiches and had cut deep into Nellie's cake, when her mother said, `I'm going to talk to that nice professor, Addy dear, and send your father to talk to you.'