by Betty Neels
Mr Peters, his serious talk curtailed firmly by his wife, wandered over to sit by his daughter, to question her about her life in Holland. Adelaide answered willingly enough, but as she was listening to her mother's conversation as well as she was able, she was somewhat distraite, a fact which her father put down to her long journey. Her mother had a quiet voice; Adelaide found that she was unable to hear a word. To look at the professor's face was of no use. It bore his usual placid expression. He wasn't saying much, but he smiled, and once looked across the room directly at her in a thoughtful way. She wondered what they were talking about.
They were talking about her; her mother had thanked Coenraad for bringing Addy home. `We've been longing to see her.' Shc turned a little pink, and said with the same engaging candour as her daughter, `She wanted to come home so badly, but the boys are to stay another year at school and she helps.' She raised her brown eyes, so like Addy's, to her companion, who said nothing, but was listening with interest. `They're very clever, and deserve their chance. In a year or two we shall be able to paint the house and have a new car, and Addy can spend all her money on herself, bless her.' She looked fondly at her daughter.
Adelaide saw the faint, amused smile on the professor's face and wondered what her mother had been saying. She would have liked to have joined them, but her mother was deep in conversation again.
`We've been waiting to thank you for going to Addy's rescue in that bus; she didn't say much about it, although we read about it in the papers. She told us that she owed her escape and perhaps her life to you. We are indeed most grateful to you, Professor.'
He looked embarrassed. `There were a dozen men waiting to do what I did,' he replied. `I just happened to be the nearest. Adelaide was the brave one.' He told Mrs. Peters what had happened at some length.
Adelaide, from the other side of the room, wondered what they could be talking about so earnestly. She went over to the tea tray to refill her father's cup, and lingered long enough to hear her mother invite the professor to stay the night, and his regretful refusal. He had, he said, promised to arrive at his destination by ten o'clock that evening. Adelaide gave her father his cup and went and sat by her mother, just in time to hear Coenraad say, in answer to her mother's question:
`Yes, a very old friend. I couldn't disappoint her, she is someone of whom I am very fond.' He didn't add that the old friend was his childhood's nanny, installed as his housekeeper in the small manor house which his English grandmother had left him.
`Then stay on your way back,' said Mrs Peters and Adelaide felt a little thrill of delight when he said yes, he would like that very much. He got up to go shortly afterwards, and made his goodbyes.
Adelaide stood by her father, listening to Coenraad's quiet voice, and realised that she wouldn't hear it again for two weeks. She gave him her hand and thanked him for her lovely day and wished him a pleasant holiday in a subdued voice. His hand felt oddly comforting as she put her own into it. When she looked up into his face she saw that his eyes were dancing with laughter, and thought uneasily that he might be reading her thoughts. She was glad when her mother spoke.
`Why not come to lunch, Professor Van Essen? Nellie will cook you a lovely wholesome English meal, and Addy shall make an apple pie.'
He accepted with alacrity, and released Adelaide's hand without speaking again to her. She stood waving with the others as he drove away without looking at her.
The professor arrived at the rectory about midday, at least an hour earlier than he had said. As he got out of the car at the open front door, Matthew and Mark came dashing out to meet him. They were delighted to see him again, though he suspected that their interest might be more for his car than himself. Mr Peters put his head out of his study window and begged him to come in at once and not to allow the boys to bother him. They all went indoors together and into the study, where Mrs Peters sat knitting and keeping her husband company. They all talked at once, and he thought what a happy family they were. When he apologised for being early, Mrs Peters said cheerfully, `But we've all been waiting for you to arrive. Addy's in the kitchen, why not go and tell her you're here, for I'm sure she must be finished by now.'
Adelaide stood at the kitchen table, rolling pastry, and taking her time about it. Coenraad wasn't due for another hour, it stretched ahead of her endlessly, but if she was busy the time might go a little faster. The door opened behind her. It would be her mother, come to see if she was ready.
`He might not like apple pie,' she said.
`He loves it.' She was quite unprepared for his voice, and spun round to face him, her heart beating a tattoo against her ribs to shake her. She quelled her desire to fling her floury arms around his neck and tell how glad she was to see him, and instead frowned darkly.
`You're early,' she said. `Look at me.' And was vexed when, without further words, he did so. She stood in front of him, in a cotton dress almost covered by a large apron, her hair tied back in an untidy pony-tail. She remembered that she hadn't any make-up on. She felt her cheeks grow hot under his gaze, and with a forlorn little gesture turned back to the table and bent over her pastry. She didn't look up when he came and sat on the edge of the table.
`You told me to look at you,' he said reasonably, and ate some pastry. `I'm sorry I'm early. Shall I go away and come back again when you've had time to put up your hair and turn into the cool and composed Miss Peters?'
Despite herself, Adelaide burst out laughing.
`That's better,' he said. `I was beginning to think you weren't glad to see me.' He absentmindedly ate some more pastry. `You look very nice as you are, Addy.'
She drew the pie dish towards her and gently laid her dough over the apples therein. She didn't look at him, because he would be laughing at her, and she didn't think she could bear that. She was making an edge to her pie, her eyes intent, the black lashes curling on her cheeks.
`Have you had a good holiday, Addy?'
Adelaide raised her brown eyes to his, her smile very sweet; she had quite forgotten her appearance.
`I've had a lovely time!'-her face glowed-'I'll never be able to thank you for letting me come with you. Did you have a good time too?"
'Oh, yes,' said the professor. He sounded rather non-committal. `I don't suppose it was as much fun as yours.'
She considered this. `Well, the boys were home.' She smiled warmly at him. She was so happy she wanted to smile all the time. She pushed a long strand of hair out of her eyes, leaving a trail of flour down one cheek. He leaned forward and wiped it away with his handkerchief, then kissed the cheek. Adelaide gasped and turned her head. His face was very close, his eyes full of laughter. Her breath caught in her throat and she seemed, regrettably, to have lost all control over her breathing.
The kitchen door opened and they drew apart as Nellie, laden with washing from the garden, came in. She tossed it into the big basket by the window and came over to the table, and said in scolding tones: `Now, Miss Addy, that pie'll never get baked if you don't put it in the oven this instant.'
Adelaide picked up the pie obediently, glad of something to do, took it over to the Aga and spent an unnecessarily long time arranging it in the oven, while her cheeks cooled.
Nellie turned her attention to the professor. `Good morning, sir, and it's nice to see you again. You've had a fine holiday, I'll be bound. The girls all over you and never a dull moment!'
Adelaide banged the oven door, whirled round, and said in a choking voice: 'Nellie!'
`Well, Miss Addy dear, I'm not meaning to be disrespectful, but the professor's a handsome man-you'll allow that, surely? A real nice gentleman, I call him. Why, you said so yourself !'
Adelaide felt her just cooled cheeks redden once more, and she didn't look at the professor when she spoke.
`You're a flatterer, Nellie. You can't expect Miss Addy to agree with you, she works with me every day and sees only my worst side.'
Adelaide caught his brief glance as she stood at the table, cleaning up. She
felt goaded.
'I'm usually far too busy to waste time on your looks or your character, Professor.' She spoke tartly, hating herself for the cheap remark. Her words shocked Nellie, but he only laughed, and laughed again when Nellie said, `Hoity-toity, Miss Addy, that's no answer.'
Coenraad grinned wickedly. `She's right, you know, Nellie. I mustn't work her so hard, then she will have more time to study me.'
He cocked an eyebrow at Adelaide, who started to laugh-indeed, she felt that if she did not laugh she would burst into tears. She went meekly over to the sink when Nellie said:
`Miss Addy, you go and wash your hands and face and put up that hair this minute ! What the professor thinks of you I do not know.'
Adelaide supposed it must be amusing for him to see how obediently his efficient clinic Sister obeyed this order. She took off her apron and was washing her hands when he strolled over and stood beside her. 'Nellie wants to know what I think of you, Addy. Don't you want to know, too?'
She didn't dare look up from drying her hands, but shook her head, flung the towel down and ran across the kitchen without looking at him at all and through the door, banging it hard behind her.
As she came into the study twenty minutes later, her father was pouring the sherry. In that time she had contrived to turn herself into a cool and poised young lady, freshly lipsticked, and not a hair out of place. She stood in the doorway and was glad when the professor saw her and came over and handed her a glass.
He looked her over coolly. `An excellent imitation of Miss Peters, if I may say so, Adelaide.'
She smiled uncertainly, feeling shy, and not quite sure what to say. She was saved from replying by the arrival of Matthew, who looked at her in astonishment and asked:
`Good heavens, Addy, you're not going out, are you? You've put your hair up too.'
She ignored his brotherly candour with icy composure, taking care not to meet Coenraad's gaze, and listened to her companions discussing the little jaunt they had planned for the afternoon. Down the Brighton road was an enjoyable prospect for a sixteen year-old boy. She envied her brothers with all her heart.
Adelaide spent the afternoon packing. She had been rather silent during luncheon. Her father had remarked upon it, and her mother had looked across the table, smiled at her and said:
`Addy's a little sad because her holiday is almost over, aren't you, darling?' and Adelaide had smiled back and said `Yes,' and had done her best to believe it herself. However, when she came downstairs at teatime, she seemed in the best of spirits and greeted the returned motorists with every sign of good humour. The professor had brought a large box of chocolates for Mrs Peters, and sat beside her during tea, listening to her gentle conversation, and afterwards helped carry the tea things back to the kitchen. It was explained to him that Nellie always put her feet up in the afternoons. The boys were left to wash up, and the others strolled back to the drawing room where Adelaide remarked that she should go and finish her packing, and as nobody suggested that she should do otherwise, she presently went upstairs, where she stood at her bedroom window watching her parents, with Coenraad between them, walking off in the direction of the church. They appeared to be enjoying their conversation, and had apparently forgotten all about her.
Supper was a simple meal. When it was over, they clustered around the table in the study and played Monopoly-a game Mr Peters was much addicted to. Being a poor man, the mythical thousands he lost and won afforded him great pleasure. At ten o'clock, however, his wife said firmly that they would not play any more.
`These two have to leave early in the morning, and they have a long journey before them.'
She set off to the kitchen, leaving Adelaide to tidy away the game. The boys had gone to bed, her father and Coenraad were discussing Greek mythology. She looked out of the open window; the garden, patterned in bright moonlight, was beautiful. She put the cards away in a drawer in her father's desk. Both men seemed engrossed in their conversation; that Reverend Mr Peters, happy to have found someone who could quote Greek poetry in the original, certainly had no eyes for the moonlight. Neither, apparently, had the professor. She emptied an ashtray with unnecessary noise, sighed soundlessly, and went to kiss the bald patch on her father's head. She said good night to the top button of Coenraad's waistcoat, and went upstairs to bed.
The morning was glorious. As Adelaide got into the car she thought that the garden had never looked so lovely. She hated saying goodbye; she waved until the little group standing at the Rectory gate was hidden by the curve of the road, and then sat back very quiet. The tears she had been holding back spilled over and ran slowly down her cheeks, and when a large white handkerchief was proffered wordlessly by the professor, she accepted it with a grateful sniff, mopped her eyes, blew her nose in a no-nonsense fashion, and said in a watery voice:
`Thank you. I didn't mean to cry. Father says that a snivelling female is one of the most tiresome afflictions man is called upon to endure.'
He laughed. `I admire your father. We had a most interesting talk last night.'
`What about?"
'Oh, metaphysics. He was able to tell me a great deal about ontology.' He paused. `He gave me some excellent advice about other matters, too.'
At the thought of her father, she swallowed another hard lump of tears, and said, determinedly cheerfully:
`That's funny. Father never gives advice unless he's certain that it will be taken.' She wondered what Coenraad could possibly want advice about, but he wasn't going to tell her, saying merely:
`But I have every intention of taking it,' and then changing the conversation so pointedly that she knew she must ask no more questions.
She powdered her small red nose and applied herself to the task of being an agreeable companion. This entailed listening intelligently to the professor's views on coarse fishing, of which she knew nothing. She had the good sense not to ask why it was coarse in the first place, she had in fact only a very sketchy knowledge of the sport, but it was pleasant listening to the professor talking, and thus pleasurably occupied, the journey to the car ferry seemed surprisingly short, and even the long wait in the queue to go aboard went unnoticed.
Once aboard, they walked briskly round the deck until the cliffs of Dover were sufficiently far away for her to be able to look at them without feeling homesick, and it wasn't until later that she realised Coenraad's thoughtfulness in engineering their perambulations. By the time they had a cup of coffee, they were docking at Calais, and the slow process of disembarking began. Coenraad had said nothing about lunch. Adelaide wondered about it as they at last emerged from the Customs shed and made slow progress through the town. Now he left the main road and after threading through several narrow streets, stopped outside the restaurant they had visited previously. Obedient to his injunction to remain where she was, she waited quietly until he returned, followed by a waiter carrying a hamper which was stowed carefully in the boot. The professor got back into the car and nursed it carefully over the atrocious cobbles until they joined the N40.
`I thought we'd have a picnic. We'll stop the other side of Ostend, there's a golf course there between the main road and the sea. We'll have lunch there and go over the border at Sluis.'
Adelaide, who would have cheerfully eaten yesterday's bread and a heel of cheese, so long as it was in Coenraad's company, thought this an excellent idea. They bowled along, with only the shortest delay at the French border. An hour later they were going through Ostend. They left the car by the side of the road and scrambled over the dunes until they could see the sea from the shelter of some trees.
Adelaide, unpacking the hamper, thought that the contents, though not as numerous as the dishes served at the clinic picnic, looked just as delicious. She arranged the paper cloth thoughtfully provided and laid the chicken mousse, green salad, thin bread and butter and fruit carefully upon it. She surveyed the result of her work, and said, `This isn't a picnic. A picnic is sandwiches and thermos flasks. This is a feast!'
&n
bsp; Coenraad opened the bottle he had carefully removed before she examined the basket. He filled the glasses and handed her one, and said 'Proost.' She took a cautious sip, while he watched her smilingly. `It's quite harmless, Addy.'
Adelaide felt herself grow pink, took a defiant gulp and choked. He had to thump her back while she whooped trying to get her breath. He was nice about it, and didn't laugh until she had enough breath to laugh with him. They ate everything, while she listened to preposterous tales of his student days, only half believing them. When the last crumb had disappeared, she packed everything tidily back in the hamper, while he sat back against a tree, smoking. She was startled when he asked: