by Betty Neels
She opened her eyes briefly to look at him. ‘It’s quite all right—I really did want to go—everyone does, you know, and so I just had to. Only I’m a bit of a coward.’
The arm tightened comfortingly. ‘Close your eyes again, we’re almost there. Would you rather go to the airport?’
‘No, no, of course not, I’ll be perfectly all right once I’m on the ground. So silly of me—I’m sorry.’
‘You need never say you’re sorry to me, Amelia.’ His voice was kindly and quite impersonal.
He spoke to the driver again and despite her protests they stopped at a small hotel before they reached the cathedral, and Gideon took her inside and at the bar made her drink some brandy. It made her feel much better, but a little lightheaded too. ‘I’m really not in a fit state to visit a cathedral,’ she pointed out as they went through its massive door. He didn’t say anything, only took her arm as they went slowly inside. It was very quiet and dimly lighted, its pointed roof rising sharply high above them, magnificent in its simplicity. Just like a triangle, thought Amelia, and exactly right for its surroundings. ‘Like a mountain,’ she said out loud.
‘Yes—splendid, isn’t it?’ observed Gideon quietly. ‘I’m glad we had time to see it. Now we must go, I’m afraid.’
The flight back seemed short and there was nothing to see now; the night had enclosed them completely. They drank the coffee the stewardess brought them and talked about nothing much, nor did they have much to say as they drove back to the hotel from the airport, but once inside again in its warm foyer, Amelia thanked her companion for her day. ‘And if you’ll let me know my share of the expenses,’ she finished a little stiffly.
‘My pleasure, Amelia.’ His smile caused her to remind herself quite sharply that she didn’t like him.
Dinner was a cheerful meal and very talkative, for the American who had spent the day with her father joined them and recounted at some length the various successes and excitements of the trip. Amelia found him garrulous and hoped he wasn’t going to be invited to spend the next day with them as well, but she need not have worried. The doctor, although at his most charming, made no such suggestion to their guest and when he had gone later that evening he made the suggestion that they should try a narrow little river running into the Alta above the village. ‘I’m told that the weather is going to break within the next day or so, so we might as well make the most of it now,’ he added, so that Amelia said quickly: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken you from fishing today. What a waste!’
He turned a lazy eye on her. ‘Not a waste, Amelia, I enjoyed myself too.’
There was no reason why she should blush at this prosaic remark, but she did, covering it by becoming very brisk about the morning, and the moment they had decided on the time they wanted to leave, she bade them good-night and went to bed, where she curled up against the pillows, writing a letter to Tom.
The weather held all the next day, although by early evening the wind was icy and the cold bit into their bones, but that didn’t stop them planning another day’s outing, and after that, a final one. It began to snow while they were at dinner and Gideon suggested that they should fly back immediately after the next two days.
‘What about the car?’ asked Amelia.
‘Oh, that’s all arranged. I’ve got someone to drive it down to Bergen; they’ll just about manage it before the roads close. I’ll see about a flight and arrange about the boat at Trondheim, if you will allow me?’
Mr Crosbie, glad not to have to arrange things for himself, agreed readily and Amelia, perforce, followed suit, but when they were alone she asked:
‘Father, who on earth is going to drive the car all that way? It’ll take days!’
‘One of the men at the garage, my dear—you may be sure that Gideon will make it well worth his while—he’ll fly back, of course. Don’t worry about it.’ He patted her hand. ‘What good fortune that we met up with Gideon, Amelia. This holiday has been twice as enjoyable, I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself as much. I like the man, too...’ He caught her eye and added feebly: ‘Well, of course, that doesn’t reflect upon Tom...’
‘Of course not, Father.’ Her voice rose a little. ‘And I don’t know when I’ve disliked a man so much.’
She was instantly sorry she had said it, especially as it wasn’t true. She met her father’s astonished stare and added hastily: ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that—I have no idea why I said it.’ She sounded bewildered. ‘I wish Tom were here.’ Her father didn’t answer and she went on briskly: ‘It ought to be fun, going by boat. What happens when we get to Bergen?’
‘We take the early morning plane to Amsterdam after a good night’s sleep at the Norge.’ The doctor’s quiet voice from behind her sent the colour into her cheeks again and she swung round to face him; perhaps he’d been listening...?
He couldn’t have; his lazy eyes were almost hidden beneath their lids, his smile was wholly friendly.
‘Oh.’ She smiled back uncertainly, the relief on her face there for anyone to see. ‘I was just saying it should be fun on board.’
‘Very likely. There won’t be many passengers at this time of year, not on the long trips, though there should be plenty going from one stop to the next. The scenery should be worth seeing, though.’
Amelia only stayed a few minutes after that, long enough to hear the plans for their last day—fishing, of course. She felt that she never wanted to see another salmon or cod for the rest of her days.
It seemed as though the winter had slipped in overnight and taken over. As they set out the sky was clear, but it had been snowing and the wind bit into their faces; all the same it was extraordinarily exhilarating. Amelia, her cheeks red with cold, set about making coffee just as soon as they were on their way. The water of the fjord was decidedly choppy, but that was something that didn’t worry her in the least. But despite the wintry day the men agreed at the end of it that they had never had a better catch and she, stamping warmth into her feet, found herself agreeing; it had been exciting and dramatic in such awe-inspiring surroundings, but it had been lighthearted too and somehow soothing. The vague doubts and uncertainties which had been crowding into the back of her mind had been put in their place under the overpowering might of the mountains. They had an uproarious evening, with her father in fine form, and afterwards a kind of farewell party with the other guests. A good thing they weren’t flying out until the early afternoon, thought Amelia, going sleepily to bed.
The flight seemed brief, there was so much to see whenever there was a break in the clouds below them and when they reached Trondheim the sun was shining, making the light fall of snow sparkle and the houses look like scenes on a Christmas card. There was still time to visit the Nidaros Cathedral too before returning to the Britannia Hotel for dinner. Amelia, who had wanted to think over her day before she slept, was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
There were only a handful of passengers going on board when they got to the dock the next morning. Unlike the previous day, it was cold and grey and almost dark, and Amelia, who had had nothing but a cup of tea when she got up, was relieved to hear that breakfast would be served almost at once.
She went straight to her cabin, unpacked the few things she would need and joined the men on deck. ‘I’d like to see us go,’ she said hopefully, and hung over the rails as far as she could in order to watch the mail being taken on board followed by box after box of cod. There were last-minute passengers coming on board too, people shouting to each other and the captain, a brisk bearded figure, walking up and down the dock, apparently oblivious of the fact that his ship was on the point of sailing.
‘How awful if he got left behind,’ remarked Amelia, and earned a: ‘Don’t be ridiculous, my dear,’ from her father, and a look from the doctor which she didn’t see—tender and mocking and amused.
The ship’s si
ren sounded, and the captain came aboard with much the same air of a man entering the driving seat of his car. A moment later the ship sidled away from the dock and within minutes was well into the fjord.
They watched Trondheim slip away into the grey morning and Amelia shivered in the cold. Gideon flung an absentminded arm round her and she was glad of its warmth and comfort, although why she should need comforting, she didn’t know.
‘A pity we had no more time to see Trondheim,’ said Gideon. ‘It’s a fine city—another time, perhaps.’ Before she could tell him that there wasn’t likely to be another time, not for the three of them together, at any rate, the gong went for breakfast.
Amelia, quite famished, what with cold and excitement and getting up early, wandered round the long table with its display of herrings in sauce, cheese, cold meat, any number of varieties of bread and nicest of all, a great bowl of porridge, helped herself and sat down at the table they had been given. There weren’t many passengers: two Americans sampling the round trip for a travel agency in New York, several Norwegians, most of them businessmen calling for one reason or another at the smaller towns and villages en route, and a handful of keen fishermen like themselves.
After the meal everyone found their way to the saloon on the deck above, there to admire the view, exchange gossip about their holidays and in the case of the sportsmen, tell each other fishy stories. Amelia saw very little of either her father or the doctor, but the Americans, delighted to find someone who listened well, kept her a captive audience until the gong went for lunch and she found that a young Norwegian on his way back to Bergen from Trondheim had joined them at table, so that the conversation was general. It was like that for the rest of the day and the following morning too, and she told herself that it was rather nice not to have Gideon’s constant companionship. All the same she felt strangely lonely.
Chapter FOUR
THERE WASN’T TIME to do much in Bergen, although when they had landed after lunch and settled in at the Norge, Gideon took Amelia to the Bryggens Museum, where they wandered round for an hour examining the runic inscriptions, ceramics and jewellery while he explained the cultural habits of the twelfth century to her. He seemed to know a great deal about it; probably he was a clever man, hiding his learning under a casual manner. They had tea in Reimers Tea-Room and then crossed the square to the hotel. A very pleasant afternoon, decided Amelia, changing for the evening into the jersey dress. Perhaps dinner would be fun, and they might dance afterwards...
It didn’t turn out like that, though. When she got down to the bar it was to find her father and Gideon deep in conversation with the two Americans who had been on the ship, an English couple who were staying in Bergen on their way to Oslo and two youngish Norwegians. It was Gideon who suggested that they should dine together and presently they all sat down together at one large table, and when someone suggested dancing, Amelia was annoyed to see him ask the American girl to dance. Not that she lacked partners; and she was very glad, when Gideon did at length come across to ask her to dance—probably out of good manners, she thought waspishly—that she was able to skip away, with a few seconds to spare, with one of the Norwegians.
She was coolly friendly in the morning. It was a pity that what with getting themselves to the airport and boarding the plane for Schiphol, there was little opportunity for Gideon to notice it. And once on board they were kept busy, drinking coffee, eating the sandwiches they were offered, reading the newspapers, the men, one on each side of her, engrossed themselves in the sport news, exchanging casual comments across her, occasionally politely including her in them. She was very glad when Gideon pointed out the flat lands of Holland below them.
‘I don’t even know exactly where you live,’ she told him coldly.
‘No? Between Amsterdam and Utrecht, in a small village beside a lake. Very quiet and peaceful, although it’s close to the motorway. It’s flat too, quite different from Norway. I hope you will like it.’
‘How do we get there?’
‘Jorrit will have brought a car to meet the plane. He’s my general factotum.’ He didn’t add anything, although she was dying of curiosity. Presently, she reminded herself, she would see everything for herself.
They went through the airport with tolerable speed and were met in the enormous reception hall by a very tall, thin man of middle age with a face so composed Amelia wondered if he ever smiled or frowned. He did indeed smile when he saw the doctor, bowed his head to her and her father and without further preamble led the way outside, where they had to wait a minute while the porter caught up with them.
‘This is Jorrit,’ Gideon introduced the man, ‘he speaks English, by the way. He has been in the family for a very long time.’ He smiled at Jorrit, whose calm was once more broken by a brief smile. ‘He’ll drive the estate car with the luggage and we’ll go on ahead.’
He spoke again to Jorrit, who nodded and turned to the porter and Gideon led the way to where an Aston Martin Lagonda stood. As he unlocked its door Mr Crosbie said enthusiastically: ‘I say, this is nice—didn’t expect to see one here, though—they’re hard enough to get at home.’
And expensive enough, added Amelia silently, getting into the back and leaving her father to get in beside the doctor. But it was a lovely car; she sat listening to the men discussing its teething troubles and watching the scenery. It was indeed different from Norway, and presently Gideon began to point out one or two things of interest. They had cut across to join the motorway leading from Amsterdam to Utrecht. The road ran through the southern suburb of Amstelveen, but presently, at the roundabout a few miles further on, he turned south, sending the car along the road at a fine pace, so that Amelia had no time to see a great deal anyway. Indeed, she was more interested in watching Gideon. He drove well, as though he and the big car were all of one piece, and although the motorway was crowded, he kept up his speed, weaving easily in and out of the lanes. At the next roundabout he turned off, following a flyover away from the main stream and after a mile or so, turned off again, this time into a country road, rather cold and lonely in the quiet wintry countryside, but only briefly, for suddenly there was water on either side of them. ‘Loenenveensche Plas,’ observed Gideon, ‘it runs south almost to Utrecht. Hilversum is quite close, but we turn down the other side, there are only small villages along the bank. My home is between two of them.’
Amelia had expected a comfortable house, even a fair sized one, for the doctor was obviously a man living in comfortable circumstances, but she wasn’t quite prepared for the grandeur of the wrought iron gates, open between high stone gate posts crowned by mythical stone animals. And she certainly wasn’t prepared for the sight which met her eyes as they rounded a curve in the drive. It wasn’t a house at all, but a castle—a small one, it was true, but there it stood, with a pepperpot turret on one side of its massive front door and its ancient red brick walls rising from what must at one time have been the moat.
‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Amelia in astonishment. ‘What a darling place!’ It struck her forcibly that she had no idea of the doctor’s domestic arrangements. Did he live with his parents? Surely not by himself?
Apparently he did, for he said almost apologetically: ‘Yes, it is rather. It was built for a family, of course, not for a bachelor.’
Amelia was getting out of the car and looking about her. Double steps led to the entrance and she longed to see inside, a wish granted almost immediately as the door was opened by a small round lady who stood back to allow her to see beyond into a softly lit hall. ‘Jorrit’s wife,’ observed Gideon as he led the way up the steps, ‘my housekeeper too.’ He gave the small creature a great hug and introduced her as Tyske and she shook hands, beaming from a round jolly face as they went inside.
The hall was square with a carved wooden staircase climbing up one wall to a gallery above, and furnished with several very large antique chairs, a couple of
marble-topped wall tables and some fine silk rugs on its black and white marble floor. The walls were panelled in the same dark wood as the stairs and hung with a number of portraits, presumably of the doctor’s forebears. Amelia had no chance to inspect them, for they were led at once into a large room with a very large bow window at one end and an equally large fireplace at the other. The window was draped with curtains of ruby velvet tied back with cords and the carpet was of the same colour, a nice foil to the faded colours of the tapestry covered chairs. There were two very large sofas too, drawn up on each side of the blazing fire in the hearth, its copper hood glistening in the flames. The walls, unlike the hall, were papered in a silk damask of a rich cream and almost covered by still more portraits. The doctor, Amelia reflected, must either have an enormous family or an ancestry which went back several hundred years. She took the seat offered her with composure, liking her surroundings but not unduly cowed by them; her own home, although smaller, was just as splendidly furnished and it seemed likely that her ancestors, man for man and woman for woman, would equal his.
Gideon made no observations about his home and probably wouldn’t have done so, but Mr Crosbie, his attention drawn to a glass-fronted cabinet against one wall, remarked with some pleasure that he had a very similar pair of cassolettes in his own home. ‘The enamel covers are by Craft, I daresay,’ he observed. ‘Made by Boulton, and frankly hideous. At least I think so.’
Gideon went to stand by him. ‘I couldn’t agree more. I like something simpler, myself; this silver-gilt side table ewer—it’s French and mid-eighteenth century. I haven’t much English stuff, though—a coffee-pot, George II, I believe, which an ancestress brought over with her as part of her dowry, and which I use when I’m home, and a silver sugar box. That came with her too. That was a splendid period for silversmiths in England. I must envy you that.’
Mr Crosbie beamed at him. ‘My dear chap, you may well do so. I’ve some splendid pieces at home—you really must pay us a visit some time and I’ll show you the lot.’