by Neels, Betty
‘Nice, aren’t they?’ said Max, beside her. He glanced around. They were alone except for an attendant standing in the arched doorway, and looking the other way.
‘I believe it’s my turn to apologise,’ he said blandly. ‘I was in a filthy temper yesterday and I vented it upon you. I’m sorry, Sophy.’ He waited for her to answer, and when she didn’t he leaned forward and studied the portrait before them. ‘Delightful, isn’t she? I like her hair—pure mouse, wouldn’t you say?’
She had got her breath back; she was able to answer. She said, ‘Yes,’ baldly, without looking at him.
‘Am I forgiven?’
It was impossible to resist him. She said, ‘Yes,’ again, and moved a few steps away to look at the next painting, and heard him say on a laugh,
‘My dear... Sophy, don’t run away; for I have a second apology to make.’
She took her eyes from the painted ones before her, and met his squarely, and waited, pink-cheeked but self-possessed.
‘It was unpardonable of me to spoil your evening with Harry. I’m sorry about that, although I should do exactly the same thing again if I saw fit.’
Sophy’s eyes, with their incredible fringe of lashes, widened with amazement. ‘If you saw fit?...’ She stopped, aware that her voice was shrill.
Max surveyed her for a long moment and said at length, ‘We never have time to talk, do we? But that won’t last much longer.’
She thought he was referring to her leaving, and said without expression, ‘I go in a week.’
He laughed again. ‘That isn’t what I meant, but it does remind me—Zuster Smid wants another week if she can be spared. Would you stay? Please, Sophy.’
She had meant to say no, but she said ‘All right’ in a meek voice she couldn’t believe was hers, and he crushed her hand in one of his, so that she smiled with happiness at his touch, momentarily outshining the beauties on the wall, only to be at once extinguished by his next words.
‘I must go—Tineke’s waiting outside in the car.’ He smiled, so that her heart beat a tattoo against her ribs even while she was swallowing disappointment.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said in a dry little voice. ‘Goodbye.’ She didn’t watch him go, but stood staring at the wall, and presently went in search of her uncle and aunt.
The week passed in a rush of work and brief outings with her aunt and uncle. Each day she saw Max at the hospital, where he treated her with a correct friendliness that held a tinge of mockery; whether for her or for himself, she was unable to determine. She had supposed him to be tired, now she guessed that he was worried, and wondered if it was the same worry that was causing Dr van Steen’s face to look so strained and taut. She had dared to ask him one afternoon when they were alone in the anaesthetic room, and had been taken aback when, after staring at her intently, he had said slowly,
‘I have waited ten years for happiness, and now it is almost certainly within my grasp, these last few days of those years seem—difficult.’ His nice wrinkled face broke into a smile. ‘That is all.’
She had been fidgeting with the key on one of the cylinders, and began to turn it absent-mindedly, and he leaned over and took it from her and closed the cylinder carefully.
‘I didn’t mean to pry,’ she had said at length.
‘No, I know that, Sophy. Though many less scrupulous women than you would have made it their business to do so. You must have heard talk—yes?’
She had said ‘Yes,’ not quite understanding him and unable to pursue the subject although she longed to know more.
By tea on Saturday she knew that she was going to be late for the dance. An hour earlier she had sent Zuster Viske off duty with a sore throat, a temperature of a hundred and three and a headache which hadn’t prevented her from tearfully apologising for jeopardising Sophy’s evening out. Sophy shook down the thermometer and said hearteningly, ‘Pooh! It isn’t the only dance I’ll go to, you know. Anyway, I can go later when the night staff come on at eight.’ She smiled cheerfully. She had no intention of letting Zuster Viske, dear kind girl that she was, worry unnecessarily.
It was well after eight when she left the theatre. There had been two cases since five o’clock—a perforated appendix and a strangulated hernia, and Dr van Jong had wanted coffee afterwards and kept her talking. She hadn’t liked to explain in the face of his obvious attempts to make her feel at home.
Goeden, waiting patiently in the front hall, was discreetly sympathetic and assured her that he was prepared to wait for as long as she chose to take. Nevertheless, it was barely forty minutes later when she came downstairs again. She had bathed and dressed and wound her hair into its neat topknot, and taken a final look in the mirror. She would have liked to have spent more time on her face, but she had no doubt that she would pass muster in a crowd. She didn’t expect to be the belle of the ball—she giggled at the idea, picked up her evening bag and her tweed coat, and sped down to the car.
It seemed as though every window was ablaze with light when she got out of the car at Huys Ooster-welde; there was music too, but Goeden didn’t give her time to stand—he ushered her firmly inside and handed her over to a smiling maid, who led her upstairs to a bedroom she hadn’t seen before and took her coat, putting it carefully on the chaise-longue with a galaxy of furs. Sophy put on some more lipstick; touched up her nondescript little nose with powder and was led back downstairs, where Geoden had reappeared to open the great carved doors so that she might go into the drawing room. It was pleasantly full, with dancing couples circling the polished floor and a small band, playing not too loudly, entrenched on one side of the fireplace. Pleasant little retreats, contrived from banked flowers and potted plants, were scattered around the walls, and Sophy slipped into the nearest of them. She couldn’t see anyone she knew, but over the heads of the dancers she caught a glimpse of her aunt and uncle going through the doors at the far end. Max was with them, and, she had no doubt, Tineke. She was too shy to follow them so she sat down composedly on the comfortable sofa, half hidden from the dancers, to await their return. Ten minutes later she saw Max’s handsome grey head above those of his guests as he made his way towards her. When he reached her, he said quite sharply,
‘Sophy, Goeden has only just found me. The hospital told me that you would be late when I telephoned earlier. How long have you been sitting here?’
Sophy thought that he looked annoyed, so she said placatingly, ‘Only about ten minutes. When I came you were going through the doors at the end of the room—I thought I’d wait until you came back.’ He dropped on to the couch beside her and she was relieved to see a faint smile turning up the corners of his mouth. ‘Why in heaven’s name didn’t you come after me?’
She hesitated. ‘Well, I...I didn’t quite...’
He nodded as though she had completed the sentence. ‘You’re shy, aren’t you?’
He smiled again, this time to take her breath away, leaving her unable to look away from him, unable, it seemed, to speak. He said softly, ‘Your shyness, just like you yourself and all you say and do, is a never-ending delight to me.’
Sophy sat very still while the room spun—the chandelier became a glittering sun, the lamps a thousand stars. Through a jumble of thoughts which made no sense, she heard Max say, ‘Come and have some supper; you must be famished,’ in such an ordinary voice that for one terrible moment she thought that she had been dreaming, but although his voice was calm, his eyes were not. She got up obediently, saying, ‘Yes. Thank you,’ in a small voice, and presently found herself sitting at one of the tables in the dining room. Her aunt and uncle were there, with Tineke and Karel and Adelaide and Coenraad, and she was instantly engulfed in their cheerful light-hearted talk while Max went to get her some food. She ate her way through Petites Bouchees Bohemienne, Terrine d’Anguille, Oeuf Nantua, a Mirabelle ice and a selection of petits fours, which he had thoughtfully brought her, and drank the glass of champagne which he poured; living, for the moment at least, in a little bubble of ha
ppiness which held no problems.
She scooped up the last of her ice, and Max said, ‘Shall I get you another one? I believe the strawberry ice is excellent.’
She said ‘No, thank you,’ remembering the sandwiches and strong tea they had shared on the night of the fire, and as though he had read her thoughts, he said,
‘At least you didn’t go to sleep in the middle.’
She laughed, and Uncle Giles said unexpectedly, ‘That’s better, Sophy, you haven’t laughed like that since we came.’ He got up. ‘Now come and show me how to do these new-fangled dances.’
‘No jiving,’ said Max, ‘and you’ve got one more dance after this one.’
‘Which I shall have with my wife—the last waltz, if they still have anything as old-fashioned.’
‘Indeed we shall have it, it’s an excuse for the men to dance with their best girls.’
He glanced at Sophy and she felt the colour creeping over her face and said, to cover her confusion, ‘Do let’s go, Uncle Giles, I’m longing to dance.’
She didn’t lack for partners. She was a good dancer and an even better listener; before long she was holding modest court between dances, quite unaware of her success. Max had not asked her to dance. She had seen him dancing with a variety of partners, and at least twice with Tineke. She was talking to Harry and a young man whose name she couldn’t remember when Max said over her shoulder, ‘There you are, Sophia, come along.’ He had turned her around and danced her away before she could speak; when they had circled the room she said mildly,
‘I was going to dance with Harry.’ And then, before he could reply, ‘Why did you call me Sophia?’
‘You have always been Sophia to me—it is beautiful, as you are beautiful.’
She didn’t dare to look at him. Of course it was absurd, no one had called her beautiful before, and she had the good sense to know that there was no reason for them to do so. All the same, it was delightful to hear Max say so.
‘Our chance to talk,’ said Max briefly, and led her through the glass door into the conservatory, which ran the length of the house. It smelled of spring, with its rows of daffodils and hyacinths and cyclamen and chrysanthemums, standing in Dutch orderliness. She would have lingered amongst them, but Max walked her down the length of it, and in through another door at the very end, to a small room with an old-fashioned stove against one wall, flanked by large comfortable chairs, and on the other wall a vast desk, partnered by a high-backed chair. There were a great many books on the shelves along the wall, and the desk was extremely neat. The only signs of luxury were the lush carpet underfoot and a corner cupboard housing a collection of silver. Sophy looked round with interest.
‘Everything’s very large,’ she observed, ‘but of course, this is your study, isn’t it?’
Max didn’t answer. Instead, he took her by the shoulders and turned her round to face him. ‘Sophia,’ he said, ‘will you not drop your guard?’ His cool blue-eyes, no longer cool, stared down into hers. ‘Had you forgotten? I had not.’
She found her voice. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten,’ and was swept close to be kissed, and kissed again. She said in a breathy little voice, ‘Max—oh, Max!’ and got no further. The door behind them had opened.
Max released her without haste and turned round. Tineke stood in the doorway, staring at them with a white face. She said in a high voice that cracked on a sob, ‘I had to come. Max—’ She started to speak rapidly in Dutch.
Max listened quietly, answered her briefly and then said in English to Sophy, barely looking at her, Til explain later, Sophy.’ His voice sounded angry and somehow urgent. He went without another word, sweeping Tineke with him.
Sophy sat down in one of the chairs by the stove, conscious of the sudden cold. Her mind was a blank, a fact she recognised with relief—it would be better not to think for a little while. Presently she got up; she would have to go back to the drawing room. She went through the door which Max, in his haste, had left ajar, and walked along the passage until it emerged, under a graceful archway, into the back of the hall. Max was standing by the front door, with Tineke, crying wildly, in his arms. Sophy turned on her heel, holding back tears and, worse, wild laughter. She walked back the way she had come, into the study and out of it into the conservatory until she came to the door of the drawing room. It looked exactly the same as it had five, ten minutes ago. She was surprised when Adelaide and Coenraad stopped dancing and came over to where she was standing. They stood directly in front of her, so that she was screened from the dancers, and Adelaide said quickly,
‘Sophy, what’s happened—are you ill?’
Sophy smiled from an ashen face; she felt peculiarly hollow but that was all. She said pleasantly, ‘No, thank you—it’s nothing that matters.’
Coenraad gave her a thoughtful glance through his glasses, his bright blue eyes very sharp. ‘Let’s dance,’ he suggested.
Sophy began. ‘No...’ then stopped because her mouth was shaking.
‘I think we should,’ he persisted in his placid voice. ‘We’ll just amble round—you’ll feel better presently.’ He turned to his wife, ‘You’re dying to talk to Mev-rouw Penninck, aren’t you, my love?’ They exchanged a look and he smiled faintly at her.
‘Something happened to upset you?’ he asked diffidently of Sophy.
‘Yes—no.’ Sophy checked a wild desire to burst into tears. ‘I...I...it’s such a muddle.’
‘I see.’ His voice was soothing. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No... You see, I don’t think I understand, so I can’t can I?’
He had danced her into the dining room, and she stood docilely drinking from the glass he had fetched her. After a minute or two, he said, ‘That’s better— would you like me to take you back to hospital? This’—he waved a hand towards the drawing room— ‘will go on until two or three o’clock, you know.’
Sophy studied her glass. ‘Could I go before Max comes back?’
Coenraad evinced no surprise. ‘Yes, of course. Tell everyone you’re tired. We’ll go and see your aunt and uncle and then I’ll go and get the car.’
He was as good as his word. She had barely finished making her farewells when he was back beside her, making it surprisingly easy, saying exactly the right thing, joking a little. She wouldn’t be seeing Uncle Giles and Aunt Vera again; at least, not until she returned to England herself, but, as she was careful to point out, that was only another week away.
They made their escape at last, and she sat thankfully silent in the car, while the professor kept up a flow of inconsequential talk that needed no reply. He got out too when they reached the hospital, and waited in the hall until she turned the corner of the passage leading to the nurses’ home. She undressed quickly and got into bed, thinking of what he had said when they had parted. ‘Max is one of my oldest friends, but I’ll not interfere in his affairs, only—let him explain, Sophy.’ The one thing she had no intention of doing, she decided, on a rising tide of anger.
She should have had a half day on Sunday, but Zuster Viske still had a sore throat. She could, she was told by authority, have an afternoon off and Casualty Sister would cover for her. There was no operating that morning; she busied herself, sometimes unnecessarily, doing little jobs that really didn’t need doing, and went off duty as tired as though she had taken a heavy list. She hadn’t eaten any breakfast; now she pecked at her dinner and went up to her room. Five minutes later she was curled up on her bed; it seemed a good idea to try and get some sleep. If it did nothing else, it might improve her looks, which, what with wakefulness and tears, were not at their best.
She had closed her eyes, and almost succeeded in banishing Max’s white angry face from behind their lids, when there was a tentative tap at her door, and Janie, looking enquiring and strangely apprehensive, poked her head round.
‘Good. You are not sleeping—Dr Van Oosterwelde is downstairs. He says you are to go down and see him at once.’
Sophy propped he
r aching head on one elbow and said crossly, ‘Tell him I won’t.’
Janie’s reaction to this forthright answer was immediate and severe. ‘Sophy, you can’t talk like that to a Prof: it’s rude!’
Sophy thumped her pillow. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it?’ she agreed flatly. ‘Would you rather I wrote it?’
But Janie was made of sterner stuff. ‘No, indeed. I will tell him what you say.’
She was back within minutes. ‘He says, if you do not go down, then he will come up.’ She eyed Sophy uncertainly. ‘He may not come up here—men may not come to your room.’
Sophy climbed off her bed. ‘Very well, I’ll come down.’ She sounded meek, but there was nothing meek about the manner in which she jammed on her cap and tugged on her belt and cuffs, nor did she waste time on powder and lipstick, but kicked off her slippers, pushed her feet back into her neat black shoes, and pausing only to think Janie for her trouble, went downstairs.
Max was standing in the middle of the hall, watching her as she went down the stairs. She walked up to him, and focussed her eyes on a point below his chin.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’
‘You know damn well I do.’ He was quietly savage. ‘You went away—I would have explained.’
She refocussed her eyes on his tie—Italian silk and a nice shade of blue. ‘No need,’ she said in a voice deliberately light, ‘and if that is all... If you don’t mind? I was taking a nap.’
He said very evenly. ‘It is not all, and I do mind. You’ll come back to Huys Oosterwelde with me— now. I want to talk to you.’
Despite her efforts, her voice rose. ‘I’ll not come, nor will I listen to you.’
Hans had come back into the hall from some errand or other. He was lingering outside his little office, near enough to hear them talking. Max glanced at him and said silkily,
‘My dear good girl, if you don’t walk down those steps and into the car, I swear I’ll pick you up and carry you there.’
Sophy looked uncertain. ‘You wouldn’t dare...’ She stole a look at him and decided that he would. Hans was watching them with an open interest, but she didn’t think that his presence would make an iota of difference to Max’s plans. She turned wordlessly, and walked beside him to the door and out into the courtyard; the cold wind made her shiver as it blew against her cotton dress.