by Betty Neels
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ she declared. ‘I mean, meeting like this after the sluice at St Jude’s and now you here, almost next door, as it were.’
He looked down his splendid nose. ‘I can see nothing incredible about it,’ he said repressively. ‘It is a coincidence, Britannia, they occur from time to time.’
He could call it that if he liked. She thought secretly of good fairies and kindly Fate and smiled widely. ‘Well, you don’t need to be so cross about it. I’ve never met such a prickly man. Have you been crossed in love or something?’
The ferocious expression which passed over the professor’s handsome features might have daunted anyone of lesser spirit than hers. ‘You abominable girl!’ he ground out savagely. ‘I have never met anyone like you…’
Britannia lifted a hand to tuck back a wet strand of hair. ‘What you need,’ she told him kindly, ‘is a wife and a family.’
His mouth quivered momentarily. ‘Why?’
She answered him seriously. ‘Well, you would have them to look after and care for and love, and they’d love you and bring you your slippers in the evening, and…’
His voice was a well-controlled explosion. ‘For God’s sake, girl,’ he roared, ‘be quiet! Of all the sickly sentimental ideas…!’
Two tears welled up in Britannia’s fine eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. The professor muttered strongly in his own language, and with the air of a man goaded beyond endurance, got out of his car.
‘Why are you crying? I suppose that you will tell me that it’s my fault.’
Britannia gave a sniff, wiped her eyes on a delicate scrap of white lawn and then blew her nose. ‘No, of course it’s not your fault, because you can’t help it, can you? It’s just very sad that you should think of a wife and children as being nothing more than s-sickly s-sentiment.’ Two more tears spilled over and she wiped them away impatiently as a child would, with the back of her hand.
The professor was standing very close to her. When he spoke it was with surprising gentleness. ‘I didn’t mean that. I was angry.’
She said in a woeful voice, ‘But you’re always losing your temper—every time we meet you rage and roar at me.’
‘I neither rage nor roar, Britannia. Possibly I am a little ill-tempered at times.’ The gentleness had a decidedly chilly edge to it now.
‘Oh, yes, you do,’ she answered him with spirit. ‘You terrify me.’ She peeped at him, to see him frowning.
‘I cannot believe that you are terrified of anyone or anything, certainly not of me. Try that on some other man, my dear girl, I’m not a fool.’
She sighed. ‘Well, no—I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.’
He looked at her with cold interest. ‘And were the tears a try-out too?’
She shook her head slowly; she might have met him again, just as she had dreamed that she might, but it hadn’t done much good. She said quietly: ‘Thank you very much for taking care of the bird,’ and got on to her bike and wobbled off at a great rate, leaving him standing there.
She tried very hard not to think of him during the rest of the day, but lying in bed was a different matter; she went over their meetings, not forgetting a word or a look, and came to the conclusion that he still didn’t like her. She was on the point of sleep when she remembered with real regret that she had hardly looked her best; surely, if she had been wearing the new pink dress, he would have behaved differently? Men, her mother had always said, were susceptible to pink. Britannia sighed and slept.
CHAPTER THREE
IT SEEMED THAT Britannia was never to discover the professor’s taste regarding pink-clad females, but that was a small price to pay in the face of the frequency of their meetings. For she met him again the very next afternoon. Joan, laid low with a headache, had decided to stay indoors and Mevrouw Veske had an appointment with her dentist. Britannia, restless and urged by her friend to take advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant day, donned slacks, pulled on two sweaters, tied a scarf under her chin and went to fetch her bicycle. There was miles of open country around her; she chose a right-hand turn at the crossroads and pedalled down it, feeling a good deal more cheerful while she plotted ways and means—most of them quite unsuitable—of meeting the professor again. An unnecessary exercise as it turned out, for seeing a picturesque pond among the trees on the other side of the road she decided to cross over and get a better view. She was almost there when the professor’s magnificent car swept round the curve ahead and stopped within a foot or so of her.
She jumped off her machine, quite undisturbed by the sight of his furious face thrust through the open window, and his biting: ‘This is becoming quite ridiculous—you’re not fit to ride a bicycle!’
Britannia, a girl of common sense, nonetheless realised that her fairy godmother, kind Fate or just plain good luck were giving her another chance. The sight of the professor glowering from the opened window of his stupendous car sent a most pleasing sensation through her, although her pretty face remained calm. She said: ‘Hullo,’ and got no reply; the professor was swallowing rage. When he did at length speak, his voice was cold and nasty.
‘You were on the wrong side of the road. I might have killed you.’
She stooped to pick up her bicycle, observing that it had a puncture in the back tyre which seemed of no great importance at the moment; it was much more important to get him into a good mood. She said reasonably: ‘I’m a foreigner, so you have to make allowances, you know. You aren’t very nice about it; after all, we have met before.’
The blue eyes studied her in undisguised rage. ‘Indeed we have, but I see no reason to express pleasure at seeing you again. I advise you to travel on the correct side of the road and use the cycle path where there is one.’ He added morosely: ‘You’re not fit to be out on your own.’
Britannia took his criticism in good part. ‘You can come with me if you like,’ she invited. ‘I daresay some healthy exercise would do you good; there’s nothing like fresh air to blow away bad temper.’ She smiled at him kindly and waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t she went on: ‘Oh, well, perhaps you can’t cycle any more…’
The professor’s voice, usually deep and measured, took on an unexpected volume. ‘You are an atrocious girl. How you got here and why is no concern of mine, but I will not be plagued by you.’
She looked meek. ‘I don’t mean to plague you. My back tyre’s punctured.’
‘Mend it or walk home!’ he bellowed, and left her standing there.
‘He drives much too fast,’ remarked Britannia to the quiet road. ‘And how do I mend a puncture with nothing?’
She turned her machine and started to walk, doing sums as she went. She had been cycling for almost an hour—not hurrying—so she must have come at least ten miles. She would be late for lunch, she might even be late for tea. She had passed through a village some way back, but as she had no money and no one there would know or understand her, it wouldn’t be of much use to stop there. She had been walking for twenty minutes or so when an elderly man on a bicycle passed her, stopped, and with the minimum of speech and fuss, got out his repair kit. He had almost finished the job when the professor, coming the other way, slid his car to a halt beside them.
Britannia gave him a warm smile. ‘There, I knew you weren’t as nasty as you pretended you were!’
He surveyed her unsmilingly. ‘Get in,’ he said evenly. ‘The bike can be fetched later.’
She shook her head at him. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that; this gentleman stopped to help me and I wouldn’t be so ungrateful as to leave him now.’ She shook her pretty head at him again. ‘You really must get out of the habit of expecting people to do what you want whether they wish to or not. This kind man hasn’t shouted at me, nor did he leave me to mend a puncture all alone in a strange land, which I couldn’t have done anyway because I had nothing to do it with.’
She paused to see the effect of this speech. The professor’s splendid features appeared to be carved in disap
proving stone, his eyes pale and hard. She sighed. ‘Oh, well…it was kind of you to come back. Thank you.’ She had no chance to say more, for he had gone, driving much too fast again.
She very nearly told Joan about it when she got back, but really there didn’t seem much point; beyond meeting the professor again, nothing had happened; he still disliked her, indeed, even more so, she thought. There was the possibility that she might not see him again. She paused in the brushing of her mane of hair to reflect that whether he liked her or no, they had met again—she could have stayed her whole two weeks in Holland and not seen hair nor hide of him; she tended to regard that as some sort of sign. Before she got into bed she sat down and wrote to her mother and father; after all, she had told them about him in the first place, they had a right to know that her sudden whim to go to Holland had borne fruit. Rather sour fruit, she conceded.
But not as sour as all that; she was on her way down to breakfast the following morning when Berthe came running upstairs to meet her. She pointed downwards, giggling, and then pointed at Britannia, who instantly thought of all the awful things which could have happened to either Mijnheer or Mevrouw Veske and rushed past her and down the stairs at a great rate.
‘I had no idea that you were so eager to see me again,’ said the professor. ‘Should I be flattered?’
He was standing in the hall, in his car coat with his gloves in his hand, and gave her the distinct impression that he was impatient to be gone.
‘No,’ said Britannia, ‘you shouldn’t—I thought something awful had happened to the Veskes. What are you doing here? Is someone ill?’
The professor’s lip twitched faintly. ‘Cut down to size,’ he murmured. ‘I called to see you.’
Britannia’s incurable optimism bubbled up under her angora sweater, but she checked it with a firm metaphorical hand and asked: ‘Why?’
‘I owe you an apology for my behaviour yesterday. I offer it now.’
‘Well, that’s handsome of you, Professor, I’ll accept it. I expect you were worrying about something and felt irritable.’
‘You concern yourself a little too much about my feelings, Miss Smith. Perhaps it would be better if you were to attend to your own affairs.’
She had annoyed him again. The optimism burst its bubble and she said quietly: ‘I’m sure you’re right. Thank you for coming—I expect you want to go…’
He gave her a long look and went to the door without a word, but before he could open it she had nipped across the hall to stand beside him. ‘I’m only here for a fortnight,’ she told him, and then, unable to resist the question: ‘Do you really live near here?’
‘Yes. Goodbye, Britannia.’
So that was that. She went into breakfast and made lighthearted rejoinders to the questions fired at her, and presently they all began talking about their plans for the day and the professor was forgotten.
They spent the next day or so sightseeing; Mevrouw Veske was a splendid hostess. They drove to Arnhem and spent several hours in the Open-Air Museum, absorbing Holland’s national culture through centuries through its farms, windmills, houses from every province and medieval crafts, and were taken to lunch at the Haarhuis, where Britannia ate eel, so deliciously disguised that she had no idea what it was until her hostess told her. They spent the afternoon looking at the shops and buying a few trifles to take home, and arrived back at the villa exhausted but very content with their day.
The next day was Saturday and Mijnheer Veske had offered to take the two girls riding. The weather had turned cold and bright and he knew the charming country around them like the back of his hand. Britannia, a rather wary horsewoman, found that she was enjoying herself immensely; her mount was a calm beast who made no effort to play tricks but was content to trot along after the other two, so that Britannia relaxed presently and looked around her. There were woods on either side of them, with here and there a small estate between the trees. Mijnheer Veske, who had lived there all his life, found nothing out of the ordinary about it, but she longed to explore away from the lanes; the glimpses of the houses she saw fired her imagination, and just as they were about to return home she caught a glimpse of a really splendid house, its gables tantalisingly half hidden by the trees surrounding it. There was a narrow lane running round the walls of the grounds, too. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask her host if they might ride a little way along so that she might see more of it, but it was already eleven o’clock and she knew that the Veskes lunched at midday. She made herself a promise that before she went back to England she would either cycle or ride that way and see it for herself.
They all went to church the next morning, driving to Hoenderloo in the Citroën. Britannia couldn’t help but wonder if the service would be of any benefit to herself and Joan, but it had been taken for granted that they would accompany the Veskes, and it would be an experience.
The church was red brick, built in the jelly-mould style with whitewashed walls and plain glass windows. It was lofty and spacious and on the cold side, but Britannia forgot all about that in her interest in following the service. It seemed one stood up when one would kneel at home, and sat down when one would stand, but the hymns, surprisingly, had the same tunes even though the words were incomprehensible. They were sung rather slowly too, so that she had the chance to try out some of the verses, much to Joan’s amusement. It was as the sermon began that she saw the professor, sitting in the front of the church and to her right, and he wasn’t alone. Beside him was a fair-haired girl with a beanpole figure draped in the height of fashion. Britannia, sitting between her host and hostess, wondered about her. She was undeniably beautiful if one liked glossy magazine types. She glanced down at her own nicely rounded person and sighed to be slim and golden-haired. There was only one tiny crumb of comfort; the professor didn’t look at his companion once; his arrogant profile was lifted towards the dominee, thundering away at the congregation from under his sounding-board.
And presently, as the congregation left the church, the professor and his companion passed the Veskes’ pew. He acknowledged their greeting pleasantly, smiled nicely at Joan and then wiped the smile off his face as he bent his cold eyes on Britannia, who so far forgot herself as to wrinkle her nose at him and turn down the corners of her pretty mouth in an unlady-like grimace. If he wanted war, he should have it!
A belligerent decision which was made to look silly, for as they rose from Sunday lunch the professor arrived at the front door to enquire for her, and when she went into the sitting room where the giggling Berthe had shown him, it was to find him nattily attired in tweeds and an anorak, with the bland invitation to go cycling with him.
‘Me?’ asked Britannia, much astonished.
He opened his eyes wide in exaggerated surprise. ‘Certainly you. I was under the impression that you had asked me to accompany you—healthy exercise, you said, and the certainty that fresh air would be good for my temper.’
She eyed him with astonishment. ‘And you’ve actually got a bike? You want to go cycling? With me?’
‘Yes.’
She beamed at him; the fairies were very much on her side after all. ‘Give me two minutes,’ she begged him.
It took her rather less than that to pull another sweater over her skirt, wind a scarf round her neck and tie a scarf round her hair, and another minute to explain to Mevrouw Veske, who looked pleased if surprised. ‘Well, at least one of us has found Prince Charming,’ observed Joan.
‘Stuff!’ retorted Britannia. ‘He’s only doing it because he thinks I’m a fool on a bike.’
‘Well, you are, ducky,’ said Joan cheerfully. ‘I expect he’ll teach you the rules of the road.’
But he didn’t; they cycled amiably enough along the route she had chosen and when he asked why she particularly wanted to go that way she told him about the house she had glimpsed and hadn’t had time to see. ‘It looked exciting, like things do look when you can’t see them properly—just the gables between the trees and a lovely park
.’ She turned to look at him and wobbled alarmingly so that he put out a hand to steady her handlebars. ‘I still don’t know where you live, you know, and I quite understand that you don’t want me to know, though I can’t think why, but you must have a house somewhere within cycling distance; you’ll know who the house belongs to, I expect. There’s a little lane running round the park walls. Do you suppose the owner would mind very much if we went down it and looked over the wall?’
She was so intent on riding her bicycle in a manner to win his approval that she didn’t see the professor’s expression. Astonishment, amusement and then sheer delight passed over his features, but none of these were apparent in his voice. ‘I believe it is possible to cycle right round the grounds—there should be a better view of the house. Why are you so interested?’
‘Well, it sounds silly, but I had a funny feeling when I saw it first—as though it meant something to me.’ She glanced at him and found him smiling and went on defensively, ‘All right, so it’s silly—I’m not even in my own country and I don’t know anyone here except the Veskes—and you. Perhaps it’s derelict.’
Her companion looked shocked. ‘No—someone lives in it.’
‘Oh, you know them?’
‘Yes.’
They had passed the crossroads and were in the narrow lane curving between the trees with the professor leading the way.
‘What I like about you,’ observed Britannia, ‘is the terseness of your answers.’
He slowed a little so that she could catch up with him. ‘I had no idea that there was anything you liked about me,’ he said suavely.
Which annoyed her so much that she forgot about the brakes and back-pedalled so that he had to put a steadying hand on her arm. ‘Now, now,’ he chided her in a patient, superior voice which annoyed her even more.
But she couldn’t remain vexed for long; the air was cold and exhilarating and the countryside charming, and had she not got just what she had wished for most? The professor’s company…