by Betty Neels
He had gone again, taking Caesar at a careful trot down the drive, the dogs at his heels.
It was a dark evening and the overhanging trees made it even darker. The professor kept the beam from his torch steady, not bothering to turn its light from side to side of the road, he was so sure where Britannia would be. He urged his horse along now, holding the reins with easy assurance, his face without expression, giving no hint of the mounting impatience he felt. At the crossroads he was forced to slow down, for the ground had become even more treacherous, but he whistled to the dogs and urged them on ahead, watching their progress. He paused for a moment where he and Britannia had first stopped, but there was no sign of her and he went on again, searching the thicket on either side of him until he heard Jason’s deep bark and Willy’s excited yap. He could just make them out by the torch’s light, standing one each side of Britannia, sprawled across the lane.
The professor swung himself off his horse with the agility of a much younger man and knelt down beside her. Britannia was still unconscious. Her white face, with a nasty bruise down one side of it, looked quite alarming by the light of the torch, but the professor wasted no time in exclaiming over her appearance. He took her pulse, found it to be strong and regular, noted her grossly swollen ankle and said briskly: ‘Wake up, Britannia, we have to get you home.’
He repeated himself several times, interlarded with several pungent remarks in his own language although Britannia, recalled to consciousness by the insistence of his voice, really had no idea of what he was saying. She opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, looking so formidable that she frowned and closed her eyes again. She opened them almost immediately though, because there were two dogs looking at her too. She said in a very small voice: ‘The Bouvier and the Corgi,’ and then: ‘You’re wearing a good suit…it’ll be spoilt.’
The professor didn’t smile. He said something forceful in his own language again and Britannia thought it prudent not to ask what it was. She said helpfully: ‘I’ve hurt my ankle. I’m sorry I can’t walk, I crawled for a while, but I don’t think I got very far. If you wouldn’t mind just helping me to the end of the lane, I’d be all right there while you go and telephone Mijnheer Veske. He’ll take me to hospital and they can strap it…’
The professor was busy; he had cut the shoe lace of the sensible shoe she was wearing and was carefully slicing it open so that he could ease it off her injured ankle. He held her foot steady in one large gentle hand and worked with the other, and only when she stopped talking because the pain was so bad did he speak. ‘Stop issuing instructions like a demented great-aunt, Britannia. You must know that I shan’t listen to a word of them, nonsensical as they are. And now grit your teeth, my girl, this is going to hurt.’
It did, but she didn’t utter a sound, only shivered and shook and felt sick, and then, when the shoe was off and she felt the warmth of the blanket about her, so relieved that the tears she had so sternly held in check escaped at last.
Her rescuer turned the torch on her face then and examined the bruise, muttering to himself so that she managed at last: ‘Please don’t be so angry, Jake, I know it’s awkward—I mean meeting again after we’ve said goodbye.’ Some of her spirit returned. ‘And it’s very rude to mutter and mumble so that no one knows what you’re saying.’
‘You want to know what I was saying?’ He picked her up effortlessly, although she was a big girl. ‘That if you had listened carefully, you would know that I didn’t say goodbye.’
He strode over to where Caesar stood waiting and Britannia let out a squeak of surprise. ‘A horse—he’s huge!’ She added apprehensively: ‘I can’t get up there…’
He didn’t even bother to answer; she was lifted and laid across the great beast’s neck and while she was still panicking about holding on, the professor had swung himself up behind her, picked up the reins, whistled to the dogs and had turned for home.
He went slowly and carefully, but all the same her ankle was agonisingly painful. It was quite dark now and the road when they reached it was deserted. She said suddenly: ‘It’s a good thing it’s dark, we must look quite extraordinary.’ She gave a tired little chuckle and when he didn’t speak, she asked: ‘Are you still angry?’
His voice came from the darkness above her. ‘I am not angry.’
She drew a sharp breath as Caesar stumbled on a stone and she felt the professor’s arm, holding her firmly round the shoulders, tighten. After a moment he said quietly: ‘We’re almost home.’
He hadn’t once spoken a word of sympathy, she reflected in a rather woolly fashion. Any other man…but then any other man might have wasted time doing just that, while he had done everything possible with a swift efficiency and a minimum of talk, and he had known where to find her… She was framing a question about that when Caesar came to a halt and she was aware of lights and voices.
Being lifted down was a painful business; Britannia gritted her teeth and kept her eyes shut as the professor carried her indoors, suddenly too tired to mind about anything any more.
CHAPTER SIX
HALFWAY UP the staircase Britannia roused herself sufficiently to say: ‘I’m too heavy,’ but the professor didn’t speak, keeping up a steady, unhurried pace until he reached the gallery above. Emmie was ahead of him, ready with the door open of a room at its end. She had the bed turned down too and a blanket spread on it on to which he laid Britannia, who, feeling its warm security and seeing Emmie’s kind face peering at her, not surprisingly went immediately to sleep.
She didn’t sleep for long, although when she woke it was to find that someone had got her out of her clothes and put her in a nightgown; she vaguely remembered lifting arms and raising her head and Emmie’s voice murmuring comfortingly, and now she lay, nicely propped up with pillows, the bedcovers turned back, disclosing an ugly, swollen ankle. She was frowning at it when Emmie came back with the professor at her heels.
His ‘Hullo, feeling better?’ was laconic, but his examination of her foot was meticulous and very gentle. He hadn’t quite finished when Britannia asked: ‘Please will you telephone Mijnheer Veske? If someone could lend me a dressing gown he could take me to Arnhem…’
‘And what do you propose to do in Arnhem?’ the professor wanted to know without bothering to look at her.
‘Well, get this strapped, then…’
‘I believe that I am still capable of strapping an ankle.’ His voice was silky.
‘Oh, I’m sure you are,’ soothed Britannia. ‘What I mean is, I wanted to get away from here—at least, I don’t want to, if you see what I mean, but it would be so much nicer for you.’
‘You have a quite nasty contusion over your left eye, probably a little concussion as a consequence, which would account for your muddled conversation.’
Indeed her head did ache; she had done her best and she suspected that her ankle would become even more painful before it was strapped. ‘I don’t feel quite the thing,’ she admitted.
‘That is hardly surprising.’ He sounded austere. ‘I am going to strap that ankle. It is a sprain. I was able to take a look at it while you were in a faint. Tomorrow you will go to the hospital and have an X-ray of it, and also of your head.’
‘But I’m going home—all the arrangements…’ Her tired head whirled at the very thought.
‘Leave the arrangements to me. You’ll not be going home for a few days. And now let us attend to your ankle.’
Britannia lay still, willing herself not to let out so much as a squeak of pain. She clasped Emmie’s kind hand and squeezed it hard, and when the professor had finally done, thanked him in a trembly voice.
She got a grunt in reply and an injunction to drink the tea which would be fetched to her and then to go to sleep. ‘There’s nothing much wrong with your head that a good sleep won’t cure,’ remarked the professor with impersonal kindness.
She opened her eyes to look at him, leaning over the end of the bed, staring at her. ‘Then I don’t need to have
it X-rayed tomorrow—I’ve put you to enough trouble.’
‘And probably will put me to a great deal more.’ He nodded carelessly and went to the door, and Emmie drew up a chair and sat down by the bed. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t speak a word of English; she helped Britannia to drink her tea, shook up her pillows for her and then held her in a comfortable embrace while she cried her eyes out. She felt better after that and went to sleep almost at once, her head, very tousled, still against Emmie’s plump shoulder.
She woke hours later to a darkened room lighted by a bedside lamp, by which the professor was reading. He looked up almost immediately and came to the bed, took her pulse, looked at her pupil reactions, turned her head gently to examine the great bruise colouring one side of it and asked: ‘How do you feel, Britannia?’
She studied his face before she replied. His calm expression gave no hint as to his feelings. She sighed: ‘Not at all bad, thank you. My head feels much better—my ankle’s a bit painful but quite bearable. What’s the time?’
‘Two o’clock. Emmie has some soup for you, you will drink it and go to sleep again.’
‘Two…but you ought to be in bed, you’ll be tired out in the morning.’
There was the glimmer of a smile on his face. ‘I shall go to bed very shortly. Here is Emmie.’
The housekeeper looked even cosier than she did by day, wrapped in a thick woollen dressing gown. She bore a small tray upon which was a pipkin of soup, a dazzling white napkin and a glass of lemonade. The soup smelled delicious and Britannia’s pinched nose wrinkled in anticipation. The professor stood, book in hand, one long finger marking his place, while Emmie arranged Britannia’s pillows, tucked the napkin under her chin, removed the pipkin’s lid and offered her the soup. Only when Britannia had taken the first spoonful did he go to the door and with a quiet ‘Goodnight, Britannia,’ go out of the room. Undoubtedly he was annoyed at her having to be in his house at all. He was a good host and a good surgeon so she would receive nothing but courtesy and the best of attention while she was there, but that was all. Her lip quivered and tears filled her lovely eyes and she put the spoon down, to be at once comforted by Emmie’s ‘Nou, nou,’ and the offer of a clean handkerchief. ‘Drink,’ commanded Emmie with kindly firmness and Britannia picked up her spoon once more. She drank down the lemonade too because her attendant expected her to, but by then she was feeling tired again and her head was aching. She had barely thanked Emmie before she was asleep again.
It was daylight when she awoke for the second time, the curtains drawn to show a bright morning, a fire crackling in the steel grate. Britannia sat up cautiously and looked around her. She felt much better. There would be no need for her to be X-rayed and she would say so; she would also have to find out what had happened to Joan and whether she was to get back to the Veskes that morning…and when would she be able to go back to England? She closed her eyes and frowned, then opened them again to have a good look at the room she was in.
It was a large, airy room, with two tall windows draped in rose pink silk, a colour echoed in the bed-cover of quilted chintz and the upholstered armchairs, the furniture was painted white picked out with gilt and the floor was carpeted in a soft misty blue, very restful to the eye. A charming room, and luxurious. Britannia closed her eyes once more and wondered what could be the time. She opened them almost at once, though, because someone was knocking at the door, and in answer to her ‘Come in’, Mevrouw Luitingh van Thien entered.
‘Good morning, my dear,’ she said, and smiled. ‘Jake told me to wait until you were awake before giving you your breakfast. I’m glad to see that you have slept. Emmie is coming in a few minutes with tea and toast for you—he said to give you nothing more than that until you have been to hospital. He will be back for you at ten o’clock.’
‘Oh—I was going to ask him if I need be X-rayed. I feel so much better.’
The professor’s parent shook her elegant head. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that if I were you.’ She sat herself down in a chair close by the bed. ‘One must always do as one’s doctor says.’
Britannia was on the point of saying that the professor wasn’t her doctor anyway, but stopped herself in time because it might have sounded rude. Instead she thanked her companion for her kindness in offering her shelter for the night.
Mevrouw Luitingh van Thien looked surprised and then laughed. ‘But, my dear child, it had nothing to do with me, this is Jake’s house. I stay with him from time to time, that is all. When he left this morning he put you into my care and I am more than happy to do what I can for you. I have three daughters of my own, you know, they are all married and I can assure you that when they are all here with their husbands and children, it is indeed a houseful, something Jake enjoys very much.’
‘Does he?’ cried Britannia in surprise. ‘I thought—that is, he never seems…’
Mevrouw Luitingh van Thien’s features relaxed into a smile again. ‘No, he doesn’t does he?’ she agreed. ‘And yet he loves children and his home and family.’
‘He told me that he was something of a hermit,’ said Britannia indignantly.
‘Well, so he is, if by that he means that he doesn’t have a busy social life or escort a variety of young women to some night club or other far too often.’ The lady’s tone made it plain what she thought of night clubs. ‘He enjoys a pleasant life; he has a great many friends and he loves his work, as you have no doubt seen for yourself.’ She broke off to say: ‘Ah, here is Emmie, I will leave you to enjoy your breakfast. When you have finished, she will help you to dress.’
It was only when she was at the door that Britannia remembered to ask: ‘I quite forgot to ask you. What did Mevrouw Veske say? And has Joan, my friend, you know—gone back?’
‘Of course—I forgot too—I was to tell you that Mevrouw Veske will be over to see you this afternoon, and Joan has returned as it had been arranged. She will see the Directrice of your hospital and explain what happened. You may be sure that Jake has not overlooked anything.’
Britannia tackled her breakfast with a healthy appetite, her painful ankle notwithstanding, and when Emmie came back presently with her clothes, brushed and neat, she began the business of getting them on cheerfully enough. The problem of washing had been solved by Emmie bringing a basin to the bedside, but dressing didn’t prove quite as easy as she had expected. But somehow she wriggled and twisted her way into her slacks and sweater, pausing for minutes at a time to allow the pain in her ankle to lessen, and the slacks had had to be cut in order to get her swollen foot into the leg. More or less dressed, she surveyed her person carefully and deplored her appearance. Emmie had brushed her hair and tied it back and then fetched a mirror reluctantly enough, and when Britannia saw her face in it she quite understood why; she was a sorry sight, one side of her face swollen and discoloured and a bump on her forehead the size of a billiard ball. Even if the professor had taken a fancy to her, which he hadn’t, it would have needed to have been a very strong fancy. She was still staring at her reflection when he said from the doorway: ‘May I come in?’ and then: ‘You’re going to have a black eye.’
He said something to Emmie, asked: ‘Are you ready?’ and scooped Britannia up and carried her downstairs to the car. He had very much the manner, she considered, of a man removing a misbehaving kitten to the garden; kind, firm and faintly resigned that he had had to do it in the first place.
He stowed her into the front seat beside him while Emmie and Marinus proffered cushions with which to protect her foot. This done to his satisfaction, he got in, asked her in a rather perfunctory manner if she were quite comfortable and drove to Arnhem, wasting no breath in conversation on the way and wasting no time either. Britannia, seeking in vain for a topic of conversation and unable to think of anything at all to say, was relieved when they reached the hospital, where he lifted her from the car and set her in the wheelchair a porter was sent to fetch. She felt at a distinct disadvantage with no make-up, her hair austerely brushed ba
ck by Emmie and Mevrouw Veske’s amply cut anorak dragged on anyhow; moreover, there was no vestige of glamour about a wheelchair. Not that it mattered; the professor muttered to the porter, said ‘I’ll see you in a minute,’ and stalked away, leaving her to be trundled to X-ray, past a long line of fractured arms and legs, broken collarbones, barium meals and the like, all waiting patiently for their turn. Presumably this wasn’t to be her lot; she was taken directly into the X-ray room where she was arranged on the table by a pretty nurse who nodded and smiled at her and then melted into the background as a thick-set bearded man and the professor ranged themselves beside her.
‘That is indeed a splendid bruise,’ observed the bearded man cheerfully. ‘Let us hope that there is no hairline fracture beneath it.’ He smiled broadly and held out a hand. ‘Berens—Frans Berens.’ He wrung her hand in a crushing grip and turned to the professor. ‘The skull first, I think, Jake, and then the ankle.’
It was quickly done, but she was told to stay where she was while the plates were developed, and lay, cosily wrapped in a blanket in the half dark, half asleep until the professor’s voice caused her to open her eyes.
‘No bones broken,’ he told her, ‘just a nasty sprain. Bed for a few days and then massage and exercises.’
‘But can’t I go home?’
Doctor Berens rumbled disapprovingly. ‘Indeed you cannot. You have had a nasty fall and you must have time to get over it; besides, that ankle must lose its swelling…’
‘You will return with me, Britannia,’ stated the professor in a no-nonsense voice, ‘and when you are fit, you may return home.’