by Betty Neels
Sieske’s grandparents lived close by the Water Gate, in a house as old and charming as their son’s; they had, of course, been at the party the previous evening, but had gone home early. Now they settled down comfortably to mull over every aspect of the guests’ clothes, views and appearance, and this naturally led to a not unkindly gossip about their various friends, and finally, over cups of tea, praise of Mevrouw Van Minnen for having arranged such a memorable evening. Harriet didn’t understand the half of it, but there was a great deal to look at in the room, and Sieske translated as much as possible of the conversation, and presently old Mijnheer Van Minnen came and sat beside her, and talked, rather hesitantly, in English. He asked a great many questions and expressed surprise that she was not married, or at least engaged.
‘Perhaps you will find a husband here, Harriet,’ he said. She felt herself go pink under his sharp old eyes and was glad that they got up to go before she needed to answer.
Maggina and Taeike were home when they got back; they were tired and rather cross and didn’t talk much, and after the evening meal they went to the small room at the back of the house where they studied their school books without the temptations of the radio or television, leaving their elders to sit and talk in desultory fashion until they dispersed, by common consent to an early bed.
The next morning at breakfast, Harriet asked, rather diffidently, if she might help in the morning surgery. ‘I could look out the cards for you, Doctor, and clear up things—that’s if no one minds.’
She looked round the table. Sieske, she knew, was going to the dressmakers, the girls had already left for school…she turned back to the doctor, who smiled and said, ‘Yes, Harriet, you would be a real help, but you must not feel that because you do it today, that you have to do it every day.’
The waiting room was full; it was, Harriet thought, very like Out-Patients in hospital. The fact that she was unable to understand a word of what was being said made very little difference. Cut fingers and earache and varicose ulcers were the same in any language. The plump rosy-cheeked babies cried in exactly the same way as did the babies at home, and the small boys were just as bent on having their own way. The last patient came and went, and she cleared up, closed the filing cabinets and went back through the door into the house, and if she felt disappointment at not seeing Dr Eijsinck, she didn’t admit it to herself.
They went to the Planetarium in the afternoon; there was no one there but herself and Sieske and the curator, who explained the complexity of nails in the little attic, and answered her questions in schoolmaster’s English. She had no doubt at all that he would have answered her just as easily and fluently in French or German. They went back downstairs into the small back room where the solar system revolved, year after year, around the blue wooden ceiling. It was a small house; she imagined it centuries earlier, not very well furnished, but cosy. Like so many other houses in Holland, it became home the moment you entered the front door. But perhaps, she reflected, that only applied to the old houses she had been in; she had had no opportunity to visit anything modern and didn’t particularly want to. She wondered, fleetingly, if she would be given the opportunity to see inside Dr Eijsinck’s house. The possibility seemed remote.
It was the next morning, during their early morning gossip, that Sieske said, ‘Let’s go over to Friso’s house this afternoon; Father is on call this week-end, and Mother will stay with him, and Maggina and Taeike are going to some friends. There’s an old bike you can have.’ She looked inquiringly at Harriet, who said, in a neutral voice,
‘That sounds fun, but won’t he mind?’
‘He won’t be there; it’s his week-end off, and he said something about going to The Hague.’
Harriet said slowly, through an aching disappointment, ‘I’d love to go.’ It would, after all, be something, just to see his garden.
They set off after lunch, laughing a good deal, for the bicycle which had been found for Harriet was an old-fashioned model, with high handlebars and a saddle to match. She felt like Queen Victoria at her most dignified until she nearly fell off when she idly back-pedalled. She had quite forgotten that was how the brakes worked.
There was a narrow paved path running beside the road to the village; for the exclusive use of cyclists, it made the journey much less hazardous for Harriet, who felt a keen urge to veer to the left. The path was uneven, and dropped a couple of feet into a ditch on its other side, so it was just as well that she had no traffic problems; besides, there was a great deal to look at and exclaim over. The April sun was warm and in its light the countryside looked as though it had been newly painted; only the sky was still a remote, pale blue, and the wind, the ever-present wind, chilled everything it touched. Harriet, despite her thick polo-necked sweater and slacks, shivered, to be warmed by the sight of the iron gates of Friso’s house, their gilded spear-headed tops shining in the sun, and standing invitingly open. The drive was short and straight, to end in a generous sweep of smooth gravel before the front of the house before it divided, to disappear round either corner. Sieske led the way to the left-hand fork. Harriet, following more slowly, surveyed the solid front door, with its imposing knocker and beautiful fanlight, and longed to get off her bike and go inside. There were three long windows before she reached the corner; she could just glimpse their draped pelmets and rich, heavy curtains; the windows continued along the side of the house too, and there was a small stone balustraded stair disappearing to a basement she could not see.
Sieske had disappeared and Harriet found her standing on the vast gravelled space behind the house. She had propped her machine against the stone balustrade which separated it from the garden below, and Harriet put hers carefully beside it and turned to look her fill. The verandah she had seen from Aede’s car ran the full width of the house behind them, a fine tracery of wrought iron, with wide floor-length windows opening on to it from the house, and a delicate stair leading to the gravel, from whose centre another stone stair led to the garden. It was a perfect example of Dutch formality; an exact rectangle enclosed by a yew hedge clipped to perfection, filled with a geometrical design of flowers in carefully matched or contrasting colours bordered by green velvet turf. There was a rectangular pool in its centre, with a flagstone path running around it, and a group of small stone children ringing a small fountain as its focal point. Harriet leaned comfortably over the stonework, looking at it all, and said at length,
‘If I lived here, with this garden, I should never want to go anywhere else so long as I lived,’ and then flushed pinkly in case Sieske misunderstood. Apparently she hadn’t, for she said merely,
‘Yes, it is beautiful, and old too. Friso’s ancestor, the one who built the house, made the garden—it’s not been changed since.’ She turned away and said, ‘Let’s go and find Jan—he’s the gardener—and tell him we’re here.’ She led the way along a narrow path at right angles to the house; it had turf borders and dense shrubbery on either side.
‘This leads to the greenhouses,’ explained Sieske. ‘I’ll go on ahead, shall I, and then come back for you.’
Left alone, Harriet slowed her steps. It was warm and sheltered and very quiet. The path curled and curled again and then divided. She took the left-hand fork and came almost immediately into a small open space, with a potting shed in one corner with a wheel-barrow outside it. Friso Eijsinck was sitting on its handle, filling a pipe. He got to his feet and said ‘Hullo,’ in a quite unsurprised way, and smiled at her so that her heart thumped against her ribs and she could barely muster breath to say ‘Hullo’ too, and then stupidly, ‘You’re in The Hague.’
‘I changed my mind,’ he said easily. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘Sieske’s gone to speak to your gardener.’ She had retrieved her breath; all the same, she thought she would stay where she was. ‘I hope it’s convenient…we didn’t think you would be home, Doctor Eijsinck.’
Her voice sounded stiff even to her own ears, as it apparently did to her listener’s
, for he said invitingly, ‘Try calling me Friso, and stop playing at Haughty Harry with me. I’m not a carefree young houseman, you know—you’re quite safe.’
She stared at him, beautiful eyes blazing beneath knitted brows, her mouth slightly open while she sought for words. ‘Well,’ she managed, ‘of all the…you…you…’ A thought struck her. ‘How did you know about Haughty Harry?’ she demanded.
He said smoothly, ‘Your fame went before you. Sieske painted a very true picture of you—I should have recognized you anywhere.’ He patted the other handle of the wheelbarrow. ‘Come and sit down.’ She did as she was bid this time, and he said, ‘That’s better; I do dislike saying everything twice.’
She asked at once, for she had to know, ‘Did you know who I was—I mean that day I was waiting on the pavement…’
‘Yes, of course. And you recognized me, didn’t you, although you didn’t know me.’
She scuffled her feet in the soft earthy ground and wondered exactly what he meant. She would like to know. She had opened her mouth to ask when Sieske’s voice, quite close, called, ‘Harry, where are you?’ She appeared beside them before they could reply and said comfortably,
‘There you are—how nice that you found Friso; I stopped to look at these orchids of yours, Friso. They’re gorgeous.’
She sat down on the wheelbarrow handle which he had vacated, and he went to sit on a chopping block. It was typical of the man, thought Harriet, that he contrived to look well-dressed in an open-necked shirt and corduroys and Wellingtons. He looked up and caught her eye, and she said in a hurry, ‘Oh, do you grow orchids? How interesting,’ and was sorry she had spoken, for he immediately began to talk about paphiopedilums and odontoglossums, only pausing to say, ‘But of course you would know all about them, Harriet.’
She gave him a level look and said flatly, ‘No. I just like gardens.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ he remarked blandly, and got to his feet. ‘And I shall be delighted to show you this one.’
They set off, the three of them, shortly to be joined by two dogs, who appeared silently from the shrubbery and padded along, one each side of the doctor who was leading the way. ‘J. B.,’ he introduced the bulldog with a casual wave of his hand, and when Harriet said ‘Hullo, J. B.’, the noble animal gave her a considered glance and plodded on. His canine companion was, however, of a quite different character; due perhaps to his peculiar appearance. He seemed to be all tail, with a long thin body and a small pointed foxy face with eyes of melting softness. He watched his master eagerly and when the doctor said ‘This is Flotsam’ danced around Harriet with a great show of good fellowship. ‘Nice dog,’ said Harriet, ‘but what a funny name.’
‘Yes, isn’t it?’ remarked Sieske, ‘but it’s just right, you see, because Friso found…’ she was quietly interrupted.
‘Shall we go round the Dutch garden first? It’s by far the best thing to see.’
They wandered around, taking their time, especially Harriet, who was inclined to go off on little trips of her own to get a closer view of anything which might have caught her eye. Her enthusiasm was shared by Flotsam who behaved as though he was seeing everything for the first time and was enraptured by it; Harriet bent down and pulled gently at a long feathery ear—he really was an unusual-looking dog, not at all the sort of animal she would expect to find. Her thoughts were interrupted by Friso saying,
‘Sieske, would you go into the house and tell Anna to have tea for the three of us—I’ll take Harriet to see the garden room and we’ll join you in a few minutes.’ He had been strolling along with an arm flung around Sieske’s shoulders, but withdrew it now, and gave her a gentle push. ‘If your mother is expecting you home you can telephone her at the same time.’
Harriet watched her friend disappear in the direction of the house, and then, because Friso was staring at her, burst into speech.
‘A garden room? It sounds delightful. Where is it? Do we go the same way as Sieske?’
She should have held her tongue, for he came very close and took hold of her hand and kissed her, very lightly, on her cheek, then said, laughing a little, ‘No, we go down here,’ and drew her along a very narrow path burrowing itself through the shrubbery. It was surprisingly short and ended opposite the small stone stairs she had passed earlier in the afternoon. They went down it, still hand in hand, with the dogs close at their heels, and Friso opened the thick wooden door on to a room lighted by a row of little windows under the verandah. It was dim and cool inside, with rows of shelves along its whitewashed walls, piled with a comfortable clutter of flower pots, seed trays, balls of string and watering cans. There was a heavy wooden table against one wall and a variety of shabby basket chairs, plumply upholstered and well cushioned. Along the other wall there was a stone trough full with a great variety of ferns, their scent delicious and faintly damp.
Harriet looked around her. ‘It’s nice,’ she said slowly, ‘to be here, on a warm summer day, arranging the flowers for the house…’ She stopped and blushed, for she hadn’t meant to say that at all, but Friso said smoothly, as though he hadn’t heard, ‘My mother used to bring me here when I was a very small boy. I sat and watched her while she filled the vases; she did it very well.’
Harriet looked up and met his calm grey eyes, her own holding the question she didn’t like to voice; he answered it as though she had spoken. ‘She’s in Curaçao, with my young brother; he’s Medical Superintendent at the hospital there. He’s been married for a couple of years and they had a little girl a few months ago; my mother went to the christening.’ He went on deliberately, ‘I also have a sister. She’s married too, and lives in Geneva.’
Harriet bent down and tickled Flotsam’s chin, then said uncertainly, ‘I’m glad you have a family.’
‘Now why should you say that?’ he wanted to know. She found herself telling him about the stained waistcoat and the stoop and the harassed expression, then peeped at him to see if he was laughing, and was surprised to find that he wasn’t. ‘And were you sorry for me?’ he asked gravely.
‘Well, yes,’ said Harriet, and he went on, ‘But not any more.’
‘No.’ She felt foolish and a bit cross, mostly with herself. ‘How can I be sorry for you when you have a lovely home and a family and a gorgeous car,’ she paused, ‘and—and beautiful girl-friends.’
He gave a great shout of laughter, and she said with a certain peevishness, ‘I’m glad you find it amusing,’ and started to walk towards the door, but he got there first and stood in front of it, blocking it entirely, looking down at her, smiling.
‘You’re beautiful too, Harriet. Shall I add you to my collection of girl-friends?’
She stood very still, waiting for the feeling of anger which didn’t come; only a sudden wish to burst into tears followed by the urgent desire to toss off some lighthearted reply. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of one, and was still desperately searching when he said gently, ‘I’m sorry, Harriet—I had forgotten that you aren’t like anyone else.’ He opened the door and whistled to the dogs, ‘Let’s have tea,’ he said in a perfectly ordinary voice.
They entered the house from the verandah. The room, she supposed, was the drawing-room; it was very large and high-ceilinged, the walls were painted white and intricately gilded, there was a great crystal chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling, and miniature ones spaced along the walls. The floor-length curtains were of deep rose velvet, fringed and braided and elaborately swathed; they matched the carpet and the cut velvet of some of the chairs and the enormous couches on either side of the hooded fireplace, but the remainder of the easy chairs and the window cushions were covered in a pale chintz, which somehow turned the rather formal room into a very habitable one. Harriet had stopped just inside the French window; it wasn’t the sort of room to be walked through unheeding, but Friso said briskly,
‘This is the salon—drawing-room you would say, I think. We always have tea in the small parlour—it’s cosier.’
Sieske, who was curled up in a chair by the small fireplace, put down the magazine she was reading.
‘I told Anna that we would ring for tea’—she waved a hand at the small table beside her, already burdened with plates of biscuits and tiny iced cakes and paperthin sandwiches; apparently Friso liked more than a cup of tea in the afternoon. He walked across the room now, and pulled the old-fashioned bell rope, at the same time saying,
‘Sit down, Harriet,’ and took a seat himself near Sieske and asked her, ‘Are you going to Delft in the Mini?’
Sieske put down her magazine.
‘Yes. Oh, Friso, will you come too—I mean, we could all go in your car.’
He hesitated before he replied, so that Harriet was filled with a sudden excitement that he would, then he said coolly, ‘Sorry. I’m pretty sure to be busy, and there’s the baby clinic in the afternoon.’ He stretched out his vast person, so that he filled the not inconsiderable chair he sat in, and started to talk about nothing at all, and continued to do so, most entertainingly, all through tea. They got up to go presently, and Harriet reflected that he hadn’t suggested that she might like to see at least some of his house. But he made no such suggestion, nor did he mention another visit, but walked to the gates with them and said ‘Tot ziens’ in a casual way, which was, she had already gathered, the Dutch way of saying ‘See you soon’. They were some yards from the gate when he bellowed something at Sieske, who looked over her shoulder and shouted back. Harriet would have liked to look back at him too, but she recognized her limitations as a cyclist; to risk falling flat on her face would have ruined a not altogether successful afternoon. She said to Sieske, who was beside her again, ‘He sounded as though he was swearing great oaths!’