by Betty Neels
Friso looked up. ‘Last night. I went to a case early this morning and didn’t stop for breakfast—came straight on here. I should think Bal is in like case.’
He said something to the other man, who shook his head and then laughed, and then made, for him, quite a long speech. Friso translated.
‘He didn’t have any breakfast either; but he says he’s glad you came, because your cooking is very good.’ He got up and put the plates on the table, and when she started to get up, said, ‘No, stay where you are, I’ll get the coffee. You deserve a rest.’ While he was doing it, he said over his shoulder, ‘The police have sent a man in to Leeuwarden; the telephone is still out of order.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The tide will be on the turn soon, they should be able to reach us within the next hour or so.’
He poured the coffee and gave her a mug. He said on a laugh, ‘I never dared to hope that you were a good cook too.’
She met his twinkling eyes with a composed air and a racing heart, hoping that her hot cheeks would be attributed to her efforts over the little stove. They weren’t.
‘You’re lovely when you blush,’ he added.
She drank her coffee in a dream, then, after taking a look at Mevrouw Bal and the baby, went to heat water for the washing up. It took some time and she filled it in by gazing out of the window at the weather, which hadn’t improved at all. The two men sat silent, puffing at their pipes with an air of not wishing to be disturbed—in any case, she could think of nothing worthwhile to talk about. She wandered over to the stairs and looked down and exclaimed ‘Oh!’ in a rather thin voice before she could stop herself. The water had risen—not just a few inches; the stairs were two-thirds covered. The water was dark and still and menacing. She drew back with a shudder and felt the reassuring touch of Friso’s hands on her shoulders.
He said placidly, ‘It won’t come any higher; the tide’s on the ebb. They’ll be able to start repairing the breach, and this will all be pumped dry in no time at all. This weather can’t last much longer.’
She twisted round to look up at him. He looked weary and he badly needed a shave, but the calm of his face wasn’t superficial; it went deep inside him. She had been frightened, but now she felt safe. She said so and he raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘That’s an illusion,’ he said comfortably, ‘because of my size. If I had been a small man, you might not have felt so safe.’
Harriet drew a deep breath. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said steadily. ‘I should feel safe with you whatever your size.’ And in the same breath, ‘The kettle’s boiling.’
The police arrived first. Two large quiet men, who reflected Friso’s calm. They came quietly up the small staircase in their heavy rubber boots and their waterproof coats, saluted the doctor as an old acquaintance, and listened wordlessly to what he had to say. Harriet had been sitting on a pile of blankets with the dog, smelly but warm, beside her. She listened to Friso’s quiet voice too—it sounded assured and completely confident; just to hear it was happiness. She caught his eye and smiled, her mouth curved delightfully, her blue eyes shone; she had forgotten the past and the future; the present was enough, here with him.
He stopped what he was saying and looked back at her, not smiling, his face impassive. In a moment he finished talking to the men and spoke to her in English.
‘Harriet, I should like you to meet two good friends of mine—Mijnheer Kok and Mijnheer Wijma.’
She scrambled to her feet, and the dog too, and shook the enormous hands held out to her. The dog grinned toothily and blinked at the men with bright eyes. ‘De hond?’ queried Constable Kok. She couldn’t understand what Friso was saying, but he could see from the expression on the policeman’s face that he accepted the explanation. The men laughed and Bal, who was at the window, stopped his laughter to point and say something to Friso. ‘The ambulance,’ he said over one shoulder, and Friso nodded to her, said, ‘See to Mevrouw Bal, will you?’ and smiled.
They had already taken down the drip, and Harriet had readied her and the baby for the journey as far as possible; but she went at once to make sure that there was nothing more that needed to be done, and in a minute or two, Friso asked, ‘May we come in?’
She held the baby while they lifted his mother on to the stretcher and strapped her firmly on to it. When they were ready, Friso said, ‘Let me have him.’ She saw that he was wearing a windcheater, and strove to speak in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘You’re going with the patient.’ It was a statement of something she had really expected.
He tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and stood while Harriet covered the small creature carefully with the plastic tablecloth she had luckily found earlier in the evening, leaving the solemn sleeping face uncovered.
Friso said quietly, ‘Stay here until I come. I’m going to see them safely into the ambulance. Bal will go with them, and the ambulance men, of course. Kok or Wijma will bring me back.’
She nodded, but couldn’t forbear from saying, ‘The water looks very deep.’
‘Well, we don’t have to walk, you know. They’ve got a couple of boats.’
She hadn’t thought of that, and smiled her relief. ‘I’ll be tidying up,’ was all she said, and watched them make their cautious way downstairs. It was quiet when they had gone, but she had the dog.
She had everything to rights by the time she heard him returning. The dog’s deep growl ceased as he heard Friso’s voice, and when he climbed the stairs, it wagged its tail, watching him with hopeful yellow eyes. Harriet said nothing, but in answer to her inquiring look the doctor said cheerfully,
‘They’ll be in Leeuwarden and tucked up in bed before we’re home ourselves. Let’s be off.’
She stood silently while he passed the bags and the Minnett’s box to the waiting men below, then obediently started down the stairs, the dog breathing hotly at her heels. The water had ebbed, but not much; she had no idea how deep it was and she had no opportunity of finding out, for Friso was suddenly there and she had been picked up and carried to the boat. The wetness of his jacket damped her cheek, but she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath it and nothing else mattered; she could have stayed in his arms for ever. Apparently the doctor had no such thought. He dumped her unceremoniously in the boat and then turned to help the dog, who was paddling gamely alongside. It stood between them, and shook itself, making them all a great deal wetter than they were already, then sneezed loudly before curling itself up at Harriet’s feet, smelling dreadfully of wet fur.
The wind was dying down at last, although the rain was coming and going in mean little squalls. They climbed the slippery path back on to the road, and the three men fetched the bags and then pulled the boat up on to the dyke. The policemen yawned hugely, grinned and said, ‘Till tomorrow,’ and went along to their car. The dog, without being asked, had got in with the paraphernalia in the back of Friso’s Land-Rover. Harriet sank into the front seat—it wasn’t all that comfortable, but after the attic, it was bliss. Friso didn’t talk—for one thing the road was in a shocking condition and needed all his attention, and for another Harriet guessed that he was very tired. The police car stopped in St Annaparochie and the policemen waved gaily as they went past, for all the world, she thought, as though they were all going home from some party. They were almost at Friso’s house when he spoke.
‘What do you intend to do with this animal?’ he inquired. She detected amusement in his voice and it provoked her to answer more sharply than she intended.
‘Look after him, of course. His owners—if he ever had any—don’t seem to want him. I shall find him a good home.’
‘Most commendable,’ observed the doctor smoothly, ‘but I doubt if Mevrouw Van Minnen will—er—welcome him as a member of the household, even for a short stay. He’s a farm dog, you know, with a reputation for fierceness and a lamentable habit of biting people he doesn’t like.’
Harriet didn’t answer at once. Then, ‘You—you don’t think anyone would like him for a pet?’
> ‘Decidedly not.’ He was very positive.
She sat silent. ‘You wouldn’t like to have him, would you?’ she said at last. ‘He’d be nice company for J. B. and Flotsam.’
She knew it was a forlorn hope, for hadn’t he just said that no one would want the poor beast?
Friso slowed down to enter his gateway. ‘You know,’ he said gently, ‘I think perhaps that’s a good idea.’ His voice gave her no inkling of the probable dog-fights which lay ahead of him. He pulled up in front of the door, there was a light on in the hall, she could see his face in its gentle glow.
‘Oh, Friso, thank you. I’ll come and see him.’
She saw him grin. ‘Rather a long journey from England, I fancy. You’ll have to rely on my good nature and regular bulletins from Sieske.’
She looked away. Once she had gone, he would add her to his list of other, perhaps forgotten girls. The thought hurt, but there was nothing to do about it. She said, determinedly cheerful,
‘I know he’ll be happy with you. I’m very grateful. Thank you for being so kind.’ She was unable to keep the relief from her voice. ‘I’m sure you won’t regret it.’
If she had hoped for wholehearted agreement on his part, she was doomed to disappointment, for he said nothing, but got out of the car and came round and helped her out without breaking his silence, unless she chose to count the low whistle he gave to the dog, who answered it by clambering over the back of the Land-Rover and coming to stand by them, shivering.
The door opened before Friso could reach for his key. Anna was in the hall, looking large and motherly in a voluminous dressing-gown. She started to talk at once, and although Harriet couldn’t understand a word of it, she was lulled by the sympathy in her voice. She had been helped half out of her jacket when she stopped suddenly.
‘But I must go back to the Van Minnens.’
‘At one o’clock in the morning? I asked the police to call up one of their men in Franeker with their walkie-talkie—he’ll take them a message; he will have delivered it by now and everyone will have gone to bed, knowing that you are safe.’
Wim had appeared silently, and the doctor handed him the soaking coats and said, ‘Sit down,’ to Harriet and started to pull off her boots. ‘Ah, yes,’ he went on, ‘the dog.’ He explained at some length, speaking Fries, because Wim and Anna preferred it. They made sympathetic sounds when he had finished, and Wim went away and returned presently with a large towel with which he started to dry the dog.
‘Shall I do that?’ asked Harriet. ‘After all, it’s because of me that he’s here.’
‘Wim likes dogs,’ Friso answered shortly, ‘so does Anna. You can be sure that he will be dried and fed and bedded down in greater comfort than he has ever known in his life before. You are going to have a bowl of Anna’s famous onion soup and then you’re going to bed.’
He pulled her to her feet, and smiled down at her, and for a moment Harriet forgot that she would be going away in a few days and would never see him again, and that the future was lonely and hopeless. She smiled back at him, her heart in her eyes.
She sat in the small sitting-room where they had had tea, and drank her soup. Friso had some too, and Anna went silently to and fro, watching eagle-eyed that she ate it all up. Afterwards she sat in a gentle stupor. ‘That soup was wonderful,’ she murmured. ‘I feel as though I’ve had a glass of brandy,’ and sat bolt upright in her chair when Friso said,
‘You have. Anna’s onion soup is something rather special. She puts in cheese and fried bread and pours brandy over them, then adds the soup. Anna is worth her not inconsiderable weight in gold.’
He got up and took her bowl away and gave her a cup of creamy coffee. She drank it, wondering what he had thought of the stew he had eaten in the cottage. She very much doubted if Anna used anything in tins—it must have tasted terrible to someone who liked his soup made with brandy… As though she had said it all out loud, he went on, ‘But I never tasted anything better than that stew this evening.’
It was silly to feel so elated. She allowed herself to be led upstairs by Anna, wrapped in a dream induced by brandy and sleepiness, and the mixture of excitement and fright which she had had to hold in check all the evening. Under Anna’s motherly eye, she bathed, donned the proffered nightgown and got into bed, to fall asleep within seconds.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SHE AWOKE TO a pale watery sunshine and sat up in bed and took stock of her surroundings. It was a pretty room—the sort of room the daughter of the house might have had, she supposed. The furniture was eighteenth-century and allied with a pink and white Toile de Jouy. Presently she got out of bed and went to look out of the window. The room was at the back of the house, overlooking the little fountain in the formal garden; even under the half-hearted sky it was a charming sight. She went back to bed, stopping on the way to look at herself in the triple mirror on the dressing-table. She frowned as she studied the nightgown—it was silk, real silk, and trimmed with a great deal of lace. It was just a little too big for her, although a perfect fit for the stunning blonde who had come to Sieske’s party—it would probably fit the brunette too, thought Harriet viciously. She got back into bed, a prey to a variety of thoughts, none of them pleasant, and all of them becoming rapidly more and more exaggerated. It was a good thing when a strapping girl with beautiful eyes and lint-coloured hair brought in her morning tea. There was a note on the tray in Friso’s handwriting. She read the untidy scrawl. ‘Breakfast in half an hour’ was all it said.
He was in the hall with the three dogs when she went down. J. B. and Flotsam were standing belligerently on either side of him, eyeing the newcomer with ill-concealed dislike.
‘Hullo, Harry,’ said Friso. ‘Have you a name for your friend? If so will you call him over to you?’
She didn’t need to call, for the dog had heard her step on the stair and turned to prance on clumsy paws to greet her. She saw that he had been bathed and combed, and carried all the signs of a dog recently well fed. He sat down beside her, facing the other dogs. She put a hand on his head and he grinned. He belonged.
‘I thought Moses would be a good name—the water, you see.’
Friso smiled. ‘A splendid name. J. B. and Flotsam will think he’s yours; they’re more likely to accept him in that case. Shall we go and have breakfast? I’ve a surgery in half an hour. I’ll take you back afterwards.’
He opened a door she hadn’t been through before—the room beyond was small, its one big window overlooking the front drive. It was furnished in the style of Biedermeyer—the walnut chairs glowed with polish, as did the heavy side table. There was a peach-coloured cloth and napkins on the breakfast table, palely echoing the heavy curtains drawn back from the window. Breakfast, Harriet noted, as she took the chair Friso held for her, was served in some splendour and calculated to tempt the most finicky appetite. Which hers was not. She poured the coffee and handed Friso a cup and went scarlet when he said, ‘You slept well? You must have found my sister’s nightgown rather on the large side—she’s a big girl, and you, if I may say so, are not.’
Before she could stop herself she blurted out, ‘It was your sister’s? I thought…’ and then, appalled, added, ‘I— I beg your pardon.’
His grey eyes held hers across the table. He said evenly,
‘Now I wonder what other idea you could possibly have had in that pretty little head of yours?’
She was saved from replying to this unanswerable question by a slight fracas between the dogs. J. B. and Flotsam had edged towards Moses, and were now each side of him, showing their teeth, and he, who could have made mincemeat of them both, was obviously restraining himself from doing just that. He was, after all, something of a guest and despite his tramp’s appearance, retained half-forgotten canine manners. He showed his own teeth in warning, then dropped his lip meekly in company with the other dogs, while Friso called them to account, which he did in a tone of voice which brooked no disobedience. Peace restored, he apparently forgo
t that he had had no reply to his question, for he began at once to tell her about the accident on the dyke—a foreign plane, off course, had crashed and exploded. What with the damage and the high tide and the gale, it had triggered off the chain of events which had led them to spend so long at the cottage under the dyke. They finished their meal, with Friso talking with a casual ease which lulled her into believing that she had imagined the anger in his eyes. He looked at his watch at length and said, ‘I must go—’ then got up and pulled the embroidered bell rope by the carved open fireplace. ‘Anna shall take you to the sitting-room—if you could amuse yourself there for an hour or so.’ His glance fell upon Moses. ‘Perhaps you had better take him with you.’
She curled up in a large armchair in the sitting-room, the dog beside her, and leafed her way through a variety of glossy magazines, but for once their contents couldn’t hold her attention. She got up and wandered around, looking at the books, which seemed to be in a variety of languages, and studying the portraits on the walls. An hour seemed a very long time, there was still five minutes of it left by the carriage clock on the mantelshelf when she opened the door leading to the salon and went in. There was plenty to see here—a glass-topped table on slender legs, displaying a collection of small silver, a great glass-fronted William and Mary china cabinet, its shelves filled with plates and cups and bowls and little figures. She examined everything slowly, picturing Friso living here, surrounded by it all, his ancestors staring down at him from their heavy gilded frames. She turned her attention to these now, and was standing before a full-length portrait of a haughty-looking young woman in a yellow crinoline when the door opened and the doctor came in.
‘You didn’t mind me coming in here?’ Harriet wanted to know.
He closed the door gently behind him and leaned against it. ‘No,’ he said, ‘my house is yours, my dear Harriet.’