by Betty Neels
A kind of compliment, Serena decided, and warmed just a little towards him. But only for a moment. ‘You are unobtrusive,’ he went on. ‘There is nothing about you to distract my attention from my work—’
‘Just like Miss Payne,’ said Serena through her teeth.
‘Exactly so, and I must remind you that a change of scene may be a help to your mother and aid her to overcome her ill health. She seemed delighted at the idea.’
Serena, hanging on to politeness by the skin of her teeth, agreed that that was so.
He smiled again, looking faintly smug, and she longed to refuse the job out of hand, but the thought of her mother stopped her. She said reluctantly, ‘Very well, I’ll work for you, Dr ter Feulen.’
‘Splendid.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘And since I have kept you talking I will drive you home and make the acquaintance of your mother.’
She opened her mouth to protest, and closed it again. Getting the better of him was like getting the better of a feather mattress with a solid core of steel.
Her annoyance was very slightly mitigated by the pleasure of riding in a Bentley, but not sufficient for her to do more than answer his casual talk with monosyllables. She opened her front door and said with false politeness, ‘Do come in, Dr ter Feulen,’ and flattened herself against the wall to allow his considerable bulk to get past her.
Her mother’s voice sounded thinly from the sitting-room. ‘Serena? You’re late again, darling—I hope you’ve thought of something nice for my supper, I’m far too exhausted to do anything about it. Perhaps a glass of sherry...?’
The doctor glanced at Serena’s face, which was a little pale and weary after a day’s work. He had been right in his surmise about her mother; a selfish woman, not unkind but quite uncaring of anyone but herself. He put a large hand on her shoulder and smiled a little, and she stifled an urge to fling herself on to his big chest and have a good cry.
‘Come and meet Mother,’ she invited in a small controlled voice.
The doctor had charm. He also had guile and the self-assurance to deal with difficult situations without anyone else realising the fact. Within half an hour, over a glass of sherry, he had arranged matters exactly to his liking, with Mrs Proudfoot agreeing to every word, and although he had included Serena in the conversation she was bound to admit later that she had been given no opportunity to say anything much. The whole matter had been settled by the time he took his leave.
The moment he had gone Mrs Proudfoot went back to her desk. ‘My dear,’ she exclaimed excitedly, ‘this is all so thrilling—and so little time! I shall need several more dresses. Be a darling and start the supper while I go over my list.’
Over supper Mrs Proudfoot discussed the trip. She had for the moment overlooked the fact that it was to be no social round. She was envisaging days packed with outings, theatres and little dinners. In none of these plans did Serena figure.
‘Mother,’ said Serena, matter-of-factly, ‘I don’t suppose it will be quite as exciting as you suppose. We don’t know a soul in Holland—’ she ignored her mother’s quick ‘Dr ter Feulen,’ ‘—I shall be away all day, and I imagine that the lodgings the doctor has in mind will be fairly quiet.’
Her mother made a pouting face. ‘Darling, you are so prosaic! It’s the chance of a lifetime, and you might at least be pleased about it and not spoil my pleasure by boring on about your work.’ She patted Serena’s arm and smiled beguilingly. ‘Serena, don’t mind me saying this, but I am your mother and I want the best for you. Take care you don’t become a prig—sometimes you’re too good to be true.’
She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘There, don’t I sound horrid? But I say it for your own good. You don’t want to spend all your life in a dull office, do you?’ She patted her carefully arranged curls. ‘Besides, I might marry again.’
Serena, the memory of whose father was still a well-hidden sorrow, poured coffee and handed her mother a cup. ‘Anyone I know?’ she asked.
‘Well, no, dear, but I flatter myself that I’m still fairly youthful as well as being good company, and who knows, I might meet someone I like in Holland.’
Perhaps she had done the wrong thing in agreeing to take on the new job, thought Serena worriedly, and when, some days later, she met Dr ter Feulen at the hospital, she begged a moment of his time, and when he paused impatiently with a politely curt, ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ she wasted no time in coming to the point.
‘I don’t think it will help Mother at all to go to Holland,’ she said, not mincing matters. ‘She leads such a quiet life, and she’s delicate...’
‘Since you were worried about your mother’s health, Miss Proudfoot, I made a point of visiting her. And as we are speaking plainly, I must tell you that I formed the opinion that there is nothing the matter with your mother. Her health would improve immediately if she were to take up some occupation—housework, cooking, voluntary work of some kind. If that sounds to you harsh I do not mean it to be so. I have no doubt that during the weeks she will be in Amsterdam she will find friends and perhaps involve herself in some activity or other.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Forgive me, I’m due in theatre.’
Not a very satisfactory conversation, reflected Serena.
She was kept busy at home as well as at work. She had been unable to discover for how long they would be away, but all the same all the particulars appertaining to the closing of the house had to be attended to, arrangements had to be made at the bank so that her mother’s pension could be transferred and passports renewed, which didn’t leave much time over for her own shopping.
It was October now and, although the pleasant autumn weather still held, there was a nip in the air and yet it might not be cold enough for a winter coat. She dug into her savings and got herself a short wool coat in a pleasing shade of aubergine and found a pleated skirt in a matching check. An outsize cream sweater and a couple of blouses completed the outfit and would, she considered, stand her in good stead for the duration of her stay in Holland. A dark green jersey dress, by no means new but a useful addition to her wardrobe, and a brown velveteen dress, very plain but nicely cut, a raincoat, a pair of court shoes and a sensible pair of walking shoes would, she considered, be sufficient for her needs, although at the last minute she added a thick tweed skirt and a rather elderly anorak as well as woolly gloves and a woolly cap. Mrs Dunn had told her that Miss Payne, on a previous visit to Holland, had suffered badly from nipped fingers and cold ears.
Her mother’s wardrobe was much more varied and very large and certainly there was enough to cover the entire winter, but Serena forbore from remarking on this after a first attempt which had ended in her mother saying pettishly that it was obvious that she wasn’t wanted and she might as well stay at home alone as she always was. ‘After all I’ve done for you,’ she ended, and Serena, soothing her back to a good humour, sighed to herself. A good and loving daughter, nevertheless sometimes she longed to have her freedom; to lead her own life and make friends of her own age. She had friends, of course, but nowadays they were either married and living miles away or living on their own with splendid jobs entailing a good deal of travelling and meeting important people. From time to time they had suggested to her that she might share a flat and find a job, but her mother had made that impossible; not by standing in her way but by becoming pale and silent and pathetically cheerful about the future. She would, of course, manage, she told Serena. She would sell their home, of course, for she could never manage to run it alone, and she would find one of those flats where there was a warden to look after one if one became ill and didn’t wish to worry one’s family. There wouldn’t be much money, of course, without Serena’s contribution, but she had no doubt that she would contrive. And all this said with a brave smile and a wistful droop that wrung Serena’s heart and squashed any hopes of a life of her own.
It was several days after her convers
ation with Dr ter Feulen that she found a letter on her desk when she arrived at work—a typed letter setting out the day on which she and her mother were to travel and from where. They were to fly, and she would receive their tickets in due course. They would be met at Schiphol airport and taken to the boarding-house where rooms had been reserved for them. She was to report for work on the following morning at eight o’clock. Her timetable would be at the boarding-house. He had signed it M. Dijkstra ter Feulen.
When Serena got home she showed her mother the letter. Mrs Proudfoot was put out. ‘I can’t see why we couldn’t go over to Holland in his car! He must be going at about the same time. With my poor health all this business of getting to Heathrow and flying to Amsterdam is bound to upset my nerves.’
Serena held her tongue. The doctor had made it plain that he considered that her mother was as fit as the next woman, but he had spoken in confidence. Perhaps when the time was right, he would suggest that she should change her lifestyle. ‘Possibly he’ll travel at an awkward time,’ she suggested tactfully.
It was two days before they were due to leave that she heard quite by accident that he had already left the hospital. ‘Left late last night,’ Mrs Dunn told her, ‘and he’s not expected back for several weeks, so Theatre Sister tells me, although there are several cases lined up for him before Christmas.’ She eyed Serena curiously. ‘Don’t you know how long you’ll be gone?’
‘Not exactly. It depends on his work in Holland.’
‘Oh, well, you’re a lucky girl, stepping into Miss Payne’s shoes and getting a chance to travel a bit. Mind you, he expects a lot from his secretary. Miss Payne was with him for quite a time, it’ll be hard to live up to her standards...’
Not a very cheering prospect, but one Serena was prepared to ignore. However hard she would have to work she would be in a foreign country and she intended to make the most of it. Moreover, from the moment she stepped on to Dutch soil, she would be earning considerably more money. If they were back home for Christmas, and she was sure that they would be, they would be able to go to a theatre or two, and buy all the extras which made all the difference at the festive season, perhaps have a day shopping at her mother’s favourite stores... ‘I’ll do my best,’ she assured Mrs Dunn cheerfully.
Mrs Proudfoot had insisted on a taxi to Heathrow, an expense which Serena could well have done without, and, once there, her mother complained about having time to wait for their flight, the coffee, the lack of comfortable seats and how exhausted she was. Serena, occupied with luggage, tickets and passports, bit back impatient words, assured her mother that once they were on the plane everything would be fine, and so it was. The flight was brief, the coffee and biscuits they were offered passed the time very nicely and in no time at all they were at Schiphol.
There was a tricky delay while Serena fetched their bags from the carousel and a few anxious moments wondering if they would be met, quickly forgotten when an elderly man approached them. ‘Mrs Proudfoot and Miss Proudfoot? Dr Dijkstra ter Feulen wished me to meet you. My name is Cor, if you will please follow me.’
He was a sturdily built man and made light of their suitcases, walking ahead of them out of the airport entrance and leading them to a dark blue Jaguar. He opened the car door and ushered them in, put their bags in the boot and got into the driver’s seat.
‘A drive of half an hour,’ he told them, and started the car.
Mrs Proudfoot had stopped complaining, for there was nothing to complain about—indeed, she became quite animated as they neared Amsterdam, exclaiming over the churches, old houses and canals once they had gone through the modern encircling suburbs. Cor stopped finally in a narrow street with blocks of flats interspersed with solid houses, built of red brick round the turn of the century. It was to one of these that he led them, rang the bell and waited with them until the door opened. The woman who answered it was middle-aged and stout, with a pleasant face and small beady eyes.
‘The English ladies,’ she greeted them. ‘Welcome. Come in, please.’
Her English was as good as Cor’s but heavily accented. She spoke to him in their own tongue and he went to the car and fetched the luggage and put it in the hall. ‘I wish you a pleasant stay,’ he told them, and Mrs Proudfoot smiled graciously.
Serena shook his hand and thanked him. ‘It was so nice to be met by someone who speaks English; it all seems a bit strange, and we are most grateful.’ She started to open her purse, but he laid a large beefy hand on hers.
‘No, no, miss. That is not necessary—the doctor has arranged all...’
He gave her a beaming smile, said something to their landlady and went away.
‘So, now we will go to your rooms. My name is Mevrouw Blom and I am glad to know you. Come...’
Serena picked up one of their cases and Mevrouw Blom took the other two, while Mrs Proudfoot carried her umbrella. The stairs leading from the narrow hall were steep, covered in serviceable carpeting and led to a narrow landing. Mevrouw Blom opened two of the three doors and waved Serena and her mother into the rooms. They were identical as to furniture: a bed, a table under the narrow window with a small mirror, a small easy chair, a small table by the bed and a large, old-fashioned wardrobe. The floors were wooden, with rugs by the beds and under the windows. There were overhead lights as well as bedside lamps and a radiator against one wall in each room. ‘You will tidy yourselves,’ said Mevrouw Blom cheerfully, ‘and then return to the room below and take coffee.’
‘The bathroom?’ asked Serena.
‘Ah, yes—there is a shower-room.’ The third door was opened to show a tiled shower-room with a washbasin.
Mevrouw Blom went back downstairs and Mrs Proudfoot turned to Serena. ‘I thought it would have been a hotel,’ she complained peevishly. ‘It’s nothing but a cheap boarding-house!’
‘Mother, it’s clean and warm and quite nicely furnished, and you mustn’t forget that the doctor is paying for both of us; he had to pay for me, I know, but he needn’t have done so for you.’ She kissed her mother. ‘Let’s tidy ourselves and go downstairs.’
Mevrouw Blom was waiting for them and ushered them into a large room which opened into a second smaller room at the back of the house. Both rooms were well furnished with comfortable chairs, small tables, and, in the smaller of the rooms, several tables were laid for a meal. Mrs Proudfoot brightened at the sight of the TV in one corner and the closed stove in the larger of the rooms. She sat down in a chair close to it while Mrs Blom poured coffee and handed cups with small sugary biscuits. The coffee was delicious and she sipped it. Perhaps it wasn’t too bad...
‘I have a letter for you, miss,’ said Mevrouw Blom, ‘from Dr Dijkstra ter Feulen. He tells me you go to work at eight o’clock, therefore there is breakfast for you at half-past seven. The hospital is five minutes’ walking—I will show you. You eat your supper here each evening and if you are late that is OK.’ She chuckled. ‘Miss Payne, when she was here, was sometimes late, but that is not important.’
She poured more coffee and Serena, with a murmured excuse, sat down near the window to read her letter.
It was a cold businesslike missive, but she hadn’t expected anything else. She was to present herself at the porter’s lodge at eight o’clock, where she would be taken to the room where she was to work. She was to be prepared to go to the wards, outpatients’ clinic or the theatre block, and she should familiarise herself with the hospital at the earliest opportunity. Here her normal working day would end at five o’clock with an hour for lunch, but these hours might be varied. He was hers, M. Dijkstra ter Feulen. At least she supposed the unreadable scrawl was his.
She folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. He might have expressed the hope that she would like her work, or something equally civil. He was not a man to waste words on polite nothings, however. To her mother’s enquiry as to the contents of the envelope, she
replied in her calm way that it only contained instructions as to her work. ‘I shall be away all day, Mother, so for the time being don’t plan anything for the evenings, as Dr ter Feulen mentions that I may need to work late. I shall know more when I’ve been there for a day or two.’
Her mother was prepared to argue, but at that moment several people came into the room and Mevrouw Blom with them.
‘These ladies and gentlemen are also staying here,’ she explained. ‘I make them known to you now.’
There were two middle-aged ladies, stout and well dressed, who smiled broadly, shook hands and murmured.
‘They tell their names,’ said Mevrouw Blom. ‘Mevrouw Lagerveld and Mevrouw van Til, and the gentlemen...’
Mijnheer van Til shook hands and spoke, to Serena’s relief, in English. ‘I am charmed, now I may exercise my English?’ and Mijnheer Lagerveld, shaking hands in his turn, essayed a few words with the excuse that his English was poor.
‘Here we have a surprise,’ chimed in Mevrouw Blom, looking pleased with herself. ‘This is Mr Harding, from England, who stays with me while he studies the old houses of Amsterdam.’
He was a thin man of middle height, nice-looking with grey hair and mild blue eyes. Serena guessed him to be in his early sixties.
‘This is a most pleasant surprise,’ he observed as he shook hands. ‘I hope you’ll be staying for some time.’
Mrs Proudfoot smiled charmingly. ‘Oh, I think so. My daughter is to work at the hospital for some weeks and I’ve come with her—my doctor considered a change of scene might improve my health.’
She looked round her and sighed with pleasure. Perhaps it wasn’t such a cheap boarding-house after all. Here was company, people she could talk to, and Mr Harding looked quite promising...
Serena left them presently and went upstairs to unpack her things, and then, since her mother had done nothing about her own luggage, unpacked for her, too, hung everything tidily away in the wardrobe and went back to her room to read the doctor’s letter again. If she had hoped to read a little warmth into it she failed.