by Betty Neels
Her earnest efforts were interrupted by the appearance of Claude. She looked up in some surprise as he lounged across the little plot of grass.
‘Oh, hullo, Claude,’ she forced her voice to politeness. ‘I didn’t hear the bell.’
‘I walked in,’ he told her coolly. ‘A lovely afternoon and nothing to do—I thought I might invite myself to tea.’
She closed her book. ‘Why, of course,’ and felt irritated when he sat down beside her and took it from her.
‘What’s this? Dutch grammar—my goodness, you are trying hard, aren’t you? Does Gerard know, or did he fix it up for you?’
She became evasive. ‘I have lessons from a dear old professor—it’s a difficult language, but I know quite a few words already, as well as one or two sentences.’
“‘I love you,” for instance, or should it be “do you love me?’” he asked, and added: ‘Oh, I’ve annoyed you—I must apologise, but the idea of Gerard loving anyone is so amusing that I can’t help wondering.’
Deborah turned to look at him, amazed at the fury of the rage she was bottling up. ‘I know that you are a very old friend of Gerard’s, but I don’t care to discuss him with anyone. I hope you understand that.’
‘Lord, yes,’ he said easily. ‘You have my fullest admiration, Debby—it must be hellishly difficult.’
‘I prefer you not to call me Debby,’ she told him austerely, and then, her curiosity getting the better of her good sense: ‘What must be difficult?’
He grinned. ‘Why, to be married to Gerard, of course. Everyone knows what a mess he made of his first marriage—no wonder the poor girl died…’
She had had enough; if he had intended to anger her, he had succeeded; her fury bubbled over as she got up, restraining herself with difficulty from slapping his smiling face. She said in a voice which shook with anger: ‘I was told you were Gerard’s friend, but you aren’t behaving like a friend! I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know. I think you should go—now!’
He didn’t budge, but sat looking up at her, grinning still. ‘If only I knew you better there would be a number of interesting questions I should like to ask, though I daresay you wouldn’t answer them. I had no idea that you had such a nasty temper. Does Gerard know about it, I wonder?’
‘Does Gerard know what?’ asked Gerard from the shadow of the door, and Deborah jumped at the sound of his quiet voice, hating herself for doing it, whereas Claude didn’t move, merely said: ‘Hullo, there—early home, aren’t you? The newly married man and all that?’
Deborah suddenly didn’t care if Claude was an old family friend or not; she said hotly: ‘I was just asking Claude to leave the house, but now you’re here, Gerard, I think he should tell you why.’
‘No need, my dear.’ Gerard sounded almost placid. ‘I’m afraid I have been guilty of eavesdropping—it was such an interesting conversation and I couldn’t bring myself to break it up.’
He strolled across the grass to join them. ‘Get up,’ he ordered Claude, and his voice was no longer placid, but cold and contemptuous. ‘It is a strange thing,’ he commented to no one in particular, ‘how blind one becomes to one’s friends, though perhaps friends isn’t quite the operative word. Deborah is quite right; I think you should leave my house—this instant, Claude, and not come back.’
Claude had got to his feet. ‘You’re joking…’
‘No.’
‘Just because I was going to tell Debby…’ he turned to look at her, ‘Deborah—about Sasja? Don’t be ridiculous, Gerard, if I don’t tell her someone else will.’
‘Possibly, but they would tell the truth. What were you going to tell her, Claude?’ The coldness of his voice was tinged with interest.
‘I—? Only that…’
Deborah had had enough; she interrupted sharply: ‘I’m going to my room.’
Her husband put out a hand and took her arm in a gentle grip which kept her just where she was, but he didn’t look at her.
‘Get out,’ he advised Claude softly, ‘get out before I remember that you were once a friend of mine, and if you come here again, annoying my wife, I’ll make mincemeat of you.’
Deborah watched Claude go, taking no notice of his derisive goodbye. She didn’t look at Gerard either, only after the faint slam of the front door signalled the last of Claude van Trapp did she say once more: ‘If you don’t mind—I’ve a headache… I’ll get Wim to bring you out some tea.’
‘Wait, Deborah.’ Gerard had turned her round to face him, his hands on her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry about this—I had no idea that Claude…thank you for being loyal, and in such circumstances. You have every right to be angry, for I should have told you the whole sorry story before our marriage, but it is one I have tried to forget over the years, and very nearly succeeded—the idea of digging it all up again…’
‘Then I don’t want to hear it,’ declared Deborah. ‘What possible difference could it make anyway? It isn’t as though we’re—we’re…’
‘In love?’ he finished for her. ‘No, but we are friends, companions if you like, sharing our lives, and you have the right to know—and I should like to tell you.’ He had pulled her close and his arms were very comforting—but that was all they were. She leaned her head against his shoulder and said steadily: ‘I’m listening.’
‘I married Sasja when I was twenty-eight. She was nineteen and gay and pretty and so young. I was studying for my fellowship and determined to be a success because I loved—still love—my work and nothing less than success would do. It was my fault, I suppose, working night after night when we should have been out dancing, or going to parties or the theatre. Perhaps I loved her, but it wasn’t the right kind of love, and I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t the patience to wait until I had got my feet on the bottom rung of the ladder, just as she couldn’t understand why I should choose to spend hour after hour working when I could have been taking her out.’ He sighed. ‘You see, I had thought that she would be content looking after our home—we had a modern flat in Amsterdam—and having our children.’ His even voice became tinged with bitterness. ‘She didn’t want or like children and she had no interest in my work. After a year she found someone else and I, God forgive me, didn’t discover it until she was killed, with the other man, in a plane crash.’
Deborah said into the superfine cloth of his shoulder: ‘I’m sorry, Gerard, but I’m glad I know.’ She lifted her face to meet his. ‘I wanted to slap Claude—I wish I had!’
She was rewarded by his faint smile. ‘He was right in a way, you know—I was really responsible for Sasja’s death.’
‘He was not! He made it sound underhand and beastly—quite horrible—and it wasn’t like that, nor was it your fault.’
‘Yes, it was, Deborah—I married the wrong girl just because I was, for a very short time, in love with her. Now you know why I don’t want to become involved again—why I married you.’
‘And if that’s a compliment, it’s a mighty odd one,’ she told herself silently, and swallowed back the tears tearing at her throat.
Out loud, she said matter-of-factly: ‘Well, now you’ve told me, we won’t talk about Sasja again.’ She took a heartening breath. ‘You don’t still love her?’
His voice was nicely reassuring. ‘Quite sure. My love wore thin after a very few months—when she died I had none left.’
And Deborah’s heart gave a guilty skip of joy; she was sorry about Sasja, but it was a long time ago, and she hadn’t treated Gerard very well. She registered a mental resolve to find out more about her from her mother-in-law when the occasion was right, for it seemed to her that Gerard was very likely taking a blame which wasn’t his. She drew away from him and said briskly: ‘I’ll get the tea, shall I? Would you like it out here?’
She was glad of the few minutes’ respite to compose herself once more into the quiet companion he expected when he came home; she and Wim took the tea out between them and when she sat down again
under the copper beech she saw that Gerard was leafing through her Dutch grammar.
She poured the tea and waited for him to speak. ‘Something I forgot,’ he said slowly. ‘I should have arranged lessons for you.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ she began carefully, sugaring his tea and handing him the cup, ‘I do have lessons. I asked around and I go to a dear old man called Professor de Wit four times a week. He’s very good and fearfully stern. I’ve had eight lessons so far. He gives me a great deal of homework.’
Gerard put the book down. ‘I have underestimated you, Deborah,’ he observed wryly. ‘Tell me, why are you going to all this trouble?’
She was taken aback. ‘Trouble? It’s no trouble, it’s something to do. Besides, how can I be a good wife if I can’t even understand my husband’s language? Not all your friends speak English.’
He was staring at her, frowning a little. ‘You regard our marriage as a job to be done well—is that how you think of it, Deborah?’
She took a sandwich with a hand which trembled very slightly; it would never do for him to get even an inkling. ‘Yes,’ she declared brightly. ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’ and when he didn’t reply, went on: ‘Maureen will be here next week. I know you won’t have any time to spare, but will you suggest the best outings for her? I thought I’d take her to Volendam in the Fiat—all those costumes, you know—and then we can go to the Rijksmuseum and the shops and go round the canals in one of those boats. I’m longing to go—and the Palace, if it’s open.’
‘My poor Deborah, I’ve neglected you.’
‘No. I knew that you were going to be busy, you told me so. Besides, I’ve had several weeks in which to find my own feet.’
He smiled. ‘You’re as efficient a wife and hostess as you were a Theatre Sister,’ he told her. And because she thought he expected it of her, she laughed gaily and assured him that that had been her ambition.
Presently he got to his feet. ‘I’ve a couple of patients to see at my consulting rooms,’ he told her, ‘but I’ll be back within the hour. Are we doing anything this evening?’
She shook her head. Perhaps he would take her out—she would wear the new dress…
‘Good. Could we dine a little earlier? I’ve a mass of work to do; a couple of quiet hours in the study would be a godsend to me.’
Deborah even managed a smile. ‘Of course—half past six? That will give you a lovely long evening.’
He hesitated. ‘And you?’
She gave him a calm smiling look from her lovely eyes. ‘I’ve simply masses of letters to write,’ she lied.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY FETCHED Maureen the following week, travelling overnight to arrive at Sherborne in the early morning, picking up an ecstatic child beside herself with excitement, and driving on to Deborah’s home for lunch. The boys were home for the half-term holiday too and it was a noisy hilarious meal, with the whole family talking at once, although Mr Culpeper confined his conversation to Gerard, because, as he remarked a little severely to the rest of his family, he appeared to be the only calm person present. He had, it was true, greeted his various children with pleasure, but as he had just finished translating an Anglo-Saxon document of some rarity, and wished to discuss it with someone intelligent, he took little part in the rather excited talk. Deborah could hear various snatches of her learned parent’s rambling dissertation from time to time and wondered if Gerard was enjoying it as much as he appeared to be. She decided that he was; he was even holding his own with her father, something not many people were able to do. They exchanged brief smiles and she turned back to Maureen’s endless questions.
They left shortly afterwards, driving fast to catch the night ferry, and Maureen, who had sat in front with Gerard, had to be persuaded to go to the cabin with Deborah when they got on board; the idea of staying up all night, and on a boat, was an alluring one, only the pleasures in store in the morning, dangled before her sleepy eyes by Gerard, convinced her that a few hours of sleep was a small price to pay for the novelty of driving through a foreign country at half past four in the morning.
The weather was fine, although it was still dark when they landed. Maureen, refreshed by a splendid nap, sat beside Gerard once more, talking without pause. Deborah wondered if he minded, although it was hard to tell from his manner, which was one of amused tolerance towards his small sister-in-law. Once or twice he turned to speak to her and she thought that there was more warmth in his voice when he spoke, but that could be wishful thinking, for after the unpleasant business with Claude and all that he had told her about his marriage to Sasja, she had hoped that perhaps his feelings might have deepened from friendship to even the mildest of affection.
She was to think that on several occasions during the next few days, but never with certainty. Gerard, it seemed, could spare the time to take his small relative round and about where he had not found it possible with herself, and Deborah caught herself wondering if he was seizing the opportunity to get upon a closer footing with herself. He drove them to Volendam, obligingly helped Maureen purchase postcards and souvenirs, admired the costumed villagers, standing ready to have their photos taken by the tourists, and when Maureen wished that she had a camera so that she could take her own pictures, purchased one for her. And what was more, he showed nothing but pleasure when she flung her arms around him and thanked him extravagantly for it.
They lunched that day at Wieringerwerf, after the briefest of visits to Hoorn. The restaurant was on the main road, a large, bustling place, colourful with flags and brightly painted chairs and tables on its terraces; not at all the sort of place Gerard would choose to go to for himself, Deborah suspected, but Maureen, eyeing the coloured umbrellas and the comfortable restaurant, pronounced it super. She chose her lunch from an enormous menu card and told Gerard that he was super too, and when he laughed, said:
‘But it’s true, you are super. I’m not surprised that Debby married you. If you could have waited a year or two, I’d have married you myself. Perhaps you have some younger brothers?’
‘Married, I’m afraid, my dear—but I have a number of cousins. I’ll arrange for you to meet them next time you come and you can look them over.’ Deborah saw no mockery in his face and loved him for it.
Maureen agreed to this. ‘Though I don’t suppose you’ll want me again for a little while. I mean, there are so many of us, aren’t there? You’ll only want a few at a time.’
Gerard glanced at Deborah. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said easily. ‘I think it would be rather fun if all of you were to come over and spend Christmas. There’s plenty of room.’
She beamed at him. ‘I say, you really are the greatest! I’ll tell Mother, so’s she can remind Father about it, then it won’t come as a surprise to him—he forgets, you know.’
She polished off an enormous icecream embellished with whipped cream, chocolate, nuts and fruit, and sighed blissfully. ‘Where do we go next?’ she wanted to know.
Gerard glanced at his watch. ‘I’m afraid back home. I have a list this afternoon at four o’clock.’
‘You won’t be home for dinner?’ asked Deborah, trying to sound casual.
‘I very much doubt it. Can you amuse yourselves?’
‘Of course.’ Had she not been amusing herself times without number all these weeks? ‘Shall I get you something cooked when you come in?’
‘Would you? It could be any time.’
It was late when he got back, Marijke had gone to bed, leaving Wim to lay a tray for his master. So it was Deborah who went down to the kitchen and heated soup and made an omelette and a fresh fruit salad and carried them up to the dining room.
She arranged everything on the table and when Gerard was seated went to sit herself in one of the great armchairs against the wall.
‘I hope it was successful,’ she essayed, not knowing if he was too tired to talk or if he wanted to talk about it.
He spooned his soup. ‘Entirely successful. You’re referring to the cas
e this afternoon—I had no idea that you knew about it.’
‘I didn’t. You always have a list on Thursday afternoons, but you have never been later than eight o’clock, so I guessed…’
He laughed. ‘I keep forgetting that you’ve worked for me for two years. It was an important patient and he had come a long way in the hope that I could help him, but he refused utterly to allow me to begin the operation until his wife had arrived.’
‘Was it a chondroma?’
‘Yes.’
‘Poor man, but I’m glad you could help him. His wife must be so thankful.’
Gerard began on the omelette. ‘I imagine so,’ and when he didn’t say anything else she said presently: ‘Thank you for spending so much time with us today. Maureen loved it.’
‘And you?’
‘I loved it too; it’s all foreign to me, even though I live here now.’
He frowned. ‘I keep forgetting that too. I shan’t have a minute to spare tomorrow, but I’ll manage an afternoon the day after—have you any plans?’
‘Could we go somewhere for tea? Maureen loves going out to tea, especially if it’s combined with sightseeing. I could take her on a round of the canals tomorrow.’
He speared the last of the omelette, complimented her upon her cooking and observed: ‘I know I’m booked up for tomorrow, but how would it be if you both came to the hospital and had a look round? I’ll get one of the housemen to take you round. Go to the—no, better still, I’ll come home and pick you up, only you mustn’t keep me waiting. Paul van Goor can look after you and see you into a taxi afterwards. Would you like that?’
She said very quietly: ‘Enormously,’ wondering if he was being kind to Maureen or if he was allowing her to share his life just a little at last. ‘If you’ll tell us what time you want us to be ready, we’ll be waiting.’ She got up. ‘Would you like the brandy? I’m going to fetch the coffee.’