by Betty Neels
It was after her lonely tea that she had an idea. Without pausing to change her mind, she left the house and went back to the orphanage and rang the bell, and when an old nun came to peer at her through the grille, she asked to see the Mother Superior. Half an hour later she was back home again after an interview with that rather surprised lady; she might go once a week and play with the children until such time as a permanent helper could be found. She had pointed out hesitantly that she wasn’t a Catholic herself, but the Mother Superior didn’t seem to mind. Thursday evenings, she had suggested, and any time Deborah found the little orphans too much for her, she had only to say so.
The morning post brought a number of cards and parcels for her. She read them while she ate her breakfast and was just getting up from the table when Wim came in with a great bouquet of flowers and a gaily tied box.
‘Mijnheer told me to give you these, Mevrouw,’ he informed her in a fatherly fashion, ‘and Marijke and I wish you a very happy birthday.’ He produced a small parcel with the air of a magician and she opened it at once. Handkerchiefs, dainty, lace-trimmed ones. She thanked him nicely, promised that she would go to the kitchen within a few minutes so that she could thank Marijke, and was left to examine her flowers. They were exquisite; roses and carnations and sweet peas and lilies, out of season and delicate and fragrant. She sniffed at them with pleasure and read the card which accompanied them. It bore the austere message: With best wishes, G. So he had known all the time! She opened the box slowly; it contained a set of dressing table silver, elegantly plain with her initials on each piece surmounted by the family crest. There was another card too, less austere than its fellow. This one said: ‘To Deborah, wishing you a happy birthday.’
She went upstairs and arranged the silver on her dressing table, and stood admiring it until she remembered that she had to see Marijke. She spent a long time arranging the flowers so that she was a little late for her lesson and Professor de Wit was a little put out, but she had learnt her lesson well, which mollified him sufficiently for him to offer her a cup of coffee when they had finished wrestling with the Dutch verbs for the day. She went back home presently to push the food around her plate and then go upstairs to her room. Her mother-in-law was in Hilversum, she could hardly telephone Adelaide and tell her that it was her birthday and she was utterly miserable. Thank heaven it was Thursday; at least she had her visit to the orphans to look forward to.
There was still no word from Gerard. Deborah told Wim that she was going for a walk and would be back for dinner at half past seven as usual, and set out. The evenings were chilly now and the streets were crowded with people on their way home or going out to enjoy themselves, but the narrow street where the orphanage was was quiet as she rang the bell.
The orphans assembled for their weekly junketings in a large, empty room overlooking the street, reached through a long narrow passage and a flight of steps, and one of the dreariest rooms Deborah had ever seen, but there was a piano and plenty of room for twenty-eight small children. It was when she had thrown off her coat and turned to survey them that she remembered that her Dutch was, to say the least, very indifferent. But she had reckoned without the children; within five minutes they had discovered the delights of ‘Hunt the Slipper’ and were screaming their heads off.
At the end of the hour they had mastered Grandmother’s Steps too as well as Twos and Threes, and for the last ten minutes or so, in order that they might calm down a little, she began to tell them a story, mostly in English of course, with a few Dutch words thrown in here and there and a great deal of mime. It seemed to go down very well, as did the toffees Deborah produced just before the nun came to fetch them away to their supper and bed. An hour had never gone so quickly. She kissed them good night, one by one, and when they had gone the empty room seemed emptier and drearier than ever. She tidied it up quickly and went home.
Indoors, it was to hear from Wim that Gerard had telephoned, but only to leave a message that he would be home the following evening. Deborah thanked him and went to eat her dinner, choking it down as best she could because Marijke had thought up a splendid one for her birthday. Afterwards, with Smith on her lap, she watched TV. It was a film she had already seen several times in England, but she watched it to its end before going to bed.
Gerard came home late the following afternoon. Deborah had spent the day wondering how to greet him. As though nothing had happened? With an apology? She ruled this one out, for she had nothing to apologize for—with a dignified statement pointing out how unfair he had been? She was still rehearsing a variety of opening speeches when she heard his key in the door.
There was no need for her to make a speech of any kind; it riled her to find that his manner was exactly as it always was, quiet, pleasant—he was even smiling. Taken aback, Deborah replied to his cheerful hullo with a rather uncertain one followed by the hope that he had had a good trip and that everything had been successful. And would he like something to eat?
He declined her offer on his way to the door. ‘I’ve some telephoning to do,’ he told her. ‘The post is in the study, I suppose?’
She said that yes, it was and as he reached the door, said in a rush: ‘Thank you for the lovely flowers and your present—it’s quite super—I didn’t know that you knew…’
‘Our marriage certificate,’ he pointed out briefly. ‘I’m sorry I was not here to celebrate it in the usual Dutch manner—another year, perhaps.’
‘No, well—it didn’t matter. It’s a marvellous present.’
Gerard was almost through the door. He paused long enough to remark:
‘I’m glad you like it. It seemed to me to be a suitable gift.’ He didn’t look at her and his voice sounded cold. He closed the door very quietly behind him.
Deborah threw a cushion at it. ‘I hate him,’ she raged, ‘hate him! He’s pompous and cold and he doesn’t care a cent for me, not one cent—a suitable present indeed! And just what was he doing in Geneva?’ she demanded of the room at large. She plucked a slightly outraged Smith from the floor and hugged him to her. ‘None of that’s true,’ she assured him fiercely, and opened the door and let him into the hall. She heard him scratching on the study door and after a few moments it was opened for him.
They dined together later, apparently on the best of terms; Deborah told Gerard one or two items which she thought might interest him, but never a word about the orphans. The van Doornincks were Calvinists; several ancestors had been put to death rather nastily by the Spaniards during their occupation of the Netherlands. It was a very long time ago, but the Dutch had long memories for such things. She didn’t think that Gerard would approve of her helping, even for an hour, in a convent. Her conscience pricked her a little because she was being disloyal to him; on the other hand, she wasn’t a Catholic either, but that hadn’t made any difference to her wish to help the children in some small way. She put the matter out of her mind and asked him as casually as possible about his trip to Geneva.
She might have saved her breath, for although he talked about Switzerland and Geneva in particular, not one crumb of information as to his activities while he was there did he offer her. She rose from the table feeling frustrated and ill-tempered and spent the rest of the evening sitting opposite him in the sitting room, doing her embroidery all wrong. Just the same, when she went to bed she said quite humbly: ‘I’m really very sorry to have bought such an expensive dress, Gerard—I’ll pay you back out of my next quarter’s allowance.’
‘I offered you a new dress,’ he reminded her suavely. ‘I don’t remember telling you to buy the cheapest one you saw. Shall we say no more about it?’
Upon which unsatisfactory remark she went to bed.
It didn’t seem possible that they could go on as before, with no mention of Claude, no coolness between them, no avoiding of each other’s company, but it was. Deborah found that life went on exactly as before, with occasional dinner parties, drinks with friends, visits to her mother-in-law and Gerard�
�s family and an occasional quiet evening at home with Gerard—and of course the weekly visit to the orphans.
It was getting colder now, although the autumn had stretched itself almost into winter with its warm days and blue skies. But now the trees by the canal were without leaves and the water looked lifeless; it was surprising what a week or so would do at that time of year, and that particular evening, coming home from the convent, there was an edge of winter in the air.
Deborah found Gerard at home. He was always late on Thursdays and when she walked into the sitting room and found him there she was surprised into saying so.
‘I’ve been out,’ she explained a little inadequately. ‘It was such a nice evening,’ and then could have bitten out her tongue, for there was a nasty wind blowing and the beginnings of a fine, cold rain. She put a guilty hand up to her hair and felt its dampness.
‘I’ll tell Marijke to serve dinner at once,’ she told him, ‘and change my dress.’
That had been a silly thing to say too, for the jersey suit she was wearing was decidedly crumpled from the many small hands which had clung to it. But Gerard said nothing and if his hooded eyes noticed anything, they gave nothing away. She joined him again presently and spent the evening waiting for him to ask her where she had been, and when he didn’t, went to bed in a fine state of nervous tension.
Several days later he told her that he would be going away again for a day and possibly the night as well.
‘Not Geneva?’ asked Deborah, too quickly.
He was in the garden, brushing Smith. ‘No—Arnhem.’
‘But Arnhem is only a short distance away,’ she pointed out, ‘surely you could come home?’
He raised his eyes to hers. ‘If I should come home, it would be after ten o’clock,’ he told her suavely. ‘That is a certainty, so that you can safely make any plans you wish for the evening.’
She stared at him, puzzled. ‘But I haven’t any plans—where should I want to go?’
He shrugged. ‘Where do you go on Thursday evenings?’ he asked blandly, and when she hesitated, ‘That was unfair of me—I’m sorry. I only learned of it through overhearing something Wim said. Perhaps you would rather not tell me.’
‘No—that is, no,’ she answered miserably. ‘I don’t think so.’
Gerard flashed her a quizzical glance. ‘Quid pro quo?’ he asked softly.
She flushed and lifted her chin. ‘When I married you, you made it very clear what you expected of me. Maybe I’ve fallen short of—of your expectations, but I have done my best, but I wouldn’t stoop to paying you back in your own coin!’
She flounced out of the room before he could speak and went to her room and banged the door. They were going out that evening to dinner with a colleague of Gerard’s. She came downstairs at exactly the moment when it was necessary to leave the house, looking quite magnificent in the pink silk jersey dress and the pearls and with such a haughty expression upon her lovely face that Gerard, after the briefest of glances, forbore from speaking. When she peeped at him his face was impassive, but she had the ridiculous feeling that he was laughing at her.
He had left the house when she got down in the morning. She had breakfast, did a few chores around the house and prepared to go out. She was actually at the front door when the telephone rang and when she answered it, it was to hear Sien’s voice, a little agitated, asking for Gerard.
‘Wim,’ called Deborah urgently, and made placating noises to Sien, and when he came: ‘It’s Sien—I can’t understand her very well, but I think there’s something wrong.’
Sien had cut her hand, Wim translated, and it was the local doctor’s day off and no one near enough to help; the season was over, the houses, and they were only a few, within reach were closed for the winter. She had tied her hand up, but it had bled a great deal. Perhaps she needed stitches? and would Mevrouw forgive her for telephoning, but she wasn’t sure what she should do.
‘Ask her where the cut is,’ commanded Deborah, ‘and if it’s still bleeding.’ And when Wim had told her, gave careful instructions: ‘And tell her to sit down and try and keep her arm up, and that I’m on my way now—I’ll be with her in less than two hours.’
She was already crossing the hall to Gerard’s study where she knew there was a well-stocked cupboard of all she might require. She chose what she needed and went to the front door. ‘I don’t know how long I shall be, Wim,’ she said. ‘You’d better keep Smith here. I expect I may have to take Sien to hospital for some stitches and then try and find someone who would stay a day or two with her—she can’t be alone.’
‘Very good, Mevrouw,’ said Wim in his fatherly fashion, ‘and I beg you to be careful on the road.’
She smiled at him—he was such an old dear. ‘Of course, Wim, I’ll be home later.’
‘And if the master should come home?’
Deborah didn’t look at him. ‘He said after ten this evening, or even tomorrow, Wim.’
She drove the Fiat fast and without any hold-ups, for the tourists had gone and the roads were fairly empty; as she slowed to turn into the little lane leading to the house she thought how lovely it looked against the pale sky and the wide country around it, but she didn’t waste time looking around her; she parked the car and ran inside.
Sien had done exactly as she had been told. She looked a little pale and the rough bandage was heavily bloodstained, but she greeted Deborah cheerfully and submitted to having the cut examined.
‘A stitch or two,’ explained Deborah in her threadbare Dutch, knowing that it would need far more than that, for the cut was deep and long, across the palm.
‘Coffee,’ she said hearteningly, and made it for both of them, then helped Sien to put on her coat and best hat—for was she not going to hospital to see a doctor, she wanted to know when Deborah brought the wrong one—locked the door and settled her companion in the little car. It wasn’t far to Leeuwarden and Sien knew where the hospital was.
She hadn’t known that Gerard was known there too. She only had to give her name and admit to being his wife for Sien to be given VIP treatment. She was stitched, given ATS, told when to come again and given another cup of coffee while Deborah had a little talk with the Casualty Officer.
‘Can I help you at all?’ he wanted to know as he handed her coffee too.
She explained thankfully about Sien being alone. ‘If someone could find out if she has a friend or family nearby who would go back with her for a day or two, I could collect them on the way back. If not, I think I should take her back with me to Amsterdam or stay here myself.’
She waited patiently while Sien was questioned. ‘There’s a niece,’ the young doctor told her, ‘she lives at Warga, quite close to your house. Your housekeeper says that she will be pleased to stay with her for a few days.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Deborah gratefully. ‘It’s a great hindrance not being able to speak the language, you know. My husband will be very grateful when he hears how helpful you have been.’
The young man went a dusky red. ‘Your husband is a great surgeon, Mevrouw. We would all wish to be like him.’
She shook hands. ‘I expect you will be,’ she assured him, and was rewarded by his delighted smile.
Sien’s niece was a young edition of her aunt, just as tall and plump and just as sensible. Deborah drove the two of them back to the house, gave instructions that they were to telephone the house at Amsterdam if they were in doubt about anything, asked them if they had money enough, made sure that Sien understood about the pills she was to take if her hand got too painful, wished them goodbye, and got into the Fiat again. It was early afternoon, she would be home for tea.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BUT SHE wasn’t home for tea; it began to rain as she reached the outskirts of the city, picking her careful way through streets which became progressively narrower and busier as she neared the heart of the city. The cobbles glistened in the rain, their surface made treacherous; Deborah had no chance at all when a
heavy lorry skidded across the street, sweeping her little car along with it. By some miracle the Fiat stayed upright despite the ominous crunching noises it was making. Indeed, its bonnet was a shapeless mass by the time the lorry came to a precarious halt with Deborah’s car inextricably welded to it.
She climbed out at once, white and shaking but quite unhurt except for one or two sharp knocks. The driver of the lorry got out too to engage her immediately in earnest conversation, not one word of which did she understand. Dutch, she had discovered long since, wasn’t too bad provided one had the time and the circumstances were favourable. They were, at the moment, very unfavourable. She looked round helplessly, not at all sure what to do—there were a dozen or more people milling about them, all seemingly proffering advice.
‘Can’t anyone speak English?’ she asked her growing audience. Apparently not; there was a short pause before they all burst out again, even more eager to help. It was a relief when Deborah glimpsed the top of a policeman’s cap above the heads, forging its way with steady authority towards her. Presently he came into full view, a grizzled man with a harsh face. Her heart sank; awful visions of spending the night in prison and no one any the wiser were floating through her bemused brain. When he spoke to her she asked, without any hope at all: ‘I suppose you don’t speak English?’
He smiled and his face wasn’t harsh any more. ‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘I will speak to this man first, Mevrouw.’
The discussion was lengthy with a good deal of argument. When at length the police officer turned to her she hastened to tell him:
‘It wasn’t anyone’s fault—the road was slippery—he skidded, he wasn’t driving fast at all.’