by Betty Neels
He went into the hall with her and picked up a jacket, calling something to his housekeeper. ‘I’m going over to the hospital for half an hour. We may as well walk together.’
Jason went with them, keeping close to his master, the epitome of a well-mannered dog—curling his lip at a cat sitting on a windowsill, growling at a passing poodle on its lead, but obedient to the professor’s quiet voice. They crossed the Rapenburg and paused outside Mevrouw Schatt’s house.
‘I will be here at two o’clock,’ he reminded her. ‘I wish to be back in London by the evening.’
Mevrouw Schatt had taken great pains with their meal: enormous pancakes filled with crisp bacon, swimming in syrup, a salad and something which looked and tasted like a blancmange and which she called pudding. There was a glass of milk too and, to finish, coffee. Julie, uncertain as to when she would have the next meal, enjoyed it all.
Mindful of the professor’s wish to leave on time, she fetched her things from her room, gave Mevrouw Schatt the box of chocolates that she had bought that morning and got into her jacket. It had turned much colder during the last day or two and she stuffed a scarf and gloves into its pockets, made sure that her hair was bandbox-neat and sat down to wait. Not for long! The big car drew up silently outside the front door and the professor banged the knocker.
His conversation with Mevrouw Schatt was brief and cordial; her bag and computer were put into the boot and she was invited to get into the car. Julie embraced Mevrouw Schatt, sorry to leave her kind hostess, and did as she was asked, sitting silently until they were clear of the town and on the motorway. ‘Did Jason mind your leaving?’ she asked at length.
‘Yes, but I shall be coming over again very shortly. Not to work, though.’
To see that girl, thought Julie, and felt a sudden shaft of sadness at the thought.
* * *
Their journey back went smoothly. They stopped briefly in Ghent for tea and then drove on to Calais and a rather choppy crossing to Dover. Approaching London, Julie stared out at the dreary suburbs and wished herself back in Leiden, but when the professor observed idly, ‘You will be glad to be home again, Miss Beckworth,’ she was quick to agree.
‘Although I enjoyed seeing something of Holland,’ she told him, and went on awkwardly, ‘Thank you for arranging everything so well for me, sir.’
His reply was non-committal and most unsatisfactory. Their rare moments of pleasure in each other’s society were already forgotten, she supposed.
He drove her straight home despite her protests. ‘And take the day off tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘Any work you still have to do you can doubtless fit in later on.’
She murmured an assent; there was a backlog of work, despite her best efforts; she would go in early tomorrow morning and clear up what work was outstanding and then take the rest of the day off. He wouldn’t know, for he had said that he wouldn’t be needing her for a day. Doubtless he would take a day off too.
Rather cautiously, she asked him if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee when they reached her home. His refusal was polite and tinged with impatience, and she wasted no time in getting out of the car when he opened her door, took her bag and set it in the porch, before driving away with the remark that he would see her in a day’s time. Luscombe opened the door as he drove away.
‘Welcome home, Miss Julie—he’s in a hurry, isn’t he?’
‘I expect he’s going straight to the hospital, Luscombe.’ She bent to pat Blotto. ‘It’s lovely to be home; where’s Mother?’
‘In the garden with Esme, sweeping up the leaves. They didn’t expect you so early. Like a pot of tea? The kettle is on the boil.’
‘I’d love one, Luscombe; I’ll go and surprise them...’
‘You do that, Miss Julie; we’ve had supper but I’ll find something tasty for you—half an hour do?’
‘Lovely—I’m famished. We seem to have been driving for ever; it seems later than it is.’
She went through the house and out into the garden. The light outside the kitchen door shone on her mother and sister, muffled against the chilly evening, busy with their rakes. They threw them down when they saw her.
‘Julie, how lovely; you didn’t say exactly when you’d be back on your card.’ Her mother laughed. ‘That’s why we’re here working in the dark. We wanted the garden to be spick and span when you got back.’
Esme had flung down her rake. ‘Did he bring you back? The professor?’
‘Yes, but he didn’t want to stop. He’s given me the day off tomorrow.’
‘Quite right too,’ said her mother. ‘Were you kept very busy?’
‘Yes, but I did manage to see Leiden and Groningen.’
They had all gone inside, and over the supper that Luscombe had conjured up she gave them an account of her few days in Holland.
‘Liked it, did you?’ asked Luscombe, leaning against the door with a dishcloth over one arm. ‘Meet anyone nice, did you?’
‘Any number of people, but only briefly; almost all the time I was either taking notes or typing them.’
‘Well, you can have a nice, quiet day tomorrow,’ observed Mrs Beckworth. She peered at her daughter thoughtfully. ‘You didn’t go out at all, I suppose? Or see much of Professor van der Driesma?’
‘Only at the seminars and his ward rounds.’ Julie paused. ‘Oh, and he came out of his house as I went past it in Leiden and he asked me in for coffee.’
‘He lives there? As well as here? He’s married?’
‘No, not as far as I know.’ Julie sounded casual. ‘I must go in to work in the morning. I’ll go early—I’ve some audio typing to finish. A couple of hours will see to it and then I’ll come home and we’ll do something special—a film, perhaps? Or lunch out? I haven’t spent a penny so I’ll treat.’
‘Let’s go to a film,’ begged Esme. ‘It’s ages since we went...’
‘All right. We could go in the afternoon and have tea somewhere afterwards.’ Julie went into the hall and fetched her bag. ‘I didn’t have time to do much shopping,’ she explained, handing over her small gifts.
‘You didn’t ought,’ said Luscombe, beaming at his box of cigars.
It was lovely being home, reflected Julie, and then frowned at the unbidden image of the professor’s face which floated behind her eyelids. Why I should think about him, I don’t know.
* * *
Probably because he was thinking about her. There was nothing romantic about his thoughts, however, rather a vague annoyance. He found her disturbing, prone to answer back—even though she was a first-rate worker, melting, as far as possible, into the background but always at hand. Despite this he was always aware of her.
She had, as it were, cast a spanner into the works of his life. He would probably have to get rid of her—nicely, of course. He had no intention of allowing any deep feelings to alter his life. He was no monk, but beyond mild flirtation with one or other of his women acquaintances he had remained heart-whole. Not that his heart was involved now, he reflected; he merely found her disturbing.
* * *
Julie was at her desk soon after eight o’clock; she had got up early, shared a cup of tea and some toast with Luscombe and caught a bus well before the rush hour started. She had her earphones on, transcribing the last of the tapes, when a hand fell on her shoulder; the other hand removed her headphones.
‘I thought I had told you to take a day off, Miss Beckworth.’ The professor’s voice had a nasty edge to it.
‘So you did, but you didn’t say I wasn’t to come into the office,’ said Julie reasonably. ‘I had quite a bit of work to finish, you know, and you know as well as I do that I’ll never get a chance to fit it in once we’re back here.’
She turned in her chair to look at him. ‘I’ll be finished in less than half an hour. I didn’t thin
k you would be here. Aren’t you taking a day off too?’
Staring down at her lovely smiling face, the professor gave way to a sudden, ridiculous impulse.
‘Yes, Miss Beckworth. Like you, I came in to finish some paperwork. But I have the rest of the day in which to do nothing. Shall we give ourselves a rest and spend the day in the country? I think that we both deserve it.’
‘Me and you?’ said Julie, not mincing her words. ‘Well, I never... That is, thank you very much, Professor, but I promised that I’d take my mother and sister out.’
‘Better still. Perhaps they would like to come too?’
A remark which disappointed her. She squashed the feeling at once. ‘Well, I’m sure they’d like that very much. Where do you want to go?’
‘Supposing we let your sister decide, or at least suggest somewhere?’
He’s lonely, Julie thought suddenly. I dare say he’s missing that girl and can’t bear to be on his own. ‘If I could have twenty minutes to finish this?’
‘I’ll be outside when you’re ready.’
I must be mad, reflected Julie, making no effort to get on with her work. And what on earth are we going to talk about? They had driven miles in Holland exchanging barely a word between them...
* * *
He was waiting by the car when she left the hospital and as she came towards him he wondered if he had taken leave of his senses. Nothing of that showed on his face as he opened the car door for her to get in.
* * *
Mrs Beckworth opened the door as they reached it. ‘Oh, good, you’re back, Julie. Professor van der Driesma, come in; I’m just making coffee.’ She gave him her hand and smiled up at him; whatever Julie said, Mrs Beckworth thought that he was a very nice man—that mild description covering her entire approval.
‘Professor van der Driesma suggested that as he was free we might like to join him for a drive into the country.’
‘Oh, how delightful.’ Mrs Beckworth raised her voice. ’Esme, come here, love; something delightful...’
Esme came downstairs two at a time and landed up against the professor.
‘Hello,’ she said in a pleased voice. ‘You’re not going away again, are you? There are a lot of things I want to know.’
He smiled down at her. Why doesn’t he smile at me like that? thought Julie.
‘Are there? Perhaps I’ll have time to answer them. We wondered, your sister and I, if you and your mother would like to come for a drive...?’
‘With you? In your car? Oh, yes, yes. Where shall we go? And can we go now?’
‘Coffee first,’ said Mrs Beckworth, ‘and you’ll tidy yourself before you set foot outside the door, Esme.’
There was a general move towards the kitchen, where Luscombe was pouring coffee. He had, of course, been listening. ‘Going off for the day?’ he wanted to know. ‘Suits me a treat; I’ll pop over to my sister’s if it’s all the same to you, Mrs Beckworth.’
‘Yes, do go, Luscombe. I don’t know when we shall be back...’ She looked at the professor, sitting opposite her at the kitchen table.
‘Oh, after tea, if that suits you, Mrs Beckworth.’ He turned to Esme, perched beside him. ‘Where shall we go, Esme?’
‘Brighton—oh, please say we can. Sally, my best friend, says it’s super. The Lanes, all the shops and the Pavilion.’
‘Why not? But we’ll go the long way round to get there, shall we? We have all day. Supposing we go there in the afternoon and have tea there?’
Esme flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. ‘Oh, you really are very nice,’ she told him. ‘May I sit with you so’s I can ask you questions?’
‘I shall be delighted.’
‘Esme, you must allow Professor van der Driesma to decide where we are to go.’ Mrs Beckworth sounded apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Professor, Esme’s excited; we don’t often get treats like this.’
‘Nor do I, Mrs Beckworth, and I have a sixteen-year-old sister.’
‘Have you? You must miss your family.’
‘I do, although I don’t see much of them whether I am here or in Holland.’
Julie had sat quietly drinking her coffee; now she said, ‘Shall we go and get our things, Esme?’ And when she and her mother and Esme had left the room the professor collected up the mugs and took them over to the sink.
‘You worked for Dr Beckworth, of course,’ he said to Luscombe. ‘He was a good man and a splendid doctor.’
‘Yer right there. Started ’ere when Miss Julie was a little nipper—general dogsbody, as you might say, till I took over the ’ousekeeping, like. The doctor would expect me to stay on and keep an eye on the ladies.’
‘I’m sure he couldn’t have picked a better man, Luscombe. Can we drop you off on our way?’
‘Well, now, if you could spare ten minutes while I tidy meself a bit. I’d better take Blotto with me.’
‘No need. He can come with us; there’s plenty of room in the car. Where do you want to go, Luscombe?’
‘The Whitechapel road, just this side of Fenchurch Street Station; me sister’s got a fish and chip shop.’
‘Splendid. I intend to cross the river; I can go over London Bridge.’
‘You know your way around, then?’ He glanced round the kitchen. ‘Everything’s shipshape.’ He glanced at a peacefully sleeping dog. ‘Sure you don’t mind about Blotto?’
‘Not in the least.’ The professor turned to smile at Esme, her hair combed and plaited, in a pleated skirt and short jacket. ‘Luscombe’s coming as far as his sister’s. We’ll take Blotto with us, shall we?’
‘Oh, please. We ought to have asked you; I’m sorry, but you see we weren’t expecting you. Were you feeling rather lonely for your family in Holland?’
‘I had no time to visit them. I’ll be going back shortly, though.’
‘Will they come and visit you at your house? Julie said you had a lovely old house near the hospital. Why don’t you—?’ She was interrupted by her mother’s entry.
‘Professor—oh, must I keep calling you that? What are we to do with Blotto? He’ll have to go with Luscombe...’
‘Call me Simon, Mrs Beckworth, and Blotto is coming with us.’
‘I’ll get his lead.’ Esme flew away as Julie joined them, and a moment later so did Luscombe, in his best jacket and with his hair slicked down.
‘You’ve got your key, Luscombe?’ asked Mrs Beckworth. ‘I’ve got mine. Don’t hurry back; we’ll be quite all right.’
‘Right-o, Mrs Beckworth; I’ve locked up.’
The professor ushered his party out to the car and settled them with Luscombe in front and Blotto on Julie’s knee. He was beginning to enjoy himself although he couldn’t think why.
There was a small queue outside Luscombe’s sister’s shop and they turned as one to stare as he got out of the car. ‘Made me day, you have, sir!’ chortled Luscombe. ‘Driving in a Bentley. Thanks a lot. Esme’s going in front, is she?’
He helped her out and shut the door on her after she’d scrambled in. Then he stood waving as they drove off. A nice chap, thought Luscombe. ‘E’d do very well for our Miss Julie.
The traffic was heavy; the professor crossed London Bridge and made his slow way south of the river, through Wandsworth, Kingston-upon-Thames and Chertsey, and then picked up speed going through Woking and Guildford, all the while listening to Esme’s unceasing chatter, answering her questions with no sign of impatience.
Presently he said over his shoulder, ‘There’s a rather good pub at Midhurst; I thought we might stop there for lunch. He turned off the main road presently, taking the narrow country roads through charming country, and half an hour later stopped before the Angel Hotel, an old coaching inn skilfully restored.
Esme, peering at it, said, ‘I say, this looks splend
id and I’m famished.’
‘Good. So am I,’ said the professor. ‘Let us go inside; I’ll book a table and take Blotto for a run while you ladies tidy yourselves.’
In the ladies’ Esme observed, ‘He’s sweet, isn’t he? And so old-fashioned—I mean, the way he said “tidy yourselves”; anyone else would say going to the loo!’
‘I would have felt very uncomfortable if he had said that,’ said her mother, ‘and I think he knew that. I only hope he’s enjoying himself...’
Julie silently hoped the same thing.
They ate in the brasserie—tiny herb pancakes followed by beautifully grilled fish, finishing with creamy concoctions from the sweet trolley while the professor ate cheese and biscuits. Over coffee he said, ‘How about going along the coast to Brighton? We can go to Chichester and take the A259 for the rest of the way; it’s barely an hour’s drive. We’d have plenty of time to go to the pier or wherever you would like to go before tea.’
He smiled round at them, his eyes lingering on Julie’s quiet face. She had had little to say and he would have liked to have had her beside him as he drove. He dismissed the thought impatiently. She was encroaching on his well-ordered life; for the second time that day he decided to do something about it.
Strolling with Esme, while Blotto pottered briefly, he was taken by surprise with Esme’s question: ‘Do you like Julie, Simon?’ She peered up at him. ‘You always call her Miss Beckworth, don’t you? And she doesn’t talk about you—only if we ask. Don’t you like each other?’
He chose his words carefully. ‘Your sister is splendid at her job and a great help to me. We respect each other and that’s very important when you work together.’
Esme opened her mouth to say more and closed it again; there had been a steely note in his pleasant voice which she dared not ignore. She said simply, ‘She’s very clever, you know. I don’t mean typing and all that; she cooks almost as well as Luscombe and she sews beautifully. I’d like her to marry someone nice...’
‘I’m sure she will; I’m surprised she isn’t already married.’