by Betty Neels
‘The reception committee,’ he told her softly and introduced her to the directrice and the directeur, who made small talk in English and introduced her to the others there. She had already met some of them at the dinner party; Mevrouw van Vliet was there and several of the ladies who had come to tea on the previous day. They surrounded her at once, vying with each other to explain what was to happen next, and Krijn gave her a smile and went away to talk to two elderly gentlemen with handsome beards.
The Sint’s approach was heralded by distant cheering and presently he was seen, riding his white horse with Zwarte Piet walking beside him. He dismounted at the hospital entrance, waved to the crowds which had gathered, and made his stately way inside. Here he was greeted by the directeur, shook hands with the welcoming committee and proceeded with great dignity to the wards.
Trixie would quite liked to have gone too, but Krijn tapped her on the shoulder. ‘I’ll drive you back home,’ he told her in a voice which brooked no argument.
She said with a trace of peevishness, ‘I should have liked to stay... I don’t need to be in the village until four o’clock.’
To which remark he made no reply.
There was a car parked outside the door of the house. Krijn drew up beside it and opened Trixie’s door so that she saw it before anything else. It was a Mini, dark blue and gleaming with newness. Across its bonnet was a broad ribbon with ‘For Beatrice from St Nikolaas’ printed upon it.
She stood goggling at it. ‘For me—a car? Krijn...’
‘Don’t look at me, my dear, I’m not St Nikolaas.’
‘Yes, but you—that is— Oh, Krijn, thank you very much. What a lovely present.’
‘I’ll let the Sint know,’ he told her gravely. ‘Get Rabo to put it in the garage for you.’
‘Oh, but could I drive down to the village...?’
He shook his head. ‘I shall pick you up around six o’clock.’
He got back into the Bentley. ‘I’ll see you then.’
She went indoors, rather put out to be met by Rabo. ‘I will walk down with you, mevrouw. There is a basket of sweets and biscuits, too heavy for you.’
Almost everyone in the village had come to see St Nikolaas’s arrival. He was punctual, looking, behind his disguising whiskers and flowing robes, remarkably like Mijnheer Blind the butcher. For the children, at least he was magic and everyone sang a welcoming song before he went around handing out the little packages Trixie had packed so carefully.
He went away again presently, attended by Zwarte Piet, and the children were handed oranges and sweets and little cakes and were borne home, leaving Mevrouw Kraan and the butcher’s wife and Trixie to clear away the papers and the half-eaten buns and sweets. They had finished when Krijn arrived, stayed a few minutes to talk to the ladies and offer them a bottle of wine each before sweeping Trixie into the car.
Back in the house once more, he said, ‘Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room? Or perhaps you would rather have tea... It has been a busy day.’
So they sat, he with his coffee-pot, she with her tea-tray, and mulled over their day, and presently they had dinner and went back to the drawing-room again. Mevrouw van der Brink-Schaaksma telephoned during the evening wanting to know what Trixie thought of St Nikolaas and wishing them a pleasant journey back to England. ‘We shall all see you on Old Year’s Day,’ she observed. ‘We shall look forward to that.’
Trixie wasn’t sure if she looked forward to it or not. The next morning she spent some time with Wolke and Rabo while they explained everything which had to be done. ‘Each year it is the same,’ said Rabo. ‘Tradition, you say, yes? But do not worry, mevrouw, we shall prepare everything while you are away, if you will tell Wolke what you wish to be eaten...’
They settled on the menus, which bedrooms should be used and arrangements for the smaller children. The nurseries were to be opened and aired and Pibbe had a nanny who would look after all the children and sleep close by. Trixie heaved a sigh of relief knowing that Rabo and Wolke would see that she did the right thing, and went to her room to get into something wearable for her visit to Mevrouw van Vliet.
She was going to drive herself into Leiden. She hadn’t got her full Dutch licence yet but Rabo would sit beside her in case they encountered a police patrol. Besides, she was secretly relieved to have him there; she had to get used to driving on the wrong side of the road...
The afternoon went well. She drank pale milkless tea and ate speculaas and listened politely to the advice the ladies there poured into her ears. That they meant it kindly was evident; they were anxious that she should slip into her appointed role of consultant’s wife with the least effort and she was grateful to them. They clustered round her wishing her a happy Christmas and voicing their pleasure at the idea of seeing her again so soon after the festivities. She looked around at their kind faces and realised that she no longer felt a stranger, something she tried to explain to Krijn that evening. It was a pity that the phone should ring just as she was making herself clear and by the time he had had a lengthy conversation with whoever was on the other end there was no point in continuing; besides, he went to his study shortly after and since she had nothing better to do she went upstairs and started to pack.
They travelled to England on the night ferry to Harwich so that the professor could do a day’s work before he went. There was a hint of snow in the air when they left and the country around the house looked bleak. Trixie felt decidedly sad as they drove away, leaving Rabo, Wolke and an unhappy Samson on the doorstep. She said suddenly, ‘I’m glad we’re coming back. Do you live here more than in London, Krijn?’
He glanced at her. ‘Yes, but I have wondered sometimes if I should do rather less work in England. It is so easy and quick to fly over, I could rearrange my work. Until now I have never bothered about it.’
‘Now have you changed your mind?’
‘Not entirely.’
With that she had to be satisfied. She longed to question him further but he spoke so seldom about himself and she was afraid that any curiosity on her part might spoil the easygoing friendship existing between them.
There was a nasty cold rain falling when they got to Harwich and Trixie was feeling queasy after a rough crossing. She gave Krijn a reproachful look when she was asked cheerfully, ‘Breakfast, don’t you think? I have no appointments until this afternoon.’
Trixie said in a hollow voice, ‘I don’t think I’m hungry...’
He was driving through the town and then pulled up before a hotel. ‘Tea—a pot of tea and some toast—just to please me.’
She felt better after the first cup of tea and ate some toast while the professor, with due concern for her qualms, contented himself with porridge, toast and marmalade and a pot of coffee. She certainly felt better after more tea and toast, and got back into the car looking almost her normal self. ‘You were quite right,’ she told him, ‘I do feel much better.’ Indeed, she began to talk cheerfully about their stay in London. ‘It will be nice to see some of my friends at Timothy’s. You won’t mind?’
‘My dear Beatrice, of course I don’t mind. All I ask is that you keep our social activities to a minimum. Did you write to your aunt?’
‘Yes, but there hasn’t been time for her to reply. Probably she won’t.’
‘That is one invitation I should like you to accept if it is offered.’
She said, ‘Very well,’ and wondered why he was so anxious to see her aunt again. For her part she really didn’t mind if she didn’t see her again, although she would like to see Uncle William. She fell silent, wondering if she should go and see Margaret, and since Krijn had nothing to say she occupied herself in planning Christmas. A quiet one, she guessed, but there was no reason why they shouldn’t have a proper Christmas dinner and even have a Christmas tree and presents...
The outskirts of London clos
ed in on them and the professor slowed his pace. ‘We will go straight to the house,’ he observed. ‘Mies will have an early lunch ready for us. You will be all right this afternoon? I should be back in the early evening.’
She assured him that she would be fine; there was the unpacking to see to and she and Mies could have a talk. ‘Will you be working every day until Christmas?’ she wanted to know.
He smiled. ‘Not every day—three, four times a week, perhaps, at the hospital, but I have a number of patients to see at my rooms and I may have to go to Bristol and Birmingham. I’m sure we shall take time to do some Christmas shopping. I must leave you to see to the cards and so on. Get them printed—we shall need about a hundred. Mrs Grey has always done them for me, but you will take that over, won’t you? And presents, I’ll give you a list, that will leave her free to get my letters done and all the notes typed up.’
Trixie said, ‘Yes, of course,’ meekly, reflecting that she need not worry about not having enough to keep her occupied; she would have more than enough.
Their welcome back home was a warm one. Mies flung the door wide with Gladys hovering in the background and Caesar himself, full of joy, barked his head off. Even Gumbie came silently to stare at them and wreathe himself round their legs.
‘Coffee,’ said Mies. ‘I bring it at once to the drawing-room. And such a good lunch I have prepared. Mevrouw, you will wish to get out of your outdoor things.’
She bustled round, breaking into Dutch when her English failed her. Trixie went up to her room and washed her face and did her hair, and when she got back to the drawing-room it was to find the coffee-tray set on the little table by her usual chair and the professor sitting on the other side of the blazing fire, Caesar lying across his shoes and Gumbie on the arm of his chair. He had a pile of letters on the table beside him and glanced up briefly as she went in. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up,’ he said, ‘Caesar has me pinned by the feet and I shall drop this lot. There are several letters for us both and one for you—no, here is another with a Dutch postmark...’
She took them from him and sat down to open them. Aunt Alice bidding them to dine with a few friends. ‘Less than a week away,’ said Trixie. ‘Will that be all right?’
He nodded. ‘Remind me.’ He bowed his head over the letter in his hand and she opened the second letter. It was from Andre, regretting that he hadn’t seen her before they left Holland, wishing them a happy Christmas and declaring, rather fulsomely, that he would miss her, and looked forward to getting to know her really well when they returned.
She glanced up and found Krijn’s eyes upon her and said quickly, ‘It’s from Andre—he’s sorry he didn’t see us to say goodbye and he hopes we’ll all have a happy Christmas and—and he’s looking forward to seeing us when we get back.’
‘Very civil of him.’ The professor didn’t tell her that he had seen his cousin on the day before they had left Holland. Beatrice, he could see, was feeling uncomfortable; it would never do to make her more so by telling her that. ‘He’s good company.’
‘Yes—yes, he is...’ She was interrupted by Gladys coming in with a sheaf of flowers in Cellophane and tied with ribbon. ‘This came, mevrouw—it’s for you.’
Trixie took the bouquet: freesias, roses, carnations and lilac. She peeped at Krijn to see if he had known about it, but he was looking blandly at her and her forlorn hope that he had sent them died. There was a note on the card: ‘To Trixie—sweets to the sweet. Andre.’
She went slowly red. ‘It’s from Andre. I suppose it’s a kind of welcome-home gift. How kind of him.’
The professor’s voice was as bland as his face. ‘Most thoughtful,’ he observed. ‘I dare say he thought that you might feel homesick for Holland.’
Trixie gave a thankful silent sigh; Krijn didn’t mind and she had no reason to feel guilty. ‘Well, you know, I do miss Holland, although I ought not to—I’m English, I mean, aren’t I?’
He said comfortably, ‘I dare say you will settle down here for a few weeks.’ He got to his feet, hampered by Caesar, who had fallen asleep. ‘I must do some telephoning. Is lunch at one o’clock?’
‘Yes, if that suits you.’
‘Admirably.’ He went away to his study, but it was quite some time before he reached for the phone. Trixie’s small flushed face and her faint air of guilt had given him something to think about. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure why he needed to think about her in the first place.
Trixie, left to herself, went in search of a vase, arranged the flowers and burnt the card. It had been kind of Andre to write to her and send her flowers but quite unnecessary. She supposed that she would have to thank him, but she could do that when she sent their cards before Christmas. She felt relieved at having solved the problem, and picked up the bundle of letters Krijn had left for her. Cards mostly and several invitations. He had scrawled ‘no’ across most of them, leaving her, she supposed rather crossly, to think up suitable excuses. She was to accept an invitation from the hospital for the annual ball and four or five cocktail parties and a dinner with one of the consultants and his wife, and Aunt Alice, of course.
Over lunch, lovingly presented by Mies, he gave her the list of cards to send, suggested a date for their own cocktail party, assured her that he was quite sure that she could produce suitable excuses for most of their invitations and presently went away. ‘Enjoy your afternoon,’ he begged her, and patted her shoulder, leaving her with the prospect of a few hours at the little desk in the sitting-room. I shall probably get writer’s cramp, she thought gloomily.
By the time Gladys came in with the tea-tray, she had ordered the invitations for their own party, written acceptances of those invitations which Krijn wished to go to and started on the diplomatic refusals of the others. She was quite pleased with her afternoon’s work and made haste to tell him so when he got back shortly afterwards.
He answered her with his usual courtesy but she could see that his mind was elsewhere. ‘Did something go wrong? Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.
‘Do you remember the patient I told you of? That patient with exophthalmos? We spent the day by the sea...’
Of course she remembered—that was the exact moment when she had fallen in love with him. ‘Yes, I remember...’
‘There are now cardiovascular symptoms...’
Trixie sat, patiently listening, loving the sound of his voice while not attending overmuch to what he was saying. That just talking about it was giving him the opportunity to mull over the problem was obvious; she wasn’t surprised when he paused and said, ‘Ah, I believe I see what can be done. I must ring my registrar. She should be admitted again at once. I shall telephone her husband and arrange for her to go to Timothy’s this evening.’
He paused long enough at the door to say, ‘If I’m not back don’t wait dinner, Beatrice.’
She wasn’t surprised about that either.
She went to confer with Mies presently, for she guessed that the good soul had taken great pains to give them a magnificent meal, and she had been right.
‘If we could have dinner a little later?’ she suggested. ‘And if we have a good excuse the professor won’t know that we’ve rearranged it. What could hinder you so that we don’t sit down until, say, eight o’clock?’
‘I shall think of something,’ declared Mies. ‘Do not worry, mevrouw. It is a good idea. He eats too many of the sandwiches in that hospital and when he returns late he is no longer hungry for my good food.’
‘We’ll change that,’ said Trixie firmly. ‘It’s time he stopped being a bachelor.’
Mies looked coy. ‘But that he no longer is, mevrouw. You will teach him the good habits, I think.’
‘Oh, rather,’ said Trixie, and went back to the drawing-room to let Gumbie in from the garden. Caesar had gone with Krijn, sitting proudly beside him in
the car
.
Fortune favoured their scheme; the long-case clock was striking eight as Krijn let himself into his home, and Trixie met him with a cheerful, ‘Oh, good. We haven’t had dinner yet—Mies accidently burnt the rice. It’s poulet chasseur—it’s almost ready. You’ve time for a drink?’
The professor cast down his coat, took his bag to his study and joined her by the fire. ‘I’ve never known Mies burn anything...’
‘I dare say she was a bit excited at us coming today. I’m sure everything else will be delicious.’ She declined his offer of a drink and asked, ‘Did things turn out as you wanted them to?’
‘Yes. I think eventually everything will be all right. Have you had a quiet afternoon?’
He didn’t really want to know, she felt sure. She thought of the pile of envelopes waiting to be posted and said that yes, it had been very quiet and pleasant.
They dined presently on watercress soup, the poulet chasseur with its accompaniment of faultlessly cooked rice, and one of Mies’s mouthwatering puddings to follow, a chestnut soufflé with a chocolate cream sauce.
The meal was rather a silent one; Trixie tried various topics of conversation and although Krijn answered her readily she guessed that his brain was occupied with some problem so that presently she became silent, and when they went to drink their coffee in the drawing-room she took up her tapestry and became absorbed in it, unaware that she made a charming picture sitting in the pink glow of the table-lamp at her elbow, her mousy head bent over her work. The professor, looking at her from his chair, found his usually well-disciplined thoughts wandering so that very shortly he took himself off to his study to busy himself until long after midnight planning his work schedule for the next few weeks. Naturally enough, when he at last went back to the drawing-room Trixie had gone to bed. He checked the locks and bolts, turned out the lights and went to bed himself. He caught sight of Andre’s flowers, tastefully arranged in a vase in the hall, as he went upstairs, and he frowned. Andre was all right, he supposed, although not particularly liked by him, but the fellow had no right to send Beatrice flowers and notes. She was, he reminded himself, a kind and sensible girl, anxious to please and touchingly trusting with little or no experience of men. A bunch of flowers and a letter or two and she might imagine herself interested in Andre. The professor, who, if he needed to send flowers, got Mrs Grey to order them and give him the bill and hadn’t written a love-letter for the best part of fifteen years, sighed. He trusted Beatrice; they had made a bargain and he knew that she would keep to it, but he didn’t want her to be hurt. He decided that he would get tickets for some show. He must remember to ask her what she would like to see.