Читать книгу A Kiss for Julie - Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN Julie got home they were all waiting to hear how she had got on.

‘At least he didn’t keep you late,’ observed her mother. ‘Is he nice?’ By which she meant was he good-looking, young and liable to fall in love with Julie?

‘Abrupt, immersed in his work, likes things done at once, very nice with his patients—’

‘Old?’ Mrs Beckworth tried hard to sound casual.

‘Getting on for forty, perhaps thirty-five; it’s hard to tell.’ Julie took pity on her mother. ‘He’s very good-looking, very large, and I imagine the nurses are all agog.’

‘Not married?’ asked her mother hopefully.

‘I don’t know, Mother, and I doubt if I ever shall; he’s not chatty.’

‘Sounds OK to me,’ said Luscombe, ‘even if he’s foreign.’

Esme had joined the inquisition. ‘He’s Dutch; does he talk with a funny accent?’

‘No accent at all—well, yes, perhaps you can hear that he’s not English, but only because he speaks it so well, if you see what I mean.’

‘A gent?’ said Luscombe.

‘Well, yes, and frightfully clever, I believe. I dare say that once we’ve got used to each other we shall get on very well.’

‘What do you call him?’ asked Esme.

‘Professor or sir...’

‘What does he call you?’

‘Miss Beckworth.’

Esme hooted with laughter. ‘Julie, that makes you sound like an elderly spinster. I bet he wears glasses...’

‘As a matter of fact he does—for reading.’

‘He sounds pretty stuffy,’ said Esme. ‘Can we have tea now that Julie’s home?’

‘On the table in two ticks,’ said Luscombe, and went back to the kitchen to fetch the macaroni cheese—for tea for the Beckworths was that unfashionable meal, high tea—a mixture of supper and tea taken at the hour of half past six, starting with a cooked dish, going on to bread and butter and cheese or sandwiches, jam and scones, and accompanied by a large pot of tea.

Only on Sundays did they have afternoon tea, and supper at a later hour. And if there were guests—friends or members of the family—then a splendid dinner was conjured up by Luscombe; the silver was polished, the glasses sparkled and a splendid damask cloth that Mrs Beckworth cherished was brought out. They might be poor but no one needed to know that.

Now they sat around the table, enjoying Luscombe’s good food, gossiping cheerfully, and if they still missed the scholarly man who had died so suddenly they kept that hidden. Sometimes, Julie reflected, three years seemed a long time, but her father was as clear in her mind as if he were living, and she knew that her mother and Esme felt the same. She had no doubt that the faithful Luscombe felt the same way, too.

She had hoped that after the professor’s offer of tea and toast he would show a more friendly face, but she was to be disappointed. His ‘Good morning, Miss Beckworth’ returned her, figuratively speaking, to arm’s length once more. Of course, after Professor Smythe’s avuncular ‘Hello, Julie’ it was strange to be addressed as Miss Beckworth. Almost everyone in the hospital called her Julie; she hoped that he might realise that and follow suit.

He worked her hard, but since he worked just as hard, if not harder, himself she had no cause for complaint. Several days passed in uneasy politeness—cold on his part, puzzled on hers. She would get used to him, she told herself one afternoon, taking his rapid dictation, and glanced up to find him staring at her. ‘Rather as though I was something dangerous and ready to explode,’ she explained to her mother later.

‘Probably deep in thought and miles away,’ said Mrs Beckworth, and Julie had to agree.

There was no more tea and toast; he sent her home punctiliously at half past five each day and she supposed that he worked late at his desk clearing up the paperwork, for much of his day was spent on the wards or in consultation. He had a private practice too, and since he was absent during the early afternoons she supposed that he saw those patients then. A busy day, but hers was busy too.

Of course, she was cross-examined about him each time she went to the canteen, but she had nothing to tell—and even if she had had she was discreet and loyal and would not have told. Let the man keep his private life to himself, she thought.

Professor van der Driesma, half-aware of the interest in him at St Bravo’s, ignored it. He was a haematologist first and last, and other interests paled beside his deep interest in his work and his patients. He did have other interests, of course: a charming little mews cottage behind a quiet, tree-lined street and another cottage near Henley, its little back garden running down to the river, and, in Holland, other homes and his family home.

He had friends too, any number of them, as well as his own family. His life was full and he had pushed the idea of marriage aside for the time being. No one—no woman—had stirred his heart since he had fallen in love as a very young man to be rejected for an older one, already wealthy and high in his profession. He had got over the love years ago—indeed he couldn’t imagine now what he had seen in the girl—but her rejection had sown the seeds of a determination to excel at his work.

Now he had fulfilled that ambition, but in the meantime he had grown wary of the pretty girls whom his friends were forever introducing him to; he wanted more than a pretty girl—he wanted an intelligent companion, someone who knew how to run his home, someone who would fit in with his friends, know how to entertain them, would remove from him the petty burden of social life. She would need to be good-looking and elegant and dress well too, and bring up their children...

He paused there. There was no such woman, of course; he wanted perfection and there was, he decided cynically, no such thing in a woman; he would eventually have to make the best of it with the nearest to his ideal.

These thoughts, naturally enough, he kept to himself; no one meeting him at a dinner party or small social gathering would have guessed that behind his bland, handsome face he was hoping that he might meet the woman he wanted to marry. In the meantime there was always his work.

Which meant that there was work for Julie too; he kept her beautiful nose to the grindstone, but never thoughtlessly; she went home punctually each evening—something she had seldom done with Professor Smythe. He also saw to it that she had her coffee-break, her midday dinner and her cup of tea at three o’clock, but between these respites he worked her hard.

She didn’t mind; indeed, she found it very much to her taste as, unlike his predecessor, he was a man of excellent memory, as tidy as any medical man was ever likely to be, and not given to idle talk. It would be nice, she reflected, watching his enormous back going through the door, if he dropped the occasional word other than some diabolical medical term that she couldn’t spell. Still, they got on tolerably well, she supposed. Perhaps at a suitable occasion she might suggest that he stopped calling her Miss Beckworth... At Christmas, perhaps, when the entire hospital was swamped with the Christmas spirit.

It was during their second week of uneasy association that he told her that he would be going to Holland at the weekend. She wasn’t surprised at that, for he had international renown, but she was surprised to find a quick flash of regret that he was going away; she supposed that she had got used to the silent figure at his desk or his disappearing for hours on end to return wanting something impossible at the drop of a hat. She said inanely, ‘How nice—nice for you, sir.’

‘I shall be working,’ he told her austerely. ‘And do not suppose that you will have time to do more than work either.’

‘Why do you say that, Professor? Do you intend leaving me a desk piled high?’ Her delightful bosom swelled with annoyance. ‘I can assure you that I shall have plenty to do...’

‘You misunderstand me, Miss Beckworth; you will be going with me. I have a series of lectures to give and I have been asked to visit two hospitals and attend a seminar. You will take any notes I require and type them up.’

She goggled at him. ‘Will I?’ She added coldly, ‘And am I to arrange for our travel and where we are to stay and transport?’

He sat back at ease. ‘No, no. That will all be attended to; all you will need will be a portable computer and your notebook and pencil. You will be collected from your home at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I trust you will be ready at that time.’

‘Oh, I’ll be ready,’ said Julie, and walked over to his desk to stand before it looking at him. ‘It would have been nice to have been asked,’ she observed with a snap. ‘I do have a life beyond these walls, you know.’

With which telling words she walked into her own office and shut the door. There was a pile of work on her desk; she ignored it. She had been silly to lose her temper; it might cost her her job. But she wasn’t going to apologise.

‘I will not be ordered about; I wouldn’t talk to Blotto in such a manner.’ She had spoken out loud and the professor’s answer took her by surprise.

‘My dear Miss Beckworth, I have hurt your feelings. I do apologise; I had no intention of ruffling your temper.’ A speech which did nothing to improve matters.

‘That’s all right,’ said Julie, still coldly.

She was formulating a nasty remark about slavedrivers when he asked, ‘Who or what is Blotto? Who, I presume, is treated with more courtesy than I show you.’

He had come round her desk and was sitting on its edge, upsetting the papers there. He was smiling at her too. She had great difficulty in not smiling back. ‘Blotto is the family dog,’ she told him, and looked away.

Professor van der Driesma was a kind man but he had so immersed himself in his work that he also wore an armour of indifference nicely mitigated by good manners. Now he set himself to restore Julie’s good humour.

‘I dare say that you travelled with Professor Smythe from time to time, so you will know what to take with you and the normal routine of such journeys...’

‘I have been to Bristol, Birmingham and Edinburgh with Professor Smythe,’ said Julie, still icily polite.

‘Amsterdam, Leiden and Groningen, where we shall be going, are really not much farther away from London. I have to cram a good deal of work into four or five days; I must depend upon your support, which I find quite admirable.’

‘I don’t need to be buttered up,’ said Julie, her temper as fiery as her hair. ‘It’s my job.’

‘My dear Miss Beckworth, I shall forget that remark. I merely give praise where praise is due.’ His voice was mild and he hid a smile. Julie really was a lovely girl but as prickly as a thorn-bush. Highly efficient too—everything that Professor Smythe had said of her; to have her ask for a transfer and leave him at the mercy of some chit of a girl... The idea was unthinkable. He observed casually, ‘I shall, of course, be occupied for most of my days, but there will be time for you to do some sightseeing.’

It was tempting bait; a few days in another country, being a foreigner in another land—even with the professor for company it would be a nice change. Besides, she reminded herself, she had no choice; she worked for him and was expected to do as she was bid. She had, she supposed, behaved badly. She looked up at him. ‘Of course I’ll be ready to go with you, sir. I’m—I’m sorry I was a little taken aback; it was unexpected.’

He got off the desk. ‘I am at times very forgetful,’ he told her gravely. ‘You had better bring a raincoat and an umbrella with you; it will probably rain. Let me have those notes as soon as possible, will you? I shall be up on the ward if I’m wanted.’

She would have to work like a maniac if she was to finish by half past five, she thought, but Julie sat for a few minutes, her head filled with the important problem of what clothes to take with her. Would she go out at all socially? She had few clothes, although those she had were elegant and timeless in style; blouses, she thought, the skirt she had on, the corduroy jacket that she’d bought only a few weeks ago, just in case it was needed, a dress... Her eyes lighted on the clock and she left her pleasant thoughts for some hard work.

She told her mother as soon as she got home and within minutes Esme and Luscombe had joined them to hear the news.

‘Clothes?’ said Mrs Beckworth at once. ‘You ought to have one of those severe suits with padded shoulders; the women on TV wear them all the time; they look like businessmen.’

‘I’m not a businessman, Mother, dear! And I’d hate to wear one. I’ve got that dark brown corduroy jacket and this skirt—a pleated green and brown check. I’ll take a dress and a blouse for each day...’

‘Take that smoky blue dress—the one you’ve had for years,’ said Esme at once. ‘It’s so old it’s fashionable again. Will you go out a lot—restaurants and dancing? Perhaps he’ll take you to a nightclub.’

‘The professor? I should imagine that wild horses wouldn’t drag him into one. And of course he won’t take me out. I’ll have piles of work to do and he says he will be fully occupied each day.’

‘You might meet a man,’ observed Esme. ‘You know—and he’ll be keen on you and take you out in the evenings. The professor can’t expect you to work all the time.’

‘I rather fancy that’s just what he does expect. But it’ll be fun and I’ll bring you all back something really Dutch. Blotto too.’

She had two days in which to get herself ready, which meant that each evening she was kept busy—washing her abundant hair, doing her nails, pressing the blouses, packing a case.

‘Put in a woolly,’ suggested her mother, peering over her shoulder. ‘Two—that nice leaf-brown cardigan you had for Christmas last year and the green sweater.’ She frowned. ‘You’re sure we can’t afford one of those suits?’

‘Positive. I’ll do very well with what I’ve got, and if Professor van der Driesma doesn’t approve that’s just too bad. Anyway, he won’t notice.’

In this she was mistaken; his polite, uninterested glance as she opened the door to him on Saturday morning took in every small detail. He had to concede that although she looked businesslike she also looked feminine; with a lovely face such as hers she should be able to find herself an eligible husband...

He gave her a ‘good morning,’ unsmiling, was charming to her mother when he was introduced, and smiled at Esme’s eager, ‘You’ll give Julie time to send some postcards, won’t you?’ He picked up Julie’s case and was brought to a halt by Esme. ‘Don’t you get tired of seeing all that blood? Isn’t it very messy?’

Mrs Beckworth’s shocked ‘Esme’ was ignored.

‘Well, I’m only asking,’ said Esme.

The professor put the case down. ‘There is almost no blood,’ he said apologetically. ‘Just small samples in small tubes and, more importantly, the condition of the patient—whether they’re pale or yellow or red in the face. How ill they feel, how they look.’

Esme nodded. ‘I’m glad you explained. I’m going to be a doctor.’

‘I have no doubt you’ll do very well.’ He smiled his sudden charming smile. ‘We have to go, I’m afraid.’

Julie bent to say goodbye to Blotto, kissed her mother and sister, and kissed Luscombe on his leathery cheek. ‘Take care of them, Luscombe.’

‘Leave ’em to me, Miss Julie; ‘ave a good time.’

She got into the car; they were all so sure that she was going to enjoy herself but she had her doubts.

The professor had nothing to say for some time; he crossed the river and sped down the motorway towards Dover. ‘You are comfortable?’ he wanted to know.

‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think one could be anything else in a car like this.’

It was an observation which elicited no response from him. Was she going to spend four or five days in the company of a man who only addressed her when necessary? He addressed her now. ‘You’re very silent, Miss Beckworth.’

She drew a steadying breath; all the same there was peevishness in her voice. ‘If you wished me to make conversation, Professor, I would have done my best.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t think I have ever met anyone quite like you. You fly—how do you say it?—off the handle without notice. At least it adds interest to life. I like your young sister.’

‘Everyone likes her; she’s such a dear girl and she says what she thinks...’

‘It must run in the family!’ Before she could utter he went on, ‘She must miss her father.’

‘Yes, we all do. He was a very special person...’

‘You prefer not to talk about him?’ His voice was kind.

‘No. No, we talk about him a lot at home, but of course other people forget, or don’t like to mention his name in case we get upset.’

‘So—tell me something of him. Professor Smythe told me that he had a very large practice and his patients loved him.’

‘Oh, they did, and he loved his work...’ It was like a cork coming out of a bottle; she was in full flood, lost in happy reminiscences, and when she paused for breath the professor slipped in a quiet word or question and started her off again.

She was surprised to see that they were slowing as the outskirts of Dover slipped past them. ‘I talk too much.’

‘No, indeed not, Miss Beckworth; I have found it most interesting to know more of your father. You have a knack of holding one’s interest.’

She muttered a reply, wondering if he was being polite, and they didn’t speak much until he had driven the car on board the hovercraft and settled her in a seat. He took the seat beside her, ordered coffee and sandwiches, and with a word of excuse opened his briefcase and took out some papers.

The coffee was excellent and she was hungry. When she had finished she said, ‘I’m going to tidy myself,’ in an unselfconscious manner.

He matched it with a casual, ‘Yes, do that; once we land I don’t want to stop more than I have to.’

He got up to let her pass and, squeezing past him, she reflected that it was like circumnavigating a large and very solid tree-trunk.

Back in her seat once more, she looked out of the window and wondered how long it would take to drive to Leiden, which was to be their first stop.

Shortly afterwards they landed. ‘We’ll stop for a sandwich presently,’ the professor assured her, stuffed her into the car and got in and drove off.

‘Bruges, Antwerp, cross into Holland at Breda and drive on to the Hague; Leiden is just beyond.’

That, apparently, was as much as he intended to tell her. They were out of France and into Belgium before she saw the map in the pocket on the door. They were on a motorway, and such towns as they passed they skirted, but presently she started looking at signposts and traced their journey on the map. The professor was driving fast but, she had to admit, with a casual assurance which made her feel quite safe, although it prevented her from seeing anything much. But when they reached Bruges he slowed down and said, to surprise her, ‘This is a charming town; we’ll drive through it so that you get an idea of its beauty.’

Which he did, obligingly pointing out anything of interest before rejoining the motorway once more. The traffic was heavy here and Antwerp, as they approached it, loomed across the horizon. Before they reached the city he turned off onto a ring road and rejoined the motorway to the north of the city. Obviously, she thought, he knew the way—well, of course he would since he went to and fro fairly frequently. A huge road sign informed her that they were forty-eight kilometres from Breda, and after some mental arithmetic she decided on thirty miles. At the rate they were going they would be there in less than half an hour.

Which they were, still on the motorway skirting the town, driving on towards the Moerdijk Bridge and then on towards Rotterdam. Before they reached the bridge the professor stopped by a roadside café, parked the car and ushered her inside. It was a small place, its tables half-filled. ‘I’ll be at that table by the window,’ he told her; he nodded to a door beside the bar. ‘Through there, don’t be long—I’m hungry and I expect you are too.’

She was famished, breakfast had been a meal taken in another world, tea and dinner were as yet uncertain. She was back within five minutes.

‘I’ve ordered for us both; I hope you’ll enjoy my choice. I’m having coffee but they’ll bring you tea—not quite as the English drink it, but at least it’s tea.’

‘Thank you, I’d love a cup. Are you making good time?’

‘Yes. I hope to be at Leiden around teatime. You have a room close to the hospital. I shall want you tomorrow in the afternoon. In the morning I have several people to see so you will have time to look around. You may find the morning service at St Pieterskerk; it’s a magnificent building.’

‘I don’t speak Dutch or understand it.’

‘You don’t need to—the service is similar to your own church, and if you need to ask the way practically everyone will understand you.’

‘Then I’d like that.’ The café owner had brought the coffee and, for her, a glass of hot water on a saucer with a teabag; he came back a moment later with two dishes on which reposed slices of bread covered with slices of ham and two fried eggs.

‘This is an uitsmijter,’ said the professor. ‘If you don’t care for it, say so, and I’ll order something else.’

‘It looks delicious.’ She fell to; it not only looked good, it tasted good too, and, moreover, filled her empty insides up nicely. They ate without much talk; the professor was pleasant, thoughtful of her needs but not disposed to make idle conversation. Reasonable enough, she reflected, polishing off the last bits of ham; she had been wished on him and he didn’t like her, although he concealed his dislike beneath good manners. At least he hadn’t been able to fault her work...

They were back in the car within half an hour, heading towards Dordrecht and Rotterdam. As they left Dordrecht behind them the traffic became thicker, and as the outskirts of Rotterdam closed in on them she wondered how anyone ever found their way in the tangle of traffic, but it appeared to hold no terrors for her companion and presently they joined the long line of cars edging through the Maas Tunnel and then crossed the city and onto the motorway to den Haag. It bypassed the city, but here and there there were fields and copses which became more frequent as they reached the outskirts of Leiden.

As Professor van der Driesma drove through its heart Julie tried to see everything—it looked charming with its lovely old houses and bustling streets—but presently he turned into a wide street with a canal running through its centre. ‘Rapenburg,’ the professor told her. ‘The university and medical school are on the right.’

Julie, outwardly calm, felt nervous. ‘Will you be there?’ she asked.

‘No, I shall be at my house.’

She waited for more but it seemed that that was all she was to know. She persevered. ‘Do you live here?’

‘From time to time.’ He wasn’t going to say any more and presently he stopped before a narrow, tall house—one of a row of gabled houses just past the university buildings. ‘I think you will be comfortable here.’

He got out, opened her door, got her case from the boot and thumped the knocker on the solid front door. The woman who opened it was tall and thin and dressed severely in black, but she had a pleasant face and kind smile.

The professor addressed her in Dutch before turning to Julie. ‘This is Mevrouw Schatt. She will show you your room and give you your supper presently.’

He spoke to Mevrouw Schatt again, this time in English. ‘This is Miss Julie Beckworth, mevrouw. I know you’ll take care of her.’ He turned back to Julie. ‘I will call for you here at one o’clock tomorrow. Bring your notebook with you. I’ll tell you what I want you to do when we are there.’

‘Where?’

He looked surprised. ‘Did I not tell you? We shall be at the aula of the medical school—a discussion on various types of anaemia. Mostly questions and answers in English.’

Her ‘very well, sir’ sounded so meek that he gave her a suspicious look, which she returned with a limpid look from her green eyes.

He stood looking at her for a moment and she thought that he was going to say something else, but his ‘Good evening, Miss Beckworth’ was brisk. He shook Mevrouw Schatt’s hand and exchanged a friendly remark. At least, Julie supposed that it was friendly; she couldn’t understand a word.

‘Come, miss,’ said Mevrouw Schatt, and led the way up a steep flight of stairs and into a pleasant room overlooking the canal. It was rather full of furniture and the bed took up a great deal of space, but it was spotless and warm.

They smiled at each other and Mevrouw Schatt said, ‘The bathroom, along this passage. If you want anything you ask, miss.’ She turned to go. ‘I make tea for you, if you will come down soon.’

Left alone, Julie tried the bed, looked out of the window and unpacked what she would need for the night. So far everything had gone smoothly. She only hoped that she would be able to deal with the work. Presently she went downstairs to sit in the living room and have tea with her hostess.

The room was charming, the furniture old and gleaming, and there was a thick carpet underfoot, and heavy velvet curtains at the long windows which overlooked the street. Mevrouw Schatt switched on several little table-lamps so that the room was visible to passers-by. ‘It is the custom,’ she explained. ‘We are pleased to let others see how cosily we live.’

While she drank her tea and ate the little biscuits Julie nodded and smiled and replied suitably, and wondered what the professor was doing. If he had liked her, surely she would have stayed at his house? Would his wife object? She presumed that he had one, for he had never evinced any interest in any of the staff at the hospital, and, if not a wife, a housekeeper...

Professor van der Driesma had gone straight to the hospital and checked with his colleagues that the arrangements for the following afternoon were satisfactory. It was a pity that the seminar had to be on a Sunday, but he had a tight schedule; he very much doubted if he would have time to go to his home, but at least he could spend the night at his home here in Leiden.

He drove there now, past the university again, over the canal and into a narrow street beside the imposing library. It was quiet here and the houses, narrow and four-storeyed, with their variety of gables, were to outward appearances exactly as they had been built three hundred years ago. He drove to the end and got out, mounted the double steps to the front door with its ornate transom and put his key into the modern lock to be greeted by a deep-throated barking, and as he opened the door a big, shaggy dog hurled himself at him.

The professor bore the onslaught with equanimity. ‘Jason, old fellow; it’s good to see you again.’

He turned to speak to the elderly, stout woman who had followed the dog into the narrow hall. ‘Siska—nice to be home, even if only for one night.’ He put an arm round her plump shoulders.

‘I have an excellent tea ready,’ she told him. ‘It is a shame that you must dine out this evening.’ She added wistfully, ‘Perhaps you will soon spend more time here. You are so often in England.’ She went on, ‘If you would marry—find yourself a good little wife.’

‘I’ll think about it, Siska, if I can find one.’

He had his tea with Jason for company, and then the pair of them went for a long walk along the Rapenburg which led them past Mevrouw Schatt’s house. He could see Julie sitting in the softly lighted room; she had Mevrouw Schatt’s cat on her knee and was laughing.

He stopped to watch her for a moment. A beautiful girl, he reflected, and an excellent secretary; he had been agreeably surprised at her unflurried manner during their journey from England; with no fidgetting or demands to stop on the way, she had been an undemanding companion who didn’t expect to be entertained. He walked on, forgetting her as soon as he started to mull over the next day’s activities.

He was dining with friends that evening. He had known Gijs van der Eekerk since their student days together. Gijs had married young—a pretty girl, Zalia, who had left him and their small daughter when Alicia had still been a baby. She had been killed in a car accident shortly afterwards and now, after six years, he had married again—an English girl. It was a very happy marriage from all accounts, with Alicia devoted to her stepmother Beatrice, who was expecting a baby in the summer.

He drove to a small village some ten miles from Leiden, stopped the car before a solid square house behind high iron railings and got out, opening the door for Jason. His welcome—and Jason’s—was warm, and just for a moment he envied his old friend and his pretty wife and little daughter; they were so obviously in love and little Alicia was so happy. His evening was happy too; they spent an hour or so round the fire in the drawing room after dinner—Alicia had gone to bed—Jason and Fred, the van der Eekerk’s great dog, heaped together before it.

On the way home the professor addressed Jason, sitting beside him. ‘Do you suppose we shall ever find anyone like Beatrice? And if we do shall we snap her up?’

Jason, half-asleep, grumbled gently.

‘You agree? Then we had better start looking.’

The next morning, however, such thoughts had no place in the professor’s clever head; an early morning walk with Jason was followed by another visit to the hospital, this time to examine patients and give his opinion to his colleagues before going back to his home for lunch.

As for Julie, she had been up early, eaten her breakfast of rolls, slices of cheese, ham and currant bread, drunk a pot of coffee with them, and then, given directions by Mevrouw Schatt, had found her way to St Pieterskerk, where she stayed for the service—not understanding a word, of course. The sermon had gone on for a very long time, but the organ had been magnificent and some of the hymns had sounded very like those at home.

She walked back slowly, looking at the quaint old houses, wishing that she had more time to explore, but the professor had said one o’clock and Mevrouw Schatt had told her that they would eat their lunch at noon.

They got on well together, she and her hostess, who was ready to answer Julie’s string of questions about Leiden and its history. Her husband had been something to do with the university, she explained, and she had lived there all her life. She had a great deal to say about everything, but not a word about Professor van der Driesma.

He came at exactly one o’clock, and Julie was ready and waiting for him.

He bade her good afternoon without a smile, passed the time of day with Mevrouw Schatt and asked Julie if she was ready.

‘Yes, sir. What am I to do about my bag? Shall I take it with me or am I to fetch it later, before we leave?’

‘We shan’t leave until early tomorrow morning.’ He glanced at his watch and ushered her with speed into the car. The drive was very short indeed, thought Julie; they could have walked in five minutes...

He drove across the forecourt of the hospital and under an arch at one side of the building, parked the car, opened her door and closed it behind her with a snap. ‘Through here,’ he said, indicating a door.

Julie stood where she was. ‘Just a minute, Professor. I think there is something which must be said first.’ Her voice shook with rage. ‘You bring me here, drive me for miles, dump me, and now you expect me to go with you to some talk or other of which I know nothing. On top of that you alter your plans without bothering to tell me. I had my bag all packed...’

She paused for breath. ‘You are a very inconsiderate and tiresome man.’ She added coldly, ‘Hadn’t we better go in? It won’t do for you to be late.’

He was standing there looking down at her indignant face. ‘It seems that I owe you an apology, Miss Beckworth. I had not realised that you had suffered any discomfort during our journey. Since it is obvious that you feel the need to know exactly what I am doing hour by hour I will do my best to keep you informed. First, however, if you will allow it, we will proceed to the aula.’