Читать книгу A Matter of Chance - Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

DOCTOR VAN DER TEILE had gone by the time Cressida, rather uncertain as to what was expected of her, went downstairs again, but Doctor van Blom put his head round a door as she reached the hall, obviously on the lookout for her, and invited her to enter his study.

‘No time like the present,’ he assured her with the air of a man who had just thought up a clever remark, and ushered her in. Compared with the sitting-room it was quite small, furnished with a large desk with a leather chair behind it, a pair of similar chairs on either side of the stove, and a smaller desk against one wall with a typewriter on it. The walls were lined with vast quantities of books; Cressida, who liked reading, promised herself a good browse through them when the opportunity occurred, but now she sat down in the chair opposite the doctor’s and gave him her full attention.

Would she mind working early in the morning? he wanted to know anxiously—before surgery started at eight o’clock. He himself was an early riser and had formed the habit of putting in an hour’s work before breakfast, which was at half past seven each day except Sunday.

Cressida paled a little at the prospect of rising at six o’clock each morning; she had no objection to getting up early and it was a job, after all, which she was being paid for, but surely the hour was a bit much? She caught her companion’s eye fixed pleadingly on her, and heard herself say cheerfully that she didn’t mind in the least, wondering at the same time how long her working day was to be.

She was enlightened almost at once. ‘If you could work on your own during surgery,’ went on the doctor. ‘We have coffee about ten o’clock, before we do our rounds; if you would like to take an hour’s break then and afterwards continue working until we have our lunch? The afternoon surgery is at half past one—if you would work until we go on our afternoon visits. You could be free then until we have a cup of tea on our return—about half past four. We might do another hour’s work together until evening surgery starts. We dine at half past seven…’ He cast her a look which she rightly interpreted.

‘After dinner?’ she prompted, and he brightened visibly.

‘I am not a slave-driver? Just a short spell perhaps—not every evening, of course. I am so anxious to get the book finished.’

‘Well, of course you are,’ agreed Cressida bracingly, ‘and I can see no reason why we shouldn’t go ahead like wildfire. You have the manuscript here? Have the publishers given you a date?’

The doctor settled back in his chair. ‘The manuscript is almost finished—just the final chapter and of course the whole thing to be given a final correction. It’s in longhand, I’m afraid, and my writing…’

Cressida nodded. Doctors were notoriously bad writers; she had become adept at deciphering their almost unreadable scrawls. ‘And the date for the publisher?’ she reminded him.

He shuffled the pile of papers before him into thorough disorder until he unearthed a letter. ‘Let me see, today is October the twenty-sixth and they ask for the completed typescript by December the twelfth.’

‘Is it a long book?’ asked Cressida faintly, with visions of getting to bed at three o’clock in the morning and getting up again at six. She was a good typist, but rusty, and she had only two hands—besides, he had hinted himself that his writing was awful.

‘Oh, no—eight chapters, about nine thousand words in each, and I believe you will be able to reduce those, for I tend to write with too much elaboration, especially in English.’

‘You would like me to check that? But I don’t know anything about…’

He lifted a podgy hand. ‘My dear young lady, I am sure that I can rely on your judgment—it is merely a question of simplifying my English where it is necessary.’

I shall have to take the wretched manuscript to bed, thought Cressida gloomily, and check every word of it. Well, she had wanted something different; it looked as though she had got it, and yet she had the feeling that she had found exactly what she needed; a job which would keep her on her toes and help her to forget the last sad weeks. And when it was finished and she returned to England, perhaps she would be able to settle down to another job in hospital—another ward to run, surgery this time, perhaps. She sighed without knowing it and Doctor van Blom said quickly: ‘You are tired—I have no right to expect you to start work so soon after your arrival.’

It took her a minute or two to assure him that she wasn’t tired at all and only too willing to start then and there.

They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, and Cressida, glad to have something to occupy her mind, sorted pages, skimmed through the first chapters and then arranged her desk to her satisfaction before typing the first few pages. She had learned to type years ago, before she had trained as a nurse, and she had kept her hand in ever since, typing her father’s sermons, the parish magazine and quite a number of his letters when she had been home for holidays or days off; she was pleased and surprised to find that she hadn’t lost her skill, and moreover, Doctor van Blom’s book was going to be interesting, although she could see that his English was indeed on the elaborate side. She made one or two tentative suggestions which he accepted immediately, saying happily: ‘This is just what I needed—someone to check my errors. You will prove yourself to be of the greatest help, Cressida.’ He beamed at her. ‘You are the answer to a prayer, my dear young lady.’

She hadn’t been called anyone’s young lady for quite some time, although her father’s friends had frequently addressed her as such—elderly gentlemen who had known her since she was a little girl—but now she was very nearly twenty-seven. Doctor van der Teile had called her young woman, which hadn’t sounded nice at all—perhaps it was the way he had said it. It was strange that they should have met again and still more strange that he should have made that remark about their meeting being inevitable… She frowned and her companion said instantly: ‘You have difficulty? My writing, perhaps?’

She hastened to reassure him; she mustn’t allow her thoughts to wander; a month was hardly time enough to get the book ready for the publisher and certainly didn’t allow for any other thoughts than those concerned with it.

The day passed pleasantly; her elderly companions absorbed her into their household with kindly speed, so that she felt at once at ease with them—indeed, they kept her talking so long after dinner that Juffrouw Naald came in, addressed them in severe tones and bore her off to her room, where she pointed to the bed, turned on the bath and produced a glass of hot milk for Cressida to drink—not that she needed any inducement to sleep; her head had no sooner touched the pillow than she was in deep slumber.

It was after breakfast on the third morning, while she was typing out a chapter which Doctor van Blom had decided was now complete, that Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida, her fingers arrested above the keys, wished him a cool good morning and wondered why she should feel so pleased to see him. After all, he hadn’t shown any particular liking for her; indeed, he appeared to dismiss her as a necessary nuisance in his partners’ household. Perhaps it was only because she had been wondering about him—his work, where he lived… She sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, waiting for him to speak.

‘Nose to the grindstone, I see,’ he observed without bothering to return her good morning or ask her how she fared. Instead he turned back to open the door for Juffrouw Naald, who steamed in with a coffee tray, set it on the desk, glanced at them in turn with coy speculation, and went away again.

There were two cups on the tray, and: ‘You pour,’ said Doctor van der Teile.

‘I have my coffee at ten o’clock with the doctors, thank you,’ Cressida told him a little crossly; he was interrupting her work and disturbing her mind too, and why shouldn’t he pour his own coffee?

‘It’s only nine o’clock, and I missed my breakfast,’ and he managed, despite his size and obvious splendid health, to look and sound wistful and half starved. ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘be a dear kind girl.’ He lifted the lid of the dish on the tray. ‘Buttered toast—bless old Naaldtje!’

Cressida picked up the coffee-pot, a handsome silver one of a size made for giants. ‘She is extremely kind,’ she observed primly.

He took his cup from her, sat down behind his partner’s desk and began on the toast. ‘She is also very romantic; she has been trying to find me a suitable wife for the last ten years. She contrives to bring to my notice every likely female she happens to approve of and offer them for my inspection. I rather fancy that you are the latest.’

Cressida choked into her coffee. ‘What utter rubbish! I have no intention—it’s too silly…’

‘Well, there’s no need to get worked up about it. She means well, bless her, and it isn’t as though I’ve shown any interest in you.’

His voice was bland, and so reasonable that she had to swallow the furious retort she longed to utter, although she did allow herself the comfort of an indignant snort. He took no notice of this but went on: ‘In any case, she’s wasting her time—I’ve found the girl for myself and I intend to marry her.’

Cressida nibbled at a biscuit and wondered at the disappointment she was feeling; only a few minutes ago she had wished him married; he needed a wife, for he had by far too big an opinion of himself.

‘If she’ll have you,’ she observed severely.

‘Ah, yes. A moot point, although I’m not sure what moot means—we can always deal with that when the time comes.’ He passed his cup. ‘And how is the book going? Not too much for you, I hope?’

There was silky amusement in his voice and she pinkened. ‘The book goes very well, and as I am here merely to type it and make a few small adjustments, I believe that it won’t be too much for me.’

‘You’re a touchy young woman, aren’t you? Ready to swallow me alive, given half a chance.’ He passed his cup yet again. ‘Any plans to marry?’

Really, the cheek of the man! She said haughtily: ‘No.’

The haughtiness went unnoticed or he had a thick skin. ‘Boy friend?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Ah—I apologise, I shouldn’t have asked such a silly question.’

Cressida fired up immediately. ‘And why not, pray?’

‘Because you are as good as you are beautiful, Cressida.’ He smiled at her across the desk, his eyes very bright. ‘You are also sad. Why is that?’

She made a great business of putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. The unexpected urge to tell him took her by surprise so that she had to keep a tight hold on her tongue. He didn’t even like her, and she was almost sure that she didn’t like him, with his easy self-assurance. She shook her head and said nothing at all, and after a moment he said quietly: ‘Ah, well, you shall tell me some time—it’s good to talk about one’s sorrow. It eases it—you must know that from your patients.’

‘Yes, oh yes—but listening isn’t the same as telling someone…’

He got up and wandered to the door. ‘We all do it at some time,’ he pointed out. ‘Any messages?’

‘Who for?’ Her lovely eyes opened in surprise.

‘I’m on my way to London, I shall be at the Royal General tomorrow.’

Cressida stared at him; he would ask anyone there and they would tell him why she had left; that her parents had died; that she had had to get away. She said: ‘No, thanks,’ in a doubtful voice, and he said at once: ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t try to find out anything about you—you’ll tell me yourself sooner or later.’

He left her sitting there, staring down at the sheet of typewriting in front of her, the only thought in her head that he would keep his word.

He was back in two days and this time she saw him arrive, for she had been for a brisk walk after lunch, well wrapped up in her good tweed coat against the cold and damp. The sky had been sullen all day and now it was rapidly darkening, the little village looked sombre and bleak and there were already lights in some of the small houses. An afternoon for tea round the fire… She sighed involuntarily and quickened her step. The book was going very well, but she would have to keep at it. The next day was Sunday and she would be free, but she already had plans to work for a large part of the day. She had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She would go to church in the morning and then browse through the bookshelves until she found something to her liking. She had her knitting, and any number of letters to write too, but still she felt sure that there would be time and to spare for her typing.

She started round the square towards the doctor’s house and then turned her head at the sound of the car coming from the other end—a Bentley, silver grey and sleek, whispering powerfully to a halt. She stood and watched while Doctor van der Teile got out and took the shallow steps two at a time to the front door of her employer’s home. Even at that distance she could see that he was elegantly turned out, his car coat making him appear even larger than he was. When the door opened and he had gone inside, she walked on, but instead of using the great brass knocker on the front door, she went past it to the surgery entrance and so to Doctor van Blom’s study, where she took off her outdoor things, warmed her chilly hands by the stove and then sat down at her desk. It wasn’t time for tea yet, she might as well get another page done.

She had typed just three lines when the door opened and Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida jumped a little at the suddenness of his appearance and made a muddle of the work she was typing—he was a disquieting person. She erased the mistake, said ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ and gave him an inquiring look.

‘Hullo.’ He sounded friendly. ‘You weren’t here just now. Do you use a secret passage or something?’

‘I came in through the surgery.’

His eyes rested briefly on her coat. ‘Ah—you didn’t want to be seen, was that it? Probably you saw me arrive… All right, you don’t have to say anything; your face is an open book. What are you doing tomorrow?’

Really it was no business of his, and yet she found herself giving him a brief resumé of her plans.

‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock,’ he told her. ‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Go?’ repeated Cressida.

‘Come, come, girl, you must have some preference. Leeuwarden? Groningen? the Afsluitdijk? Amsterdam?’

‘Are you asking me out?’ And before he could reply: ‘I was going to church.’

‘We will go to Groningen, there is a very beautiful church there, then we might go back to Leeuwarden and then Alkmaar.’

She said stiffly: ‘You’ve very kind, but I can’t impose on your free time.’

‘You won’t be; I have to see a friend of mine who lives close to Leeuwarden. He has an English wife who asked me for lunch, and when I told her about you being here she asked me to bring you.’ He paused and went on persuasively: ‘They have a baby and two toddlers and three dogs.’

Cressida had to laugh. ‘Are those an inducement?’

‘Yes. I think you like babies and children and dogs. Am I right?’

‘How on earth…’

‘Did I not tell you that your face was easy to read? Will you come?’

‘Thank you, I should like to—you’re sure your friends won’t mind?’

‘No, they’ll be delighted.’ He straightened up from leaning against the door and opened it. ‘Shall we have tea?’

‘I was going to type…’

‘After tea.’ He waited while she joined him. ‘Doctor van Blom is delighted with your work; he’s a clever man and this book has been his pleasure and study for some time. I fancy it will be well received when it is published.’

Surgery was over for the afternoon and both doctors were back from their rounds. They all had tea together, talking about nothing in particular, and presently Cressida excused herself and went back to her desk. She worked hard until bedtime, spurred on by the thought of her day out on the morrow. She hadn’t seen Doctor van der Teile again, although she had heard the Bentley’s quiet engine as he drove away later in the afternoon. It struck her that she still had no idea where he lived; it couldn’t be far away if he worked in both Leeuwarden and Groningen, and besides, Doctor van Blom had told her that as a general rule he took a surgery with them at least twice a week, but of course he had been in England…

It would be super to have a day out, seeing something of Holland. She frowned; it would be vexing if they annoyed each other, though. She would have to be careful and frightfully polite whatever he said. After all, he would be giving up quite a lot of his day too, even though they were going to visit his friends. The happy thought that she might be able to glean some information about him from his friend’s wife popped into her head as she got into bed and turned out the light. It would be interesting to know—she wasn’t being curious, or was she? She fell asleep wondering.

The sky was still sullen when she woke up the next morning and there was more than a hint of rain in the air; she put on a dark green woollen dress she had been saving for some special occasion and brushed her hair into shining smoothness before going down to breakfast. The two doctors were already at table, deeply immersed in some medical argument which Cressida begged them to continue while she drank her coffee and gobbled her roll and cheese. She was putting on her coat when she heard the car draw up in the square below, and pausing just long enough to tug on her round fur hat, snatch up her handbag and gloves and take one last look at herself in the looking glass, she hurried downstairs. At least she hurried until the thought struck her that Doctor van der Teile might be amused to see her rushing to meet him like an enthusiastic schoolgirl. She slowed her impatient feet to a dignified walk, greeted him with pleasant coolness, accepted with a charming smile the two older doctors’ good wishes for an enjoyable day, and allowed herself to be ushered out of the house and into the cold morning outside. But the car was warm, deliciously so, with a faint smell of leather. Cressida wrinkled her lovely nose with pleasure at it.

‘If you’re not warm enough there’s a rug in the back,’ her companion said laconically as he got in beside her. ‘A pity it isn’t a better day.’

She murmured something about it being November, feeling suddenly shy; she didn’t know this man beside her at all, and on the occasions when they had met they had hardly been on the best of terms. Now the whole day stretched before them. In all likelihood they would fall out within the first hour of it. But long before the hour was up she knew that she had been wrong about that; he had no intention of giving her cause to dislike him, even argue with him. His conversation was confined to the countryside around them until they reached Groningen, and after that they were in St Martin’s Church, a splendid edifice about which he seemed to know a great deal. During the service he confined himself to whispered directions as to what came next, finding the hymns for her, and even though she couldn’t understand a word of it, opening the prayer book at all the right places.

They lingered on after the service was over, so that she might take a closer look at the dim, lofty interior, and then went outside, where she craned her neck to see the five-storied spire. When she had had her fill, they didn’t go back to the car right away, but walked across the vast square and into a wide main street, to drink coffee in one of the cafés there. He was a nice companion, Cressida decided, restful and gently amusing and always ready to answer her questions. The day was going to be fun after all and she started to relax, so that by the time they were in the car once more, speeding towards Leeuwarden, she had lost her shyness and was talking away as though she had known him for years.

The people they were to lunch with lived in a small village west of Leeuwarden and close to Franeker, so that her view of Leeuwarden was confined to a drive round its streets, with the doctor pointing out everything of interest before they drove on, to reach the village, turn in through a great pair of wrought iron gates, and stop finally before a pleasant old house, square and solid and peaceful. But only for a moment; its doors was flung wide and a large, comfortably plump woman stood waiting for them to enter.

‘Anna, the housekeeper,’ said Doctor van der Teile, and paused on the step while everyone shook hands. ‘Ah, here is Harriet.’

His hostess was a year or so older than Cressida, small and dainty and pretty. She came dancing down the staircase to meet them and flung herself at the doctor. He gave her a kiss and a hug and said: ‘Harry, this is Cressida, working for Doctor van Blom as I told you.’ He left the two girls together and went on into the hall. ‘Friso, how’s life?’

Friso was large too, and very dark and good-looking. He shook Cressida’s hand and exclaimed cheerfully, ‘Hullo, how nice to meet you. Giles, this house is filled with women and children—Harry may be only one woman, but she seems like half a dozen—which is delightful, mind you, and the children get into and on to everything.’ He smiled at Cressida. ‘I hope you like children?’

She said that she did and was borne away to remove her outdoor things and take a quick peep at the baby. ‘Ducky, isn’t she?’ asked Harriet, looking down at her very small daughter in her cot. ‘Little Friso is four and Toby’s two and she’s almost three months. We’re so pleased to have a girl.’

She led the way downstairs again and into the sitting-room, a large, comfortable well-lived-in apartment with easy chairs grouped around a great fire. The two men were standing before it with the three dogs. J. B., a bulldog, Flotsam, a dog of no known make with an enormous tail and an engaging expression, and a great black shaggy dog with yellow eyes and a great deal of tongue hanging out of its enormous jaws—Moses. They came to meet the two girls, were patted and made much of and rearranged themselves before the fire once more, taking up a lot of room. They all got up again when the door was opened to admit Friso and Toby, who, having been introduced, got on to their father’s knee, where they sat staring at Cressida unwinkingly until it was time to go in to lunch.

It was a delicious meal; onion soup to keep out the cold, as Harriet explained, chicken à la king and a magnificent trifle, which she disclosed with some pride she had made herself. ‘It’s about all I’m any good at,’ she explained to her guests, but Friso interrupted from his end of the table with: ‘You make an excellent stew, my love,’ and smiled at her in such a way that a pang smote Cressida’s heart. It would be wonderful to be loved like that…

‘The first meal Harry ever cooked for me was a stew,’ Friso told her. ‘We ate it in a flooded house under the dyke while the tide came in; it had everything in it and it smelled like heaven.’ He put a spoon into Toby’s small fist and smiled again at his wife before he went on to talk of something else.

They didn’t stay long after lunch, which was a pity because Cressida, robbed of a cosy chat with Harriet, hadn’t been able to discover anything about Doctor van der Teile. True, there had been frequent references to mutual friends, but she was still in the dark as to where he lived and what exactly he did. A consultant—well, she knew that, but in which branch of the profession? and had he a practice beside the one he shared—if you could call it sharing—with his partners? And what was his home like and where was it? She wondered if the girl he was going to marry approved of it. She made her farewells with real regret and got into the Bentley.

‘Nice people,’ commented the doctor as he took the road to the Afsluitdijk and Alkmaar. ‘I’ve known Friso for years, of course—Harry came to Franeker to spend a holiday with a friend and they met there and married in no time.’

They were on the Afsluitdijk now, tearing along its length in the gloom of the afternoon, but Cressida didn’t notice the gloom; just for a little while she felt happy and blissfully content; somehow her companion had, in a few hours, lightened her grief. Probably when they next met they would fall out, but for the moment they were enjoying each other’s company.

She found Alkmaar enchanting. They parked the car and walked through its narrow streets, looking at the cheese market and the Weigh House, and waiting for the figures on the topmost gable to ride out and encircle the clock when it struck the hour. If it hadn’t been so cold, Cressida would have gone back and had another look, but a mean little rain was falling now and the suggestion of tea was welcome. They went to a small tea-room in the main street, almost empty of customers but cosily warm and pretty, with its pink lampshades and small tables. A tiny jug of milk was brought with their miniature teapots, and Cressida, just beginning to get used to the weak, milkless tea the doctors drank, was delighted. Nor did the cake trolley fail in its delights. She chose an elaborate confection of nuts and chocolate and whipped cream and ate it with the gusto of a schoolgirl on a half-term treat, something which caused her companion a good deal of hidden amusement.

It was getting dark as they went into the street again and walked back to the car, and it was as they started back in the direction of Groningen that Cressida inquired artlessly: ‘Do you have far to go after you drop me off?’

‘No great distance.’ And that was all he said, and that in a cool voice which didn’t invite any more questions. Probably he thought that she was being curious, but he need not have sounded so snubbing. In a polite, wooden voice she remarked: ‘What a pity it is dark so quickly, but I have enjoyed my day—it was so kind…’

‘It’s not over yet, and I’m not kind. I felt like company.’

Her pleasure in the day evaporated and gave way to temper, so that she said tartly: ‘How convenient for you that I accepted your invitation, although now that I come to think about it, you didn’t invite me—you took it for granted that I’d come.’ She added sweetly, ‘Pray don’t expect that a second time.’

‘Who said anything about a second time?’ he wanted to know silkily, and put his foot down hard, so that the Bentley shot forward at a pace to make her catch her breath. Nothing would have made her ask him to drive more slowly, so she sat as still as a mouse and as stiff as a poker until he remarked carelessly: ‘It’s all right, you don’t need to be frightened.’

If it had been physically possible, she would have liked to box his ears for him.

They left Afsluitdijk behind them and he slowed the car through Franeker and Leeuwarden and slowed it still more as they neared the village. Cressida, mindful of her manners, had sustained a conversation throughout the latter part of their journey; she would dearly have loved to sulk, but that would have been childish and got her nowhere; dignity was the thing. It made her sit up very straight beside him and talk nothings in a high voice, hurrying from one harmless topic to the next, giving him no time to do more than answer briefly to each well-tried platitude which passed her lips. Dignity, too, helped her to mount the steps to the front door beside him, still talking, to pause at the door and plunge into stilted thanks which he ruthlessly interrupted.

‘I’m not coming in,’ he told her. ‘I had thought that we might have dined together, but at the rate you are going, you would have had no social conversation left, and by the time we had finished the soup you would have been hoarse.’

Cressida’s mouth was open to speak her mind, but she didn’t get the chance. ‘My fault,’ he said, and didn’t tell her why, and when Juffrouw Naald opened the door he turned without a word and went back to the car. Cressida went indoors feeling as though she had been dropped from a great height and had the breath knocked out of her. It wasn’t a nice sensation and she didn’t go too deeply into it. She had her supper with the two doctors and went to bed early, expecting to lie awake with her disturbing thoughts, but surprisingly she didn’t; she was conscious of only one vivid memory; Doctor van der Teile’s lonely back as he had walked away from her on the doorstep.