Читать книгу Wish with the Candles - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 7

MISS EMMA HASTINGS closed her eyes and a shudder ran through her nicely curved person; she opened them again almost immediately, hoping, rather after the manner of a small child, that what she didn’t wish to see would be gone. Of course it wasn’t. The Rolls-Royce Cornische convertible still gleamed blackly within a yard or so of her appalled gaze. In other, happier circumstances she would have been delighted to have had the opportunity of viewing its magnificence at such close quarters, but now, at this moment, she could only wish it on the other side of the world, not here within inches of her, with the bumper of her humble Ford Popular, third hand, locked with the pristine beauty of the Rolls’ own single bumper.

Its driver was getting out and Emma made haste to do the same, quite forgetting that the Ford’s door handle on her side could be temperamental and had taken that moment to jam while she was fiddling with it. As she tugged and pushed she had plenty of time to observe the man strolling towards them. As magnificent as his car, she thought, eyeing his height and breadth of shoulder, and her heart sank as she saw his hair, for it was a dark, rich copper, and redheaded people were notoriously nasty-tempered. Her mother apparently thought otherwise, for she said softly, ‘Oh, Emma, what a remarkably handsome man!’ and Emma, cross because she couldn’t get out, began tartly, ‘Oh, Mother…’ and went on silently fighting the door, which, to make matters worse, yielded instantly under the man’s hand.

She got out then, all five foot three of her, feeling a little better because she was face to face with him even though her eyes were on a level with his tie. She studied its rich silkiness for a long moment and then lifted her gaze to his face. His eyes, she noticed with something of a shock were green, unexpectedly cool. Probably he was furious; she said quickly in her pleasant voice, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t speak Dutch—it was my fault,’ and smiled with relief when he answered her in English.

‘You were on the wrong side of the road.’ He spoke curtly, but Emma was so relieved to hear her own tongue that she hardly noticed it and went on, ‘I’m so glad you’re English,’ and when he gave her a sudden sharp look and barked ‘Why?’ at her, she explained cheerfully:

‘Well, the Dutch are awfully nice, but they’re not very—very lighthearted…’

He laughed nastily. ‘Indeed? Am I supposed to be lighthearted because I have been run into by a careless girl who has probably damaged my car? You are an appalling driver.’

‘I’m not,’ said Emma with spirit, ‘I’m quite good, only they drive on the wrong side of the road and when I turned the corner I forgot—only for a moment.’ She returned the icy stare from the green eyes with a cool one from her own hazel ones and added with dignity:

‘Of course, I will pay for any damage.’ Her heart sank as she said it; Rolls-Royces were expensive cars, doubtless their repairs cost a good deal more than the lesser fry of the motoring world. She blinked at the unpalatable thought that she would probably be footing the bill—in instalments—for months ahead and ventured uncertainly:

‘Perhaps the damage isn’t too bad.’

The man looked down a nose which reminded her strongly of Wellington’s. ‘Probably extensive,’ he stated evenly, his eyes boring into hers. Emma drew a long breath—it wasn’t any good trying to guess at the cost; she thrust the unpleasant thought to the back of her mind and remarked practically, ‘Well, if we could undo the cars we could see…’

A faint convulsion swept over the stranger’s face. ‘And how do you propose to—er—undo them?’ His voice was too smooth for her liking. She shot him a doubtful glance and then walked past him to have a look. It seemed to her that the Ford had had the worst of the encounter, for its bumpers were dented and twisted and hooked under the Rolls’ bumper. Emma, who knew very little about cars anyway, hoped that its engine was all right. She said now, ‘If we could lift your car off mine…’

The convulsion returned briefly. ‘Have you ever tried to lift a Rolls-Royce, young lady?’ His voice was silky and when she shook her head he went on, still very silky, ‘You really are bird-witted, aren’t you?’

He had come to stand beside her, now he lifted an elegantly shod foot and gently kicked that piece of bumper which the Ford had wrapped round the Rolls. It fell to the road with an apologetic clang and Emma, watching it with her mouth open, didn’t wait for its last rattle before she burst into hot speech.

‘How dare you—how dare you kick my car, just because it’s old!’ She could have been accusing him of kicking an old lady from her throbbing accents; her voice shook with temper; her quite ordinary face seemed to have taken on a more vivid sheen. The man turned to look at her once more, intently this time, as if he were studying something he had previously overlooked.

‘And how dare you drive on the wrong side of the road?’ he queried mildly, ‘an offence which I fear in this country is frowned upon by the law.’

As if some demon god had been listening to his words, a small white car skimmed round the bend of the road, made as if to pass them, and then stopped. It had the word Politie painted on its sides and the familiar blue lamp on its roof, and if that wasn’t enough to convince Emma that Damocles’ sword really had fallen, its doors opened and two large square men in the uniform of the Dutch police stepped out, advanced with the deliberate step of their kind and then stood to look about them. After a minute one of them spoke, and Emma, supposing it to be the equivalent of ‘Well, well, what’s all this?’ said apologetically, ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t understand…!’ and then turned to the stranger. ‘Do you speak the language at all?’ she wanted to know. ‘Perhaps you could make them understand.’

He looked at her without expression. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her shortly, and then turned to the two policemen and broke into crisp speech, not a word of which did Emma understand. The policemen could though, they listened thoughtfully, inspected his papers and smiled at him as though he were an old friend. They smiled at Emma too and the stranger said, ‘They wish to see your licence.’

She produced it and then, upon request, her passport, and stood patiently while they studied it, but her patience wore a little thin when the man received the passport from the police and instead of handing it back to her, had a good look at it himself, thereby culling the information that she was Emma Hastings, single, Theatre Sister by profession, hazel-eyed and brown-haired, and that she had been born at Mutchley Magna in the County of Dorset on the first of May, 1945. She longed to tell him how grossly impertinent he was, but since he had apparently smoothed things over with the police, she didn’t dare.

He handed it back to her without a word and turned to the police once more, who wrote in their notebooks for a while and then laughing with him in what she considered to be a quite offensive manner, went to ease the Rolls away from her car while the stranger, without so much as a glance in her direction, got into the Ford and reversed it until there was a space between the cars’ bonnets once more. This done, the police saluted her politely, made some cheerful remark to her companion and shot away in their little car. As they disappeared round the bend of the road Emma said accusingly, ‘You’re not English—you’re Dutch! Why didn’t you say so in the first place?’

The green eyes twinkled even though he said gravely enough:

‘I imagine that I wasn’t feeling lighthearted enough. I trust you will forgive me?’

He was laughing at her behind the blandness. She went a fiery red and said stiffly, ‘I’m sorry I was rude. Thank you for—for…’

‘Getting round the law? Think nothing of it, young lady, although I feel sure that you would have managed very well for yourself—our policemen, while by no means lighthearted, are kind.’ His voice was mocking; Emma shot him a look of annoyance which he ignored as he walked over to the Ford and leaned through its open window to speak to her mother. She stood uncertainly watching him and listening to her mother’s pleasant, still youthful voice mingling with his deep one. Presently her mother laughed and called from the car, ‘Emma dear, do come here a minute.’

Emma went, reluctant yet dying of curiosity to know what they were talking about.

‘Just fancy,’ said her mother, ‘this gentleman knows Oudewater very well. I was just telling him that we intend to be weighed on the Witch’s Scales there and perhaps spend the night, and he tells me that there is a very comfortable little hotel there. We might do better than one night and stay a day or two—we could reach Gouda and Schoonhoven very easily from there.’ She glanced at the stranger for collaboration and he smiled with a charm which Emma found strangely disquieting even though the smile was directed at her mother.

‘You like castles?’ he asked. ‘You have of course heard of the performances of Son et Lumière at the castle of Wijk bij Duurstede?’ He spoke to Mrs Hastings and didn’t look at Emma. ‘It is only a few miles along the river from Schoonhoven—you could perhaps visit it; there is a pleasant hotel there too—old-fashioned but comfortable, and the service is most friendly.’

‘It sounds just the sort of thing we’re looking for,’ exclaimed Mrs Hastings, and Emma sighed quietly; there really was no need for her mother to take this man into her confidence as she was obviously going to do. A man who drove a Rolls worth several thousand pounds and wore silk shirts and hand-tailored suits wasn’t likely to be interested in the smaller hotels in out-of-the-way villages; probably he was just being polite. She caught her mother’s eye and frowned slightly, and that lady gave her the innocent round-eyed look she adopted when she didn’t intend to take any notice of her daughter. ‘We’ve three days left,’ explained Mrs Hastings, ‘and not much money.’

‘Mother!’ said Emma in a repressive voice, and avoided the man’s amused eyes.

Her mother looked unworried. ‘Well, dear,’ she said reasonably, ‘anyone looking at our car can see that for themselves, can’t they? Besides, we aren’t likely to meet you again, are we?’ She smiled at the man, who smiled back so nicely that Emma instantly forgave him for looking amused. She loved her mother very much, but now that her father was dead her mother needed someone to protect her from making friends with everyone she met. She went a little nearer the car and said quietly, her voice a little stiff: ‘If you will let me have your name and address—so that I can pay you for the repairs…’

She looked sideways at the Rolls as she spoke and couldn’t see anything wrong with it at all, but that didn’t mean to say that there wasn’t something vital and frightfully expensive that needed doing under its elegant bonnet.

He, it seemed, wasn’t going to give her either his name or his address. He said mildly, ‘I’ll contact you through the AA when the repairs, if they’re needed, are ready—the police have all the particulars.’ And when he saw her worried look, ‘No, they’ll do nothing more. I explained. And now allow me to make sure there is no damage to your car before you resume your journey.’

Emma went with him, to peer at the engine and watch while he pulled at a few wires, which, she had to admit to herself, she hadn’t realized were of any importance at all, and turned a few screws with large hands—well-kept hands, she noticed, with square-tipped fingers. She took a good look at his face too and silently agreed with her mother that he was indeed good-looking in a rugged way. He looked up suddenly, gave her another cool stare and said unsmilingly, ‘Try the lights, will you? and then switch on the engine.’

She did as she was bid and after a minute or so he observed, ‘Everything seems all right—you’ve got a worn plug, though.’

He took out a pocket book as he spoke and scribbled a note and tore out the page and handed it to her. ‘There’s a garage in Oudewater, on the left of the road as you go into the town. Give this to anyone there and they will put it right for you—it’s only a trifle, but it may cause trouble later on.’

‘Thank you,’ said Emma politely, ‘you’ve been very kind.’ She swallowed and went on quickly, ‘I apologize for what I said about the Dutch. I like them very much.’

He smiled at her with such enchantment that her pulse galloped.

‘But you were quite right; we aren’t lighthearted. I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ He nodded in a friendly way and went back to the car again, put his head through the window and wished her mother a longer and warmer goodbye, then he got back into his own car and sat waiting for Emma to go. She drove away, on the right side of the road this time and without looking at him, although she would have liked to very much. Mrs Hastings, having no mixed-up feelings, stuck her head out of the window and waved.

When they had gone a mile or so along the road Emma stopped the car and in answer to her mother’s inquiring look, said sheepishly, ‘I just want to see what he’s written,’ and opened the note he had given her. It was, of course, in Dutch; even if it had been in English she doubted if she would have understood a word of its scrawled writing; a good thing perhaps, for he had written: ‘Give this car a quick overhaul without the young lady knowing. Charge her for a new plug and I’ll settle with you later.’ It was signed with the initials J.T.

Emma folded the paper carefully and put it back in her purse and her mother said thoughtfully, ‘He was nice, that man. Emma, why don’t we know anyone like him?’

Emma’s pretty eyes twinkled. ‘Dear Mother, because we don’t move in those circles, do we? Not any more.’

‘You liked him?’

Emma chuckled. ‘Mother, we spoke to him for about ten minutes, and you did most of the talking. As far as I was concerned I wasn’t very friendly and nor was he.’

Her mother sighed. ‘No, dear, I noticed. Never mind, perhaps we shall bump into him again.’ She nodded cheerfully, unaware of her unhappy choice of words.

‘Oh dear, I do hope not,’ said Emma, and knew as she said it that there was nothing she would like more than to meet him again. She steered the car carefully to the other side of the road. ‘There’s the garage,’ she remarked, glad to have something else to think about.

The young mechanic she addressed in English grinned and disappeared to reappear a minute later with an older man who said, ‘Good day, miss,’ and when he had read the note she handed to him, looked at her with a smile and asked, ‘You stay at the hotel?’ and when Emma nodded, went on, ‘De Witte Engel—by the canal in the centrum, you cannot miss. The boy will come for the car. OK?’

‘Oh, very OK,’ said Emma with relief. ‘I think I need a new plug.’

The man smiled again. ‘That comes in order, miss. Make no trouble.’ Which she rightly surmised to mean that she wasn’t to worry about it.

Oudewater was rather like going through a door into Grimms’ Fairy Tales; the road was cobbled and narrow and there was, inevitably, a canal splitting it down the middle, reflecting the great variety of gabled roofs of the old houses lining it. Possibly because it was so small, the little town seemed full of people. Emma drove cautiously down one side of the canal, crossed a bridge and went slowly up the other side until she reached the hotel. It was small and dark and cool inside, although through an open door at the back of the hall Emma could see the May sunshine streaming on to a small garden. There was no one to be seen, but there were voices clearly to be heard behind several of the doors leading from the hall. Emma, obedient to a large placard which requested ‘Bellen, SVP’, rang the enormous brass bell standing beneath it, and one of the doors opened and an elderly man, not very tall but immensely thick through, appeared.

‘We should like to stay the night,’ stated Emma, who was ever hopeful that the man might speak English.’ It was a relief when he said at once, ‘Certainly, miss. Yourself and…?’

‘My mother. How much is it for bed and breakfast?’

‘Twelve gulden and fifty cents each, miss. Two rooms, perhaps? We are not yet so busy.’ He turned round with surprising lightness for so large a man and took two large keys, each attached to a chain with a brass ball on its end. ‘You would like to see them?’

The rooms were in the front of the hotel, overlooking the bustling street and its canal, and although they were sparsely furnished they were spotlessly clean with wash-basins squeezed into their corners.

‘Plumbing?’ inquired Mrs Hastings, who liked her warm bath. They followed the landlord down an immensely long passage which ended in a door which he flung open with a flourish to reveal a narrow tiled room with what appeared to be a wooden garden seat up against one wall and a bath shaped like a comfortable armchair. ‘Very nice,’ said Emma before her mother could comment on the garden seat. ‘We may stay two nights.’

The landlord nodded and led the way downstairs again and while they filled in their cards at the desk, fetched their bags and took them upstairs. When he came down Emma inquired hopefully:

‘I suppose we couldn’t have tea?’

‘Certainly, miss.’ He waved a hand like a ham in the direction of the coffee room. ‘And perhaps an evening meal?’

Which seemed a splendid idea; the ladies agreed without hesitation and opened the coffee room door.

It was dark, just like the hall, but in an old and comfortable way, with windows overlooking the street and a great many little tables dotted around. There were large upholstered chairs too and a billiard table in the middle which sustained a neatly laid out collection of papers.

Over tea and little wafer-thin biscuits, they discussed their day.

‘A very satisfactory one,’ murmured Mrs Hastings. ‘How many miles have we done, darling?’

Emma said promptly, ‘Only about ninety, but we did Utrecht very thoroughly, didn’t we, and Leiden. I liked Leiden and all those dear little villages between.’

Her mother agreed a little absentmindedly; she was thinking about something else. ‘Do you suppose that car was badly damaged, Emma? I wasn’t very near, but I couldn’t see a mark on it.’

‘Nor could I,’ Emma frowned thoughtfully, ‘and I don’t quite understand why he said we should hear through the AA. That time I bumped into those cows—you remember?—it was the insurance firm, and I’m sure you’re supposed to exchange names and addresses.’

Mrs Hastings said brightly, ‘Well, he knows ours; I saw him looking at the luggage labels. I suppose he’ll send the bill to you.’ She added not quite so brightly, ‘Shall we be able to pay it?’

‘Of course,’ said Emma sturdily, stifling doubts, ‘it won’t come for ages, they never do, and it won’t be much. Don’t you worry about it.’ She frowned again. ‘But we didn’t see him drive away, did we? Supposing he couldn’t. Perhaps he’s still there…’

‘Nonsense,’ said Mrs Hastings. ‘Now you’re worrying; that sort of car never breaks down. Let’s go for a walk.’

They explored the town first, and then, because it was such a pleasant evening, strolled along a country road which seemed to lead nowhere. ‘A pity we have to go back,’ remarked Mrs Hastings. ‘It’s been such a lovely holiday, Emma dear, and so sweet of you to let me tag along with you. You might have had more fun with someone of your own age.’

‘Fiddlesticks,’ said Emma vigorously. ‘I’ve loved every minute of it, too—I’m glad we chose Holland, and if I’d gone with someone else they might have wanted to do things I didn’t want to do. We’ve seen a lot—besides, we like poking around, don’t we?’

Her mother agreed. ‘Shall we go to Gouda tomorrow?’

‘Yes, and the day after, Schoonhoven and then we can go to that place Wijk something or other. There’s enough money for us to see the Son et Lumière at the castle. We can go south from there in time to catch the night boat from Zeebrugge.’

‘Ten days go so quickly,’ remarked her mother on a sigh, ‘but with Kitty coming home—and it wouldn’t be kind to leave her alone. It’s a pity Gregory and Susan couldn’t have her, but with a new baby in the house…’

‘Well, I couldn’t have had a longer holiday, anyway. Sister Cox is having her feet done as soon as I get back.’

‘Poor thing,’ said her mother, and meant it; she had only met Sister Cox at Hospital fêtes, on which annual occasions the Theatre Superintendent showed only the better side of her nature. ‘Let’s go back, I’m hungry.’

They dined at one of the tables in the coffee room with a sprinkling of other guests who were, however, not dining but drinking beer or coffee and when the mood took them, playing billiards as well. They greeted the two ladies with friendliness and then, with perfect manners ignored them while they ate. The food was good although limited in choice and Emma, who had no weight problems, enjoyed everything she was offered and then sat back watching the players while she and her mother drank their coffee. Perhaps it was because of her obvious interest in the game that she was asked, in peculiar but understandable English, if she played herself, and when she admitted that she did and was asked if she would care for a game she took it as something of a compliment, for in none of the other hotels they had visited had she ever seen a woman playing. She took a cue and gave such a good account of herself that there was a little round of applause when the game was finally finished, even though she hadn’t won. Thinking about it in her little bedroom later she wondered if, despite the language difficulty, she should have told them that she had played with her father for years before he died, and was considered something of an expert even though she wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about the game. She went on to wonder, for no reason at all, if the man they had met that afternoon played too; if so, she would dearly love to beat him. She smiled at the silliness of the thought as she went to sleep.

They went to Gouda the next day and spent a long time looking at the Town Hall, which was quaint and very old and being in the middle of the square, could be seen properly by just walking slowly round it. They went to Sint Janskerk too, because the guide book told them to and were very glad that they had because of its quiet spaciousness and lovely stained glass windows. When they came out at last, they wandered off into the little lanes and alleys around it and stared at the small ancient houses, huddled together as though to support each other through the centuries, and when they found their way back to the Markt, they lunched off a tremendous pancake in a restaurant which looked like a Dutch interior painted by Pieter de Hoogh. They spent an hour exploring the rest of the little town and looking at its shops and then got into the car again and drove the mile or so to the complex of lakes just outside the town, where they stopped at a café for cups of milkless tea which they drank sitting at a little table overlooking the water and admired the boats bowling along before the stiff breeze they had come to expect in Holland.

‘The car’s running well,’ remarked Mrs Hastings as they started back. ‘I had no idea that one new plug could make so much difference.’

‘Yes, I’m surprised—it’s almost as though she’s been over-hauled—it’s surprising what a new plug will do. They only charged five gulden too. I must get the bumper fixed when we get home.’ Which remark led her to think of the stranger again.

The next day they travelled the few miles to Schoonhoven, along a charming country road with little traffic upon it and a warm sun shining down on the flat green land around them, and spent the whole day wandering in and around that little town. A great deal of their time was taken up with a visit to the Edelambachthuis on its main canal, watching the silversmiths for which the place was famous and so enchanted with their work that they spent more than they could really afford on some silver teaspoons because Mrs Hastings declared them to be exactly right for the Dresden tea-set she still cherished. They parked the car in the town and lunched at the hotel on the edge of the river and then crossed by the nearby ferry to walk along the dyke on its other bank until they remembered that they still had to be weighed on the Witch’s Scales in Oudewater. They went back the way they had come, with the little river running beside the road the whole way and the car windows open to the afternoon heat of the sun. When they got back they had tea at the hotel, examining their diplomas guaranteeing them immunity from a witch’s fiery end and then making their plans for the following day—their last day.

They left Oudewater the next day with regret. The regret on Mrs Hastings’ part was for the comforts of the little hotel and the cheerful bustle of the little town; Emma’s was for quite another reason. The further they travelled from Oudewater the less likely it was that she would ever see the owner of the Rolls-Royce again.

They went slowly, admiring the trim little villas as they went; there were bigger houses too, not so easily seen from the road, but a mile or so from the town Emma slowed the Ford to a sedate pace so that they could stare their fill at a tall red brick house with a handsome double stair leading up to its massive front door and rows of enormous windows. It stood in full view of the road, but well back from it, and the big iron gates which led to it stood open.

‘My dear, the curtains—it would take miles and miles,’ said Mrs Hastings, and then, ‘I’d love to see inside.’

Emma nodded. The house attracted her in some way, it looked a little austere from the outside perhaps, but inside she imagined that it might be very beautiful. She said thoughtfully, ‘I daresay some of the curtains are the original ones put up when the house was built.’

Her gaze shifted to the garden, very formal and full of colour, and she couldn’t help but contrast it with the small cottage in which her mother lived, with its pocket handkerchief of a lawn at its front and the small stretch of garden behind, probably her mother was thinking the same thing. She patted her parent’s hands lying on her lap and said comfortingly, ‘Never mind, darling, the garden at home is very pretty.’ And they smiled at each other, remembering the lovely garden they had had in the old house, before her father died. Emma missed it still; it would be even worse for her mother. She took a final look and put her foot, in its neat sandal, down on the accelerator.

They dawdled along the dyke road bordering the Lek and stopped for a picnic lunch by the water, watching the barges chugging their way up and down its broad water as they ate, and presently, when they resumed their journey, they caught their first glimpse of the castle as they approached Wijk bij Duurstede, its round red brick towers standing out amongst the trees, but the miniature town itself they didn’t see at all until they turned off the road on to a narrow street which brought them to a cobbled square, shaded by enormous trees and lined with tall old houses and a handful of shops. The hotel faced the square; an old building with a balcony on either side of its door and called, rather inappropriately, thought Emma, ‘de Keizer’s Kroon,’ for its homely appearance hardly justified its royal title. But even if the hotel wasn’t royal, their welcome was. They went inside, straight into a vast room with a bar at one end, a billiard table in the middle and a number of tables around its walls; most of these were covered with the little woollen rugs Emma rather liked, but half a dozen tables were laid for dinner with starched white cloths and highly polished silver and glass. Standing proudly amid them was the landlord, a large, genial man who listened carefully to Emma’s request for rooms and led them through a double door into a narrow passage with an equally narrow staircase. ‘Two rooms?’ asked Emma hopefully as they started to climb, then came to an abrupt halt as he shook his head and broke into regretful Dutch, holding up one finger to clinch his argument, and then beckoned them on.

The room was at the back of the hotel, with two enormous windows, a very high ceiling and large enough to house the vast furniture in it twice over. Emma stared fascinated at the bed with its carved headboard putting her in mind of the Coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, greatly enlarged, but this awe-inspiring piece of furniture was offset by a small but modern washbasin and everything in the room shone with soap and polish, besides which the landlord, rather in the manner of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat, flung open a door at the end of a little passage to disclose a very large bathroom containing a very small bath. They agreed most happily to take the room and presently, when they had tidied themselves, went downstairs, where over a cup of tea they made the landlord understand that they wanted tickets for the Son et Lumière performance that evening. It was disappointing when he shook his head and after some thought, said, ‘Many people.’

‘We’ll go and see anyway,’ said Emma. ‘Perhaps there’ll be a couple of cancelled seats.’

The castle wasn’t hard to find, for the town was so very small and its roads few. There was a gate leading to the grounds around the castle with a hut beside it and a man sitting inside, and when Emma asked about tickets she was delighted to hear the beautifully pedantic English with which he answered her. She exclaimed warmly, ‘Oh, how well you speak, and how nice for us,’ and he smiled and replied, ‘I’m the schoolmaster here,’ as though that explained everything.

Emma said a little anxiously, ‘They said at the hotel that there weren’t any seats left for tonight. We’re going back to England tomorrow and we were told by—someone that we really should see it.’

He stared at her as she spoke; now he asked slowly, ‘Someone you met?’ and when she nodded, went on, ‘It just so happens that I have two returned tickets. How lucky you are, ladies.’

The price seemed very modest, but perhaps it wasn’t a very lavish affair. Emma paid up cheerfully and after a few minutes’ talk she and her mother walked through the gateway; it seemed a good idea to see the castle now that they were so close to it. It was an impressive sight, even though partly ruined, and the trees and shrubs around it added to its impressiveness. They looked their fill, and very pleased with themselves, went back to the hotel for dinner.

There were quite a number of people dining and even more drinking coffee. They sat in the window eating a simple well-cooked meal and, because it was their last night in Holland, drinking a glass of wine with it. The performance was to start at nine o’clock, but long before then the little town came alive with cars and bus loads of people, and by the time Emma and her mother arrived at the gate to the grounds, there was a throng of people. It took them a little while to find their seats, but Emma, who had a persevering nature, showed their tickets to a successive number of people until they at length arrived at them. They were good seats; the man at the gate hadn’t exaggerated when he had told them that they were in an excellent position. They sat down and Emma looked around at the sea of strange faces. Not all strange though, for coming towards them with an unhurried stride was the man in the Rolls-Royce.

Emma’s first reaction was one of pure pleasure, the second, satisfaction that she had put on the coral pink silk shirtwaister, an ordinary enough garment, but the colour suited her, but it could have been mud-coloured sacking for all the good it did her. His glance was as brief as his polite greeting before he addressed himself to her mother. It was then that Emma saw that he wasn’t alone.

A majestic middle-aged lady, beautifully coiffured and gowned, accompanied him, so did a tall willowy girl with glowing golden air and an outfit which Emma would have sacrificed her eye-teeth to possess. He introduced them with a cool charm as ‘My aunt, Mevrouw Teylingen, and Saskia,’ which did nothing to clear up the question as to who he was himself. The majestic lady smiled nicely, shook hands and sat down between Emma and her mother. Her nephew took a seat beside Mrs Hastings, and Saskia, after more handshaking, sat beside him. ‘And that,’ thought Emma, sadly put out, ‘is that.’

It was her mother who asked, ‘May we know your name? You haven’t told us, you know,’ she smiled. ‘I don’t know what Emma calls you, but I think of you as the man with red hair, and that really won’t do.’

He laughed. ‘I must apologize. Teylingen, Justin Teylingen.’ His voice sounded friendly enough, but Emma, from where she sat, got the impression that he had been reluctant to tell them and she couldn’t begin to guess why. After all, they were leaving Holland in the morning, and they didn’t even know where he lived. She wondered if her mother, who had no inhibitions about asking questions, would ask him that too and watched her framing the words on her lips, but Mijnheer Teylingen must have been watching too, because before her mother could get the question out he asked her a question of his own which presently led the conversation right away from the subject, and even if Mrs Hastings had been clever enough to slip her inquiry in again, there was no chance now, for the performance had begun.

It was fascinating; Emma sat entranced even though she couldn’t understand the words, but the programme had an explanation in English anyway, and to watch and listen was enough—besides, from time to time the aunt whispered an explanation or two which Mrs Hastings passed on to Emma in a rather scamped fashion, but Emma hardly listened. She was back in the past, her pleasant face enrapt.

It was over too soon. She sat back, aware of the bustle of people around her preparing to go home.

‘You enjoyed it?” Mijnheer Teylingen slid into the seat just vacated beside her, and Emma nodded. ‘Lovely—just lovely,’ she said inadequately, and since he was so close and it was really the first—and last?—opportunity of studying him, took a good look; older than she had supposed, even in the lamplight she could see that he was nearer forty than thirty, despite the hair and the alert green eyes, pale in the uncertain moonlight, and his nose was just as she had remembered it—perhaps not quite so formidable as Wellington’s but certainly a very good copy of it. His mouth was a little too stern perhaps…

‘I hope I come up to expectations,’ said Mijnheer Teylingen gently, and when she jumped visibly, ‘That’s what you were doing, was it not? Assessing my points?’ He smiled with real amusement. ‘Let me help you. I’m forty, more or less, my teeth and my hair are my own, my nose is an unfortunate family appanage; I am ill-tempered at times, fond of children and animals, like pretty girls and am used to having my own way.’

Emma blushed and was glad that the light was poor enough for it to go unnoticed. She began. ‘I—I—that is, I didn’t mean…’ She came to a halt, flustered.

‘Don’t apologize. Tell me, do you go home with your mother or return to your hospital?’

She wondered how it was that he was familiar with her profession and then remembered that he had looked at her passport. Feeling she owed him something, she replied, ‘I shall take my mother home first and then go back to Southampton, where I work.’

‘You enjoy your work?’

She supposed that he was making conversation. ‘Very much,’ she said, and wished she could have thought of something interesting to say; normally she was by no means so tongue-tied; she felt like a young girl, uncertain and shy, and wondered why he should have such an effect on her. Fortunately there was no need to strain her conversational powers any more, for his aunt joined them, to embark on a short conversation upon the evening’s performance before wishing Emma goodbye. Saskia wished her goodbye too, casually but staring at her thoughtfully as she did so.

Mijnheer Teylingen made his farewells with a charm rather spoilt by its brevity, and marshalling his two companions before him, disappeared in the opposite direction to the one in which Emma and her mother were to go, without so much as a backward glance.

Emma, with her arm tucked into her mother’s, walked back to the hotel listening to her parent’s remarks about the evening and adding very little of her own. Nor did she have much to say later as they prepared for bed in the large old-fashioned bedroom, although it seemed to her that Mrs Hastings dwelt with unnecessary length on Mijnheer Teylingen. The fact that she herself had almost nothing to say on the subject did nothing to alter the fact that long after her mother was asleep, her thoughts were still busy with him.

They left the next morning and began their journey home, making a leisurely trip southwards to Zeebrugge, and then because Emma lost the way, having to race the last few miles, to join the end of the car queue with only minutes to spare. They slept on board in a cabin to themselves because Emma wanted to push on to Dorset the moment they landed and there was no hope of getting any rest on the boat otherwise; it was crowded with young and boisterous students and a large party of elderly people who sang ‘Knees up, Mother Brown’, with a good deal of vigour and without showing any signs of settling down for the night.

They were last off the boat, of course, but still succeeded in getting away before a good many other cars owing, declared Mrs Hastings virtuously, to their honest faces. ‘The Customs men could always tell,’ she added smugly as they started on the long trip home.