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‘But what a nice man to get you another lot—he sounds a poppet.’
Lucy said that probably he was, although she didn’t believe that Mr der Linssen was quite the type one would describe as a poppet. Poppets were plump and cosy and good-natured, and he was none of these. She read his letter, sitting on the kitchen table eating the bits of pastry left over from the pie her mother was making, and had to admit that it was a very nice one, although she didn’t believe the bit where he wrote that he admired her for bravery. He hadn’t admired her in the least, on the contrary he had complained that she smelt of fish…but the flowers had been lovely even if he’d been doing the polite thing; probably his secretary had bought them. She folded the letter up carefully. ‘He sent me some flowers,’ she told her mother, ‘but I expect he only did it because he thought he should.’
Her mother put the pie in the oven. ‘I expect so, too, darling,’ she said carefully casual.
Lucy was still sitting there, swinging her rather nice legs, when her father came in to join them. ‘Never let it be said,’ he observed earnestly, ‘that virtue has no reward. You remember my friend Theodul de Groot? I’ve just received a telephone call from him; he’s in London attending some medical seminar or other, and asks particularly after you, Lucy. Indeed he wished to know if you have any holiday due and if so would you like to pay him a visit. Mies liked you when you met seven—eight? years ago and you’re of a similar age. I daresay she’s lonely now that her mother is dead. Do you have any holiday, my dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy very fast, ‘two weeks due and I’m to take them at the end of next week—that’s when I come off night duty.’
‘Splendid—he’ll be in London for a few days yet, but he’s anxious to come and see us. I’m sure he will be willing to stay until you’re free and take you back with him.’
‘You would like to go, love?’ asked her mother.
‘Oh, rather—it’ll be super! I loved it when I went before, but that’s ages ago—I was at school. Does Doctor de Groot still practise?’
‘Oh, yes. He has a large practice in Amsterdam still, mostly poor patients, I believe, but he has a splendid reputation in the city and numbers a great many prominent men among his friends.’
‘And Mies? I haven’t heard from her for ages.’
‘She helps her father—receptionist and so on, I gather. But I’m sure she’ll have plenty of free time to spend with you.’
‘Wouldn’t it be strange if you met that lecturer while you were there?’ Mrs Prendergast’s tone was artless.
‘Well, I shan’t. I should think he lived in London, wouldn’t you?’ Lucy ran her finger round the remains of custard in a dish and licked it carefully. ‘I wonder what clothes I should take?’
The rest of her nights off were spent in pleasurable planning and she went back happily enough to finish her night duty, her bruises now an unpleasant yellow. The four nights went quickly enough now that she had something to look forward to, even though they were busier than ever, what with a clutch of very ill babies to be dealt with hourly and watched over with care, and two toddlers who kept the night hours as noisy as the day with their cries of rage because they wanted to go home.
Lucy had just finished the ten o’clock feeds on her last night, and was trying to soothe a very small, very angry baby, when Mr Henderson, the Surgical Registrar, came into the ward, and with him Mr der Linssen. At the sight of them the baby yelled even louder, as red in the face and as peppery as an ill-tempered colonel, so that Lucy, holding him with one hand over her shoulder while she straightened the cot with the other, looked round to see what was putting the infant into an even worse rage.
‘Mr der Linssen wants a word with you, Nurse Prendergast,’ said the Registrar importantly, and she frowned at him; he was a short, pompous man who always made the babies cry, not because he was unkind to them but because he disliked having them sick up on his coat and sometimes worse than that, and they must have known it. ‘Put him back in the cot, Nurse.’
She had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but Mr der Linssen stretched out a long arm and took the infant from her, settling him against one great shoulder, where, to her great annoyance, it stopped bawling at once, hiccoughed loudly and went to sleep, its head tucked against the superfine wool of his jacket. Lucy, annoyed that the baby should put her in a bad light, hoped fervently that it would dribble all over him.
‘Babies like me,’ observed Mr der Linssen smugly, and then: ‘I hear from Mr Trevett that you are going to your home tomorrow. I have to drive to Bristol—I’ll give you a lift.’
She eyed him frostily. ‘How kind, but I’m going by train.’ She added: ‘Beaminster’s rather out of your way.’
‘A part of England I have always wished to see,’ he assured her airily. ‘Will ten o’clock suit you?’ He smiled most engagingly. ‘You may sleep the whole way if you wish.’
In other words, she thought ungraciously, he couldn’t care less whether I’m there or not, and then went pink as he went on: ‘I should much prefer you to stay awake, but never let it be said that I’m an unreasonable man.’
He handed the baby back and it instantly started screaming its head off again. ‘Ten o’clock?’ he repeated. It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact.
Lucy was already tired and to tell the truth the prospect of a long train journey on top of a busy night wasn’t all that enthralling. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said ungraciously, and had a moment’s amusement at the Registrar’s face.
Mr der Linssen’s handsome features didn’t alter. He nodded calmly and went away.
CHAPTER TWO
LUCY SAT stiffly in the comfort of the Panther as Mr der Linssen cut a swathe through the London traffic and drove due west. It seemed that he was as good at driving a car as he was at soothing a baby and just as patient; through the number of hold-ups they were caught up in he sat quietly, neither tapping an impatient tattoo with his long, well manicured fingers, nor muttering under his breath; in fact, beyond wishing her a cheerful good morning when she had presented herself, punctual but inimical, at the hospital entrance, he hadn’t spoken. She was wondering about that when he observed suddenly: ‘Still feeling cross? No need; I am at times ill-tempered, arrogant and inconsiderate, but I do not bear malice and nor—as I suspect you are thinking—am I heaping coals of fire upon your mousy head because you dropped off during one of my lectures…It was a good lecture too.’
And how did she answer that? thought Lucy, and need he have reminded her that her hair was mousy? She almost exploded when he added kindly: ‘Even if it is mousy it is always clean and shining. Don’t ever give it one of those rinses—my young sister did and ended up with bright red streaks in all the wrong places.’
‘Have you got a sister?’ she was surprised into asking.
‘Lord, yes, and years younger than I am. You sound surprised.’
He was working his way towards the M3 and she looked out at the river as they crossed Putney Bridge and swept on towards Richmond. She said slowly, not wishing to offend him even though she didn’t think she liked him at all: ‘Well, I am, a bit… I mean when one gets—gets older one talks about a wife and children…’
‘But I have neither, as I have already told you. You mean perhaps that I am middle-aged. Well, I suppose I am; nudging forty is hardly youth.’
‘The prime of life,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m twenty-three, but women get older much quicker than men do.’
He drove gently through the suburbs. ‘That I cannot believe, what with hairdressers and beauty parlours and an endless succession of new clothes.’
Probably he had girl-friends who enjoyed these aids to youth and beauty, reflected Lucy; it wasn’t much use telling him that student nurses did their own hair, sleeping in rollers which kept them awake half the night in the pursuit of beauty, and as for boutiques and up-to-the-minute clothes, they either made their own or shopped at Marks & Spencer or C.&A.
She said politely: ‘I expect you’re right’ and then made a banal remark about the weather and presently, when they reached the motorway and were doing a steady seventy, she closed her eyes and went to sleep.
She woke up just before midday to find that they were already on the outskirts of Sherborne and to her disjointed apologies he rejoined casually: ‘You needed a nap. We’ll have coffee—is there anywhere quiet and easy to park?’
She directed him to an old timbered building opposite the Abbey where they drank coffee and ate old-fashioned currant buns, and nicely refreshed with her sleep and the food, Lucy told him about the little town. ‘We don’t come here often,’ she observed. ‘Crewkerne is nearer, and anyway we can always go into Beaminster.’
‘And that is a country town?’ he asked idly.
‘Well, it’s a large village, I suppose.’
He smiled. ‘Then let us go and inspect this village, shall we? Unless you could eat another bun?’
She assured him that she had had enough and feeling quite friendly towards him, she climbed back into the car and as he turned back into the main street to take the road to Crewkerne she apologised again, only to have the little glow of friendliness doused by his casual: ‘You are making too much of a brief doze, Lucy. I did tell you that you could sleep all the way if you wished to.’ He made it worse by adding: ‘I’m only giving you a lift, you know, you don’t have to feel bound to entertain me.’
A remark which annoyed her so much that she had to bite her tongue to stop it from uttering the pert retort which instantly came to her mind. She wouldn’t speak to him, she decided, and then had to when he asked: ‘Just where do I turn off?’
They arrived at the Rectory shortly before two o’clock and she invited him, rather frostily, to meet her family, not for a moment supposing that he would wish to do so, so she was surprised when he said readily enough that he would be delighted.
She led the way up the short drive and opened the door wider; it was already ajar, for her father believed that he should always be available at any time. There was a delicious smell coming from the kitchen and when Lucy called: ‘Mother?’ her parent called: ‘Home already, darling? Come in here—I’m dishing up.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Lucy to her companion, and left him standing in the hall while she joined her mother. It was astonishing what a lot she could explain in a few seconds; she left Mrs Prendergast in no doubt as to what she was to say to her visitor. ‘And tell Father,’ whispered Lucy urgently, ‘he’s not to know that I’m going to Holland.’ She added in an artificially high voice: ‘Do come and meet Mr der Linssen, Mother, he’s been so kind…’
The subject of their conversation was standing where she had left him, looking amused, but he greeted Mrs Prendergast charmingly and then made small talk with Lucy in the sitting room while her mother went in search of the Rector. That gentleman, duly primed by his wife, kissed his youngest daughter with affection, looking faintly puzzled and then turned his attention to his guest. ‘A drink?’ he suggested hospitably, ‘and of course you will stay to lunch.’
Mr der Linssen shot a sidelong glance at Lucy’s face and his eyes gleamed with amusement at its expression. ‘There is nothing I should have liked better,’ he said pleasantly, ‘but I have an appointment and dare not stay.’ He shot a look under his lids at Lucy as he spoke and saw relief on her face.
Her mother saw it too: ‘Then another time, Mr der Linssen—we should be so glad to give you lunch and the other children would love to meet you.’
‘You have a large family, Mrs Prendergast?’
She beamed at him. ‘Five—Lucy’s the youngest.’
The rector chuckled. ‘And the plainest, poor child—she takes after me.’
Lucy went bright pink. Really, her father was a darling but said all the wrong things sometimes, and it gave Mr der Linssen the chance to look amused again. She gave him a glassy stare while he shook hands with her parents and wished him an austere goodbye and added thanks cold enough to freeze his bones. Not that he appeared to notice; his goodbye to her was casual and friendly, he even wished her a pleasant holiday.
She didn’t go to the door to see him off and when her mother came indoors she tried to look nonchalant under that lady’s searching look. ‘Darling,’ said her mother, ‘did you have to be quite so terse with the poor man? Such a nice smile too. He must have been famished.’
Lucy’s mousy brows drew together in a frown. ‘Oh, lord—I didn’t think—we did stop in Sherborne for coffee and buns, though.’
‘My dear,’ observed her mother gently, ‘he is a very large man, I hardly feel that coffee and buns would fill him up.’ She swept her daughter into the kitchen and began to dish up dinner. ‘And why isn’t he to know that you’re going to Holland?’ she enquired mildly.
Lucy, dishing up roast potatoes, felt herself blushing again and scowled. ‘Well, if I’d told him, he might have thought…that is, it would have looked as though… Oh, dear, that sounds conceited, but I don’t mean it to be, Mother.’
‘You don’t want to be beholden to him, darling,’ suggested her mother helpfully.
Lucy sighed, relieved that her mother understood. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ She took a potato out of the dish and nibbled at it. ‘Is it just the three of us?’
‘Yes, love—the others will come in this evening, I hope—the boys just for the night to see your godfather. Kitty’s visiting Agnes’—Agnes was a bosom friend in Yeovil—‘but she’ll be back for supper and Emma will come over for an hour while Will minds the twins.’
‘Oh, good—then I’ll have time to pack after dinner.’
She hadn’t many clothes and those that she had weren’t very exciting; she went through her wardrobe with a dissatisfied frown, casting aside so much that she was forced to do it all over again otherwise she would have had nothing to take with her. In the end she settled for a jersey dress and jacket, a swimsuit in case it was warm enough to swim, a tweed skirt she really rather hated because she had had it for a couple of years now, slacks and a variety of shirts and sweaters. It was September now and it could turn chilly and she would look a fool in thin clothes. She had two evening dresses, neither of them of the kind to turn a man’s head, even for a moment. It was a pity that both her sisters were tall shapely girls. She rummaged round some more and came upon a cotton skirt, very full and rose-patterned; it might do for an evening, if they were to go out, and there was a silk blouse somewhere—she had almost thrown it away because she was so heartily sick of it, but it would do at a pinch, she supposed. She packed without much pleasure and when her mother put her head round the door to see how she was getting on, assured her that she had plenty of clothes; she was only going for a fortnight, anyway. She added her raincoat and a handful of headscarves and went to look at her shoes. Not much there, she reflected; her good black patent and the matching handbag, some worthy walking shoes which she might need and some rather fetching strapped shoes which would do very well for the evenings. She added a dressing gown, undies and slippers to the pile on the bed and then, because she could hear a car driving up to the Rectory, decided to pack them later with her other things; that would be her father’s friend, Doctor de Groot.
She had forgotten how nice he was; elderly and stooping a little with twinkling blue eyes and a marked accent. Her holiday was going to be fun after all; she sat in the midst of her family and beamed at everyone.
They set off the next morning, and it didn’t take Lucy long to discover that the journey wasn’t going to be a dull one. Doctor de Groot, once in the driver’s seat of his Mercedes, turned from a mild, elderly man with a rather pedantic manner into a speed fiend, who swore—luckily in his own language—at every little hold-up, every traffic light against him and any car which dared to overtake him. By the time they reached Dover, she had reason to be glad that she was by nature a calm girl, otherwise she might have been having hysterics. They had to wait in the queue for the Hovercraft too, a circumstance which caused her companion to drum on the wheel, mutter a good deal and generally fidget around, so that it was a relief when they went on board. Once there and out of his car, he reverted to the mild elderly gentleman again, which was a mercy, for they hadn’t stopped on the journey and his solicitous attention was very welcome. Lucy retired to the ladies’ and did her hair and her face, then returned to her seat to find that he had ordered coffee and sandwiches. It took quite a lot of self-control not to wolf them and then help herself to his as well.
They seemed to be in Calais in no time at all and Lucy, fortified with the sandwiches, strapped herself into her seat and hoped for the best. Not a very good best, actually, for Doctor de Groot was, if anything, slightly more maniacal on his own side of the Channel, and now, of course, they were driving on the other side of the road. They were to go along the coast, he explained, and cross over into Holland at the border town of Sluis, a journey of almost two hundred and thirty miles all told. ‘We shall be home for supper,’ he told her. ‘We don’t need to stop for tea, do we?’
It seemed a long way, but at the speed they were going she reflected that it wouldn’t take all that long. Doctor de Groot blandly ignored the speed signs and tore along the straight roads at a steady eighty miles an hour, only slowing for towns and villages. He had had to go more slowly in France and Belgium, of course, for there weren’t many empty stretches of road, but once in Holland, on the motorway, he put his foot down and kept it there.
It seemed no time at all before they were in the outskirts of Amsterdam, but all the same Lucy was glad to see the staid blocks of flats on either side of them. She was tired and hungry and at the back of her mind was a longing to be at home in her mother’s kitchen, getting the supper. But she forgot that almost as soon as she had thought it; the flats might look rather dull from the outside, but their lighted windows with the curtains undrawn gave glimpses of cosy interiors. She wondered what it would be like to live like that, boxed up in a big city with no fields at the back door, no garden even. Hateful, and yet in the older part of the city there were lovely steepled houses, old and narrow with important front doors which opened on to hidden splendours which the passer-by never saw. To live in one of those, she conceded, would be a delight.
She caught glimpses of them now as they neared the heart of the city and crossed the circular grachten encircling it, each one looking like a Dutch old master. She craned her neck to see them better but remembered to recognise the turning her companion must take to his own home, which delighted him. ‘So you remember a little of our city, Lucy?’ he asked, well pleased. ‘It is beautiful, is it not? You shall explore…’
‘Oh, lovely,’ declared Lucy, and really meant it. The hair-raising trip from Calais, worse if possible than the drive to Dover from her home, was worth every heart-stopping moment. She could forget it, anyway; she would be going back by boat at the end of her visit and probably Doctor de Groot would be too busy to drive her around. Perhaps Mies had a car…
They were nearing the end of their journey now, the Churchilllaan where Doctor de Groot had a flat, and as it came into view she could see that it hadn’t changed at all. It was on the ground floor, surrounded by green lawns and an ornamental canal with ducks on it and flowering shrubs, but no garden of its own. The doctor drew up untidily before the entrance, helped her out and pressed the button which would allow the occupants of the flat to open the front door. ‘I have a key,’ he explained, ‘but Mies likes to know when I am home.’
The entrance was rather impressive, with panelled walls and rather peculiar murals, a staircase wound itself up the side of one wall and there were two lifts facing the door, but the doctor’s front door was one of two leading from the foyer and Mies, warned of their coming, was already there.
Mies, unlike her surroundings, had changed quite a lot. Lucy hadn’t see her for almost eight years and now, a year younger than she, at twenty-two Mies was quite something—ash-blonde hair, cut short and curling, big blue eyes and a stunning figure. Lucy, not an envious girl by nature, flung herself at her friend with a yelp of delight. ‘You’re gorgeous!’ she declared. ‘Who’d have thought it eight years ago—you’re a raving beauty, Mies!’
Mies looked pleased. ‘You think, yes?’ She returned Lucy’s hug and then stood back to study her.
‘No need,’ observed Lucy a little wryly. ‘I’ve not changed, you see.’
Mies made a little face. ‘Perhaps not, but your figure is O.K. and your eyes are extraordinaire.’
‘Green,’ said Lucy flatly as she followed the doctor and Mies into the flat.
‘You have the same room,’ said Mies, ‘so that you feel you are at home.’ She smiled warmly as she led the way across the wide hall and down a short passage. The flat was a large one, its rooms lofty and well furnished. As far as Lucy could remember, it hadn’t changed in the least. She unpacked in her pretty little bedroom and went along to the dining room for supper, a meal they ate without haste, catching up on news and reminding each other of all the things they had done when she had stayed there before.
‘I work,’ explained Mies, ‘for Papa, but now I take a holiday and we go out, Lucy. I have not a car…’ she shot a vexed look at her father as she spoke, ‘but there are bicycles. You can still use a fiets?’
‘Oh, rather, though I daresay I’ll be scared to death in Amsterdam.’
The doctor glanced up. ‘I think that maybe I will take a few hours off and we will take you for a little trip, Lucy. Into the country, perhaps?’
‘Sounds smashing,’ agreed Lucy happily, ‘but just pottering suits me, you know.’
‘We will also potter,’ declared Mies seriously, ‘and you will speak English to me, Lucy, for I am now with rust.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I speak only a very little and I forget.’
‘You’ll remember every word in a couple of days,’ observed Lucy comfortably. ‘I wish I could speak Dutch even half as well.’
Mies poured their after supper coffee. ‘Truly? Then we will also speak Dutch and you will learn quickly.’
They spent the rest of the evening telling each other what they did and whether they liked it or not while the doctor retired to his study to read his post. ‘I shall marry,’ declared Mies, ‘it is nice to work for Papa but not for too long, I think. I have many friends but no one that I wish to marry.’ She paused. ‘At least I think so.’
Lucy thought how nice it must be; so pretty that one could pick and choose instead of just waiting and hoping that one day some man would come along and want to marry one. True, she was only twenty-three, but the years went fast and there were any number of pretty girls growing up all the time. Probably she would have to settle for someone who had been crossed in love and wanted to make a second choice, or a widower with troublesome children, looking for a sensible woman to mind them; probably no one would ask her at all. A sudden and quite surprising memory flashed through her head of Mr der Linssen and with it a kind of nameless wish that he could have fallen for her—even for a day or two, she conceded; it would have done her ego no end of good.
‘You dream?’ enquired Mies.
Lucy shook her head. ‘What sort of a man are you going to marry?’ she asked.
The subject kept them happily talking until bedtime.
Lucy spent the next two days renewing her acquaintance with Amsterdam; the actual city hadn’t changed, she discovered, only the Kalverstraat was full of modern shops now, crowding out the small, expensive ones she remembered, but de Bijenkorf was still there and so was Vroom and Dreesman, and C. & A. The pair of them wandered happily from shop to shop, buying nothing at all and drinking coffee in one of the small coffee bars which were all over the place. They spent a long time in Krause en Vogelzang too, looking at wildly expensive undies and clothes which Mies had made up her mind she would have if she got married. ‘Papa gives me a salary,’ she explained, ‘but it isn’t much,’ she mentioned a sum which was almost twice Lucy’s salary—‘but when I decide to marry then he will give me all the money I want. I shall have beautiful clothes and the finest linen for my house.’ She smiled brilliantly at Lucy. ‘And you, your papa will do that for you also?’
‘Oh, rather,’ agreed Lucy promptly, telling herself that it wasn’t really a fib; he would if he had the money. Mies was an only child and it was a little hard for her to understand that not everyone lived in the comfort she had had all her life.
‘You shall come to the wedding,’ said Mies, tucking an arm into Lucy’s, ‘and there you will meet a very suitable husband.’ She gave the arm a tug. ‘Let us drink more coffee before we return home.’
It was during dinner that Doctor de Groot suggested that Lucy might like to see the clinic he had set up in a street off the Haarlemmerdijk. ‘Not my own, of course,’ he explained, ‘but I have the widest support from the Health Service and work closely with the hospital authorities.’
‘Every day?’ asked Lucy.
‘On four days a week, afternoon and evenings. I have my own surgery each morning—you remember it, close by?’
‘That’s where I work,’ interrupted Mies. ‘Papa doesn’t like me to go to the clinic, only to visit. I shall come with you tomorrow. Shall we go with you, Papa, or take a taxi?’
‘Supposing you come in the afternoon? I shall be home for lunch and I can drive you both there, then you can take a taxi home when you are ready.’
The weather had changed in the morning, the bright autumn sunshine had been nudged away by a nippy little wind and billowing clouds. The two girls spent the morning going through Mies’ wardrobe while the daily maid did the housework and made the beds and presently brought them coffee.
She prepared most of their lunch too; Lucy, used to giving a hand round the house, felt guilty at doing nothing at all, but Mies, when consulted, had looked quite surprised. ‘But of course you do nothing,’ she exclaimed, ‘Anneke is paid for her work and would not like to be helped, but if you wish we will arrange the table.’
The doctor was a little late for lunch so that they had to hurry over it rather. Lucy, getting into her raincoat and changing her light shoes for her sensible ones, paused only long enough to dab powder on her unpretentious nose, snatch up her shoulder bag, and run back into the hall where he was waiting. They had to wait for Mies, who wasn’t the hurrying sort so that he became a little impatient and Lucy hoped that he wouldn’t try and make up time driving through the city, but perhaps he was careful in Amsterdam.
He wasn’t; he drove like a demented Jehu, spilling out Dutch oaths through clenched teeth and taking hair’s-breadth risks between trams and buses, but as Mies sat without turning a hair, Lucy concluded that she must do the same. She had never been so pleased to see anything as their destination when he finally scraped to a halt in a narrow street, lined with grey warehouses and old-fashioned blocks of flats. The clinic was old-fashioned enough too on the outside, but once through its door and down the long narrow passage it was transformed into something very modern indeed; a waiting room on the left; a brightly painted apartment with plenty of chairs, coffee machine, papers and magazines on several well-placed tables and a cheerful elderly woman sitting behind a desk in one corner, introduced by the doctor as Mevrouw Valker. And back in the passage again, the end door revealed another wide passage with several doors leading from it; consulting rooms, treatment rooms, an X-ray department, cloakrooms and a small changing room for the staff.
