The Mistletoe Kiss
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.Emmy was plain and mousey-why would Ruerd look her way? Ermentrude Foster helped the family finances by working at St Luke’s Hospital. While she often spoke her mind to Professor Ruerd ter Mennolt, who was sometimes impatient, he did offer practical aid with Emmy’s difficulties.Ruerd couldn’t understand why, with a beautiful fiancée in Anneliese, he troubled with Emmy, but still he invited her to his home in Holland for Christmas.
“Thank you for my scarf,” Emmy said to the professor. “I’ve never had anything cashmere before.”
Ruerd didn’t say anything, but wrapped his great arms around her and kissed her.
She was so taken by surprise that she didn’t do anything for a moment. She had no breath anyway. The kiss hadn’t been a social peck; it had lingered far too long. And besides, she had the odd feeling that something was alight inside her, giving her the pleasant feeling that she could float in the air if she wished. If that was what a kiss did to one, she thought hazily, then one must avoid being kissed again.
She disentangled herself. “You shouldn’t…” she began. “What I mean is, you mustn’t kiss me. Anneliese wouldn’t like it….”
He was staring down at her, an odd look on his face. “But you did, Emmy?”
The Mistletoe Kiss
Betty Neels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS a blustery October evening, and the mean little wind was blowing old newspapers, tin cans and empty wrapping papers to and fro along the narrow, shabby streets of London’s East End. It had blown these through the wide entrance to the massive old hospital towering over the rows of houses and shops around it, but its doors were shut against them, and inside the building it was quiet, very clean and tidy. In place of the wind there was warm air, carrying with it a whiff of disinfectant tinged with floor polish and the patients’ suppers, something not experienced by those attending the splendid new hospitals now replacing the old ones. There they were welcomed by flowers, a café, signposts even the most foolish could read and follow…
St Luke’s had none of these—two hundred years old and condemned to be closed, there was no point in wasting money. Besides, the people who frequented its dim corridors weren’t there to look at flowers, they followed the painted pointed finger on its walls telling them to go to Casualty, X-Ray, the wards or Out Patients, and, when they got there, settled onto the wooden benches in the waiting rooms and had a good gossip with whoever was next to them. It was their hospital, they felt at home in it; its lengthy corridors held no worries for them, nor did the elderly lifts and endless staircases.
They held no worries for Ermentrude Foster, skimming up to the top floor of the hospital, intent on delivering the message which had been entrusted to her as quickly as possible before joining the throng of people queuing for buses on their way home. The message had nothing to do with her, actually; Professor ter Mennolt’s secretary had come out of her office as Ermentrude had been getting into her outdoor things, her hours of duty at the hospital telephone switchboard finished for the day, and had asked her to run up to his office with some papers he needed.
‘I’m late,’ said the secretary urgently. ‘And my boyfriend’s waiting for me. We’re going to see that new film…’
Ermentrude, with no prospect of a boyfriend or a film, obliged.
Professor ter Mennolt, spectacles perched on his magnificent nose, was immersed in the papers before him on his desk. A neurologist of some renown, he was at St Luke’s by invitation, reading a paper on muscular dystrophies, lecturing students, lending his knowledge on the treatment of those patients suffering from diseases of the nervous system. Deep in the study of a case of myasthenia gravis, his, ‘Come,’ was absent-minded in answer to a knock on the door, and he didn’t look up for a few moments.
Ermentrude, uncertain whether to go in or not, had poked her head round the door, and he studied it for a moment. A pleasant enough face, not pretty, but the nose was slightly tip-tilted, the eyes large and the wide mouth was smiling.
Ermentrude bore his scrutiny with composure, opened the door and crossed the room to his desk.
‘Miss Crowther asked me to bring you this,’ she told him cheerfully. ‘She had a date and wanted to get home…’
The professor eyed her small, slightly plump person and looked again at her face, wondering what colour her hair was; a scarf covered the whole of it, and since she was wearing a plastic mac he deduced that it was raining.
‘And you, Miss…?’ He paused, his eyebrows raised.
‘Foster, Ermentrude Foster.’ She smiled at him. ‘Almost as bad as yours, isn’t it?’ Undeterred by the cold blue eyes staring at her, she explained, ‘Our names,’ just in case he hadn’t understood. ‘Awkward, aren’t they?’
He had put down his pen. ‘You work here in the hospital?’
‘Me? Yes, I’m a telephonist. Are you going to be here for a long time?’
‘I can hardly see why the length of my stay should interest you, Miss Foster.’
‘Well, no, it doesn’t, really.’ She gave him a kind smile. ‘I thought you might be a bit lonely up here all by yourself. Besides I rather wanted to see you— I’d heard about you, of course.’
‘Should I feel gratified at your interest?’ he asked coldly.
‘No, no, of course not. But they all said how handsome you were, and not a bit like a Dutchman.’ She paused then, because his eyes weren’t cold any more, they were like blue ice.
He said levelly, ‘Miss Foster, I think it might be a good idea if you were to leave this room. I have work to do, and interruptions, especially such as yours, can be annoying. Be good enough to tell Miss Crowther on no account to send you here again.’
He bent over his work and didn’t watch her go.
Ermentrude went slowly back through the hospital and out into the wet October evening to join the queue at the nearest bus stop, thinking about the professor. A handsome man, she conceded; fair hair going grey, a splendid nose, heavy-lidded eyes and a firm mouth—which was a bit thin, perhaps. Even sitting at his desk it was easy to see that he was a very large man. Still quite young, too. The hospital grapevine knew very little about him, though.
She glanced back over her shoulder; there were still lighted windows on the top floor of the hospital; one of them would be his. She sighed. He hadn’t liked her and, of course, that was to be understood. She had been ticked off on several occasions for not being respectful enough with those senior to her—and they were many—but that hadn’t cured her from wanting to be friends with everyone.
Born and brought up in a rural part of Somerset, where everyone knew everyone else, she had never quite got used to the Londoners’ disregard for those around them. Oblivious of the impatient prod from the woman behind her, she thought of the professor sitting up there, so far from anyone… And he was a foreigner, too.
Professor ter Mennolt, unaware of her concern, adjusted his spectacles on his nose and addressed himself to the pile of work on his desk, perfectly content with his lot, careless of the fact that he was alone and a foreigner. He had quite forgotten Ermentrude.
The bus, by the time Ermentrude got onto it, was packed, and, since it was raining, the smell of wet raincoats was overpowering. She twitched her small nose and wondered what was for supper, and, after a ten-minute ride squashed between two stout women, got off with relief.
Five minutes’ walk brought her to her home, midway down a terrace of small, neat houses in a vaguely shabby street, their front doors opening onto the pavement. She unlocked the door, calling, ‘It’s me,’ as she did so, and opened a door in the narrow hallway. Her mother was there, sitting at a small table, knitting. Still knitting, she looked up and smiled.
‘Emmy—hello, love. Supper’s in the oven, but would you like a cup of tea first?’
‘I’ll make it, Mother. Was there a letter from Father?’
‘Yes, dear, it’s on the mantelpiece. Have you had a busy day?’
‘So-so. I’ll get the tea.’
Emmy took off her raincoat and scarf, hung them on a peg in the hall and went into the kitchen, a small, old-fashioned place with cheerful, cheap curtains and some rather nice china on the dresser shelves. About all there was left of her old home, thought Emmy, gathering cups and saucers and opening the cake tin.
Her father had taught at a large school in Somerset, and they had lived in a nearby village in a nice old house with a large garden and heavenly views. But he had been made redundant and been unable to find another post! Since an elderly aunt had recently died and left him this small house, and a colleague had told him of a post in London, they had come here to live. The post wasn’t as well paid, and Mrs Foster found that living in London was quite a different matter from living in a small village with a garden which supplied her with vegetables all the year round and hens who laid fresh eggs each day.
Emmy, watching her mother coping with household bills, had given up her hopes of doing something artistic. She drew and painted and embroidered exquisitely, and had set her sights on attending a school of needlework and then starting up on her own—she wasn’t sure as what. There had been an advertisement in the paper for a switchboard operator at St Luke’s, and she had gone along and got the job.
She had no experience of course, but she had a pleasant voice, a nice manner and she’d been keen to have work. She’d been given a week’s training, a month’s trial and then had been taken on permanently. It wasn’t what she wanted to do, but the money was a great help, and one day her father would find a better post. Indeed, he was already well thought of and there was a chance of promotion.
She made the tea, offered a saucer of milk to Snoodles the cat, handed a biscuit to George the elderly dachshund, and carried the tray into the sitting room.
Over tea she read her father’s letter. He had been standing in for a school inspector, and had been away from home for a week. He would be coming home for the weekend, he wrote, but he had been asked to continue covering for his colleague for the next month or so. If he accepted, then it would be possible for Mrs Foster to be with him when it was necessary for him to go further afield.
‘Mother, that’s wonderful—Father hates being away from home, but if you’re with him he won’t mind as much, and if they’re pleased with him he’ll get a better job.’
‘I can’t leave you here on your own.’
‘Of course you can, Mother. I’ve Snoodles and George for company, and we know the neighbours well enough if I should need anything. I can come home for my lunch hour and take George for a quick walk. I’m sure Father will agree to that. Besides, Father gets moved from one school to the other, doesn’t he? When he is nearer home you can be here.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know, love. The idea of you being on your own…’
Emmy refilled their cups. ‘If I had a job in another town, I’d be on my own in some bedsitter, wouldn’t I? But I’m at home. And I’m twenty-three…’
‘Well, I know your father would like me to be with him. We’ll talk about it at the weekend.’
By breakfast time the next morning Mrs Foster was ready to concede that there was really no reason why she shouldn’t join her husband, at least for short periods. ‘For you’re home by six o’clock most evenings, when it’s still quite light, and I dare say we’ll be home most weekends.’
Emmy agreed cheerfully. She was due to go on night duty in a week’s time, but there was no need to remind her mother of that. She went off to catch a bus to the hospital, glad that the rain had ceased and it was a nice autumn day.
The switchboard was busy; it always was on Fridays. Last-minute plans for the weekend, she supposed, on the part of the hospital medical staff—people phoning home, making appointments to play golf, arranging to meet to discuss some case or other—and all these over and above the outside calls, anxious family wanting news of a patient, doctors’ wives with urgent messages, other hospitals wanting to contact one or other of the consulting staff. It was almost time for her midday dinner when a woman’s voice, speaking English with a strong accent, asked to speak to Professor ter Mennolt.
‘Hold the line while I get him for you,’ said Emmy. His wife, she supposed, and decided that she didn’t much like the voice—very haughty. The voice became a person in her mind’s eye, tall and slim and beautiful—because the professor wouldn’t look at anything less—and well used to having her own way.
He wasn’t in his room, and he wasn’t on any of the wards she rang. She paused in her search to reassure the voice that she was still trying, and was rewarded by being told to be quick. He wasn’t in Theatre, but he was in the Pathology Lab.
‘There you are,’ said Emmy, quite forgetting to add ‘sir’. ‘I’ve a call for you; will you take it there?’
‘Only if it’s urgent; I’m occupied at the moment.’
‘It’s a lady,’ Emmy told him. ‘She told me to hurry. She speaks English with an accent.’
‘Put the call through here.’ He sounded impatient.
It wouldn’t hurt him to say thank you, reflected Emmy as she assured his caller that she was being put through at once. She got no thanks from her either. ‘They must suit each other admirably,’ said Emmy under her breath, aware that the bossy woman who went around with a clipboard was coming towards her. As usual she was full of questions—had there been delayed calls? Had Ermentrude connected callers immediately? Had she noted the times?
Emmy said yes to everything. She was a conscientious worker, and although it wasn’t a job she would have chosen she realised that she was lucky to have it, and it wasn’t boring. She was relieved for her dinner hour presently, and went along to the canteen to eat it in the company of the ward clerks and typists. She got on well with them, and they for their part liked her, though considering her hopelessly out of date, and pitying her in a friendly way because she had been born and brought up in the country and had lacked the pleasures of London. She lacked boyfriends, too, despite their efforts to get her to join them for a visit to a cinema or a pub.
They didn’t hold it against her; she was always good-natured, ready to help, willing to cover a relief telephonist if she had a date, listening to emotional outbursts about boyfriends with a sympathetic ear. They agreed among themselves that she was all right—never mind the posh voice; she couldn’t help that, could she, with a father who was a schoolmaster? Besides, it sounded OK on the phone, and that was what her job was all about, wasn’t it?
Home for the weekend, Mr Foster agreed with Emmy that there was no reason why she shouldn’t be at home on her own for a while.
‘I’ll be at Coventry for a week or ten days, and then several schools in and around London. You don’t mind, Emmy?’
She saw her mother and father off on Sunday evening, took George for a walk and went to bed. She wasn’t a nervous girl and there were reassuringly familiar noises all around her: Mr Grant next door practising the flute, the teenager across the street playing his stereo, old Mrs Grimes, her other neighbour, shouting at her husband who was deaf. She slept soundly.
She was to go on night duty the next day, which meant that she would be relieved at dinner time and go back to work at eight o’clock that evening. Which gave her time in the afternoon to do some shopping at the row of small shops at the end of the street, take George for a good walk and sit down to a leisurely meal.
There was no phone in the house, so she didn’t have to worry about her mother ringing up later in the evening. She cut sandwiches, put Sense and Sensibility and a much thumbed Anthology of English Verse in her shoulder bag with the sandwiches, and presently went back through the dark evening to catch her bus.
When she reached the hospital the noise and bustle of the day had subsided into subdued footsteps, the distant clang of the lifts and the occasional squeak of a trolley’s wheels. The relief telephonist was waiting for her, an elderly woman who manned the switchboard between night and day duties.
‘Nice and quiet so far,’ she told Emmy. ‘Hope you have a quiet night.’
Emmy settled herself in her chair, made sure that everything was as it should be and got out the knitting she had pushed in with the books at the last minute. She would knit until one of the night porters brought her coffee.
There were a number of calls: enquiries about patients, anxious voices asking advice as to whether they should bring a sick child to the hospital, calls to the medical staff on duty.
Later, when she had drunk her cooling coffee and picked up her neglected knitting once again, Professor ter Mennolt, on his way home, presumably, paused by her.
He eyed the knitting. ‘A pleasant change from the daytime rush,’ he remarked. ‘And an opportunity to indulge your womanly skills.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Emmy sensibly. ‘It keeps me awake in between calls! It’s very late; oughtn’t you to be in your bed?’
‘My dear young lady, surely that is no concern of yours?’
‘Oh, I’m not being nosy,’ she assured him. ‘But everyone needs a good night’s sleep, especially people like you—people who use their brains a lot.’
‘That is your opinion, Ermentrude? It is Ermentrude, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, and yes. At least, it’s my father’s opinion.’
‘Your father is a medical man, perhaps?’ he asked smoothly.
‘No, a schoolmaster.’
‘Indeed? Then why are you not following in his footsteps?’
‘I’m not clever. Besides, I like sewing and embroidery.’
‘And you are a switchboard operator.’ His tone was dry.
‘It’s a nice, steady job,’ said Emmy, and picked up her knitting. ‘Goodnight, Professor ter Mennolt.’
‘Goodnight, Ermentrude.’ He had gone several paces when he turned on his heel. ‘You have an old-fashioned name. I am put in mind of a demure young lady with ringlets and a crinoline, downcast eyes and a soft and gentle voice.’
She looked at him, her mouth half-open.
‘You have a charming voice, but I do not consider you demure, nor do you cast down your eyes—indeed their gaze is excessively lively.’
He went away then, leaving her wondering what on earth he had been talking about.
‘Of course, he’s foreign,’ reflected Emmy out loud. ‘And besides that he’s one of those clever people whose feet aren’t quite on the ground, always bothering about people’s insides.’
A muddled statement which nonetheless satisfied her.
Audrey, relieving her at eight o’clock the next morning, yawned widely and offered the information that she hated day duty, hated the hospital, hated having to work. ‘Lucky you,’ she observed. ‘All day to do nothing…’
‘I shall go to bed,’ said Emmy mildly, and took herself off home.
It was a slow business, with the buses crammed with people going to work, and then she had to stop at the shops at the end of the street and buy bread, eggs, bacon, food for Snoodles and more food for George. Once home, with the door firmly shut behind her, she put on the kettle, fed the animals and let George into the garden. Snoodles tailed him, warned not to go far.
She had her breakfast, tidied up, undressed and had a shower and, with George and Snoodles safely indoors, went to her bed. The teenager across the street hadn’t made a sound so far; hopefully he had a job or had gone off with his pals. If Mr Grant and Mrs Grimes kept quiet, she would have a good sleep… She had barely had time to form the thought before her eyes shut.
It was two o’clock when she was woken by a hideous mixture of sound: Mr Grant’s flute—played, from the sound of it, at an open window—Mrs Grimes bellowing at her husband in the background and, almost drowning these, the teenager enjoying a musical session.
Emmy turned over and buried her head in the pillow, but it was no use; she was wide awake now and likely to stay so. She got up and showered and dressed, had a cup of tea and a sandwich, made sure that Snoodles was asleep, put a lead on George’s collar and left the house.
She had several hours of leisure still; she boarded an almost empty bus and sat with George on her lap as it bore them away from Stepney, along Holborn and into the Marylebone Road. She got off here and crossed the street to Regent’s Park.
It was pleasant here, green and open with the strong scent of autumn in the air. Emmy walked briskly, with George trotting beside her.
‘We’ll come out each day,’ she promised him. ‘A pity the parks are all so far away, but a bus ride’s nice enough, isn’t it? And you shall have a good tea when we get home.’
The afternoon was sliding into dusk as they went back home. George gobbled his tea and curled up on his chair in the kitchen while Snoodles went out. Mrs Grimes had stopped shouting, but Mr Grant was still playing the flute, rivalling the din from across the street. Emmy ate her tea, stuffed things into her bag and went to work.
Audrey had had a busy day and was peevish. ‘I spent the whole of my two hours off looking for some decent tights—the shops around here are useless.’
‘There’s that shop in Commercial Road…’ began Emmy.
‘There?’ Audrey was scornful. ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in anything from there.’ She took a last look at her face, added more lipstick and patted her blonde head. ‘I’m going out this evening. So long.’
Until almost midnight Emmy was kept busy. From time to time someone passing through from the entrance hall stopped for a word, and one of the porters brought her coffee around eleven o’clock with the news that there had been a pile-up down at the docks and the accident room was up to its eyes.
‘They phoned,’ said Emmy, ‘but didn’t say how bad it was—not to me, that is. I switched them straight through. I hope they’re not too bad.’
‘Couple of boys, an old lady, the drivers—one of them’s had a stroke.’
Soon she was busy again, with families phoning with anxious enquiries. She was eating her sandwiches in the early hours of the morning when Professor ter Mennolt’s voice, close to her ear, made her jump.
‘I am relieved to see that you are awake and alert, Ermentrude.’
She said, round the sandwich. ‘Well, of course I am. That’s not a nice thing to say, sir.’
‘What were you doing in a bus on the Marylebone Road when you should have been in bed asleep, recruiting strength for the night’s work?’
‘I was going to Regent’s Park with George. He had a good walk.’ She added crossly, ‘And you should try to sleep with someone playing the flute on one side of the house, Mrs Grimes shouting on the other and that wretched boy with his stereo across the street.’
The professor was leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of his beautifully tailored jacket. ‘I have misjudged you, Ermentrude. I am sorry. Ear plugs, perhaps?’ And, when she shook her head, ‘Could you not beg a bed from a friend? Or your mother have a word with the neighbours?’
‘Mother’s with Father,’ said Emmy, and took a bite of sandwich. ‘I can’t leave the house because of George and Snoodles.’
‘George?’
‘Our dog, and Snoodles is the cat.’
‘So you are alone in the house?’ He stared down at her. ‘You are not nervous?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You live close by?’
What a man for asking questions, thought Emmy, and wished he didn’t stare so. She stared back and said ‘Yes,’ and wished that he would go away; she found him unsettling. She remembered something. ‘I didn’t see you on the bus…’
He smiled. ‘I was in the car, waiting for the traffic lights.’
She turned to the switchboard, then, and put through two calls, and he watched her. She had pretty hands, nicely well-cared for, and though her hair was mouse-brown there seemed to be a great deal of it, piled neatly in a coil at the back of her head. Not in the least pretty, but with eyes like hers that didn’t matter.
He bade her goodnight, and went out to his car and forgot her, driving to his charming little house in Chelsea where Beaker, who ran it for him, would have left coffee and sandwiches for him in his study, his desk light on and a discreet lamp burning in the hall.
Although it was almost two o’clock he sat down to go through his letters and messages while he drank the coffee, hot and fragrant in the Thermos. There was a note, too, written in Beaker’s spidery hand: Juffrouw Anneliese van Moule had phoned at eight o’clock and again at ten. The professor frowned and glanced over to the answering machine. It showed the red light, and he went and switched it on.
In a moment a petulant voice, speaking in Dutch, wanted to know where he was. ‘Surely you should be home by ten o’clock in the evening. I asked you specially to be home, did I not? Well, I suppose I must forgive you and give you good news. I am coming to London in three days’ time—Friday. I shall stay at Brown’s Hotel, since you are unlikely to be home for most of the day, but I expect to be taken out in the evenings—and there will be time for us to discuss the future.
‘I wish to see your house; I think it will not do for us when we are married, for I shall live with you in London when you are working there, but I hope you will give up your work in England and live at Huis ter Mennolt—’
The professor switched off. Anneliese’s voice had sounded loud as well as peevish, and she was reiterating an argument they had had on several occasions. He had no intention of leaving his house; it was large enough. He had some friends to dine, but his entertaining was for those whom he knew well. Anneliese would wish to entertain on a grand scale, fill the house with acquaintances; he would return home each evening to a drawing room full of people he neither knew nor wished to know.
He reminded himself that she would be a most suitable wife; in Holland they had a similar circle of friends and acquaintances, and they liked the same things—the theatre, concerts, art exhibitions—and she was ambitious.
At first he had been amused and rather touched by that, until he had realised that her ambition wasn’t for his success in his profession but for a place in London society. She already had that in Holland, and she had been careful never to admit to him that that was her goal… He reminded himself that she was the woman he had chosen to marry and once she had understood that he had no intention of altering his way of life when they were married she would understand how he felt.
After all, when they were in Holland she could have all the social life she wanted; Huis ter Mennolt was vast, and there were servants enough and lovely gardens. While he was working she could entertain as many of her friends as she liked—give dinner parties if she wished, since the house was large enough to do that with ease. Here at the Chelsea house, though, with only Beaker and a daily woman to run the place, entertaining on such a scale would be out of the question. The house, roomy though it was, was too small.
He went to bed then, and, since he had a list the following day, he had no time to think about anything but his work.
He left the hospital soon after ten o’clock the next evening. Ermentrude was at her switchboard, her back towards him. He gave her a brief glance as he passed.
Anneliese had phoned again, Beaker informed him, but would leave no message. ‘And, since I needed some groceries, I switched on the answering machine, sir,’ he said, ‘since Mrs Thrupp, splendid cleaner though she is, is hardly up to answering the telephone.’
The professor went to his study and switched on the machine, and stood listening to Anneliese. Her voice was no longer petulant, but it was still loud. ‘My plane gets in at half past ten on Friday—Heathrow,’ she told him. ‘I’ll look out for you. Don’t keep me waiting, will you, Ruerd? Shall we dine at Brown’s? I shall be too tired to talk much, and I’ll stay for several days, anyway.’
He went to look at his appointments book on his desk. He would be free to meet her, although he would have to go back to his consulting rooms for a couple of hours before joining her at Brown’s Hotel.
He sat down at his desk, took his glasses from his breast pocket, put them on and picked up the pile of letters before him. He was aware that there was a lack of lover-like anticipation at the thought of seeing Anneliese. Probably because he hadn’t seen her for some weeks. Moreover, he had been absorbed in his patients. In about a month’s time he would be going back to Holland for a month or more; he would make a point of seeing as much of Anneliese as possible.
He ate his solitary dinner, and went back to his study to write a paper on spina bifida, an exercise which kept him engrossed until well after midnight.
Past the middle of the week already, thought Emmy with satisfaction, getting ready for bed the next morning—three more nights and she would have two days off. Her mother would be home too, until she rejoined her father later in the week, and then he would be working in and around London. Emmy heaved a tired, satisfied sigh and went to sleep until, inevitably, the strains of the flute woke her. It was no use lying there and hoping they would stop; she got up, had a cup of tea and took George for a walk.
It was raining when she went to work that evening, and she had to wait for a long time for a bus. The elderly relief telephonist was off sick, and Audrey was waiting for her when she got there, already dressed to leave, tapping her feet with impatience.
‘I thought you’d never get here…’
‘It’s still only two minutes to eight,’ said Emmy mildly. ‘Is there anything I should know?’
She was taking off her mac and headscarf as she spoke, and when Audrey said no, there wasn’t, Emmy sat down before the switchboard, suddenly hating the sight of it. The night stretched ahead of her, endless hours of staying alert. The thought of the countless days and nights ahead in the years to come wasn’t to be borne.
She adjusted her headpiece and arranged everything just so, promising herself that she would find another job, something where she could be out of doors for at least part of the day. And meet people…a man who would fall in love with her and want to marry her. A house in the country, mused Emmy, dogs and cats and chickens and children, of course…
She was roused from this pleasant dream by an outside call, followed by more of them; it was always at this time of the evening that people phoned to make enquiries.
She was kept busy throughout the night. By six o’clock she was tired, thankful that in another couple of hours she would be free. Only three more nights; she thought sleepily of what she would do. Window shopping with her mother? And if the weather was good enough they could take a bus to Hampstead Heath…
A great blast of sound sent her upright in her chair, followed almost at once by a call from the police—there had been a bomb close to Fenchurch Street Station. Too soon to know how many were injured, but they would be coming to St Luke’s!
Emmy, very wide awake now, began notifying everyone—the accident room, the house doctors’ rooms, the wards, X-Ray, the path lab. And within minutes she was kept busy, ringing the consultants on call, theatre staff, technicians, ward sisters on day duty. She had called the professor, but hadn’t spared him a thought, nor had she seen him as he came to the hospital, for there was a great deal of orderly coming and going as the ambulances began to arrive.
She had been busy; now she was even more so. Anxious relatives were making frantic calls, wanting to know where the injured were and how they were doing. But it was too soon to know anything. The accident room was crowded; names were sent to her as they were given, but beyond letting callers know that they had that particular person in the hospital there was no more information to pass on.
Emmy went on answering yet more calls, putting through outside calls too—to other hospitals, the police, someone from a foreign embassy who had heard that one of the staff had been injured. She answered them all in her quiet voice, trying to ignore a threatening headache.
It seemed a very long time before order emerged from the controlled chaos. There were no more ambulances now, and patients who needed admission were being taken to the wards. The accident room, still busy, was dealing with the lesser injured; the hospital was returning to its normal day’s work.
It was now ten o’clock. Emmy, looking at her watch for the first time in hours, blinked. Where was Audrey? Most of the receptionists had come in, for they had rung to tell her so, but not Audrey. Emmy was aware that she was hungry, thirsty and very tired, and wondered what to do about it. She would have to let someone know…
Audrey tapped on her shoulder. She said airily, ‘Sorry I’m late. I didn’t fancy coming sooner; I bet the place was a shambles. I knew you wouldn’t mind…’
‘I do mind, though,’ said Emmy. ‘I mind very much. I’ve had a busy time, and I should have been off duty two hours ago.’
‘Well, you were here, weren’t you? Did you expect me to come tearing in in the middle of all the fuss just so’s you could go off duty? Besides, you’re not doing anything; you only go to bed…’
The professor, on his way home, paused to listen to this with interest. Ermentrude, he could see, was looking very much the worse for wear; she had undoubtedly had a busy time of it, and she had been up all night, whereas the rest of them had merely got out of their beds earlier than usual.
He said now pleasantly, ‘Put on your coat, Ermentrude; I’ll drive you home. We can take up the matter of the extra hours you have worked later on. Leave it to me.’
Emmy goggled at him, but he gave her no chance to speak. He said, still pleasantly, to Audrey, ‘I’m sure you have a good reason for not coming on duty at the usual time.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It will have to be a good one, will it not?’
He swept Emmy along, away from a pale Audrey, out of the doors and into his Bentley. ‘Tell me where you live,’ he commanded.
‘There is no need to take me home, I’m quite able—’
‘Don’t waste my time. We’re both tired, and I for one am feeling short-tempered.’
‘So am I,’ snapped Emmy. ‘I want a cup of tea, and I’m hungry.’
‘That makes two of us. Now, where do you live, Ermentrude?’
CHAPTER TWO
EMMY told him her address in a cross voice, sitting silently until he stopped before her home. She said gruffly, ‘Thank you, Professor. Good morning,’ and made to open her door. He shook her hand and released it, and she put it in her lap. Then he got out, opened the door, crossed the pavement with her, took the key from her and opened the house door. George rushed to meet them while Snoodles, a cat not to be easily disturbed, sat on the bottom step of the stairs, watching.
Emmy stood awkwardly in the doorway with George, who was making much of her. She said again, ‘Thank you, Professor,’ and peered up at his face.
‘The least you can do is offer me a cup of tea,’ he told her, and came into the hall, taking her with him and closing the door. ‘You get that coat off and do whatever you usually do while I put on the kettle.’
He studied her face. Really, the girl was very plain; for a moment he regretted the impulse which had urged him to bring her home. She had been quite capable of getting herself there; he had formed the opinion after their first meeting that she was more than capable of dealing with any situation—and with a sharp tongue, too. She looked at him then, though, and he saw how tired she was. He said in a placid voice, ‘I make a very good cup of tea.’
She smiled. ‘Thank you. The kitchen’s here.’
She opened a door and ushered him into the small room at the back of the house, which was, he saw, neat and very clean, with old-fashioned shelves and a small dresser. There was a gas stove against one wall—an elderly model, almost a museum piece, but still functioning, he was relieved to find.
Emmy went away and he found tea, milk and sugar while the kettle boiled, took mugs and a brown teapot from the dresser and set them on the table while Emmy fed Snoodles and George.
They drank their tea presently, sitting opposite each other saying little, and when the professor got to his feet Emmy made no effort to detain him. She thanked him again, saw him to the door and shut it the moment he had driven away, intent on getting to her bed as quickly as possible. She took a slice of bread and butter and a slab of cheese with her, and George and Snoodles, who had sidled upstairs with her, got onto the bed too—which was a comfort for she was feeling hard done by and put upon.
‘It’s all very well,’ she told them peevishly. ‘He’ll go home to a doting wife—slippers in one hand and bacon and eggs in the other.’
She swallowed the last of the cheese and went to sleep, and not even the flute or Mrs Grimes’ loud voice could wake her.
The professor got into his car, and as he drove away his bleep sounded. He was wanted back at St Luke’s; one of the injured had developed signs of a blood clot on the brain. So instead of going home he went back and spent the next few hours doing everything in his power to keep his patient alive—something which proved successful, so that in the early afternoon he was at last able to go home.
He let himself into his house, put his bag down and trod into the sitting room, to come to a halt just inside the door.
‘Anneliese—I forgot…’
She was a beautiful girl with thick fair hair cut short by an expert hand, perfect features and big blue eyes, and she was exquisitely made-up. She was dressed in the height of fashion and very expensively, too. She made a charming picture, marred by the ill-temper on her face.
She spoke in Dutch, not attempting to hide her bad temper.
‘Really, Ruerd, what am I to suppose you mean by that? That man of yours, Beaker—who, by the way, I shall discharge as soon as we are married—refused to phone the hospital—said you would be too busy to answer. Since when has a consultant not been free to answer the telephone when he wishes?’
He examined several answers to that and discarded them. ‘I am sorry, my dear. There was a bomb; it exploded close to St Luke’s early this morning. It was necessary for me to be there—there were casualties. Beaker was quite right; I shouldn’t have answered the phone.’
He crossed the room and bent to kiss her cheek. ‘He is an excellent servant; I have no intention of discharging him.’ He spoke lightly, but she gave him a questioning look. They had been engaged for some months now, and she was still not sure that she knew him. She wasn’t sure if she loved him either, but he could offer her everything she wanted in life; they knew the same people and came from similar backgrounds. Their marriage would be entirely suitable.
She decided to change her tactics. ‘I’m sorry for being cross. But I was disappointed. Are you free for the rest of the day?’
‘I shall have to go back to the hospital late this evening. Shall we dine somewhere? You’re quite comfortable at Brown’s?’
‘Very comfortable. Could we dine at Claridge’s? I’ve a dress I bought specially for you…’
‘I’ll see if I can get a table.’ He turned round as Beaker came in.
‘You had lunch, sir?’ Beaker didn’t look at Anneliese. When the professor said that, yes, he’d had something, Beaker went on, ‘Then I shall bring tea here, sir. A little early, but you may be glad of it.’
‘Splendid, Beaker. As soon as you like.’ And, when Beaker had gone, the professor said, ‘I’ll go and phone now…’
He took his bag to his study and pressed the button on the answering machine. There were several calls from when Beaker had been out of the house; the rest he had noted down and put with the letters. The professor leafed through them, listened to the answering machine and booked a table for dinner. He would have liked to dine quietly at home.
They talked trivialities over tea—news from home and friends, places Anneliese had visited. She had no interest in his work save in his successes; his social advancement was all-important to her, although she was careful not to let him see that.
He drove her to Brown’s presently, and went back to work at his desk until it was time to dress. Immaculate in black tie, he went to the garage at the end of the mews to get his car, and drove himself to the hotel.
Anneliese wasn’t ready. He cooled his heels for fifteen minutes or so before she joined him.
‘I’ve kept you waiting, Ruerd,’ she said laughingly. ‘But I hope you think it is worth it.’
He assured her that it was, and indeed she made a magnificent picture in a slim sheath of cerise silk, her hair piled high, sandals with four-inch heels and an arm loaded with gold bangles. His ring, a large diamond, glittered on her finger. A ring which she had chosen and which he disliked.
Certainly she was a woman any man would be proud to escort, he told himself. He supposed that he was tired; a good night’s sleep was all that was needed. Anneliese looked lovely, and dinner at Claridge’s was the very least he could offer her. Tomorrow, he reflected, he would somehow find time to take her out again—dancing, perhaps, at one of the nightclubs. And there was that exhibition of paintings at a gallery in Bond Street if he could manage to find time to take her.
He listened to her chatter as they drove to Claridge’s and gave her his full attention. Dinner was entirely satisfactory: admiring looks followed Anneliese as they went to their table, the food was delicious and the surroundings luxurious. As he drove her back she put a hand on his arm.
‘A lovely dinner, darling, thank you. I shall do some shopping tomorrow; can you meet me for lunch? And could we go dancing in the evening? We must talk; I’ve so many plans…’
At the hotel she offered a cheek for his kiss. ‘I shall go straight to bed. See you tomorrow.’
The professor got back into his car and drove to the hospital. He wasn’t entirely satisfied with the condition of the patient he had seen that afternoon, and he wanted to be sure…
Emmy, sitting before her switchboard, knitting, knew that the professor was there, standing behind her, although he had made no sound. Why is that? she wondered; why should I know that?
His, ‘Good evening, Ermentrude,’ was uttered quietly. ‘You slept well?’ he added.
He came to stand beside her now, strikingly handsome in black tie and quite unconscious of it.
‘Good evening, sir. Yes, thank you. I hope you had time to rest.’
His mouth twitched. ‘I have been dining out. Making conversation, talking of things which don’t interest me. If I sound a bad-tempered man who doesn’t know when he is lucky, then that is exactly what I am.’
‘No, you’re not,’ said Emmy reasonably. ‘You’ve had a busy day, much busier than anyone else because you’ve had to make important decisions about your patients. All that’s the matter with you is that you are tired. You must go home and have a good night’s sleep.’
She had quite forgotten to whom she was speaking. ‘I suppose you’ve come to see that man with the blood clot on the brain?’
He asked with interest, ‘Do you know about him?’
‘Well, of course I do. I hear things, don’t I? And I’m interested.’
She took an incoming telephone call and, when she had dealt with it the professor had gone.
He didn’t stop on his way out, nor did he speak, but she was conscious of his passing. She found that disconcerting.
Audrey was punctual and in a peevish mood. ‘I had a ticking off,’ she told Emmy sourly. ‘I don’t know why they had to make such a fuss—after all, you were here. No one would have known if it hadn’t been for that Professor ter Mennolt being here. Who does he think he is, anyway?’
‘He’s rather nice,’ said Emmy mildly. ‘He gave me a lift home.’
‘In that great car of his? Filthy rich, so I’ve heard. Going to marry some Dutch beauty—I was talking to his secretary…’
‘I hope they’ll be very happy,’ said Emmy. A flicker of unhappiness made her frown. She knew very little about the professor and she found him disturbing; a difficult man, a man who went his own way. All the same, she would like him to live happily ever after…
If he came into the hospital during the last nights of her duty, she didn’t see him. It wasn’t until Sunday morning, when the relief had come to take over and she was free at last to enjoy her two days off, that she met him again as she stood for a moment outside the hospital entrance, taking blissful breaths of morning air, her eyes closed. She was imagining that she was back in the country, despite the petrol fumes.
She opened her eyes, feeling foolish, when the professor observed, ‘I am surprised that you should linger, Ermentrude. Surely you must be hellbent on getting away from the hospital as quickly as possible?’
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Ermentrude politely. ‘It’s just nice to be outside.’ She saw his sweater and casual trousers. ‘Have you been here all night?’
‘No, no—only for an hour or so.’ He smiled down at her. She looked pale with tiredness. Her small nose shone, her hair had been ruthlessly pinned into a bun, very neat and totally without charm. She reminded him of a kitten who had been out all night in the rain. ‘I’ll drop you off on my way.’
‘You’re going past my home? Really? Thank you.’
He didn’t find it necessary to answer her, but popped her into the car and drove through the almost empty streets. At her door, he said, ‘No, don’t get out. Give me your key.’
He went and opened the door, and then opened the car door, took her bag from her and followed her inside. George was delighted to see them, weaving round their feet, pushing Snoodles away, giving small, excited barks.
The professor went to open the kitchen door to let both animals out into the garden, and he put the kettle on. For all the world as though he lived here, thought Emmy, and if she hadn’t been so tired she would have said so. Instead she stood in the kitchen and yawned.
The professor glanced at her. ‘Breakfast,’ he said briskly and unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair. ‘If you’ll feed the animals, I’ll boil a couple of eggs.’
She did as she was told without demur; she couldn’t be bothered to argue with him. She didn’t remember asking him to stay for breakfast, but perhaps he was very hungry. She fed the animals and by then he had laid the table after a fashion, made toast and dished up the eggs.
They sat at the table eating their breakfast for all the world like an old married couple. The professor kept up a gentle meandering conversation which required little or no reply, and Emmy, gobbling toast, made very little effort to do so. She was still tired, but the tea and the food had revived her so that presently she said, ‘It was very kind of you to get breakfast. I’m very grateful. I was a bit tired.’
‘You had a busy week. Will your mother and father return soon?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’ She gave him an owl-like look. ‘I expect you want to go home, sir…’
‘Presently. Go upstairs, Ermentrude, take a shower and get into bed. I will tidy up here. When you are in bed I will go home.’
‘You can’t do the washing up.’
‘Indeed I can.’ Not quite a lie; he had very occasionally needed to rinse a cup or glass if Beaker hadn’t been there.
He made a good job of it, attended to the animals, locked the kitchen door and hung the tea towel to dry, taking his time about it. It was quiet in the house, and presently he went upstairs. He got no answer from his quiet, ‘Ermentrude?’ but one of the doors on the landing was half-open.
The room was small, nicely furnished and very tidy. Emmy was asleep in her bed, her mouth slightly open, her hair all over the pillow. He thought that nothing short of a brass band giving a concert by her bedside would waken her. He went downstairs again and out of the house, shutting the door behind him.
Driving to Chelsea, he looked at his watch. It would be eleven o’clock before he was home. He was taking Anneliese to lunch with friends, and he suspected that when they returned she would want to make plans for their future. There had been no time so far, and he would be at the hospital for a great deal of the days ahead. He was tired now; Anneliese wasn’t content to dine quietly and spend the evening at home and yesterday his day had been full. A day in the country would be delightful…
Beaker came to meet him as he opened his front door. His, ‘Good morning, sir,’ held faint reproach. ‘You were detained at the hospital? I prepared breakfast at the usual time. I can have it on the table in ten minutes.’
‘No need, Beaker, thanks. I’ve had breakfast. I’ll have a shower and change, and then perhaps a cup of coffee before Juffrouw van Moule gets here.’
‘You breakfasted at the hospital, sir?’
‘No, no. I boiled an egg and made some toast and had a pot of strong tea. I took someone home. We were both hungry—it seemed a sensible thing to do.’
Beaker inclined his head gravely. A boiled egg, he reflected—no bacon, mushrooms, scrambled eggs, as only he, Beaker, could cook them—and strong tea… He suppressed a shudder. A small plate of his home made savoury biscuits, he decided, and perhaps a sandwich with Gentlemen’s Relish on the coffee tray.
It was gratifying to see the professor eating the lot when he came downstairs again. He looked as though he could do with a quiet day, reflected his faithful servant, instead of gallivanting off with that Juffrouw van Moule. Beaker hadn’t taken to her—a haughty piece, and critical of him. He wished his master a pleasant day in a voice which hinted otherwise. He was informed that Juffrouw van Moule would be returning for tea, and would probably stay for dinner.
Beaker took himself to the kitchen where he unburdened himself to his cat, Humphrey, while he set about making the little queen cakes usually appreciated by the professor’s lady visitors.
Anneliese looked ravishing, exquisitely made-up, not a hair of her head out of place and wearing a stone-coloured crêpe de chine outfit of deceptive simplicity which screamed money from every seam.
She greeted the professor with a charming smile, offered a cheek with the warning not to disarrange her hair and settled herself in the car.
‘At last we have a day together,’ she observed. ‘I’ll come back with you after lunch. That man of yours will give us a decent tea, I suppose. I might even stay for dinner.’
She glanced at his profile. ‘We must discuss the future, Ruerd. Where we are to live—we shall have to engage more servants in a larger house, of course, and I suppose you can arrange to give up some of your consultant posts, concentrate on private patients. You have plenty of friends, haven’t you? Influential people?’
He didn’t look at her. ‘I have a great many friends and even more acquaintances,’ he told her. ‘I have no intention of using them. Indeed, I have no need. Do not expect me to give up my hospital work, though, Anneliese.’
She put a hand on his knee. ‘Of course not, Ruerd. I promise I won’t say any more about that. But please let us at least discuss finding a larger house where we can entertain. I shall have friends, I hope, and I shall need to return their hospitality.’
She was wise enough to stop then. ‘These people we are lunching with—they are old friends?’
‘Yes. I knew Guy Bowers-Bentinck before he married. We still see a good deal of each other; he has a charming little wife, Suzannah, and twins—five years old—and a baby on the way.’
‘Does she live here, in this village—Great Chisbourne? Does she not find it full? I mean, does she not miss theatres and evenings out and meeting people?’
He said evenly, ‘No. She has a husband who loves her, two beautiful children, a delightful home and countless friends. She is content.’
Something in his voice made Anneliese say quickly, ‘She sounds delightful; I’m sure I shall like her.’
Which was unfortunately not true. Beneath their socially pleasant manner, they disliked each other heartily—Anneliese because she considered Suzannah to be not worth bothering about, Suzannah because she saw at once that Anneliese wouldn’t do for Ruerd at all. She would make him unhappy; surely he could see that for himself?
Lunch was pleasant, Suzannah saw to that—making small talk while the two men discussed some knotty problem about their work. Anneliese showed signs of boredom after a time; she was used to being the centre of attention and she wasn’t getting it. When the men did join in the talk it was about the children eating their meal with them, behaving beautifully.
‘Do you have a nursery?’ asked Anneliese.
‘Oh, yes, and a marvellous old nanny. But the children eat with us unless we’re entertaining in the evening. We enjoy their company, and they see more of their father.’
Suzannah smiled across the table at her husband, and Anneliese, looking at him, wondered how such a plain girl could inspire the devoted look he gave her.
She remarked upon it as they drove back to Chelsea. ‘Quite charming,’ she commented in a voice which lacked sincerity. ‘Guy seems devoted to her.’
‘Surely that is to be expected of a husband?’ the professor observed quietly.
Anneliese gave a little trill of laughter. ‘Oh, I suppose so. Not quite my idea of marriage, though. Children should be in the nursery until they go to school, don’t you agree?’
He didn’t answer that. ‘They are delightful, aren’t they? And so well behaved.’ He sounded remote.
He was going fast on the motorway as the October day faded into dusk. In a few days it would be November, and at the end of that month he would go back to Holland for several weeks, where already a formidable list of consultations awaited him. He would see Anneliese again, of course; she would want to plan their wedding.
When they had first become engaged he had expressed a wish for a quiet wedding and she had agreed. But over the months she had hinted more and more strongly that a big wedding was absolutely necessary: so many friends and family, and she wanted bridesmaids. Besides, a quiet wedding would mean she couldn’t wear the gorgeous wedding dress she fully intended to have.
Anneliese began to talk then; she could be very amusing and she was intelligent. Ruerd wasn’t giving her his full attention, but she was confident that she could alter that. She embarked on a series of anecdotes about mutual friends in Holland, taking care not to be critical or spiteful, only amusing. She knew how to be a charming companion, and felt smug satisfaction when he responded, unaware that it was only good manners which prompted his replies.
He was tired, he told himself, and Anneliese’s chatter jarred on his thoughts. To talk to her about his work would have been a relief, to tell her of his busy week at the hospital, the patients he had seen. But the cursory interest she had shown when they’d become engaged had evaporated. Not her fault, of course, but his. He had thought that her interest in his work was a wish to understand it, but it hadn’t been that—her interest was a social one. To be married to a well-known medical man with boundless possibilities for advancement.
He slowed the car’s speed as they were engulfed in London’s suburbs. She would be a suitable wife—good looks, a charming manner, clever and always beautifully turned out.
On aiming back he said, ‘We’ll have tea round the fire, shall we? Beaker will have it ready.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Rather on the late side, but there’s no hurry, is there?’
The sitting room looked warm and welcoming as they went indoors. Humphrey was sitting before the fire, a small furry statue, staring at the flames. Anneliese paused halfway across the room. ‘Oh, Ruerd, please get that cat out of the room. I dislike them, you know—I’m sure they’re not clean, and they shed hairs everywhere.’
The professor scooped Humphrey into his arms. ‘He’s a well-loved member of my household, Anneliese. He keeps himself cleaner than many humans, and he is brushed so regularly that I doubt if there is a single loose hair.’
He took the cat to the kitchen and sat him down in front of the Aga.
‘Juffrouw van Moule doesn’t like cats,’ he told Beaker in an expressionless voice. ‘He’d better stay here until she goes back to the hotel. Could you give us supper about half past eight? Something light; if we’re going to have tea now we shan’t have much appetite.’
When he went back to the sitting room Anneliese was sitting by the fire. She made a lovely picture in its light, and he paused to look at her as he went in. Any man would be proud to have her as his wife, he reflected, so why was it that he felt no quickening of his pulse at the sight of her?
He brushed the thought aside and sat down opposite her, and watched her pour their tea. She had beautiful hands, exquisitely cared for, and they showed to great advantage as she presided over the tea tray. She looked at him and smiled, aware of the charming picture she made, and presently, confident that she had his attention once more, she began to talk about their future.
‘I know we shall see a good deal of each other when you come back to Holland in December,’ she began. ‘But at least we can make tentative plans.’ She didn’t wait for his comment but went on, ‘I think a summer wedding, don’t you? That gives you plenty of time to arrange a long holiday. We might go somewhere for a month or so before settling down.
‘Can you arrange it so that you’re working in Holland for a few months? You can always fly over here if you’re wanted, and surely you can give up your consultancies here after awhile? Private patients, by all means, and, of course, we mustn’t lose sight of your friends and colleagues.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘You’re famous here, are you not? It is so important to know all the right people…’
When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘I am going to be very unselfish and agree to using this house as a London base. Later on perhaps we can find something larger.’
He asked quietly, ‘What kind of place had you in mind, Anneliese?’
‘I looked in at an estate agent—somewhere near Harrods; I can’t remember the name. There were some most suitable flats. Large enough for entertaining. We would need at least five bedrooms—guests, you know—and good servants’ quarters.’
Her head on one side, she gave him another brilliant smile. ‘Say yes, Ruerd.’
‘I have commitments for the next four months here,’ he told her, ‘and they will be added to in the meantime. In March I’ve been asked to lecture at a seminar in Leiden, examine students at Groningen and read a paper in Vienna. I cannot give you a definite answer at the moment.’
She pouted. ‘Oh, Ruerd, why must you work so hard? At least I shall see something of you when you come back to Holland. Shall you give a party at Christmas?’
‘Yes, I believe so. We can talk about that later. Have your family any plans?’
She was still telling him about them when Beaker came to tell them that supper was ready.
Later that evening, as she prepared to go, Anneliese asked, ‘Tomorrow, Ruerd? You will be free? We might go to an art exhibition…?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m working all day. I doubt if I shall be free before the evening. I’ll phone the hotel and leave a message. It will probably be too late for dinner, but we might have a drink.’
She had to be content with that. She would shop, she decided, and dine at the hotel. She was careful not to let him see how vexed she was.
The next morning as the professor made his way through the hospital he looked, as had become his habit, to where Ermentrude sat. She wasn’t there, of course.
She was up and dressed, getting the house just so, ready for her mother and father. She had slept long and soundly, and had gone downstairs to find that the professor had left everything clean and tidy in the kitchen. He had left a tea tray ready, too; all she’d needed to do was put on the kettle and make toast.
‘Very thoughtful of him,’ said Emmy now, to George, who was hovering hopefully for a biscuit. ‘You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’d know one end of a tea towel from the other. He must have a helpless fiancée…’
She frowned. Even if his fiancée was helpless he could obviously afford to have a housekeeper or at least a daily woman. She fell to wondering about him. When would he be married, have children? Where did he live while he was working in London? And where was his home in Holland? Since neither George nor Snoodles could answer, she put these questions to the back of her mind and turned her thoughts to the shopping she must do before her parents came home.
They knew about the bomb, of course; it had been on TV and in the papers. But when Emmy had phoned her parents she had told them very little about it, and had remained guiltily silent when her mother had expressed her relief that Emmy had been on day duty and hadn’t been there. Now that they were home, exchanging news over coffee and biscuits, the talk turned naturally enough to the bomb outrage. ‘So fortunate that you weren’t there,’ said Mrs Foster.
‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was,’ said Emmy. ‘But I was quite all right…’ She found herself explaining about Professor ter Mennolt bringing her home and him making tea.
‘We are in his debt,’ observed her father. ‘Although he did only what any decent-thinking person would have done.’
Her mother said artlessly, ‘He sounds a very nice man. Is he elderly? I suppose so if he’s a professor.’
‘Not elderly—not even middle-aged,’ said Emmy. ‘They say at the hospital that he’s going to marry soon. No one knows much about him, and one wouldn’t dare ask him.’
She thought privately that one day, if the opportunity occurred, she might do just that. For some reason it was important to her that he should settle down and be happy. He didn’t strike her as being happy enough. He ought to be; he was top of his profession, with a girl waiting for him, and presumably enough to live on in comfort.
Her two days went much too quickly. Never mind if it rained for almost all of the time. Her father was away in the day, and she and her mother spent a morning window shopping in Oxford Street, and long hours sitting by the fire—her mother knitting, Emmy busy with the delicate embroidery which she loved to do.
They talked—the chances of her father getting a teaching post near their old home were remote; all the same they discussed it unendingly. ‘We don’t need a big house,’ said her mother. ‘And you could come with us, of course, Emmy—there’s bound to be some job for you. Or you might meet someone and marry.’ She peered at her daughter. ‘There isn’t anyone here, is there, love?’
‘No, Mother, and not likely to be. It would be lovely if Father could get a teaching post and we could sell this house.’
Her mother smiled. ‘No neighbours, darling. Wouldn’t it be heaven? No rows of little houses all exactly alike. Who knows what is round the corner?’
It was still raining when Emmy set off to work the following morning. The buses were packed and tempers were short. She got off before the hospital stop was reached, tired of being squeezed between wet raincoats and having her feet poked at with umbrellas. A few minutes’ walk even on a London street was preferable to strap-hanging.
She was taking a short cut through a narrow lane where most of the houses were boarded up or just plain derelict, when she saw the kitten. It was very small and very wet, sitting by a boarded-up door, and when she went nearer she saw that it had been tied by a piece of string to the door handle. It looked at her and shivered, opened its tiny mouth and mewed almost without sound.
Emmy knelt down, picked it up carefully, held it close and rooted around in her shoulder bag for the scissors she always carried. It was the work of a moment to cut the string, tuck the kitten into her jacket and be on her way once more. She had no idea what she was going to do with the small creature, but to leave it there was unthinkable.
She was early at the hospital; there was time to beg a cardboard box from one of the porters, line it with yesterday’s newspaper and her scarf and beg some milk from the head porter.
‘You won’t ’arf cop it,’ he told her, offering a mugful. ‘I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, Emmy, and mum’s the word.’ He nodded and winked. She was a nice young lady, he considered, always willing to listen to him telling her about his wife’s diabetes.
Emmy tucked the box away at her feet, dried the small creature with her handkerchief, offered it milk and saw with satisfaction that it fell instantly into a refreshing sleep. It woke briefly from time to time, scoffed more milk and dropped off again. Very much to her relief, Emmy got to the end of her shift with the kitten undetected.
She was waiting for her relief when the supervisor bore down upon her, intent on checking and finding fault if she could. It was just bad luck that the kitten should wake at that moment, and, since it was feeling better, it mewed quite loudly.
Meeting the lady’s outraged gaze, Emmy said, ‘I found him tied to a doorway. In the rain. I’m going to take him home…’
‘He has been here all day?’ The supervisor’s bosom swelled to alarming proportions. ‘No animal is allowed inside the hospital. You are aware of that, are you not, Miss Foster? I shall report this, and in the meantime the animal can be taken away by one of the porters.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Emmy fiercely. ‘I’ll not allow it. You are—’
It was unfortunate that she was interrupted before she could finish.
‘Ah,’ said Professor ter Mennolt, looming behind the supervisor. ‘My kitten. Good of you to look after it for me, Ermentrude.’ He gave the supervisor a bland smile. ‘I am breaking the rules, am I not? But this seemed the best place for it to be until I could come and collect it.’
‘Miss Foster has just told me…’ began the woman.
‘Out of the kindness of her heart,’ said the professor outrageously. ‘She had no wish to get me into trouble. Isn’t that correct, Ermentrude?’
She nodded, and watched while he soothed the supervisor’s feelings with a bedside manner which she couldn’t have faulted.
‘I will overlook your rudeness, Miss Foster,’ she said finally, and sailed away.
‘Where on earth did you find it?’ asked the professor with interest.
She told him, then went on, ‘I’ll take him home. He’ll be nice company for Snoodles and George.’
‘An excellent idea. Here is your relief. I shall be outside when you are ready.’
‘Why?’ asked Emmy.
‘You sometimes ask silly questions, Ermentrude. To take you both home.’
Emmy made short work of handing over, got into her mac, picked up the box and went to the entrance. The Bentley was outside, and the professor bundled her and her box into it and drove away in the streaming rain.
The kitten sat up on wobbly legs and mewed. It was bedraggled and thin, and Emmy said anxiously, ‘I do hope he’ll be all right.’
‘Probably a she. I’ll look the beast over.’
‘Would you? Thank you. Then if it’s necessary I’ll take him—her—to the vet.’ She added uncertainly, ‘That’s if it’s not interfering with whatever you’re doing?’
‘I can spare half an hour.’ He sounded impatient.
She unlocked the door and ushered him into the hall, where he took up so much room she had to sidle past him to open the sitting-room door.
‘You’re so large,’ she told him, and ushered him into the room.
Mrs Foster was sitting reading with Snoodles on her lap. She looked up as they went in and got to her feet.
‘I’m sure you’re the professor who was so kind to Emmy,’ she said, and offered a hand. ‘I’m her mother. Emmy, take off that wet mac and put the kettle on, please. What’s in the box?’
‘A kitten.’
Mrs Foster offered a chair. ‘Just like Emmy—always finding birds with broken wings and stray animals.’ She smiled from a plain face very like her daughter’s, and he thought what a charming woman she was.
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