A Little Moonlight. Бетти Нилс

you,’ she ended, and Serena, soothing her back to a good humour, sighed to herself. A good and loving daughter, nevertheless sometimes she longed to have her freedom; to lead her own life and make friends of her own age. She had friends, of course, but nowadays they were either married and living miles away or living on their own with splendid jobs entailing a good deal of travelling and meeting important people. From time to time they had suggested to her that she might share a flat and find a job, but her mother had made that impossible; not by standing in her way but by becoming pale and silent and pathetically cheerful about the future. She would, of course, manage, she told Serena. She would sell their home, of course, for she could never manage to run it alone, and she would find one of those flats where there was a warden to look after one if one became ill and didn’t wish to worry one’s family. There wouldn’t be much money, of course, without Serena’s contribution, but she had no doubt that she would contrive. And all this said with a brave smile and a wistful droop that wrung Serena’s heart and squashed any hopes of a life of her own.

      It was several days after her conversation with Dr ter Feulen that she found a letter on her desk when she arrived at work—a typed letter setting out the day on which she and her mother were to travel and from where. They were to fly, and she would receive their tickets in due course. They would be met at Schiphol airport and taken to the boarding-house where rooms had been reserved for them. She was to report for work on the following morning at eight o’clock. Her timetable would be at the boarding-house. He had signed it M. Dijkstra ter Feulen.

      When Serena got home she showed her mother the letter. Mrs Proudfoot was put out. ‘I can’t see why we couldn’t go over to Holland in his car! He must be going at about the same time. With my poor health all this business of getting to Heathrow and flying to Amsterdam is bound to upset my nerves.’

      Serena held her tongue. The doctor had made it plain that he considered that her mother was as fit as the next woman, but he had spoken in confidence. Perhaps when the time was right, he would suggest that she should change her lifestyle. ‘Possibly he’ll travel at an awkward time,’ she suggested tactfully.

      It was two days before they were due to leave that she heard quite by accident that he had already left the hospital. ‘Left late last night,’ Mrs Dunn told her, ‘and he’s not expected back for several weeks, so Theatre Sister tells me, although there are several cases lined up for him before Christmas.’ She eyed Serena curiously. ‘Don’t you know how long you’ll be gone?’

      ‘Not exactly. It depends on his work in Holland.’

      ‘Oh, well, you’re a lucky girl, stepping into Miss Payne’s shoes and getting a chance to travel a bit. Mind you, he expects a lot from his secretary. Miss Payne was with him for quite a time, it’ll be hard to live up to her standards …’

      Not a very cheering prospect, but one Serena was prepared to ignore. However hard she would have to work she would be in a foreign country and she intended to make the most of it. Moreover, from the moment she stepped on to Dutch soil, she would be earning considerably more money. If they were back home for Christmas, and she was sure that they would be, they would be able to go to a theatre or two, and buy all the extras which made all the difference at the festive season, perhaps have a day shopping at her mother’s favourite stores … ‘I’ll do my best,’ she assured Mrs Dunn cheerfully.

      Mrs Proudfoot had insisted on a taxi to Heathrow, an expense which Serena could well have done without, and, once there, her mother complained about having time to wait for their flight, the coffee, the lack of comfortable seats and how exhausted she was. Serena, occupied with luggage, tickets and passports, bit back impatient words, assured her mother that once they were on the plane everything would be fine, and so it was. The flight was brief, the coffee and biscuits they were offered passed the time very nicely and in no time at all they were at Schiphol.

      There was a tricky delay while Serena fetched their bags from the carousel and a few anxious moments wondering if they would be met, quickly forgotten when an elderly man approached them. ‘Mrs Proudfoot and Miss Proudfoot? Dr Dijkstra ter Feulen wished me to meet you. My name is Cor, if you will please follow me.’

      He was a sturdily built man and made light of their suitcases, walking ahead of them out of the airport entrance and leading them to a dark blue Jaguar. He opened the car door and ushered them in, put their bags in the boot and got into the driver’s seat.

      ‘A drive of half an hour,’ he told them, and started the car.

      Mrs Proudfoot had stopped complaining, for there was nothing to complain about—indeed, she became quite animated as they neared Amsterdam, exclaiming over the churches, old houses and canals once they had gone through the modern encircling suburbs. Cor stopped finally in a narrow street with blocks of flats interspersed with solid houses, built of red brick round the turn of the century. It was to one of these that he led them, rang the bell and waited with them until the door opened. The woman who answered it was middle-aged and stout, with a pleasant face and small beady eyes.

      ‘The English ladies,’ she greeted them. ‘Welcome. Come in, please.’

      Her English was as good as Cor’s but heavily accented. She spoke to him in their own tongue and he went to the car and fetched the luggage and put it in the hall. ‘I wish you a pleasant stay,’ he told them, and Mrs Proudfoot smiled graciously.

      Serena shook his hand and thanked him. ‘It was so nice to be met by someone who speaks English; it all seems a bit strange, and we are most grateful.’ She started to open her purse, but he laid a large beefy hand on hers.

      ‘No, no, miss. That is not necessary—the doctor has arranged all …’

      He gave her a beaming smile, said something to their landlady and went away.

      ‘So, now we will go to your rooms. My name is Mevrouw Blom and I am glad to know you. Come …’

      Serena picked up one of their cases and Mevrouw Blom took the other two, while Mrs Proudfoot carried her umbrella. The stairs leading from the narrow hall were steep, covered in serviceable carpeting and led to a narrow landing. Mevrouw Blom opened two of the three doors and waved Serena and her mother into the rooms. They were identical as to furniture: a bed, a table under the narrow window with a small mirror, a small easy chair, a small table by the bed and a large, old-fashioned wardrobe. The floors were wooden, with rugs by the beds and under the windows. There were overhead lights as well as bedside lamps and a radiator against one wall in each room. ‘You will tidy yourselves,’ said Mevrouw Blom cheerfully, ‘and then return to the room below and take coffee.’

      ‘The bathroom?’ asked Serena.

      ‘Ah, yes—there is a shower-room.’ The third door was opened to show a tiled shower-room with a washbasin.

      Mevrouw Blom went back downstairs and Mrs Proudfoot turned to Serena. ‘I thought it would have been a hotel,’ she complained peevishly. ‘It’s nothing but a cheap boarding-house!’

      ‘Mother, it’s clean and warm and quite nicely furnished, and you mustn’t forget that the doctor is paying for both of us; he had to pay for me, I know, but he needn’t have done so for you.’ She kissed her mother. ‘Let’s tidy ourselves and go downstairs.’

      Mevrouw Blom was waiting for them and ushered them into a large room which opened into a second smaller room at the back of the house. Both rooms were well furnished with comfortable chairs, small tables, and, in the smaller of the rooms, several tables were laid for a meal. Mrs Proudfoot brightened at the sight of the TV in one corner and the closed stove in the larger of the rooms. She sat down in a chair close to it while Mrs Blom poured coffee and handed cups with small sugary biscuits. The coffee was delicious and she sipped it. Perhaps it wasn’t too bad …

      ‘I have a letter for you, miss,’ said Mevrouw Blom, ‘from Dr Dijkstra ter Feulen. He tells me you go to work at eight o’clock, therefore there is breakfast for you at half-past seven. The hospital is five minutes’ walking—I will show you. You eat your supper here each evening and if you are late that is OK.’ She chuckled. ‘Miss Payne, when she was here, was sometimes late, but that is not important.’