Sun and Candlelight. Бетти Нилс

drank it at the open kitchen door, gave Podge the cat his morning milk and set about getting the curtains out into the garden. They were old and faded, but their damask was still good. They were also very heavy; she hauled them down the garden path to the very end where the clothes line was, and hung them upon it, and then, quite carried away by her success, went into the dining room and did the same for the green serge hanging at the big sash window there. She would make more tea, she decided, and take a cup upstairs to both ladies before getting the breakfast; Mrs Bustle could do with an extra hour in bed. The old ladies were grateful. With strict instructions about breakfast she was allowed to go downstairs again, lay the table and put on the porridge. She was hungry by now and the packet of Rice Crispies she found in a cupboard was welcome; she sat on the kitchen table, eating them, her head, just for the moment, happily free of unhappy thoughts.

      ‘Now that’s what I like to see,’ said Mr van Diederijk cheerfully from the window behind her, ‘a strong young woman working in the kitchen.’

      She turned to look at him, surprised at the little rush of pleasure she felt at the sight of him. She answered him through a mouthful of crispies: ‘I very much doubt if you ever bother to go to the kitchen, whether there’s a strong young woman there or not.’ She frowned a little; such a description made her feel large and muscley.

      ‘Oh, but I do—I have a housekeeper, a Scotswoman who bakes Dundee cakes for me. I’m partial to a nice Dundee cake. May I come in?’

      And when she nodded he lifted a long leg over the sill and slid neatly into the room. He was looking very trendy, she considered. Not young any more but distinguished, and his clothes were just right.

      He put out a hand and she shook some Rice Crispies into it. ‘You pay your visits very early,’ she observed.

      ‘I came over on the Harwich ferry, it got in just after six.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s almost eight o’clock. Have you had breakfast?’

      ‘Not yet. Would you like some? My grandmother and Mrs Bustle will be down very soon, I’m waiting for them.’ She got down off the table. ‘How did you know I was here, or did you just happen to be passing?’

      He looked vague. ‘Oh, someone or other told me where you lived and I thought that if I called about breakfast time…’

      Alethea laughed and at the same time felt vaguely peeved that he hadn’t come specially to see her, only on the offchance of getting breakfast. She thrust the thought aside as absurd; now if it had been Nick…

      ‘Don’t look so sad.’ Mr van Diederijk’s voice was kind. ‘I’m not young Penrose, but at least I provide you with company.’

      She lifted startled eyes to his. ‘However did you know that I was thinking that?’

      ‘Logic.’ He wandered over to the open door. ‘What a charming garden. Why are all the curtains hanging on the line and not at the windows?’

      Alethea explained, and halfway through Mrs Bustle came in, was introduced, declared herself pleased to meet their visitor, enquired if he liked two eggs with his bacon or three and ordered them with brisk kindness out of her kitchen. ‘The sitting room’s got the sun,’ she pointed out, ‘though it looks a bit bare without those curtains, and as for you, Miss Alethea, you’d do well to go and wash your face and hands and comb your hair for your breakfast.’

      ‘The worst of these old family servants and friends,’ remarked Mr van Diederijk, ushered into the sitting room by Alethea, ‘is that having known you since you were so high, they never allow you to grow up. I know—I’ve one at home.’

      ‘The one who bakes the cakes?’

      ‘The very same. Are you on duty tomorrow?’

      She paused at the door. ‘Yes—I drove down.’

      ‘Ah, well—I’ll drive you back. You can always come down by train and drive back next time?’

      ‘Well, yes, I could. But I’m not going until this evening.’

      ‘Ah—I’m invited to spend the day?’ His voice was bland. ‘I shall enjoy that. Besides, I can hang those curtains for you.’

      Alethea was much struck, when at the end of the day she was sitting beside Mr van Diederijk on their way back to Theobald’s, at the pleasant time she—indeed all of them—had had. Her grandmother had liked him and had spent quite some time in conversation with him while Alethea and Mrs Bustle got lunch, and as for the housekeeper, he was an instant success, and although he didn’t get Dundee cake for his tea, he certainly had his appetite coaxed with feather-light sponges, home-made scones and Mrs Bustle’s own jam. And when they left she was surprised at her grandmother’s sincere wish that he should call again. And he had agreed to do so, too.

      ‘It was rather a quiet day for you,’ she ventured as he sent the Jaguar racing ahead.

      ‘I like quiet days. What gave you the idea that I didn’t?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘Nothing—only you live in London and I expect you go out a good deal.’

      ‘I live in Groningen, too, and I like nothing better than to be at home.’ He overtook the cars ahead of him and steadied the car’s pace. ‘And you?’ He glanced at her. ‘Your grandmother tells me that you’re thinking of leaving Theobald’s. A good idea, but of course you can only leave for one reason.’

      She turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Be bright, dear girl. If you leave to go to another job, your Nick is going to hear of it and he’ll know you’re running away. If you leave, it must be to get married.’

      Alethea sat up, scattering her handbag and its contents all over the floor. ‘There, look what you’ve made me do!’ she declared unfairly.

      ‘We’ll pick everything up presently. Did you hear what I said, Alethea?’

      ‘Yes—but how can I do that? I don’t know anyone—and besides, I don’t want to get married.’ She swallowed. ‘Well, you know what I mean, only if it’s Nick.’ She added crossly: ‘And I don’t know why I talk to you like this.’

      He ignored everything she had said. ‘We’ll have to see,’ was all he said, and he went on to talk about the morrow’s work. He was, she decided, very annoying at times, pretending not to hear, probably not listening. She wished him a rather snappy goodnight and was rendered speechless when he suddenly pulled her close and kissed her. When she had her breath back she demanded indignantly: ‘What was that for?’

      ‘A matter of expediency—your Nick came into the hall and it seemed a good idea to give him something to think about. There’s nothing like a little competition.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Alethea. Young men usually kissed her because they wanted to, Mr van Diederijk apparently did it by way of necessity; she wasn’t sure if she minded or not. She wished him goodnight for a second time and went to her room. She had hoped to see Nick as she went, but there was no sign of him. Surely if he had any feeling left for her at all he would have wanted to know why Mr van Diederijk had kissed her? She sighed; she was wasting time, her pride told her, and the sooner she left the better. ‘But I’ll not get married,’ she told herself out loud.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE WAS OF THE same mind the next morning and indeed she was of a mind to tell Mr van Diederijk this if she had the opportunity. But there was no chance to speak to him. True, he paid a fleeting visit to the ward, elegant and rather awe-inspiring in his dark grey suiting and expensive tie, but he was very much the consultant; beyond wishing him a pleasant good morning, proffering the notes of the case which he wished to see and escorting him to the ward door with an equally pleasant goodbye, Alethea prudently said nothing. Probably he would come again, when there might be a few minutes in which to tell him that she had no intention of even considering his ridiculous suggestion. What did it matter what Nick thought, anyway? she asked herself as she penned instructions in the day book. It was galling