The Secret Pool. Бетти Нилс

My home is on the far side of the city in the woods outside Zeist. We will stop for coffee at one of the cafés along the Aalsmeer.’

      ‘It sounds a long way,’ observed Fran.

      ‘No distance as the crow flies, and not much further by car. We shall lunch at my home.’

      She gave him a sideways glance. His profile looked stern; he couldn’t possibly be enjoying himself so why had he asked her out? He turned his head before she could look away. His smile took years off his face. ‘I haven’t had a day out for a long time—shall we forget hospital wards and night duty and lectures by disagreeable doctors and enjoy ourselves?’

      His smile was so warm and friendly that she smiled back. ‘Oh, I’d like that—and it’s such a lovely day.’

      His hand came down briefly on hers clasped in her lap. ‘It’s a pact. Here we are at Aalsmeer. I’ll explain about the flowers…’

      They stopped for coffee presently, sitting down by the water’s edge while he drew a map of the surrounding countryside on the tablecloth. ‘There are motorways coming into Utrecht from each point of the compass. We shall join one to the south, going round the city, and then turn off towards Leusderheide—that’s heathland…’

      ‘You live there?’

      ‘No, but very near. It’s only a short run from here.’

      They got back into the car and drove on through the quiet countryside with only the farms and small villages studded around the flat green fields. But not for long. They joined the motorway very soon and presently the outskirts of Utrecht loomed ahead and then to one side of them as they swept past the outskirts. Dr van Rijgen drove fast with an ease which was almost nonchalance, slipping past the traffic with nothing more than a gentle swish of sound, and once past Utrecht and with Zeist receding in the distance he left the motorway and slowed his speed. They were on a country road now, with Zeist still visible to one side, and on the other pleasantly wooded country, peaceful after the rush of the motorway.

      ‘We could be miles from anywhere,’ marvelled Fran.

      ‘Yes, and I need only drive a couple of miles to join the road into Zeist and Utrecht.’

      ‘And the other way?’

      ‘Ede, Appeldoorn, the Veluwe; all beautiful.’

      ‘You go there often, to the—the Veluwe?’

      He didn’t allow himself to smile at her pronunciation of the word.

      ‘Most weekends when I am free.’

      It was like wringing blood from a stone, she reflected, wringing bits and pieces of information from him, word by word. She gave a small soundless sigh and looked out of the window.

      They were passing through a small scattered village: tiny cottages, a very large church and a number of charming villas.

      ‘This looks nice,’ she observed.

      ‘I think so, too,’ said Dr van Rijgen and swept the car with an unexpected rush through brick pillars and along a leafy drive. Fran, suddenly uneasy, sat up, the better to see around her, just in time to glimpse the house as they went round a curve.

      It was flat-faced and solid with a gabled roof and large windows arranged in rows across its front; they got smaller and higher as they went up and they all had shutters. The front door was atop semi-circular steps, a solid wooden affair with ornate carving around its fanlight and a tremendous knocker.

      Fran didn’t look at the doctor. ‘You live here?’

      ‘Yes.’ He leaned over her and undid her door and her safety belt and then got out himself and went round the bonnet so that he was standing waiting for her as she got out, too. She said quite sharply, ‘I wish you would tell me why you’ve brought me here.’

      ‘Why, to meet my small daughter. She’s looking forward to seeing you.’

      ‘Your daughter? I had no idea…’

      He said coolly, ‘Why should you have? Shall we go in?’

      The door had been opened; a very thin, stooping, elderly man was standing by it. ‘Tuggs,’ said the doctor, ‘this is Miss Manning, come to have lunch with us. Francesca, Tuggs has been with us for very many years; he runs the place with his wife, Nel. He is English, by the way.’

      Fran paused at the top of the steps and offered a hand. ‘How do you do, Tuggs,’ and smiled her gentle smile before she was ushered indoors.

      It was a square entrance hall with splendid pillars supporting a gallery above it and with a fine staircase at its end. Fran had the impression of marble underfoot, fine silky carpets, a great many portraits, and sunlight streaming through a circular window above the staircase, before she was urged to enter a room at the back of the hall. She paused in the doorway and looked up at her host. ‘I’m a bit overwhelmed—it’s so very grand.’

      He considered this remark quite seriously. ‘One’s own home is never grand, and it is home. Don’t be scared of it, Francesca.’ He shut the door behind them. ‘Nel will bring coffee in a few moments and you can go and tidy yourself—she’ll show you where. But first come and see Lisa.’

      They were in a quite small cosy room with chintz curtains at the windows and a wide view out to a garden filled with flowers. The furniture was old, polished and comfortable, and sitting by the open window was a buxom young woman with a rosy face, reading to a little girl perched in a wheelchair.

      The young woman, looking up, saw them, put down her book and said something to the child who turned her head and shrilled, ‘Papa!’ and then burst into a torrent of Dutch.

      She was a beautiful child, with golden curls, enormous blue eyes and a glorious smile. Dr van Rijgen bent to kiss her and then lifted her carefully into his arms. He said something to the nurse and she smiled and went out of the room and he said,

      ‘This is Lisa, six years old and as I frequently tell her the most beautiful girl in the world.’

      Fran took a small thin hand in hers. ‘Oh, she is, the darling.’ She beamed at the little girl, careful not to look at the fragile little body in the doctor’s arms. ‘Hullo, Lisa.’

      The child put up her face to be kissed and broke into a long excited speech until the doctor hushed her gently. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment,’ he suggested and glanced up as a stout woman came in with a tray. ‘Here’s Nel with the coffee.’ He said something to her and turned to Fran.

      ‘This is my housekeeper; no English worth mentioning, I’m afraid, but a most sensible and kind woman; we’d be lost without her.’ He spoke to her again—she was being introduced in her turn, Fran guessed—and then got up as he said, ‘Nel will show you where you can tidy yourself.’

      The cloakroom into which Fran was ushered, tucked away down a short passage leading from the hall, was so unlike the utilitarian cubbyhole in her aunts’ house that she paused to take a good look. Powder blue tiles, silver grey carpet, an enormous mirror and a shelf containing just about everything a woman might need to repair the ravages upon her make-up. Fran sniffed appreciatively at the bottles of eau-de-toilette, washed her hands with pale blue soap and felt apologetic about using one of the stack of towels. She dabbed powder on her nose in a perfunctory manner, combed her hair and went back across the hall.

      Father and daughter looked at her as she went in and she had the strong impression that they had been talking about her—naturally enough, she supposed; and when asked to pour out she did so in her usual unflurried manner.

      Lisa had milk in her own special mug and sugar biscuits on a matching plate but they were largely ignored. She was a happy child, chuckling a great deal at her father’s soft remarks, meticulously translated for Fran’s benefit.

      A very sick child, too, the charming little face far too pale, the small body thin above the sticks of useless legs. But there was no hint of despair or sadness; the doctor drew her into the talk, making