Wish with the Candles. Betty Neels

she wondered if, despite the language difficulty, she should have told them that she had played with her father for years before he died, and was considered something of an expert even though she wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about the game. She went on to wonder, for no reason at all, if the man they had met that afternoon played too; if so, she would dearly love to beat him. She smiled at the silliness of the thought as she went to sleep.

      They went to Gouda the next day and spent a long time looking at the Town Hall, which was quaint and very old and being in the middle of the square, could be seen properly by just walking slowly round it. They went to Sint Janskerk too, because the guide book told them to and were very glad that they had because of its quiet spaciousness and lovely stained glass windows. When they came out at last, they wandered off into the little lanes and alleys around it and stared at the small ancient houses, huddled together as though to support each other through the centuries, and when they found their way back to the Markt, they lunched off a tremendous pancake in a restaurant which looked like a Dutch interior painted by Pieter de Hoogh. They spent an hour exploring the rest of the little town and looking at its shops and then got into the car again and drove the mile or so to the complex of lakes just outside the town, where they stopped at a café for cups of milkless tea which they drank sitting at a little table overlooking the water and admired the boats bowling along before the stiff breeze they had come to expect in Holland.

      ‘The car’s running well,’ remarked Mrs Hastings as they started back. ‘I had no idea that one new plug could make so much difference.’

      ‘Yes, I’m surprised—it’s almost as though she’s been over-hauled—it’s surprising what a new plug will do. They only charged five gulden too. I must get the bumper fixed when we get home.’ Which remark led her to think of the stranger again.

      The next day they travelled the few miles to Schoonhoven, along a charming country road with little traffic upon it and a warm sun shining down on the flat green land around them, and spent the whole day wandering in and around that little town. A great deal of their time was taken up with a visit to the Edelambachthuis on its main canal, watching the silversmiths for which the place was famous and so enchanted with their work that they spent more than they could really afford on some silver teaspoons because Mrs Hastings declared them to be exactly right for the Dresden tea-set she still cherished. They parked the car in the town and lunched at the hotel on the edge of the river and then crossed by the nearby ferry to walk along the dyke on its other bank until they remembered that they still had to be weighed on the Witch’s Scales in Oudewater. They went back the way they had come, with the little river running beside the road the whole way and the car windows open to the afternoon heat of the sun. When they got back they had tea at the hotel, examining their diplomas guaranteeing them immunity from a witch’s fiery end and then making their plans for the following day—their last day.

      They left Oudewater the next day with regret. The regret on Mrs Hastings’ part was for the comforts of the little hotel and the cheerful bustle of the little town; Emma’s was for quite another reason. The further they travelled from Oudewater the less likely it was that she would ever see the owner of the Rolls-Royce again.

      They went slowly, admiring the trim little villas as they went; there were bigger houses too, not so easily seen from the road, but a mile or so from the town Emma slowed the Ford to a sedate pace so that they could stare their fill at a tall red brick house with a handsome double stair leading up to its massive front door and rows of enormous windows. It stood in full view of the road, but well back from it, and the big iron gates which led to it stood open.

      ‘My dear, the curtains—it would take miles and miles,’ said Mrs Hastings, and then, ‘I’d love to see inside.’

      Emma nodded. The house attracted her in some way, it looked a little austere from the outside perhaps, but inside she imagined that it might be very beautiful. She said thoughtfully, ‘I daresay some of the curtains are the original ones put up when the house was built.’

      Her gaze shifted to the garden, very formal and full of colour, and she couldn’t help but contrast it with the small cottage in which her mother lived, with its pocket handkerchief of a lawn at its front and the small stretch of garden behind, probably her mother was thinking the same thing. She patted her parent’s hands lying on her lap and said comfortingly, ‘Never mind, darling, the garden at home is very pretty.’ And they smiled at each other, remembering the lovely garden they had had in the old house, before her father died. Emma missed it still; it would be even worse for her mother. She took a final look and put her foot, in its neat sandal, down on the accelerator.

      They dawdled along the dyke road bordering the Lek and stopped for a picnic lunch by the water, watching the barges chugging their way up and down its broad water as they ate, and presently, when they resumed their journey, they caught their first glimpse of the castle as they approached Wijk bij Duurstede, its round red brick towers standing out amongst the trees, but the miniature town itself they didn’t see at all until they turned off the road on to a narrow street which brought them to a cobbled square, shaded by enormous trees and lined with tall old houses and a handful of shops. The hotel faced the square; an old building with a balcony on either side of its door and called, rather inappropriately, thought Emma, ‘de Keizer’s Kroon,’ for its homely appearance hardly justified its royal title. But even if the hotel wasn’t royal, their welcome was. They went inside, straight into a vast room with a bar at one end, a billiard table in the middle and a number of tables around its walls; most of these were covered with the little woollen rugs Emma rather liked, but half a dozen tables were laid for dinner with starched white cloths and highly polished silver and glass. Standing proudly amid them was the landlord, a large, genial man who listened carefully to Emma’s request for rooms and led them through a double door into a narrow passage with an equally narrow staircase. ‘Two rooms?’ asked Emma hopefully as they started to climb, then came to an abrupt halt as he shook his head and broke into regretful Dutch, holding up one finger to clinch his argument, and then beckoned them on.

      The room was at the back of the hotel, with two enormous windows, a very high ceiling and large enough to house the vast furniture in it twice over. Emma stared fascinated at the bed with its carved headboard putting her in mind of the Coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, greatly enlarged, but this awe-inspiring piece of furniture was offset by a small but modern washbasin and everything in the room shone with soap and polish, besides which the landlord, rather in the manner of a conjuror producing a rabbit from a hat, flung open a door at the end of a little passage to disclose a very large bathroom containing a very small bath. They agreed most happily to take the room and presently, when they had tidied themselves, went downstairs, where over a cup of tea they made the landlord understand that they wanted tickets for the Son et Lumière performance that evening. It was disappointing when he shook his head and after some thought, said, ‘Many people.’

      ‘We’ll go and see anyway,’ said Emma. ‘Perhaps there’ll be a couple of cancelled seats.’

      The castle wasn’t hard to find, for the town was so very small and its roads few. There was a gate leading to the grounds around the castle with a hut beside it and a man sitting inside, and when Emma asked about tickets she was delighted to hear the beautifully pedantic English with which he answered her. She exclaimed warmly, ‘Oh, how well you speak, and how nice for us,’ and he smiled and replied, ‘I’m the schoolmaster here,’ as though that explained everything.

      Emma said a little anxiously, ‘They said at the hotel that there weren’t any seats left for tonight. We’re going back to England tomorrow and we were told by—someone that we really should see it.’

      He stared at her as she spoke; now he asked slowly, ‘Someone you met?’ and when she nodded, went on, ‘It just so happens that I have two returned tickets. How lucky you are, ladies.’

      The price seemed very modest, but perhaps it wasn’t a very lavish affair. Emma paid up cheerfully and after a few minutes’ talk she and her mother walked through the gateway; it seemed a good idea to see the castle now that they were so close to it. It was an impressive sight, even though partly ruined, and the trees and shrubs around it added to its impressiveness. They looked their fill, and very pleased with themselves, went back to the hotel