Caroline's Waterloo. Betty Neels

finished her packing and went down to her supper which this evening had been set in the dining room, a richly sombre place. She felt quite lost sitting at the great oval table surrounded by all the massive furniture, but she made a good meal, partly to please Noakes and partly because she wasn’t sure when she would have the next one. And Noakes was uneasy, although the Professor, he assured her, hadn’t been in the least angry—indeed, he had hardly mentioned the matter. Noakes hoped—they all hoped—that tomorrow she would play for them again, but first he would ascertain if the Professor objected to her visiting the servants’ sitting-room.

      Caroline made some cheerful reply, finished her meal, mentioned that she would go to bed early and went upstairs. When she crept down half an hour later there was no sound. Everyone was in the kitchens by now and she wouldn’t be missed, probably not until the morning, or at least until the Professor came home, and that would be late. She had put on her anorak, counted her money carefully and carried her bag downstairs before going to the study and putting the letter on the Professor’s desk. She paused in the doorway for a last look; his desk was an orderly clutter of papers and books and his chair was pushed to one side as though he had got up in a hurry. She sighed deeply, closed the door gently, picked up the duffle bag and went to the door. Her leg was aching a little and she had bandaged it firmly because as far as she knew she would have to walk quite a distance before she could get a bus—the nearest village wasn’t too far away, she had found that out from Juffrouw Kropp. If there wasn’t a bus she would have to thumb a lift.

      She put out a reluctant hand and opened the door. It was heavy, but it swung back on well-oiled hinges, revealing the Professor, key in hand, about to open it from outside. Caro, taken completely by surprise, stood with her mouth open, gaping at him. He, on the other hand, evinced no surprise, nor did he speak, merely took her duffle bag from her, put a large hand on her chest and pushed her very gently back into the house, and then just as gently shut the door behind him. Only then did he ask: ‘And where were you going, Caroline?’

      ‘Home—well, the hospital, actually.’ He had never called her Caroline before—no one called her that, but it sounded rather nice.

      ‘Why?’ He stood blocking her path, the duffle bag on the floor beside him.

      It seemed silly to have to explain something to him which he already knew all about. ‘I’ve upset your household: I can quite see that I’ve been a perfect nuisance to you. I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me—and your kindness—but I’m quite able to go back now and… Well, thank you again.’

      His harsh laugh made her jump. Quite forgetting to be meek, she said severely: ‘And there’s no need to laugh when someone thanks you!’

      ‘It strikes me as ironic that you should express gratitude for something you haven’t had. I cannot remember being kind to you—I merely did what any other person would have done in similar circumstances, and with the minimum of trouble to myself. If I had been a poor man with a wife and children to care for and had offered you help and shelter at the cost of my and their comfort, that would have been quite a different kettle of fish. As it is, I must confess that I have frequently forgotten that you were in the house.’

      Caro didn’t speak. A kind of despair had rendered her dumb; her head was full of a mixed bag of thoughts, most of them miserable.

      He put out a hand and touched her cheek awkwardly. ‘Have you been lonely?’

      Living in a bedsitter had taught her not to be lonely. She shook her head, still feeling the touch of his finger.

      ‘And you will be glad to get back—to your flat and your friends. I doubt if you will be allowed to work for a little while.’

      She had found her voice at last. It came out in a defiant mutter: ‘I shall be awfully glad to get back.’

      The gentleness had gone out of his voice; it sounded cold and distant again, just as though he didn’t care what she did. ‘Yes—I see. But be good enough to wait until the morning. I will arrange a passage for you on the night ferry tomorrow and Noakes shall drive you to the Hoek and see you on board.’

      Caroline said stiffly: ‘Thank you.’

      ‘You have sufficient money?’

      She nodded dumbly.

      ‘Then go to bed.’ His eye had caught her bandaged leg. ‘Your leg is worse?’

      ‘No. I—I put a crepe bandage on it because I thought I might have to walk for a bit.’

      He stared at her without expression, then: ‘Come to the study and I will take a look and if necessary rebandage it.’

      He prodded and poked with gentle fingers, dressed it lightly and said: ‘That should see you safely to Oliver’s—get it looked at as soon as you can. It will do better without a dressing.’ He held the study door open and offered a hand. ‘Goodbye, Caroline.’

      His hand was cool and firm and she didn’t want to let it go.

      ‘Goodbye, Professor. I shall always be grateful to you—and I’m sorry that I—I disturbed your peace and quiet.’

      Just for a moment she thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.