Last April Fair Read online

  They had paused to allow Willy to investigate a stretch of ornamental water. ‘Me? Well, I dig potatoes and pull carrots and cut the flowers if I’m home. What’s that building over there?’

  ‘A restaurant and café. If you won’t get too chilly we might have coffee on the terrace before we go along to the glasshouses.’

  Which they did, sitting near the water in the sunshine, and then wandering on again towards the great greenhouses. The gardens were lovely, but the display in the houses took even Mrs Cresswell’s breath. She hurried from one spread of colour to the next, exclaiming over each of them, and: ‘Oh, how I wish I could take them all home with me!’ she sighed.

  ‘Hardly possible, I’m afraid, but you must allow me to offer you a small memento of your visit—we’ll pick out the bulbs you particularly admire and I’ll order them—you’ll get them in the autumn.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t!’ and then at his gentle smile: ‘Well, just one or two, perhaps.’ She went happily all the way round again, trying to make up her mind which she would choose. ‘Those Kaufmanniana hybrids for the rock garden, perhaps—or should I have that alium Moly, such a lovely colour.’ Her eyes wandered to the display of parrot tulips. ‘That blue and mauve one—if I might have one or two?’

  ‘Do you care for the Mendel? I have them at home, if you remember—such a good colour in spring, I find.’ The doctor was quietly leading her on. ‘The clover pink goes so splendidly with the iris danfordiae—an unusual colour scheme, but you must admit that the pink and yellow made a splendid show.’

  ‘Oh, yes—I did admire them in your garden. It’s hard to choose—perhaps if I might have a few iris and one or two of the parrot tulips? And thank you very much.’

  Mrs Cresswell looked quite flushed with pleasure.

  ‘I’ll go across and order them from the office there. Do go on looking around; I shall find you presently.’

  Mrs Cresswell pottered off happily enough, pointing out what she would have if only she could afford them. Which gave Phyllida an idea. She would buy some bulbs for her mother too; if she went back to the little rustic hut where they took the orders she would be able to see which ones the doctor had ordered and get something to go with them. She muttered her plan to Willy and slipped away.

  The doctor was still there and she was surprised to see the look of guilt on his face when he saw her. She didn’t pause to consider this, however, but plunged at once into her idea. ‘And if you’ll tell me what you’ve ordered I’ll get something else,’ she finished.

  Something in his face made her transfer her gaze to the clerk holding the order book. A whole page of it was filled and she turned a questioning look upon Pieter, who gave her a calm stare which told her nothing. ‘It seems a pity,’ he remarked blandly, ‘that your mother shouldn’t have something of everything she admired; I should like to think of your garden at home filled with flowers—she likes them so much.’

  ‘The whole lot?’ she gaped at him.

  ‘Well, not quite all.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Now you’re here, will you help me to decide which of the tulips to have in my own garden? That pink lily flowering one is charming—you were admiring it…’

  ‘I think it’s super, but why ask my advice? I mean, you’ll be the one to see them, not me. But if I were choosing for my garden, yes, I’d have them. Where will you plant them?’

  ‘In the beds on either side of the front door, under the windows. I’d better have two hundred.’

  She gulped. ‘That seems an awful lot,’ she ventured.

  ‘There’s an awful lot of garden,’ he pointed out, and took her arm. ‘Let’s find your mother and Willy—and not a word, mind.’

  They had lunch presently in the restaurant and then a last stroll before driving back. At the house once more, Phyllida, wondering what to do with the rest of her afternoon was over the moon when the doctor suggested casually that she might like to go with him to his rooms.

  ‘I’ll be there a couple of hours,’ he said. ‘You can look round if you’re interested and then while away the time at the shops until I’m ready.’ He glanced at her mother, happily immersed in a pile of catalogues, and Willy, already on his way across the lawns with the dog. ‘I don’t think you’ll be missed.’

  His rooms were in a narrow street of elegant houses, with barely room to park a car before their doors. He stopped the Bentley half way down and got out to open her door. ‘If you walk to the end and turn to the right, you’ll be in the main shopping centre. This is Finklestraat and I’m at number ten. If you get lost, just ask the way back.’

  He was on the ground floor; a richly comfortable waiting room, an office where his secretary sat and a consulting room beyond and beside it a small treatment room. There was a nurse there, a formidable middle-aged woman who greeted the doctor austerely and immediately took him to task for something or other. He listened meekly to her lecture, said something to make her laugh, and led the way into his consulting room. It was of a pleasant size and furnished in soothing shades of grey and soft browns, with comfortable chairs and a large desk. She looked round her slowly. ‘You’re a very successful man, aren’t you, Pieter?’

  His lips twitched. ‘I work hard, Phylly.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude—I only meant…’

  He caught her hand. ‘I know that. I wanted you to see where I work for a good deal of my day.’ He bent and kissed her lightly. ‘Now run along and enjoy yourself. You can have two hours.’

  She found herself in the street, her head a muddle of thoughts and dreams. Perhaps he was falling in love with her, on the other hand he could be being just friendly, wanting her to enjoy her holiday. There was no point in brooding about it. She walked briskly to the end of the street and made for the nearest shops.

  Egged on by the thought of Marena, she was tempted to enter a boutique presently, and once inside she cast caution to the winds and bought rather more than she had intended; a silk jersey tunic in a dusky pink, a pleated skirt in pale green with a matching jacket and a real silk blouse to go with them, and lastly a cotton jersey shirtwaister in pale amber; she hadn’t meant to buy that, but the saleslady had pointed out, quite rightly, that it would be a most useful garment for the rest of the year.

  Much lighter in the purse, and in the heart too, Phyllida found her way back to Finklestraat and poked her head round the waiting-room door. The room was empty and she had a sudden pang that everyone had gone home and left her behind; instantly dismissed as absurd, for the Bentley was still standing at the kerb.

  She sat down with her packages around her and waited quietly until the nurse came out, followed by the secretary. They both smiled at her and the secretary said: ‘The doctor is coming,’ as they went out.

  Pieter joined her a few minutes later, opened his sleepy eyes wide at the sight of her parcels, observed that she had put her time to good use, swept them up and ushered her out to the car. He seemed disinclined for conversation, so after one or two tentative remarks Phyllida gave up and sat silent until they stopped at his house. There was another car parked on the sweep and as he leaned over to open her door, he observed a little impatiently: ‘And now what does Marena want, I wonder? Not another dress so soon?’

  Phyllida received her parcels, thanked him for the outing and went ahead of him into the house; if Marena was there she didn’t want to see her. Even so, she was illogically put out when the doctor made no attempt to delay her. He watched her make for the stairs, Aap behind with her purchases, before turning away and going into the drawing room.

  Once in her room, Phyllida lost no time in trying on everything she had bought. The jersey tunic was certainly stunning. She decided to wear it that evening; it might possibly detract Pieter’s interest from Marena. She had heard the car start up and leave, so she would have a clear field.

  She went downstairs presently, feeling a little excited, aware that she looked her very best. It was a great pity that Pieter wasn’t there. Aap tendered his excuses and begged th
at they would dine without their host, and offered no further information at all.

  Phyllida received her mother’s admiration of her new dress with a pleasant calm which concealed rage, carried on a spirited conversation with Willy about the size of the fish he might one day catch, and dinner over, declared that she had a headache and retired to her room, where she threw the new dress into a corner and cried herself to sleep.

  The doctor, returning home presently to spend the rest of the evening with his guests, evinced surprise when Mrs Cresswell told him that Phyllida had gone to bed with a headache, but he said nothing beyond murmuring some civility or other, poured himself a whisky and sat down in his chair. Mrs Cresswell, studying him while he exchanged a bantering conversation with Willy, concluded that he looked thoughtful, but not in a worried way; more as though he was mightily pleased about something.

  Phyllida went down to her breakfast the next morning with some caution. She didn’t want to meet Pieter, not yet, not until her puffy eyelids were normal again. He should be gone, either to his surgery or to one or other of the hospitals he visited. All the same, she approached the breakfast room circumspectly and was about to peer round its half open door when his study door was flung open behind her. His cheerful: ‘Ha!’ uttered in a booming voice, sent her spinning round to face him.

  She managed: ‘Oh, good morning—I thought you’d gone?’

  He leaned against the door frame, watching her. ‘So who were you expecting to jump out on you?’

  She had regained her breath and her composure. ‘No one. I expect you’re just off to the surgery.’

  ‘Indeed I am. But I shall be back. It is unfortunate that I can’t take Willy sailing as I’d arranged, but there are a couple of urgent cases I must see. Besides, I fancy this weather isn’t going to last and the meer can be quite nasty if the wind rises.’ He wandered towards her. ‘Your headache is quite better?’

  ‘Headache?’ She remembered then. ‘Oh, yes—yes, thank you—it wasn’t a bad one.’

  He said with faint mockery: ‘I thought it wasn’t. A pity that I should have returned home so soon after you had gone to your room.’ And when she didn’t answer: ‘Well, I won’t keep you from your breakfast. We shall meet at lunch, I hope.’

  Her mother was too wise to ask after the headache. She launched into a rambling chat about a letter she had had from Doctor Cresswell, and Phyllida, listening with half an ear, wondered why Willy looked so glum. She wasn’t kept in the dark for long.

  ‘We should have gone sailing,’ declared her brother. ‘I was looking forward to it no end, and now Pieter says he can’t—not today.’ He made a hideous face. ‘And you’ll see, it’ll be raining tomorrow and if it’s fine he’ll have more patients to see…’

  ‘Well, he is a doctor,’ Phyllida pointed out reasonably, ‘and you’ve had a lot of fun—fishing and so on.’

  Willy buttered toast and spread it with a slice of cheese. ‘Yes, I know—it’s been super, but there’s only another week.’

  ‘Well, let’s do something else,’ suggested Phyllida. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I think I’ll borrow the bike in the garage and go for a spin.’ The look he gave her was so angelic that she instantly suspected that he was up to something, but surely a bike ride was harmless enough.

  ‘OK, I’ve got some letters to write. How about you, Mother?’

  Mrs Cresswell looked vague. ‘There was something—Oh, yes, I remember now, Bauke is going to take me round the glasshouses and the kitchen garden. We shan’t understand a word each other’s saying, but I don’t see that it will matter.’

  So they all dispersed to their various morning activities and it wasn’t until a few minutes before lunch time that Phyllida, wandering into the garden room, wondered where everyone was. Her mother arrived just as she was thinking it and burst at once into an account of the delightful morning she had spent with Bauke. ‘A taciturn man,’ she observed, ‘but a most knowledgeable one. We’re going to spend another hour or two together before we go back. Where’s Willy, dear?’

  Phyllida had one ear cocked for the doctor’s firm tread. ‘I don’t know, Mother—still cycling, I expect.’

  ‘Not at all likely,’ remarked his parent sapiently. ‘He’ll be near home; it’s too near lunch time.’ She sat down and sighed contentedly. ‘See if you can find him, Phylly, he’s sure to be grubby.’

  There was no sign of him in the gardens near the house. Phyllida went further afield, exploring the shrubbery paths, peering in the summer house and garden sheds, even the garages behind the house. The bike was still there and she frowned at the sight of it and went on down to the lake, its waters ruffled by a chilly little wind coming in gusts, shivering as she went, for the watery blue sky was clouding over rapidly. It took her a minute or two to register the fact that the yacht which had been moored to the jetty by the boathouse wasn’t there, and another minute to find Willy’s school blazer flung down carelessly beside the path.

  He’d taken the yacht. That accounted for the innocence of the look he had given her at breakfast; he had meant to all along. Phyllida ran along the narrow path bordering the lake and then followed it beside the canal which led to the wide meer beyond, and presently reached its edge.

  Quite close inshore was the yacht, just ahead of her, bowling merrily along—much too fast, she thought— before the blustery wind, and she could see Willy quite clearly in it. As she looked he caught sight of her and shouted something and waved, then turned away so sharply that she thought the boat would heel over. Surely Willy would have enough sense to hold the rudder steady? Apparently he hadn’t, for the yacht was careering towards the centre of the meer and he was getting further away with every second.

  She looked around her, seeking inspiration, trying not to feel frightened. There was a promontory half a mile further along the bank, standing well out into the water. If she could reach it before Willy she might be able to guide him towards it and beach the yacht. It was to be hoped that they could tie the yacht up; she worried for a minute about Pieter’s reaction if they damaged it and then dismissed the thought; it was more important to get Willy out of his fix. She began to run, urged on by the rising wind and the first few drops of rain.

  She reached the spit of land ahead of Willy, now heading away from it once more, and she hurried to its very edge, filled her lungs and bawled at him to steer towards her. ‘Turn the rudder slowly,’ she counselled at the top of her lungs, and almost before she had finished the yacht swung violently towards her, its sail almost touching the choppy water. ‘Gently!’ she called, and waited anxiously as the boat came towards her, much too fast. It wasn’t like Willy to behave in such a way; he could do most things well and he had a solid common sense which had got him out of any number of awkward situations. Now he was waving at her and calling, but before she could catch what he was shouting, the yacht careered off again, only to turn in a few moments and come towards her once more, this time within hailing distance.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘The rudder’s broken.’ He didn’t sound too upset. ‘I’ve got an oar and I’m trying to steer with it, but it’s not much good.’

  Phyllida had kicked off her shoes and tossed her cardigan onto the grass bank. ‘Keep her steady if you can, I’ll come out to you.’

  She wasn’t a strong swimmer and the water was very cold. And worse, Willy wasn’t having much success in keeping the yacht on the same course. It was pure luck that the boat swerved towards her, coming so close that she was able to cling to its side, to be hauled aboard with a good deal of difficulty.

  She subsided on to the deck, wringing wet, smelling of weed. ‘Willy, I’ll wring your neck!’ she said forcefully, and then: ‘What do we do first?’

  Willy ignored her threat. ‘If we both hang on to the oar—or perhaps we could tie it with something?’

  ‘What?’ She looked around her; the yacht was immaculate with everything in its place, but she didn’t dare touch the ropes arranged so neatly
in case something came adrift and they were worse off than ever.

  ‘We’ll hold it,’ she decided, ‘and try and steer to the bank somehow.’ She looked up at the sky, shivering. The wind, freshening fast, had brought the rain with it.

  She said suddenly: ‘Willy, is there a horn?’

  He gaped at her. ‘A horn? Yes, of course—it’s used when you go through a lock. Why?’

  ‘Can you remember the Morse Code?’

  ‘Yes, of course I can.’

  ‘Well, do it on the horn. Is it three short, three long, three short, or the other way round?’

  Her brother gave her a withering look. ‘Girls!’ he uttered with scorn. ‘Can you manage the oar for a bit?’

  Her teeth were chattering now; she was already so wet that the rain made no difference, except to make her feel worse. ‘I’ll have to, won’t I? Willy, why did you do it? Have you any idea what Pieter is going to say when he discovers that you’ve taken his boat?’

  ‘He’s going to be angry—I daresay he’ll ask us to go home.’

  ‘Oh, you wretched boy! Go and blow that horn, for heaven’s sake!’

  Mrs Cresswell waited for ten minutes or so and then wandered to the window and looked out. There was no sign of either of her children; it was fortunate that Pieter was late for lunch; they might get back before he did. But after another ten minutes she became uneasy. She drank the sherry Aap had poured for her in an absentminded fashion and wondered why they were so long— perhaps they could all come in together.

  But presently the doctor came in alone, took one look at her face and asked: ‘What’s worrying you, Mrs Cresswell?’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly worried. I daresay I’m just being a fussy old woman…’ She explained simply, adding: ‘Willy did say that he was going to borrow the bike in the garden shed.’

  The doctor went to look out of the window. ‘We can check that easily enough,’ he assured her, and pulled the bell rope by the fireplace, and when Aap came spoke briefly to him.