Britannia All at Sea Read online

  Mevrouw Veske received the news that Britannia was going out again with the professor with delighted satisfaction. She didn’t exactly say ‘I told you so,’ but Britannia could see her thinking it and the speculative look in her hostess’s eye made her wonder if she was already envisaging a double wedding. She spent the day with her in Apeldoorn, shopping, arriving back at the same time as an excited Joan, who had spent the day with Dirk. She was flourishing her new engagement ring and teatime talk was almost exclusively of its unique beauty, the forthcoming wedding and the future bride’s speculations as to what exactly she should wear for the occasion, so that when it was time for Britannia to go to her room and change for the evening, she was able to do so with only the smallest amount of interest from her companions.

  The professor was in the hall, having just been admitted by Berthe, when she came downstairs, and as she went towards him she said with disarming frankness: ‘I’ve only one dress with me, I hope you don’t mind—you see, I didn’t expect…’ She paused, remembering why she had brought it with her in the first place, so that he looked enquiringly at her.

  ‘Then why did you bring it?’ he wanted to know. It didn’t occur to her not to tell him the truth.

  ‘It’s a silly reason.’ She was standing in front of him, looking up into his face. ‘I thought—that is, I imagined that if I did meet you again, I’d like to be wearing something pretty, so that you would—would notice me.’ She added seriously: ‘Of course, I didn’t know then about your house and your Madeleine…’

  ‘Not my Madeleine. I think that I should have noticed you if you had been wearing an old sack, Britannia.’

  She smiled a little shyly. ‘Oh—well…I didn’t know that, did I?’

  ‘No. Are we really saying goodbye tomorrow, Britannia?’

  ‘Yes.’ She moved away and began to fasten her coat, and felt hurt when he said quite cheerfully:

  ‘In that case, we’d better start our evening, hadn’t we?’

  They were seen off by a beaming Mevrouw Veske and a hasty wave and gabbled ‘’bye’ from Joan, who was, as she so often was these days, on the telephone to her Dirk, and once in the car the professor observed dryly: ‘What a pity it is that you don’t share Mevrouw Veske’s romantic outlook—now, if you did you might have come tearing down the stairs and flung yourself into my arms, instead of which you greet me with some matter-of-fact remark about your dress. What’s wrong with it, anyway?’

  Britannia was put out. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it—it’s a copy of a model, a Jean Allen—but one doesn’t usually wear the same dress on two successive evenings.’

  He had turned the car in the direction of Apeldoorn. ‘Why ever not? I wear my dinner jacket for several evenings in a row.’

  She chuckled. ‘Now you’re being silly.’ She didn’t add that there was nothing she would have liked better than to have flung herself into his arms. ‘But I was glad to see you.’ And then, in case he had an answer to that, she asked quickly: ‘Have you had a busy day?’

  ‘Quite a list…’ He began to tell her about the cases and it wasn’t until they were through Hoenderloo that he paused to say: ‘We’re not going to Apeldoorn, by the way. There’s a restaurant on the Amersfoort road that’s quite good. I thought we had better not go too far this evening, I expect you have your packing to do.’

  A damping remark which lowered her spirits considerably; she could pack, if necessary, in ten minutes and she would have all tomorrow in which to do it…

  She thought his description of De Echoput was sadly understated when they reached it; it was a rather splendid place and the menu card quite baffling in its abundance. Over their drinks she studied it and presently asked the professor to choose for her. ‘Because there’s so much and I don’t know the half of the dishes they offer,’ she explained. ‘You see now what I mean about our backgrounds—imagine having a wife who doesn’t know what Le Râble de Lièvre is—it’s hare, I know, but I don’t know more than that.’ She added thoughtfully: ‘I don’t like hare, anyway; I like to see them running in the fields.’

  He smiled at her across the table. ‘So do I, and would it really matter if you can’t read the menu if I’m with you to help you choose?’

  She shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t be as simple as that, and you know it.’

  He didn’t answer her, only smiled again and turned to the menu. ‘They have delicious hors d’oeuvres here, shall we start with that—and what about trout? Truite saumone au Champagne. We’ll drink champagne, too, since it’s by way of being an occasion.’

  The food was delicious, just as he had said, but Britannia hardly enjoyed it—he had called it an occasion, almost as though he was celebrating… It cost her quite an effort to join in his cheerful talk. Luckily the champagne helped, so that by the time the sweet trolley came round she was able to do full justice to the millefeuille recommended by the professor and, just for a little while, forget that she would never see him again.

  Sitting over their coffee he brought the conversation round to her return.

  ‘You’ll be working next week?’ he wanted to know, ‘or do you go home for a few days?’

  The champagne had made Britannia a little careless. ‘I start work on Monday,’ she told him. ‘Even if I didn’t, it would be too far to go home. I’ll wait until I get my weekend.’

  ‘You plan to stay at St Jude’s?’

  She stirred her coffee and didn’t look at him. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Probably not.’

  His voice was bland. ‘Of course, the world is your oyster, isn’t it, Britannia? A qualified nurse can go where she pleases.’

  Put like that it sounded a lonely business; going from hospital to hospital, probably country to country, getting a little older with each move. She swallowed a great wave of self-pity and heard him say briskly: ‘Well, you don’t need to look so glum; think how fortunate you are compared with a girl who marries; a house to run, a husband to look after, children to bring up, never-ending chores—the poor girl has no life of her own.’

  She didn’t want a life of her own, but it wasn’t much use saying so; hadn’t she made it quite clear that she had no intention of marrying him? She asked in a rather high voice: ‘Did you never want to travel?’

  He seemed quite willing to follow her lead; they carried on a desultory conversation about nothing in particular until Britannia said that she thought she should return to the Veskes. ‘They’re so kind,’ she spoke brightly. ‘We’ve done exactly what we’ve wanted to do all the time we’ve been staying with them, it’s been a wonderful holiday.’

  He had opened the car door for her and paused to ask: ‘And one to remember, Britannia?’

  She would never forget it, however hard she tried. She babbled: ‘Oh, rather, it’s been lovely.’ She went on babbling for the entire journey back and the professor tiresomely did nothing to stop her; by the time they had reached the villa she was worn out and so exasperated that she could have burst into tears, although why she wasn’t quite sure. He had behaved exactly as he should have done; he hadn’t mentioned seeing her again; he had accepted the fact that she was going back to England with no apparent disappointment. Either he was a man of iron with no feelings, or he hadn’t meant a word…

  Britannia slept badly and got up the next morning with a frayed temper and a pale face, and it didn’t help when she found herself drawn into a cheerful discussion about Joan’s wedding; indeed, a good deal of the morning was spent in reviewing the arrangements already made, re-making them, adding to them and speculating as to the weather, the number of guests and the names of those who just had to be invited, and when this serious business had been thoroughly talked out, there was always the more interesting one of clothes for the important occasion. By the time lunch was over Britannia, her nerves jangling like an ill-tuned piano and longing to be by herself, declared that she simply couldn’t leave Holland without one more cycle ride, and since they weren’t leaving until the evening and she was packed
and ready, except for exchanging her slacks and sweater for her suit, she had ample time to indulge her fancy, and Joan and Mevrouw Veske, deep in the merits of various pastel shades, begged her kindly to do just as she wished. ‘Only don’t be late for tea,’ counselled Joan. ‘We shall be leaving round about six o’clock, love.’

  Britannia promised, tugged on her hostess’s anorak and gloves and went round to fetch her bike. The day had been overcast, but now it was clearing, to show a cold blue sky turning grey at the edges, and the wind, never absent for long, had gathered strength again. It surprised her to find that it was icy underfoot, but going cautiously down the drive she decided that she was safe enough. The lanes she intended to take were sheltered by the trees and thickets and their surfaces rough, and she was a seasoned cyclist. She knew where she was going, of course—to take one more look at the professor’s home. She wouldn’t be able to see much of it, only its gables and chimney pots, but they were better than nothing.

  It would have helped, she reflected as she pedalled down the deserted road, if he had wished her goodbye. But he hadn’t. He had got out of his car and gone to the Veskes’ door with her and opened it, listened to her over-bright thanks with a little smile, assured her that he had enjoyed his evening just as much as she had, wished her the most casual of goodnights without once expressing a wish to see her again, and then stood aside so that she might go in. She couldn’t remember what she had mumbled, certainly nothing of sufficient interest to make him delay his departure. She had gone past him into the hall, afraid that she might burst into tears at any moment, and had heard the door close quietly behind her. There was no knock this time, either; she had heard the soft purr of the Rolls almost immediately, and its almost soundless departure.

  She reached the crossroads and turned down the lane. There was still masses of time; she would be able to go further along the wall where the view of the house was much clearer. The lane was a bit tricky, its surface slippery between the ruts, but she went slowly, putting out a leg from time to time to steady herself. She paused as she reached the first vantage point. There was smoke rising from some of the chimneys, blown wildly by the wind, and she wondered who was there. Not Jake, he had mentioned that he had a teaching round in the afternoon and some private patients to see, but his mother perhaps and possibly the beautiful Madeleine, invited there to spend the evening. She might even be staying there. Britannia shivered; the wind was really icy and a few drops of sleet from a sky which had suddenly turned grey again made her wonder if she wouldn’t be wise to turn back. But the gap in the wall wasn’t far, it was a pity to come that distance and give up within half a mile. She mounted her machine once more and pedalled on.

  It was worth it, she told herself, when she stopped once more. The house, light shining from its windows in the gathering dusk, looked beautiful. She imagined the cheerful Marinus trotting to and fro about his stately business and Jake’s mother sitting by the fire—she would be embroidering, something complicated and beautiful, to be handed down to other generations of the family in course of time. Britannia, deep in thought, mounted her bike once more, turned too sharply, skidded on an icy patch and fell off. She fell awkwardly and the machine fell on top of her, the handlebars catching her on the side of the head as she hit the ground, and knocking her out.

  She came to quite quickly, feeling muzzy, and lay still for a minute, waiting for her head to clear before she attempted to get up. She was aware that she had a nasty headache, rapidly turning into an unpleasant throbbing, and she was also aware of the bitter cold.

  ‘Well, it won’t do to lie here, my girl,’ she admonished herself in a heartening voice. ‘Get to your feet, warm yourself up and get on your bike and go back as fast as you can.’

  Sound advice, but not, she discovered, so easy to carry out. The cycle had fallen across her and she had to wriggle to one side to get free of it, and it was when she began to do this that she discovered that her left ankle was exquisitely painful. She essayed to move it cautiously, and a wave of nausea swept over her so that she was forced to keep still again.

  ‘Clever girl,’ said Britannia crossly, ‘broken your ankle, have you, or sprained it? Well, you’ll just have to roll yourself to one side.’

  It took a few minutes, because the pain was bad and her headache was worsening, but she managed it at last and presently she essayed to sit up, but she jarred the ankle badly doing it and this time the pain made her do something she had never in her life done before—faint.

  She came to presently and found herself wishing that she could have remained unconscious for a little longer, for her headache was steadily worsening and the pain in her ankle was making her feel sick. Nevertheless she tried to think what to do; she wouldn’t be missed for a little while yet, and even when she was, no one would have the least idea where to start looking for her. Somehow or other she would have to get herself back to the road. She wasn’t sure how she was going to do it, because it was at least a mile and the lane would be heavy going. She could try shouting, she supposed, and remembered that the professor had told her that there were no houses nearby. The gardener’s cottage she had seen was, she judged, too far off for anyone there to hear her, but it was worth a try. She called ‘Help!’ several times, upsetting the birds in the thicket around her and listening to her voice being carried away on the wind before deciding that it was a waste of time and breath. She would have to get moving and hope for the best.

  She turned herself a little and looked at her ankle. It was already swollen; to get her shoe off would lessen the pain, on the other hand, she would need it for protection against the lane’s deplorable surface, and not only that, it was getting colder every minute and darker too. She rolled over once more and edged herself forward. She had no idea how long she had been crawling along so painfully when her injured ankle brushed against a sharp stone and she fainted again.

  Tea was almost finished in the Veskes’ household before Joan remarked: ‘Britannia’s awfully late—I wonder if she’s in her room? I’ll see.’

  She came downstairs again looking faintly worried. ‘She’s not there. I wonder where she went? Not to Hoenderloo, I remember she said she wouldn’t be going that way because I asked her to post a letter…’ She looked at her godmother. ‘Where does she go when she goes off on the bike?’

  Mevrouw Veske thought deeply. ‘Well, dear, she has made a number of acquaintances, but not the sort who would go for a cycle ride with her. I daresay she goes on her own.’ Her nice face cleared. ‘How stupid of me—I expect she’s gone to say goodbye to that nice Professor Luitingh van Thien. He’s taken her out two evenings running, you know, and they seem to be getting on very well together,’ and when Joan was about to interrupt her: ‘Yes, dear, you’re surprised, but I’m sure she’s had very little time to tell you about that. You’ve been out a good deal yourself and there’s been the wedding to talk of. Shall I telephone him? He’ll be in the book and we have met, although we’re hardly on calling terms, I suppose.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Joan, and as she left the room: ‘Will he be home?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, but I believe it’s a very large house, there’s bound to be someone in it.’ Mevrouw Veske got to her feet. ‘I’ll do it, Joan. If they don’t understand English it will be a little difficult for you.’

  A man answered her call, introduced himself as the house butler and told her that Miss Smith hadn’t been to the house that afternoon. ‘Although I will inform the professor when he returns; he may know something, mevrouw. If I might call you back?’

  Marinus replaced the receiver, his cheerful face frowning in thought. The professor had returned home on the previous night in a towering rage all the more formidable for being held in check. He had gone straight to his room and that morning had left early for his consulting rooms in Arnhem, leaving no messages at all and certainly none about Miss Smith. Marinus trod with rather more speed than usual across the hall and down the passage which led to the kitchens, where he fou
nd Emmie busy at the kitchen table. He unburdened himself at some length and then asked her advice.

  Emmie didn’t pause in her folding of a soufflé mixture. ‘Telephone him at once,’ she suggested. ‘He will wish to know, I think, for he is very interested in this English lady, is he not?’

  Marinus looked at his old-fashioned pocket watch. ‘He will be at his rooms, he will have patients…’

  His wife began to pour her mixture into a buttered and papered dish. ‘Telephone him,’ she repeated.

  Marinus had to wait a moment or two before he could speak to the professor; there was a patient with him, explained his secretary, who would be gone in a very short time; just time enough to give Marinus the leisure to wonder if he was being needlessly foolish. After all, Miss Smith was returning to England that very evening and the professor hadn’t even mentioned the fact; perhaps dear Emmie was wrong.

  But she wasn’t, he could tell that by the sound of the professor’s voice when he started asking questions. How long had Miss Smith been gone? Had Mevrouw Veske said anything about searching for her? Had she been warmly clad?

  Marinus, being unable to answer any of these enquiries with any degree of accuracy, was told sharply to see that the professor’s horse was saddled and ready for him, together with a torch and blanket. ‘I shall be home almost immediately, and I want the dogs as well.’

  ‘You know where Miss Smith is?’ asked Marinus.

  ‘I believe so.’ The professor’s voice sounded harsh as he replaced the receiver.

  He was as good as his word. Caesar, his great roan horse, was being led round to the front door as he got out of the Rolls and went indoors. Marinus, hovering in the hall, hurried to meet him. ‘I’ve put out your riding things, Professor—’ he began, to be cut short with: ‘No time. I’ll go as I am. Telephone Mevrouw Veske, will you, and see that there’s a room ready just in case Miss Smith needs to stay the night.’