A Matter of Chance
Cressida was still craning her neck to see the last of it as they entered the village itself, circled the square lined with houses and stopped cautiously outside one of them, a red brick house with its door exactly in the centre and its windows arranged across its face in mathematical rows. She hoped it wasn’t as plain inside as it was out, and had her hope realised; the front door opened on to a long, narrow hall, lofty-ceilinged and a little dark and from which numerous doors opened. Doctor van Blom threw open the first of these and ushered her in, at the same time raising his voice in a mild bellow. This was instantly answered in person by his housekeeper, a tall, thin woman, no longer young but with such a forceful air about her that one could have imagined her barely in her prime. She smiled at the doctor, smiled at Cressida, shook her hand and followed them into what was obviously the sitting-room, comfortably furnished, the leather chairs a little shabby perhaps, but there was some beautiful china and silver lying around on shelves and tables, rather as though someone had just been admiring the objects and set them down haphazardly. There were shelves of books, too, and an old-fashioned stove giving off a most welcome heat.
Cressida took the chair she was offered and surrendered her coat to the housekeeper, her unhappy heart much cheered by her kindly reception, and when Juffrouw Naald went away and came back a moment later with a tray laden with coffee-cups and biscuits, she partook of these refreshments with more pleasure than she had felt for some time.
They had been sitting for perhaps ten minutes when the door opened and a tall, thin man, about the same age as Doctor van Blom, came in. ‘My partner, Doctor Herrima,’ her employer told her, and after introductions had been made, Cressida found herself sitting between the two of them, filling their coffee-cups and answering their gentle questions.
‘A pretty girl,’ observed Doctor Herrima to no one in particular, ‘a very pretty girl.’ He looked keenly at her. ‘And you can type, I understand?’
She assured him that she could.
‘You are also a nurse?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she told him, ‘I’ve been trained for more than four years.’
He looked across at his partner. ‘A splendid choice.’ And when his partner nodded happily, ‘What do you think of our country, Miss Bingley?’
Cressida put down her cup. ‘Well, I haven’t seen a great deal of it. Two days in Amsterdam and then coming here by train…’
‘You must see Leeuwarden and Groningen—now there are two magnificent centuries-old cities. Do you drive?’ It was Doctor van Blom who spoke.
‘Yes—we had a rather elderly Morris.’
‘Ah.’ He pondered this for a minute. ‘My car is a powerful one, as you may have noticed, and Doctor Herrima runs a BMW. I do not know if you feel competent to drive either of them?’ He sounded doubtful.
Cressida thought of the snail-like pace at which they had driven from Leeuwarden and replied soberly that she thought she would be capable of driving either of the cars. Indeed, the idea of driving the Chev on one of the excellent motorways appealed to her very much: to drive and drive and drive, away from her grief and loneliness.
She shut her mind to the idea and made a suitably admiring remark about the car, to which Doctor van Blom responded with instant eagerness. They were two dears, she decided; unworldly and content in their rather cluttered, pleasant sitting-room.
She asked diffidently about their practice and was told at some length and sometimes twice over that it was a large one, covering a great number of outlying villages and farms; that they had a baby clinic once a week, a small surgery for emergencies, and dealt with a wide variety of patients.
‘There are quite a number of accidents,’ explained Doctor van Blom, ‘farms, you know—they have these modern machines, some of them are complicated and if a farm worker doesn’t understand what he is doing…’ He gave a little shrug. ‘And then of course there are those who live some way away, and they tend to delay sending for us or coming to the surgery, and sometimes the injury or illness is made much worse in consequence. We have splendid hospitals, of course, and our senior partner is always available for consultation.’ He wagged his balding head. ‘A very clever man,’ he stated, ‘as well as our great friend. He had an English godfather, and you will find his English excellent.’
Cressida dismissed this paragon with a nice smile and asked about the book. ‘When would you like me to start?’ she wanted to know.
‘You feel that you could start today? Splendid, Miss Bingley—perhaps after lunch?’
‘That would be fine, and please will you call me Cressida?’
They both beamed at her. ‘With pleasure. And now you would like to go to your room and unpack. We have lunch at noon—is that time enough for you to settle in?’
They escorted her to the door, cried in unison for Juffrouw Naald, and stood watching her as she trod up the steep, uncarpeted stairs to the floor above, with the housekeeper leading the way.
Her room was in the front of the house, a corner room with big windows so that she had a wide view of the square below and the houses around it. It was nicely furnished if a trifle heavily, with Second Empire mahogany bed, matching chest of drawers, a ponderous dressing table and an enormous clothes closet. There was a small easy chair by the window and a writing table and a little shelf of books. Leading from it was a well-appointed bathroom; after the tiny room in Aunt Emily’s cottage, it seemed like luxury to Cressida. Someone had put chrysanthemums in a vase by the bed too; she smiled and touched them and looked at Juffrouw Naald who smiled and nodded and said something Cressida couldn’t understand, but it sounded friendly.
When the housekeeper had gone, Cressida unpacked quickly, tidied her hair and did her face and repaired downstairs, to find both doctors waiting for her.
‘We drink Jenever, but for you we have sherry—shall we take a glass now before lunch? You are hungry?’
They both stood looking at her with eager kindness and she hastened to assure them that she was—a pleasant sensation after weeks of not bothering what she ate. She accompanied them into the dining-room, a lofty apartment, furnished with mahogany as solid as her bedroom was and with a crimson carpet underfoot and crimson curtains at its windows, a suitable background for the snow-white tablecloth and shining silver. The meal was a simple one; the doctors, they assured her, liked their dinner in the evening after surgery, but she found the soup, dish of cold meats and the basket of various breads more than sufficient. There was no surgery that afternoon, she was told, so that there was no need for them to hurry over their meal, and after it she and Doctor van Blom could retire to his study while Doctor Herrima did the afternoon round. If he explained his work, suggested the doctor, perhaps she might make a start on sorting out the manuscript and preparing it for typing? She could have the evening too, while he took surgery. He passed his cup for more coffee and while she was pouring it, the door opened and in walked the man who had taken her back to her hotel in Amsterdam the day before. Cressida put down the coffee-pot carefully, and with the cup and saucer still in her hand, sat staring at him, her pretty mouth very slightly open.
‘Giles,’ boomed Doctor van Blom, ‘what good fortune—now you can meet the young lady who is to help me with my book—Miss Cressida Bingley.’ He waved a hand. ‘Cressida, this is our senior partner, Doctor van der Teile.’
He closed the door after him and crossed over to her chair. ‘You look surprised,’ he observed blandly.
‘Well, I am…I didn’t expect…’
‘No? But my dear girl, it was inevitable.’ He took the cup and saucer from her, handed it across the table to his partner and pulled out a chair for himself. ‘Cressida and I have already met,’ he told his partners, and when the fresh coffee came, accepted a cup before asking her, in the politest manner possible, if she would forgive him if he discussed a case with his partners.
And if that isn’t a hint to make myself scarce, I don’t know what is, thought Cressida. She gave him a haughty look and got up at once. ‘I have my unpacking to finish,’ she assured him, and sailed to the door, only to find him there to open it for her.
‘I’ll be gone very shortly,’ he murmured as she went past him. ‘You can safely come down again in half an hour.’
CHAPTER TWO
DOCTOR VAN DER TEILE had gone by the time Cressida, rather uncertain as to what was expected of her, went downstairs again, but Doctor van Blom put his head round a door as she reached the hall, obviously on the lookout for her, and invited her to enter his study.
‘No time like the present,’ he assured her with the air of a man who had just thought up a clever remark, and ushered her in. Compared with the sitting-room it was quite small, furnished with a large desk with a leather chair behind it, a pair of similar chairs on either side of the stove, and a smaller desk against one wall with a typewriter on it. The walls were lined with vast quantities of books; Cressida, who liked reading, promised herself a good browse through them when the opportunity occurred, but now she sat down in the chair opposite the doctor’s and gave him her full attention.
Would she mind working early in the morning? he wanted to know anxiously—before surgery started at eight o’clock. He himself was an early riser and had formed the habit of putting in an hour’s work before breakfast, which was at half past seven each day except Sunday.
Cressida paled a little at the prospect of rising at six o’clock each morning; she had no objection to getting up early and it was a job, after all, which she was being paid for, but surely the hour was a bit much? She caught her companion’s eye fixed pleadingly on her, and heard herself say cheerfully that she didn’t mind in the least, wondering at the same time how long her working day was to be.
She was enlightened almost at once. ‘If you could work on your own during surgery,’ went on the doctor. ‘We have coffee about ten o’clock, before we do our rounds; if you would like to take an hour’s break then and afterwards continue working until we have our lunch? The afternoon surgery is at half past one—if you would work until we go on our afternoon visits. You could be free then until we have a cup of tea on our return—about half past four. We might do another hour’s work together until evening surgery starts. We dine at half past seven…’ He cast her a look which she rightly interpreted.
‘After dinner?’ she prompted, and he brightened visibly.
‘I am not a slave-driver? Just a short spell perhaps—not every evening, of course. I am so anxious to get the book finished.’
‘Well, of course you are,’ agreed Cressida bracingly, ‘and I can see no reason why we shouldn’t go ahead like wildfire. You have the manuscript here? Have the publishers given you a date?’
The doctor settled back in his chair. ‘The manuscript is almost finished—just the final chapter and of course the whole thing to be given a final correction. It’s in longhand, I’m afraid, and my writing…’
Cressida nodded. Doctors were notoriously bad writers; she had become adept at deciphering their almost unreadable scrawls. ‘And the date for the publisher?’ she reminded him.
He shuffled the pile of papers before him into thorough disorder until he unearthed a letter. ‘Let me see, today is October the twenty-sixth and they ask for the completed typescript by December the twelfth.’
‘Is it a long book?’ asked Cressida faintly, with visions of getting to bed at three o’clock in the morning and getting up again at six. She was a good typist, but rusty, and she had only two hands—besides, he had hinted himself that his writing was awful.
‘Oh, no—eight chapters, about nine thousand words in each, and I believe you will be able to reduce those, for I tend to write with too much elaboration, especially in English.’
‘You would like me to check that? But I don’t know anything about…’
He lifted a podgy hand. ‘My dear young lady, I am sure that I can rely on your judgment—it is merely a question of simplifying my English where it is necessary.’
I shall have to take the wretched manuscript to bed, thought Cressida gloomily, and check every word of it. Well, she had wanted something different; it looked as though she had got it, and yet she had the feeling that she had found exactly what she needed; a job which would keep her on her toes and help her to forget the last sad weeks. And when it was finished and she returned to England, perhaps she would be able to settle down to another job in hospital—another ward to run, surgery this time, perhaps. She sighed without knowing it and Doctor van Blom said quickly: ‘You are tired—I have no right to expect you to start work so soon after your arrival.’
It took her a minute or two to assure him that she wasn’t tired at all and only too willing to start then and there.
They worked together for the rest of the afternoon, and Cressida, glad to have something to occupy her mind, sorted pages, skimmed through the first chapters and then arranged her desk to her satisfaction before typing the first few pages. She had learned to type years ago, before she had trained as a nurse, and she had kept her hand in ever since, typing her father’s sermons, the parish magazine and quite a number of his letters when she had been home for holidays or days off; she was pleased and surprised to find that she hadn’t lost her skill, and moreover, Doctor van Blom’s book was going to be interesting, although she could see that his English was indeed on the elaborate side. She made one or two tentative suggestions which he accepted immediately, saying happily: ‘This is just what I needed—someone to check my errors. You will prove yourself to be of the greatest help, Cressida.’ He beamed at her. ‘You are the answer to a prayer, my dear young lady.’
She hadn’t been called anyone’s young lady for quite some time, although her father’s friends had frequently addressed her as such—elderly gentlemen who had known her since she was a little girl—but now she was very nearly twenty-seven. Doctor van der Teile had called her young woman, which hadn’t sounded nice at all—perhaps it was the way he had said it. It was strange that they should have met again and still more strange that he should have made that remark about their meeting being inevitable… She frowned and her companion said instantly: ‘You have difficulty? My writing, perhaps?’
She hastened to reassure him; she mustn’t allow her thoughts to wander; a month was hardly time enough to get the book ready for the publisher and certainly didn’t allow for any other thoughts than those concerned with it.
The day passed pleasantly; her elderly companions absorbed her into their household with kindly speed, so that she felt at once at ease with them—indeed, they kept her talking so long after dinner that Juffrouw Naald came in, addressed them in severe tones and bore her off to her room, where she pointed to the bed, turned on the bath and produced a glass of hot milk for Cressida to drink—not that she needed any inducement to sleep; her head had no sooner touched the pillow than she was in deep slumber.
It was after breakfast on the third morning, while she was typing out a chapter which Doctor van Blom had decided was now complete, that Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida, her fingers arrested above the keys, wished him a cool good morning and wondered why she should feel so pleased to see him. After all, he hadn’t shown any particular liking for her; indeed, he appeared to dismiss her as a necessary nuisance in his partners’ household. Perhaps it was only because she had been wondering about him—his work, where he lived… She sat with her hands folded quietly in her lap, waiting for him to speak.
‘Nose to the grindstone, I see,’ he observed without bothering to return her good morning or ask her how she fared. Instead he turned back to open the door for Juffrouw Naald, who steamed in with a coffee tray, set it on the desk, glanced at them in turn with coy speculation, and went away again.
There were two cups on the tray, and: ‘You pour,’ said Doctor van der Teile.
‘I have my coffee at ten o’clock with the doctors, thank you,’ Cressida told him a little crossly; he was interrupting her work and disturbing her mind too, and why shouldn’t he pour his own coffee?
‘It’s only nine o’clock, and I missed my breakfast,’ and he managed, despite his size and obvious splendid health, to look and sound wistful and half starved. ‘Go on,’ he urged her, ‘be a dear kind girl.’ He lifted the lid of the dish on the tray. ‘Buttered toast—bless old Naaldtje!’
Cressida picked up the coffee-pot, a handsome silver one of a size made for giants. ‘She is extremely kind,’ she observed primly.
He took his cup from her, sat down behind his partner’s desk and began on the toast. ‘She is also very romantic; she has been trying to find me a suitable wife for the last ten years. She contrives to bring to my notice every likely female she happens to approve of and offer them for my inspection. I rather fancy that you are the latest.’
Cressida choked into her coffee. ‘What utter rubbish! I have no intention—it’s too silly…’
‘Well, there’s no need to get worked up about it. She means well, bless her, and it isn’t as though I’ve shown any interest in you.’
His voice was bland, and so reasonable that she had to swallow the furious retort she longed to utter, although she did allow herself the comfort of an indignant snort. He took no notice of this but went on: ‘In any case, she’s wasting her time—I’ve found the girl for myself and I intend to marry her.’
Cressida nibbled at a biscuit and wondered at the disappointment she was feeling; only a few minutes ago she had wished him married; he needed a wife, for he had by far too big an opinion of himself.
‘If she’ll have you,’ she observed severely.
‘Ah, yes. A moot point, although I’m not sure what moot means—we can always deal with that when the time comes.’ He passed his cup. ‘And how is the book going? Not too much for you, I hope?’
There was silky amusement in his voice and she pinkened. ‘The book goes very well, and as I am here merely to type it and make a few small adjustments, I believe that it won’t be too much for me.’
‘You’re a touchy young woman, aren’t you? Ready to swallow me alive, given half a chance.’ He passed his cup yet again. ‘Any plans to marry?’
Really, the cheek of the man! She said haughtily: ‘No.’
The haughtiness went unnoticed or he had a thick skin. ‘Boy friend?’
‘Certainly not!’
‘Ah—I apologise, I shouldn’t have asked such a silly question.’
Cressida fired up immediately. ‘And why not, pray?’
‘Because you are as good as you are beautiful, Cressida.’ He smiled at her across the desk, his eyes very bright. ‘You are also sad. Why is that?’
She made a great business of putting the cups and saucers back on the tray. The unexpected urge to tell him took her by surprise so that she had to keep a tight hold on her tongue. He didn’t even like her, and she was almost sure that she didn’t like him, with his easy self-assurance. She shook her head and said nothing at all, and after a moment he said quietly: ‘Ah, well, you shall tell me some time—it’s good to talk about one’s sorrow. It eases it—you must know that from your patients.’
‘Yes, oh yes—but listening isn’t the same as telling someone…’
He got up and wandered to the door. ‘We all do it at some time,’ he pointed out. ‘Any messages?’
‘Who for?’ Her lovely eyes opened in surprise.
‘I’m on my way to London, I shall be at the Royal General tomorrow.’
Cressida stared at him; he would ask anyone there and they would tell him why she had left; that her parents had died; that she had had to get away. She said: ‘No, thanks,’ in a doubtful voice, and he said at once: ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t try to find out anything about you—you’ll tell me yourself sooner or later.’
He left her sitting there, staring down at the sheet of typewriting in front of her, the only thought in her head that he would keep his word.
He was back in two days and this time she saw him arrive, for she had been for a brisk walk after lunch, well wrapped up in her good tweed coat against the cold and damp. The sky had been sullen all day and now it was rapidly darkening, the little village looked sombre and bleak and there were already lights in some of the small houses. An afternoon for tea round the fire… She sighed involuntarily and quickened her step. The book was going very well, but she would have to keep at it. The next day was Sunday and she would be free, but she already had plans to work for a large part of the day. She had nowhere to go and nothing much to do. She would go to church in the morning and then browse through the bookshelves until she found something to her liking. She had her knitting, and any number of letters to write too, but still she felt sure that there would be time and to spare for her typing.
She started round the square towards the doctor’s house and then turned her head at the sound of the car coming from the other end—a Bentley, silver grey and sleek, whispering powerfully to a halt. She stood and watched while Doctor van der Teile got out and took the shallow steps two at a time to the front door of her employer’s home. Even at that distance she could see that he was elegantly turned out, his car coat making him appear even larger than he was. When the door opened and he had gone inside, she walked on, but instead of using the great brass knocker on the front door, she went past it to the surgery entrance and so to Doctor van Blom’s study, where she took off her outdoor things, warmed her chilly hands by the stove and then sat down at her desk. It wasn’t time for tea yet, she might as well get another page done.
She had typed just three lines when the door opened and Doctor van der Teile came in. Cressida jumped a little at the suddenness of his appearance and made a muddle of the work she was typing—he was a disquieting person. She erased the mistake, said ‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ and gave him an inquiring look.
‘Hullo.’ He sounded friendly. ‘You weren’t here just now. Do you use a secret passage or something?’
‘I came in through the surgery.’
His eyes rested briefly on her coat. ‘Ah—you didn’t want to be seen, was that it? Probably you saw me arrive… All right, you don’t have to say anything; your face is an open book. What are you doing tomorrow?’
Really it was no business of his, and yet she found herself giving him a brief resumé of her plans.
‘I’ll be here at nine o’clock,’ he told her. ‘Where would you like to go?’
‘Go?’ repeated Cressida.
‘Come, come, girl, you must have some preference. Leeuwarden? Groningen? the Afsluitdijk? Amsterdam?’
‘Are you asking me out?’ And before he could reply: ‘I was going to church.’
‘We will go to Groningen, there is a very beautiful church there, then we might go back to Leeuwarden and then Alkmaar.’
She said stiffly: ‘You’ve very kind, but I can’t impose on your free time.’
‘You won’t be; I have to see a friend of mine who lives close to Leeuwarden. He has an English wife who asked me for lunch, and when I told her about you being here she asked me to bring you.’ He paused and went on persuasively: ‘They have a baby and two toddlers and three dogs.’
Cressida had to laugh. ‘Are those an inducement?’
‘Yes. I think you like babies and children and dogs. Am I right?’
‘How on earth…’
‘Did I not tell you that your face was easy to read? Will you come?’
‘Thank you, I should like to—you’re sure your friends won’t mind?’
‘No, they’ll be delighted.’ He straightened up from leaning against the door and opened it. ‘Shall we have tea?’
‘I was going to type…’
‘After tea.’ He waited while she joined him. ‘Doctor van Blom is delighted with your work; he’s a clever man and this book has been his pleasure and study for some time. I fancy it will be well received when it is published.’