go and fetch your father. You come with me, Doctor...’
‘He’s a professor, Mother,’ said Margo quickly.
‘He’s Gijs to his friends.’ He glanced at Margo and smiled. ‘And I hope Margo will allow me to call her Margo...’
‘Of course you may, if you want to. Everyone does.’
She gave him a wide smile and skimmed away to fetch her father from his study.
Sitting beside his hostess presently, Gijs reflected that it was a very long time since he had sat down to a substantial tea. At the hospital he drank the cups of tea brought to him and often drank them tepid, since he hadn’t the time to stop in his work. If he wasn’t at the hospital but at his consulting rooms, his secretary would sneak him a cup between patients—but five o’clock tea, such as this was, was a rarity. Sliced bread and butter arranged on a pretty plate, jam, honey, a covered dish of buttered toast, scones and a large fruit cake. Moreover, the tea was hot and strong, with plenty of milk.
‘I don’t suppose you have much time for tea,’ observed Mrs Pearson chattily. ‘Last time I was in London with the Women’s Institute we had tea at a hotel—little teapots barely enough for one cup and quite nasty looks from the waitresses when we asked for more hot water. And such mean little sandwiches and cakes. I dare say that’s fashionable. Where did you see Margo?’
‘At Lady Mellor’s house. I’m sure that Margo can tell you about it better than L’
Margo told. ‘I dare say Lady Mellor had a lot to worry about,’ she finished, ‘and the butler was very nice about it. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, if you see what I mean.’
From anyone else, thought the professor, that would sound priggish, but somehow not from Margo—she is, after all, the vicar’s daughter, brought up to see good in everyone. Let’s hope she’ll never be disillusioned.
He said lightly then, ‘It was just our good luck that we should meet in such an unlikely place. I’m delighted to have had company driving down here.’
‘You like England?’ asked the vicar.
‘Very much.’ The two men started a discussion about the English countryside, but the professor volunteered no real information about his own country. Certainly he enlarged upon the social and commercial aspects, and enlarged too upon his homeland, albeit rather vaguely, but Margo reflected that he had told them nothing of his own home or where he lived. Perhaps he was married...
The thought was an unwelcome one which she thrust aside. Why shouldn’t he be married with a brood of children? It was none of her business. She did want to know, however.
Margo being Margo, it was no sooner said than done.
‘Are you married?’ she asked him. Then regretted it the moment she had spoken; the look of amused surprise on his face sent the colour into her cheeks and she mumbled, ‘Sorry, that was rude of me...’
‘No, I’m not married.’ He ignored the mumble. ‘I have never found the time.’
Mrs Pearson hastened to fill an awkward pause. ‘Of course one always expects doctors to be family men—I’m sure I don’t know why. A wife and children must be a hindrance to their work at times.’
He smiled. ‘I imagine that doctors’ wives quickly learn not to be that—rather, a pleasant distraction after a long day’s work. And my married colleagues are doting fathers.’
“Then you should make haste and marry,’ observed Mrs Pearson.
The vicar put his dignified oar in. ‘I’m sure that Gijs will marry when he wishes to do so, my dear.’ He added thoughtfully, ‘I wonder why a patient should expect his or her doctor to be a married man? It’s an interesting point.’
So started an interesting discussion in which Margo took no part. She passed the cake, handed cups of tea round and wished herself elsewhere. Which was silly—after all, she hadn’t been very rude. She should have laughed it off for the trivial remark it had been, instead of feeling as though she had been nosey. Perhaps, horror of horrors; now he would think that she was intent on attracting him. He wouldn’t want any more to do with her. He would go away and she would never see him again. If she had been witty and pretty and charming, it might have been a different matter...
Professor van Kessel was either a man with the kindest heart imaginable or was prone to deafness; he apparently hadn’t heard her muttered apology. The conversation flowed smoothly, and presently, when he got up to go, he bade her goodbye with his usual pleasant detachment. He didn’t say he hoped to see her again, however.
Watching the Rolls-Royce gliding away towards the village, Margo told herself that he’d gone for good and she could forget him. Whether she wanted to forget him was an entirely different matter, and one she was reluctant to consider.
To her mother’s observation that it was a pity that they were unlikely to see him again, she replied airily that it had been pleasant meeting him once more and that she supposed he would be returning to Holland. ‘After all, it is his home,’ she said.
She collected the tea things and carried them out to the kitchen. ‘I thought I’d go over to see Mrs Merridew tomorrow afternoon. George said she might like some help with the jam. They’ve a huge plum harvest this year.’
Her mother gave her a thoughtful look. Despite the fact that George’s mother had made no secret of the fact that she considered Margo to be a suitable wife for him, the woman had no affection for her. She was, thought Mrs Pearson shrewdly, under the impression that once Margo married she would be able to mould her into the kind of wife she felt her George should have. That Margo wasn’t a girl to be moulded had never entered her head. She had too good an opinion of herself to realise that Margo didn’t like her overmuch, but bore with her overbearing ways for George’s sake.
Mrs Pearson, knowing in her bones that Margo didn’t love George, told herself to have patience. Somewhere in the world there was a man for her Margo—preferably the counterpart of Gijs van Kessel...
So Margo took herself off the next day to Merridew’s Farm, intent on being nice to everyone, doing her best to keep her thoughts on a future when she would marry George and live there, and failing lamentably because she thought about the professor instead.
However, once she was at the farm, he was banished from her head by Mrs Merridew’s loud, hectoring voice bidding her to join her in the kitchen.
‘I can do with some help,’ she greeted Margo.
‘There’s an apron behind the door; you can stone the plums... You should have worn a sensible sweater; if you get stains on that blouse they’ll never come out.’
I have never known anybody, reflected Margo, rolling up her sleeves, who could put a damper on any occasion, however trivial. She began to stone the plums—a messy business—and paused in her work as the thought that she couldn’t possibly marry George suddenly entered her head.
‘Why have you stopped?’ Mrs Merridew wanted to know. ‘There’s another bucketful in the pantry. I’m sure I don’t know why I should have to do everything myself; you’ll have to change your ways when you marry George.’
Margo said nothing—there was no point at the moment. Besides, she was busy composing a suitable speech for George’s benefit.
