we’re just friends…
Mrs Blount led the way indoors. ‘A pity the boys aren’t at home; they’d have loved your big motor car.’
‘Perhaps another time,’ murmured the professor. He somehow conveyed the impression that he knew the entire family well—was an old friend, in fact. Sophie let Mabel out of her basket, feeling put out, although she had no idea why. There was no time to dwell on that, however. The dogs, Montgomery and Mercury, recognising Mabel as a well established visitor, were intent on a game, and by the time Sophie had quietened them down everyone had settled down in the kitchen, a large, cosy room, warm from the Aga, the vast dresser loaded with a variety of dishes and plates, the large table in its centre ringed by old-fashioned wooden chairs. There was a bowl of apples on it and a plate of scones, and a coffee-pot, equally old-fashioned, sat on the Aga.
‘So much warmer in the kitchen,’ observed Mrs Blount breezily, ‘though if I had known who you were I would have had the best china out in the drawing-room.’
‘Professors are ten a penny,’ he assured her, ‘and this is a delightful room.’
Sophie had taken off her coat and come to sit at the table. ‘Do you work together at St Agnes’s?’ asked her mother.
‘Our paths cross from time to time, do they not, Sophie?’
‘I’m on night duty,’ said Sophie quite unnecessarily. She passed him the scones, and since they were both looking at her she added, ‘If there’s a case—Professor van Taak ter Wijsma is a brain surgeon.’
‘You don’t live here, do you?’ asked Mrs Blount as she refilled his coffee-mug.
‘No, no, my home is normally in Holland, but I travel around a good deal.’
‘A pity your father isn’t at home, Sophie; he would have enjoyed meeting Professor van Taak…’ She paused. ‘I’ve forgotten the rest of it; I am sorry.’
‘Please call me Rijk; it is so much easier. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting your husband at some time, Mrs Blount.’
‘Oh, I do hope so. He’s a vet, you know; he has a surgery here in the village and is senior partner at the veterinary centre in Chipping Ongar. He’s always busy…’
Sophie drank her coffee, not saying much. The professor had wormed his way into her family with ease, she reflected crossly. It was all very well, all his talk about being friends, but she wasn’t going to be rushed into anything, not even the casual friendship he had spoken of.
He got up to go presently, shook Mrs Blount’s hand, dropped a casual kiss on Sophie’s cheek with the remark that he would call for her on Sunday next week about eight o’clock, and got into his car and drove away. He left Sophie red in the face and speechless and her mother thoughtful.
‘What a nice young man,’ she remarked artlessly.
‘He’s not all that young, Mother…’
‘Young for a professor, surely. Don’t you like him, darling?’
‘I hardly know him; he offered me a lift. I believe he’s a very good surgeon in his own field.’
Mrs Blount studied her daughter’s heightened colour. ‘Tom will be home for half-term in a couple of weeks’ time; I suppose you won’t be able to come while he’s here. George and Paul will be here too.’
‘I’ll do my best—Ida’s just back from sick leave; she might not mind doing my weekend if I do hers on the following week. I’ll see what she says and phone you.’
It was lovely being home; she helped her father with the small animals, drove him around to farms needing his help, and helped her mother around the house, catching up on the village gossip with Mrs Broom, who came twice a week to oblige. She was a small round woman who knew everyone’s business and passed it on to anyone who would listen, but, since she wasn’t malicious, no one minded. It didn’t surprise Sophie in the least to hear that the professor had been seen, looked at closely and approved, although she had to squash Mrs Broom’s assumption that she and he had a romantic attachment.
‘Oh, well,’ said Mrs Broom, ‘it’s early days—you never know.’ She added severely, ‘Time you was married, Miss Sophie.’
The week passed quickly; the days weren’t long enough and now that the evenings were closing in there were delightful hours to spend round the drawing-room fire, reading and talking and just sitting doing nothing at all. She missed the professor, not only his company but the fact that he was close by even though she might not see him for days on end. His suggestion of friendship, which she hadn’t taken seriously, became something to be considered. But perhaps he hadn’t been serious—hadn’t he said ‘Nothing serious’? She would, she decided, be a little cool when next they met.
He came just before eight o’clock on Sunday evening and all her plans to be cool were instantly wrecked. He got out of the car and when she opened the door and went to meet him, he flung a great arm around her shoulders and kissed her cheek, and that in full view of her mother and father. She had no chance to express her feelings about that, for his cheerful greeting overrode the indignant words she would have uttered. He was behaving like a family friend of long standing and at the same time combining it with beautiful manners; she could see that her parents were delighted with him.
This is the last time, reflected Sophie, going indoors again. All that nonsense about casual friends and needing male companionship; he’s no better than a steam-roller.
Anything less like that cumbersome machine would have been hard to imagine. The professor’s manners were impeccable and after his unexpected embrace of her person he became the man she imagined him to be: rather quiet, making no attempt to draw attention to himself, and presently, over the coffee Mrs Blount offered, becoming engrossed in a conversation concerning the rearing of farm animals with his host. Sophie drank her coffee too hot and burnt her tongue and pretended to herself that she wasn’t listening to his voice, deep and unhurried and somehow soothing. She didn’t want to be soothed; she was annoyed.
It was the best part of an hour before the professor asked her if she was ready to leave; she bit back the tart reply that she had been ready ever since he had arrived and, with a murmur about putting Mabel into her basket, took herself out of the room. Five minutes later she reappeared, the imprisoned Mabel in one hand, her shoulder-bag swinging, kissed her parents, and, accompanied by the professor, now bearing the cat basket, went out to the car.
The professor wasn’t a man to prolong goodbyes; she had time to wave to her mother and father standing in the porch before the Bentley slipped out of the drive and into the lane.
‘Do I detect a coolness? What have I done? I could feel you seething for the last hour.’
‘Kissing me like that,’ said Sophie peevishly. ‘Whatever next?’ Before she could elaborate he said smoothly,
‘But we are friends, are we not, Sophie? Besides, you looked pleased to see me.’
A truthful girl, she had to admit to that.
‘There you are, then,’ said the professor and eased a large well shod foot down so that the Bentley sped through the lanes and presently on to the main road.
‘When do you have nights off?’ he wanted to know.
‘Oh,
