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,
