to see that he was looking at her with a detached coolness so that her smile faded. He doesn’t like me, she thought uncertainly, but we don’t even know each other …
‘Beatrice, this is Gijs van der Eekerk—Gijs, this is Beatrice Crawley; we’ve known each other since we were trundled out in our prams. Years ago.’
She shot him a look—any minute now he would tell this man how old she was. She held out a hand and said, ‘How do you do?’ and had it engulfed in a firm grip. ‘Are you visiting Derek?’ she asked, wanting to hear his voice.
‘For a day or so.’ He stood, looking down at her, making no effort to hold the kind of social conversation she expected.
‘You’re Dutch?’ she asked for the sake of something to say. ‘You know England well?’
‘I come over fairly frequently—this is a very pretty part of the country.’
She agreed and wished heartily that Derek and her father would stop whatever they were saying to each other and help out with the talk.
‘What a pity it is that convention prevents us from saying what we wish to say and forces us to make small talk about the weather.’
He had a deep voice and his English was faultless with only a slight accent. She stared at him, at a loss for words for a moment. Then she said, ‘That wouldn’t do at all.’ She spoke sharply. ‘But I think you would like to.’
He smiled then, a small smile which made her feel foolish although she had no idea why. ‘Indeed I would, and I must warn you that at times I do.’ He paused. ‘Speak my mind.’
‘Then I am sorry for whoever has to listen to you,’ she said with a snap. ‘You’ll excuse me? I see someone I want to talk to.’
She left him and he watched her go before joining her father and his friend.
She knew everyone there, going from group to group, exchanging gossip, and all the while knowing that she would have to find the wretched man and apologise for her rudeness. All the same, she reminded herself, she had meant it.
Her mother and father were on the point of leaving when she saw him again, talking to the Reverend Mr Perkins. She made her way slowly towards them, intent on getting the business over since they weren’t likely to meet again.
The rector saw her first. ‘Beatrice—I’ve been wanting a word with you—come over to the rectory in the morning, will you …?’ He looked apologetically at the man beside him. ‘Christmas, you know—such a busy time.’ He held out a hand. ‘A pleasure meeting you, and I hope it may be repeated.’ He beamed at Beatrice. ‘I leave you in good hands; Beatrice is a sweet girl.’ He trotted off, unaware of the effect of his words.
Her companion lifted his eyebrows. ‘I’m delighted to hear that,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and, I must admit, surprised.’
Beatrice’s magnificent bosom swelled with sudden temper. ‘I might have known,’ she said bitterly. ‘I came to apologise for being rude, but I’m not going to now.’
He said to infuriate her still more, ‘No, no, why should you? You have a very good expression in English—to vent one’s spleen—so very apt, I have always thought. Besides, bad temper suits you. Pray don’t give a thought to apologising.’
‘Well, I won’t. It is a very good thing that we are never likely to see each other again, for we don’t get on.’
‘Apparently not.’ He sounded uninterested, waiting for her to end the conversation.
‘Goodbye,’ said Beatrice. If she had known how to flounce she would have done so, but she didn’t, so she walked away with her chin up and a very straight back. She looked just as delightful from the back, the man reflected, watching her go.
Beatrice, sitting beside her father as he drove home through the scattering of houses and up the hill on the other side to where they lived, replied rather absentmindedly to her mother’s comments about the party, while she reflected, very much to her surprise, that she wished that she could meet Gijs van der Eekerk again. Not because she liked him, she hastened to assure herself, but to find out more about him.
Her mother’s voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘Will you see Tom tomorrow?’
Tom?’ Beatrice sounded vague, ‘Oh, I don’t know …’
Mrs Crawley’s maternal instincts were at once on the alert. ‘What a charming man that was who came with Derek—I wonder where he comes from and what he does …?’
Beatrice muttered, ‘I’ve no idea,’ and her father made no effort to enlighten them; instead he made some placid remark about the evening.
Christmas was only two days away. George, the Crawleys’ son, a medical student nine years younger than his sister, would be coming home for two days’ leave and two elderly aunts would be arriving in the morning to spend Christmas—there was more than enough to keep Beatrice busy what with helping her mother prepare for Christmas and helping with the flowers at the church. Making mince pies and arranging holly wreaths made a welcome change from her job at St Justin’s Hospital in the heart of the East End of London. She liked her work—being responsible for the smooth running and maintainance of the extensive laboratory attached to the hospital. She had gone there straight from her domestic science course and gradually worked her way up to her present job—as high as she could go. Sometimes the thought that she would be there for ever crept into her mind—twenty-eight was no longer the first flush of youth and despite several offers of marriage she had felt no urge to accept any of them. There was always Tom, of course, who tended to behave as though he had only to beckon and she would come. He was ambitious, working his way ruthlessly to a consultant’s status, and she sometimes suspected that the love he professed for her was a good deal less than his anticipation of a path smoothed for him by a father-in-law who knew all the right people. He was a pleasant companion and she saw a good deal of him—had even invited him home for a weekend. Her mother and father had been hospitable and friendly but she was aware that they hadn’t liked him.
George arrived soon after breakfast on Christmas Eve, laden with a bag of washing, a crate of beer and a great many parcels. ‘Presents,’ he explained cheerfully, ‘but I’ve not had time to wrap them up—I know you’ll do it for me, Beatrice.’
‘I’ll be sorry for your wife when you get one,’ said Beatrice good-naturedly and filled the washing-machine before going in search of paper and labels. He sat at the kitchen table drinking mugs of coffee and telling her what to write on the labels in between answering his mother’s questions about his work. He was just starting his second year and had passed his first exams; he loved it, he assured her, and Beatrice, who had a very good idea of a medical student’s life, smiled at him. They got on well together despite the difference in their ages and, perhaps because of this, he had always confided in her.
She finished the presents, cut him a hunk of the big fruitcake on the dresser and went to answer the doorbell.
It was the aunts, elderly and rather old-fashioned, having been driven from Aylesbury in a hired car. They were sitting in the back, very erect, their faces composed under formidable felt hats. Beatrice greeted them and the chauffeur, asked him to bring in the luggage and went to help her aunts out of the car. They were both quite capable of helping themselves but it never entered their heads to do so. They never spoke of the lordly head of the family but they didn’t forget him either. Certain standards had to be maintained;
