Книга - A Kiss for Julie

A Kiss for Julie
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.Simply SimonJulie Beckworth enjoyed her work as a medical secretary at St. Bravo’s hospital so it came as a nasty surprise when her elderly boss announced he was retiring.Her new boss, Professor Simon van der Driesma, was younger, more energetic and worked Julie much harder but if only he would call her Julie, and not ‘Miss Beckworth’ in that cool voice! Both of them had the wrong impression of the other-what would it take for the truth to be revealed?







He sat back in his chair, watching her. (#u4ebbd4a3-8cb8-5c59-9eee-a61fafc3a192)About the Author (#u403fa63a-b35d-5b56-89a5-acd31f7d1800)Title Page (#ue2e11528-4f43-5291-ba93-8113ce9c03e7)CHAPTER ONE (#u10a55d1d-d659-5105-b2ce-a317d34dad54)CHAPTER TWO (#u7c5ea2f4-a6a4-54bf-934e-49dbdb4abca0)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


He sat back in his chair, watching her.

Presently he said, coldly polite, “Miss Beckworth, shall we begin as we intend to go on? I am aware that I am a poor substitute for Professor Smythe; nevertheless we have inherited each other whether we wish it or not. I must confess that you are not quite what I would have wished for, and I believe that you hold the same opinion of me. If you find it difficult to work for me, then by all means ask for a transfer. On the other hand, if you are prepared to put up with my lack of social graces, I daresay we may rub along quite nicely.”

He smiled then, and she caught her breath, for he looked quite different—a man she would like to know.




About the Author


BETTY NEELS

spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She now lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.


A Kiss for Julie







Betty Neels











CHAPTER ONE

PROFESSOR SMYTHE sat behind his cluttered desk, peering over his spectacles at the girl sitting on the other side of it. A very pretty girl, indeed he considered her beautiful, with bronze hair piled on top of her head, a charming nose, a gentle mouth and large green eyes fringed with bronze lashes.

She looked up from her notebook and smiled at him.

He took off his spectacles, polished them and put them back on again, ran his hand through the fringe of white hair encircling his bald patch and tugged his goatee beard. ‘I’ve a surprise for you, Julie.’ And at her sudden sharp glance he added, ‘No, no, you’re not being made redundant—I’m retiring at the end of the week. There, I meant to lead up to it gently—’

She said at once, ‘You’re ill—that must be the reason. No one would ever let you retire, sir.’

‘Yes, I’m ill—not prostrate in bed, by any means, but I have to lead a quiet life, it seems, without delay.’ He sighed. ‘I shall miss this place and I shall miss you, Julie. How long is it since you started working for me?’

‘Three years. I shall miss you too, Professor.’

‘Do you want to know what is to happen to you?’ he asked.

‘Yes—yes, please, I do.’

‘I am handing over to a Professor van der Driesma—a Dutchman widely acclaimed in our particular field of medicine. He works mostly at Leiden but he’s been over here for some time, working at Birmingham and Edinburgh. What he doesn’t know about haematology would barely cover a pin’s head.’ He smiled. ‘I should know; he was my registrar at Edinburgh.’ He went on, ‘I’m handing you over to him, Julie; you’ll be able to help him find his feet and make sure that he knows where to go and keep his appointments and so on. You’ve no objection?’

‘No, sir. I’m truly sorry that you are retiring but I’ll do my best to please Professor whatever-his-nameis.’

Professor Smythe sighed. ‘Well, that’s that. Now, what about Mrs Collins? Did you manage to get her old notes for me?’

Julie pushed a folder a little nearer to him. ‘They go back a long way...’

‘Yes, a most interesting case. I’ll read them and then I shall want you to make a summary for me.’ He tossed the papers on his desk around in front of him. ‘Wasn’t there a report I had to deal with?’

Julie got up, tall, splendidly built and unfussed. ‘It’s here, under your elbow, sir.’ She fished the paper out for him and put it down under his nose.

He went away presently to see his patients and she settled down to her day’s work. Secretary to someone as important as Professor Smythe was a job which didn’t allow for slacking; her private worries about his leaving and the prospect of working for a stranger who might not approve of her had to be put aside until the evening.

Professor Smythe didn’t refer to his departure again that day. She took the letters he dictated and went to her slip of a room adjoining his office, dealt with mislaid notes, answered the telephone and kept at bay anyone threatening to waste his precious time. A usual day, she reflected, wishing him goodnight at last and going out into the busy streets.

It was late September and the evening dusk cast a kindly veil over the dinginess of the rows of small houses and shabby shops encircling the hospital. Julie took a breath of unfresh air and went to queue for her bus.

St Bravo’s was in Shoreditch, a large, ugly building with a long history and a splendid reputation, and since her home was close to Victoria Park the bus ride was fairly short.

She walked along the little street bordered by redbrick terraced houses, rounded the corner at its end, turned into a short drive leading to a solid Victorian house and went in through the back door. The kitchen was large and old-fashioned and there was an elderly man standing at the table, cutting bread and butter.

Julie took off her jacket. ‘Hello, Luscombe. Lovely to be home; it seems to have been a long day.’

‘Mondays always is, Miss Julie. Your ma’s in the sitting room; I’ll be along with the tea in two ticks.’

She took a slice of bread and butter as she went past him and crammed it into her pretty mouth. ‘I’ll come and help you with supper presently. Is it something nice? It was corned beef and those ready-made potatoes for lunch.’

‘As nice a macaroni cheese as you’ll find anywhere. I’ll leave you to see to the pudding.’

She went out of the room, crossed the hall and opened the door of a room on the other side of the house. Mrs Beckworth was sitting at the table writing, but she pushed the papers away as Julie went in.

‘Hello, love. You’re early; how nice. I’m dying for a cup of tea...’

‘Luscombe’s bringing it.’ Julie sat down near her mother. ‘I can’t imagine life without him, can you, Mother?’

‘No, dear. I’ve been checking the bills. Do you suppose we could afford to get Esme that hockey stick she says she simply must have? Yours is a bit old, I suppose.’

Julie thought. ‘I had it for my fifteenth birthday; that’s almost twelve years ago. Let’s afford it.’

Her mother said unexpectedly, ‘You ought to be enjoying yourself, Julie—finding a husband...’

‘I’ll wait until he finds me, Mother, dear. I’m very happy at St Bravo’s. Professor Smythe’s a dear.’ She hesitated. ‘He’s leaving at the end of the week—he’s not well. I’m to be handed over to his successor—a Dutchman with the kind of name you never remember!’

‘Do you mind?’

‘I shall miss Professor Smythe—he’s a dear old man—but no, I don’t mind.’ She would have minded, she reflected, if she had been told that her services were no longer required; her salary was something that they couldn’t do without.

Luscombe came in with the tea then, and they talked of other things—Michael, Julie’s elder brother, a houseman at a Birmingham hospital; David, still at Cambridge, reading ancient history and intent on becoming a schoolmaster, and Esme, the baby of the family, fourteen years old and a pupil at the local grammar school.

‘Where is she, by the way?’ asked Julie.

‘Having tea at the Thompsons’. She promised to be back here by half past six. The Thompson boy will walk her round.’

Julie peered into the empty teapot. ‘Well, I’ll go and make a bread-and-butter pudding, shall I?’

‘That would be nice, dear. Esme popped in on her way from school and took Blotto with her. The Thompsons don’t mind.’

‘Good. I’ll give him a run in the park later on.’

Her mother frowned. ‘I don’t like you going out after dark.’

‘I’ll not be alone, dear; Blotto will be with me.’ She smiled widely. ‘Besides, I’m hardly what you would describe as a delicate female, am I?’

She was in the kitchen when Esme came home, bringing with her the Thompson boy, Freddie, and Blotto, a dog of assorted ancestry with a long, sweeping tail and a rough coat. He was a large dog and he looked fierce, but his disposition was that of a lamb. However, as Julie pointed out, what did that matter when he looked fierce?

Freddie didn’t stay; he was a frequent visitor to the house and came and went casually. He bade Julie a polite goodbye, lifted a hand in farewell to Esme and took himself off, leaving the younger girl to feed Blotto and then, spurred on by Julie, to finish her homework. ‘And we’ll go on Saturday and get that hockey stick,’ said Julie.

Esme flung herself at her. ‘Julie, you darling. Really? The one I want? Not one of those horrid cheap ones.’

‘The one you want, love.’

Getting ready for bed in her room later that evening, Julie allowed her thoughts to dwell on the future. She did this seldom, for as far as she could see there wasn’t much point in doing so. She must learn to be content with her life.

No one had expected her father to die of a heart attack and they were lucky to have this house to live in. It was too large and needed a lot done to it, but it was cheaper to continue to live in it than to find something more modern and smaller. Besides, when she had made tentative enquiries of a house agent, he had told her that if they sold the place they would get a very poor price—barely enough to buy anything worth living in. It was a pity that there had been very little money, and what there had been had gone to get the boys started.

Julie sighed and picked up her hairbrush. It would be nice to get married—to meet a man who wouldn’t mind shouldering the burden of a widowed mother, two brothers and a schoolgirl sister. Her sensible mind told her that she might as well wish for the moon.

She brushed her mane of hair and jumped into bed. She hoped that the professor who was taking her over would be as nice an old man as Professor Smythe. Perhaps, she thought sleepily, as he was Dutch, he would go back to Holland from time to time, leaving her to deal with things or be loaned out to other consultants as and when required. It would make a change.

There was a good deal of extra work to be done during the rest of the week; Professor Smythe tended to be forgetful and occasionally peevish when he mislaid something. Julie dealt with him patiently, used to his sudden little spurts of temper. Besides, she reasoned after a particularly trying morning, he wasn’t well.

It was on the last morning—Friday—as she patiently waded through the filing cabinet for notes which Professor Smythe simply had to have when the door opened behind her and she turned to see who it was.

Any girl’s dream, she thought, and, since he had ignored her and crossed to Professor Smythe’s office, turned back to her files. But she had even in those few seconds taken a good look. Tall—six and a half feet, perhaps—and enormous with it, and pale hair—so pale that there might be grey hair too. His eyes, she felt sure, would be blue.

‘Come here, Julie, and meet your new boss,’ called Professor Smythe.

She entered his office, closed the door carefully and crossed the room, glad for once that she was a tall girl and wouldn’t have to stretch her neck to look at him.

‘Professor van der Driesma,’ said Professor Smythe. ‘Simon, this is Julie Beckworth; I’m sure you’ll get on famously.’

She held out a polite hand and had it crushed briefly. She wasn’t as sure as Professor Smythe about getting on famously, though. His eyes were blue; they were cold too, and indifferent. He wasn’t going to like her. She sought frantically for the right thing to say and murmured, ‘How do you do?’ which didn’t sound right somehow.

He didn’t waste words but nodded at her and turned to Professor Smythe. ‘I wonder if we might go over these notes—that patient in the women’s ward—Mrs Collins—there are several problems...’

‘Ah, yes, you are quite right, Simon. Now, as I see it...’

Julie went back to her filing cabinet, and when told to take her coffee-break went away thankfully. When she got back her new boss had gone.

He came again that afternoon when she was at her desk, dealing with the last of the paperwork before Professor Smythe handed over. The door separating her office from Professor Smythe’s was open but when he came in he paused to close it—an action which caused her to sit up very straight and let out an explosive word. Did he imagine that she would eavesdrop? Professor Smythe had conducted countless interviews with the door wide open. A bad start, reflected Julie, thumping the computer with unnecessary force.

She would have been even more indignant if she could have heard what the two men were talking about.

‘I should like to know more about Miss Beckworth,’ observed Professor van der Driesma. ‘I am indeed fortunate to have her, but if I were to know rather more of her background it might make for a speedier rapport between us.’

‘Of course, Simon. I should have thought of that sooner. She has been with me for three years; I believe I told you that. Her father had a practice near Victoria Park, died suddenly of a massive heart attack—he was barely fifty-six years old. A splendid man, had a big practice, never expected to die young, of course, and left almost no money.

‘Luckily the house was his; they still live in it—Julie, her mother and her young sister. There are two boys—the eldest’s at the Birmingham General, his first post after qualifying, and the other boy’s at Cambridge. I imagine they are poor, but Julie is hardly a young woman to talk about herself and I wouldn’t presume to ask. She’s a clever girl, very patient and hard-working, well liked too; you will find her a splendid right hand when you need one.’ He chuckled. ‘All this and beautiful besides.’

His companion smiled. ‘How old is she? There is no question of her leaving to marry?’

‘Twenty-six. Never heard of a boyfriend let alone a prospective husband. Even if she didn’t tell me, the hospital grapevine would have got hold of it. Her home is nearby and she doesn’t watch the clock and I’ve never known her to be late.’

‘A paragon,’ observed his companion drily.

‘Indeed, yes. You are a lucky man, Simon.’

To which Professor van der Driesma made no reply. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’m due on the wards; I’d better go. I shall hope to see something of you when you have retired, sir.’

‘Of course, Mary and I will be delighted to see you at any time. I shall be interested to know how you get on. I’m sure you’ll like the post.’

‘I’m looking forward to it. I’ll see you tomorrow before you leave.’

He went away, adding insult to injury by leaving the door open on his way out.

Professor Smythe had refused an official leave-taking but his friends and colleagues poured into his office on Saturday morning. Julie, who didn’t work on a Saturday, was there, keeping in the background as well as her splendid shape allowed, making coffee, finding chairs and answering the phone, which rang incessantly. Presently the last of the visitors went away and Professor Smythe was left with just his successor and Julie.

‘I’m off,’ he told them. ‘Thank you, Julie, for coming in to give a hand.’ He trotted over to her and kissed her cheek. ‘My right hand; I shall miss you. You must come and see us.’

She shook his hand and saw how tired he looked. ‘Oh, I will, please.’ She proffered a small book. ‘I hope you’ll like this—a kind of memento...’

It was a small book on birds and probably he had it already, for he was a keen bird-watcher, but he received it with delight, kissed her again and said, ‘Be off with you, Julie.’

He would want to talk to Professor van der Driesma she thought, and went silently, closing the door behind her. She was crossing the forecourt when a dark grey Bentley crept up beside her and stopped. Professor van der Driesma got out.

He said without preamble, ‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘My bus goes from across the street. Thank you for the offer, though.’ She was coolly polite, remembering the closed door. Rude man...

‘Get in.’ Nicely said, but he wasn’t prepared to argue. After all, she was working for him from now on. She got in.

He got in beside her. ‘Somewhere on the other side of Victoria Park, isn’t it? Professor Smythe told me that your father was a GP.’

‘Yes.’ She added baldly, ‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and strangely enough she knew that he meant it.

‘I think that I should warn you that I may work at a slightly faster pace than Professor Smythe.’

‘That’s to be expected,’ said Julie crisply. ‘He’s very elderly and ill too, and you’re...’ she paused. ‘You’re not quite middle-aged, are you?’

‘Not quite. If I work you too hard you must tell me, Miss Beckworth.’

Put neatly in her place, she said, ‘You can turn left here and then right. It’s a short cut.’

If he was surprised to see the roomy house with its rather untidy garden, surrounded by narrow streets of small dwellings, he said nothing. He drew up in the road and got out to open her door—an action which impressed her, even if against her will. He might have a nasty tongue but his manners were perfect and effortless.

‘Thank you, Professor,’ she said politely, not to be outdone. ‘I’ll be at the office at eight forty-five on Monday morning.’

He closed the gate behind her, aware of faces peering from several windows in the house, waited until she had reached the door and opened it and then got into his car and drove away. He smiled as he drove.

Julie was met in the hall by her mother, Esme and Luscombe.

‘Whoever was that?’ her mother wanted to know.

‘That’s a smashing car,’ observed Luscombe.

‘He’s a giant,’ said Esme.

‘That’s my new boss. He gave me a lift home. His name is Simon van der Driesma; I don’t think he likes me...’

‘Why ever not?’ Her mother was simply astonished; everyone liked Julie. ‘Why did he give you a lift, then?’

‘I think he may have wanted to see where I lived.’

Mrs Beckworth, who had hoped that there might be other reasons—after all, Julie was a beautiful girl and excellent company—said in a disappointed voice, ‘Oh, well, perhaps. We waited lunch for you, love. One of Luscombe’s splendid casseroles.’

Luscombe, besides having been with them for as long as Julie could remember, first as a general factotum in her father’s surgery and then somehow taking over the housekeeping, was a splendid cook. ‘I’m ravenous,’ said Julie.

They went to the sports shop after lunch and bought Esme’s hockey stick, and Esme went round to the Thompsons’ later to show it off to Freddie while Julie took Blotto for his evening walk.

Sunday, as all Sundays, went too quickly—church, home to an economical pot-roast, and then a few lazy hours reading the Sunday papers until it was time to get the tea.

Luscombe went to see his married sister on Sunday afternoons, so Julie got their supper, loaded the washing machine ready to switch it on in the morning, did some ironing, made sure that Esme had everything ready for school, had a cosy chat with her mother and took herself off to bed. She went to sleep quickly, but only after a few anxious thoughts about the next morning. Even if Professor van der Driesma didn’t like her overmuch, as long as she did as he wished and remembered to hold her tongue it might not be so bad.

It was a bad start on Monday morning. She was punctual as always, but he was already there, sitting at his desk, his reading glasses perched on his patrician nose, perusing some papers lying before him then laying them tidily aside.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Julie, and waited.

He glanced up. His ‘good morning’ was grave; she hoped that he would soon get out of the habit of calling her Miss Beckworth; it made her feel old.

‘I believe I am to do a ward round at ten o’clock. Perhaps you will get the patients’ notes and bring them to me here’ When she hesitated, he said, ‘Yes, I am aware that the ward sister should have them, but I simply wish to glance through them before I do my round.’

Julie went up to the women’s medical ward and found Sister in her office. Sister was small and dainty, never lacking dates with the more senior housemen. She was drinking strong tea from a battered mug and waved Julie to the only chair. ‘Have some tea—I’ll get one of the nurses—’

‘I’d love a cup, but I don’t dare,’ said Julie. ‘Professor van der Driesma wants the notes of his patients on the ward so’s he can study them before his round.’

‘A bit different to Professor Smythe?’ asked Sister, hunting up folders on her desk. ‘I must say he’s remarkably good-looking; my nurses are drooling over him but I don’t think he’s even noticed them. A bit reserved?’

‘I don’t know, but I think you may be right.’ She took the bundle of notes. ‘I’ll get these back to you as soon as I can, Sister.’

‘I’ll have your head if you don’t,’ said Sister. ‘It’s his first round and it has to be perfect.’

Julie skimmed back through the hospital, laid the folders on the professor’s desk and waited.

He said thank you without looking up and she slid away to her own desk to type up notes and reports and answer the telephone. Just before ten o’clock, however, she went back to his desk.

‘Shall I take the patients’ notes back now, sir?’ she asked the bowed head; his glasses were on the end of his nose and he was making pencil notes in the margin of the report that he was reading.

He glanced up and spoke mildly. ‘Is there any need? I can take them with me.’ When she hesitated he said, ‘Well?’

‘Sister Griffiths wanted them back before you went on the ward.’

He gave her a brief look and said, ‘Indeed? Then we mustn’t disappoint her, must we? Oh, and you may as well stay on the ward and take notes.’

She gathered up the folders. ‘Very well, sir. Do you want me to come back here for you? It is almost ten o’clock.’

‘No, no, save your feet!’

It was a remark which made her feel as if she had bunions or painful corns. It rankled, for she had excellent feet, narrow and high-arched, and while she spent little money on her clothes she bought good shoes. Plain court shoes with not too high heels, kept beautifully polished.

From his desk the professor watched her go, aware that he had annoyed her and irritated by it. He hoped that her prickly manner would soften, totally unaware that it was he who was making it prickly. He didn’t waste time thinking about her; he put the notes he had been making in his pocket and took himself off to Women’s Medical.

He had a number of patients there; a rare case of aplastic anaemia—the only treatment of which was frequent blood transfusions, two young women with leukaemia, an older woman with Hodgkin’s disease and two cases of polycythaemia. To each he gave his full attention, taking twice as long as Sister had expected, dictating to Julie as he went in a quiet, unhurried voice.

She, wrestling with long words like agranulocytosis and lymphosarcoma, could see that the patients liked him. So did Sister, her annoyance at the length of the round giving way to her obvious pleasure in his company. It was a pity that he didn’t appear to show any pleasure in hers; his attention was focused on his patients; he had few words to say to her and those he had were of a purely professional kind.

As for Julie, he dictated to her at length, over one shoulder, never once looking to see if she knew what he was talking about. Luckily, she did; Professor Smythe had been a good deal slower but the words he had used had been just as long. She had taken care over the years to have a medical directory handy when she was typing up notes, although from time to time she had asked him to explain a word or a medical term to her and he had done so readily.

She thought that it would be unlikely for Professor van der Driesma to do that. Nor would he invite her to share his coffee-break while he told her about his grandchildren... He was too young for grandchildren, of course, but probably he had children. Pretty little girls, handsome little boys, a beautiful wife.

She became aware that he had stopped speaking and looked up. He was staring at her so coldly that she had a moment’s fright that she had missed something he had said. If she had, she would get it from Sister later. She shut her notebook with a snap and he said, ‘I’d like those notes as soon as you can get them typed, Miss Beckworth.’

‘Very well, sir,’ said Julie, and promised herself silently that she would have her coffee first.

Which she did, prudently not spending too much time doing so; somehow the professor struck her as a man not given to wasting time in Sister’s office chatting over coffee and a tin of biscuits. She was right; she was halfway through the first batch of notes when he returned.

‘I shall be in the path lab if I’m wanted,’ he told her, and went away again.

Julie applied herself to her work. It was all going to be quite different, she thought regretfully; life would never be the same again.

The professor stayed away for a long time; she finished her notes, placed them on his desk and took herself off to the canteen for her midday meal. She shared her table with two other secretaries and one of the receptionists, all of them agog to know about the new professor.

‘What’s he like?’ asked the receptionist, young and pretty and aware of it.

‘Well, I don’t really know, do I?’ said Julie reasonably. ‘I mean, I’ve only seen him for a few minutes this morning and on the ward round.’ She added cautiously, ‘He seems very nice.’

‘You’ll miss Professor Smythe,’ said one of the secretaries, middle-aged and placid. ‘He was an old dear...’

The receptionist laughed, ‘Well, this one certainly isn’t that. He’s got more than his fair share of good looks too. Hope he comes to my desk one day!’

Julie thought that unlikely, but she didn’t say so. She ate her cold meat, potatoes, lettuce leaf and half a tomato, followed this wholesome but dull fare with prunes and custard and went back to her little office. She would make herself tea; Professor Smythe had installed an electric kettle and she kept a teapot and mugs in the bottom drawer of one of the filing cabinets—sugar too, and tiny plastic pots of milk.

Professor van der Driesma was sitting at his desk. He looked up as she went in. ‘You have been to your lunch?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Perhaps you would let me know when you will be absent from the office.’

Julie glowered; never mind if he was a highly important member of the medical profession, there was such a thing as pleasant manners between colleagues. ‘If you had been here to tell, I would have told you,’ she pointed out in a chilly voice. ‘And it’s not lunch, it’s midday dinner.’

He sat back in his chair, watching her. Presently he said, coldly polite, ‘Miss Beckworth, shall we begin as we intend to go on? I am aware that I am a poor substitute for Professor Smythe; nevertheless, we have inherited each other whether we wish it or not. Shall we endeavour to make the best of things?

‘I must confess that you are not quite what I would have wished for and I believe that you hold the same opinion of me. If you find it difficult to work for me, then by all means ask for a transfer. Your work is highly regarded; there should be no difficulty in that. On the other hand, if you are prepared to put up with my lack of the social graces, I dare say we may rub along quite nicely.’

He smiled then, and she caught her breath, for he looked quite different—a man she would like to know, to be friends with. She said steadily, ‘I would prefer to stay if you will allow that. You see, you’re not a bit like Professor Smythe, but I’m sure once I’ve got used to you you’ll find me satisfactory.’ She added, ‘What don’t you like about me?’

‘Did I say that I disliked you? Indeed I did not; I meant that you were not quite the secretary I would have employed had I been given the choice.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re too young—and several other...’ He paused. ‘Shall we let it rest?’ He stood up and held out a hand. ‘Shall we shake on it?’

She shook hands and thought what a strange conversation they were having.

He was back behind his desk, turning over the papers before him.

‘This case of agranulocytosis—Mrs Briggs has had typhoid and has been treated with chloramphenicol, the cause of her condition. I should like to see any old notes if she has been a patient previously. From her present notes you have seen that she remembers being here on two occasions but she can’t remember when. Is that a hopeless task?’

‘Probably. I’ll let you have them as soon as possible. The path lab from the Royal Central phoned; they would like to speak to you when you are free.’

‘Ah, yes. There’s a patient there. Get hold of them and put them through to me, will you, Miss Beckworth?’

‘I’m going to hunt for those notes,’ she told him. ‘I shall be in the records office until I find them.’

‘Very well.’ He didn’t look up from his writing and she went to her own office, dialled the Royal Central and presently put the call through to his office. There was nothing on her desk that needed urgent attention, so she went through the hospital and down into the basement and, after a few words with the fussy woman in charge of the patients’ records, set to work.

It was a difficult task but not entirely hopeless. Mrs Briggs was forty years old; her recollections of her previous visits were vague but positive. Say, anything between five and ten years ago... It was tiresome work and dusty and the fussy woman or her assistant should have given her a hand, although in all fairness she had to admit that they were being kept busy enough.

She longed for a cup of tea, and a glance at her watch told her that her teabreak was long past. Was she supposed to stay until the notes were found or could she go home at half-past five? she wondered.

It was almost five o’clock when her luck turned and, looking rather less than her pristine self, she went back to the professor’s office.

He was on the telephone as she went in; she laid the folders down on his desk and, since he nodded without looking up, she went to her office and sat down at her own desk. While she had been away someone had tossed a variety of paperwork onto it. ‘No tea,’ muttered Julie, ‘and this lot to polish off before I go home, and much thanks shall I get for it—’

‘Ah, no, Miss Beckworth,’ said the professor from somewhere behind her. ‘Do not be so hard on me. You have found the notes, for which I thank you, and a dusty job it was too from the look of you.’

She turned round indignantly at that and he went on smoothly, ‘A pot of tea would help, wouldn’t it? And most of the stuff on your desk can wait until the morning.’

He leaned across her and picked up the phone. ‘The canteen number?’ he asked her, and when she gave it ordered with pleasant courtesy, and with a certainty that no one would object, a tray of tea for two and a plate of buttered toast.

She was very conscious of the vast size of him. She wondered, idiotically, if he had played rugger in his youth. Well, she conceded, he wasn’t all that old—thirty-five, at the most forty... He had straightened up, towering over her, his gaze intent, almost as though he had read her thoughts and was amused by them. She looked at the clock and said in a brisk voice, ‘I can get a good deal of this done this afternoon, sir. I’m quite willing to stay on for a while.’

‘I said that tomorrow morning would do.’ His voice was mild but dared her to argue. ‘We will have our tea and you will leave at your usual time.’

She said ‘Very well, sir’ in a meek voice, although she didn’t feel meek. Who did he think he was? Professor or no professor, she had no wish to be ordered about.

‘You’ll get used to me in time,’ he observed, just as though she had voiced the thought out loud. ‘Here is the tea.’

The canteen server put the tray down on his desk; none of the canteen staff was particularly friendly with those who took their meals there; indeed, at times one wondered if they grudged handing over the plates of food, and the girl who had come in was not one of Julie’s favourites—handing out, as she did, ill nature with meat and two veg. Now, miraculously, she was actually smiling. Not at Julie, of course, and when he thanked her politely she muttered, ‘No trouble, sir; any time. I can always pop along with something.’

The professor sat down behind his desk. ‘Come and pour out,’ he suggested, ‘and let us mull over tomorrow’s schedule.’ He handed her the toast and bit hugely into his. ‘What an obliging girl.’

‘Huh,’ said Julie. ‘She practically throws our dinners at us. But then, of course, you’re a man.’

‘Er—yes; presumably you think that makes a difference?’

‘Of course it does.’ Perhaps she wasn’t being quite polite; she added ‘sir’.

They had little to say to each other; indeed, he made a couple of phone calls while he polished off the toast, and when they had had second cups he said, ‘Off you go, Miss Beckworth; I’ll see you in the morning.’


CHAPTER TWO

WHEN Julie got home they were all waiting to hear how she had got on.

‘At least he didn’t keep you late,’ observed her mother. ‘Is he nice?’ By which she meant was he good-looking, young and liable to fall in love with Julie?

‘Abrupt, immersed in his work, likes things done at once, very nice with his patients—’

‘Old?’ Mrs Beckworth tried hard to sound casual.

‘Getting on for forty, perhaps thirty-five; it’s hard to tell.’ Julie took pity on her mother. ‘He’s very good-looking, very large, and I imagine the nurses are all agog.’

‘Not married?’ asked her mother hopefully.

‘I don’t know, Mother, and I doubt if I ever shall; he’s not chatty.’

‘Sounds OK to me,’ said Luscombe, ‘even if he’s foreign.’

Esme had joined the inquisition. ‘He’s Dutch; does he talk with a funny accent?’

‘No accent at all—well, yes, perhaps you can hear that he’s not English, but only because he speaks it so well, if you see what I mean.’

‘A gent?’ said Luscombe.

‘Well, yes, and frightfully clever, I believe. I dare say that once we’ve got used to each other we shall get on very well.’

‘What do you call him?’ asked Esme.

‘Professor or sir...’

‘What does he call you?’

‘Miss Beckworth.’

Esme hooted with laughter. ‘Julie, that makes you sound like an elderly spinster. I bet he wears glasses...’

‘As a matter of fact he does—for reading.’

‘He sounds pretty stuffy,’ said Esme. ‘Can we have tea now that Julie’s home?’

‘On the table in two ticks,’ said Luscombe, and went back to the kitchen to fetch the macaroni cheese—for tea for the Beckworths was that unfashionable meal, high tea—a mixture of supper and tea taken at the hour of half past six, starting with a cooked dish, going on to bread and butter and cheese or sandwiches, jam and scones, and accompanied by a large pot of tea.

Only on Sundays did they have afternoon tea, and supper at a later hour. And if there were guests—friends or members of the family—then a splendid dinner was conjured up by Luscombe; the silver was polished, the glasses sparkled and a splendid damask cloth that Mrs Beckworth cherished was brought out. They might be poor but no one needed to know that.

Now they sat around the table, enjoying Luscombe’s good food, gossiping cheerfully, and if they still missed the scholarly man who had died so suddenly they kept that hidden. Sometimes, Julie reflected, three years seemed a long time, but her father was as clear in her mind as if he were living, and she knew that her mother and Esme felt the same. She had no doubt that the faithful Luscombe felt the same way, too.

She had hoped that after the professor’s offer of tea and toast he would show a more friendly face, but she was to be disappointed. His ‘Good morning, Miss Beckworth’ returned her, figuratively speaking, to arm’s length once more. Of course, after Professor Smythe’s avuncular ‘Hello, Julie’ it was strange to be addressed as Miss Beckworth. Almost everyone in the hospital called her Julie; she hoped that he might realise that and follow suit.

He worked her hard, but since he worked just as hard, if not harder, himself she had no cause for complaint. Several days passed in uneasy politeness—cold on his part, puzzled on hers. She would get used to him, she told herself one afternoon, taking his rapid dictation, and glanced up to find him staring at her. ‘Rather as though I was something dangerous and ready to explode,’ she explained to her mother later.

‘Probably deep in thought and miles away,’ said Mrs Beckworth, and Julie had to agree.

There was no more tea and toast; he sent her home punctiliously at half past five each day and she supposed that he worked late at his desk clearing up the paperwork, for much of his day was spent on the wards or in consultation. He had a private practice too, and since he was absent during the early afternoons she supposed that he saw those patients then. A busy day, but hers was busy too.

Of course, she was cross-examined about him each time she went to the canteen, but she had nothing to tell—and even if she had had she was discreet and loyal and would not have told. Let the man keep his private life to himself, she thought.

Professor van der Driesma, half-aware of the interest in him at St Bravo’s, ignored it. He was a haematologist first and last, and other interests paled beside his deep interest in his work and his patients. He did have other interests, of course: a charming little mews cottage behind a quiet, tree-lined street and another cottage near Henley, its little back garden running down to the river, and, in Holland, other homes and his family home.

He had friends too, any number of them, as well as his own family. His life was full and he had pushed the idea of marriage aside for the time being. No one—no woman—had stirred his heart since he had fallen in love as a very young man to be rejected for an older one, already wealthy and high in his profession. He had got over the love years ago—indeed he couldn’t imagine now what he had seen in the girl—but her rejection had sown the seeds of a determination to excel at his work.

Now he had fulfilled that ambition, but in the meantime he had grown wary of the pretty girls whom his friends were forever introducing him to; he wanted more than a pretty girl—he wanted an intelligent companion, someone who knew how to run his home, someone who would fit in with his friends, know how to entertain them, would remove from him the petty burden of social life. She would need to be good-looking and elegant and dress well too, and bring up their children...

He paused there. There was no such woman, of course; he wanted perfection and there was, he decided cynically, no such thing in a woman; he would eventually have to make the best of it with the nearest to his ideal.

These thoughts, naturally enough, he kept to himself; no one meeting him at a dinner party or small social gathering would have guessed that behind his bland, handsome face he was hoping that he might meet the woman he wanted to marry. In the meantime there was always his work.

Which meant that there was work for Julie too; he kept her beautiful nose to the grindstone, but never thoughtlessly; she went home punctually each evening—something she had seldom done with Professor Smythe. He also saw to it that she had her coffee-break, her midday dinner and her cup of tea at three o’clock, but between these respites he worked her hard.

She didn’t mind; indeed, she found it very much to her taste as, unlike his predecessor, he was a man of excellent memory, as tidy as any medical man was ever likely to be, and not given to idle talk. It would be nice, she reflected, watching his enormous back going through the door, if he dropped the occasional word other than some diabolical medical term that she couldn’t spell. Still, they got on tolerably well, she supposed. Perhaps at a suitable occasion she might suggest that he stopped calling her Miss Beckworth... At Christmas, perhaps, when the entire hospital was swamped with the Christmas spirit.

It was during their second week of uneasy association that he told her that he would be going to Holland at the weekend. She wasn’t surprised at that, for he had international renown, but she was surprised to find a quick flash of regret that he was going away; she supposed that she had got used to the silent figure at his desk or his disappearing for hours on end to return wanting something impossible at the drop of a hat. She said inanely, ‘How nice—nice for you, sir.’

‘I shall be working,’ he told her austerely. ‘And do not suppose that you will have time to do more than work either.’

‘Why do you say that, Professor? Do you intend leaving me a desk piled high?’ Her delightful bosom swelled with annoyance. ‘I can assure you that I shall have plenty to do...’

‘You misunderstand me, Miss Beckworth; you will be going with me. I have a series of lectures to give and I have been asked to visit two hospitals and attend a seminar. You will take any notes I require and type them up.’

She goggled at him. ‘Will I?’ She added coldly, ‘And am I to arrange for our travel and where we are to stay and transport?’

He sat back at ease. ‘No, no. That will all be attended to; all you will need will be a portable computer and your notebook and pencil. You will be collected from your home at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I trust you will be ready at that time.’

‘Oh, I’ll be ready,’ said Julie, and walked over to his desk to stand before it looking at him. ‘It would have been nice to have been asked,’ she observed with a snap. ‘I do have a life beyond these walls, you know.’

With which telling words she walked into her own office and shut the door. There was a pile of work on her desk; she ignored it. She had been silly to lose her temper; it might cost her her job. But she wasn’t going to apologise.

‘I will not be ordered about; I wouldn’t talk to Blotto in such a manner.’ She had spoken out loud and the professor’s answer took her by surprise.

‘My dear Miss Beckworth, I have hurt your feelings. I do apologise; I had no intention of ruffling your temper.’ A speech which did nothing to improve matters.

‘That’s all right,’ said Julie, still coldly.

She was formulating a nasty remark about slavedrivers when he asked, ‘Who or what is Blotto? Who, I presume, is treated with more courtesy than I show you.’

He had come round her desk and was sitting on its edge, upsetting the papers there. He was smiling at her too. She had great difficulty in not smiling back. ‘Blotto is the family dog,’ she told him, and looked away.

Professor van der Driesma was a kind man but he had so immersed himself in his work that he also wore an armour of indifference nicely mitigated by good manners. Now he set himself to restore Julie’s good humour.

‘I dare say that you travelled with Professor Smythe from time to time, so you will know what to take with you and the normal routine of such journeys...’

‘I have been to Bristol, Birmingham and Edinburgh with Professor Smythe,’ said Julie, still icily polite.

‘Amsterdam, Leiden and Groningen, where we shall be going, are really not much farther away from London. I have to cram a good deal of work into four or five days; I must depend upon your support, which I find quite admirable.’

‘I don’t need to be buttered up,’ said Julie, her temper as fiery as her hair. ‘It’s my job.’

‘My dear Miss Beckworth, I shall forget that remark. I merely give praise where praise is due.’ His voice was mild and he hid a smile. Julie really was a lovely girl but as prickly as a thorn-bush. Highly efficient too—everything that Professor Smythe had said of her; to have her ask for a transfer and leave him at the mercy of some chit of a girl... The idea was unthinkable. He observed casually, ‘I shall, of course, be occupied for most of my days, but there will be time for you to do some sightseeing.’

It was tempting bait; a few days in another country, being a foreigner in another land—even with the professor for company it would be a nice change. Besides, she reminded herself, she had no choice; she worked for him and was expected to do as she was bid. She had, she supposed, behaved badly. She looked up at him. ‘Of course I’ll be ready to go with you, sir. I’m—I’m sorry I was a little taken aback; it was unexpected.’

He got off the desk. ‘I am at times very forgetful,’ he told her gravely. ‘You had better bring a raincoat and an umbrella with you; it will probably rain. Let me have those notes as soon as possible, will you? I shall be up on the ward if I’m wanted.’

She would have to work like a maniac if she was to finish by half past five, she thought, but Julie sat for a few minutes, her head filled with the important problem of what clothes to take with her. Would she go out at all socially? She had few clothes, although those she had were elegant and timeless in style; blouses, she thought, the skirt she had on, the corduroy jacket that she’d bought only a few weeks ago, just in case it was needed, a dress... Her eyes lighted on the clock and she left her pleasant thoughts for some hard work.

She told her mother as soon as she got home and within minutes Esme and Luscombe had joined them to hear the news.

‘Clothes?’ said Mrs Beckworth at once. ‘You ought to have one of those severe suits with padded shoulders; the women on TV wear them all the time; they look like businessmen.’

‘I’m not a businessman, Mother, dear! And I’d hate to wear one. I’ve got that dark brown corduroy jacket and this skirt—a pleated green and brown check. I’ll take a dress and a blouse for each day...’

‘Take that smoky blue dress—the one you’ve had for years,’ said Esme at once. ‘It’s so old it’s fashionable again. Will you go out a lot—restaurants and dancing? Perhaps he’ll take you to a nightclub.’

‘The professor? I should imagine that wild horses wouldn’t drag him into one. And of course he won’t take me out. I’ll have piles of work to do and he says he will be fully occupied each day.’

‘You might meet a man,’ observed Esme. ‘You know—and he’ll be keen on you and take you out in the evenings. The professor can’t expect you to work all the time.’

‘I rather fancy that’s just what he does expect. But it’ll be fun and I’ll bring you all back something really Dutch. Blotto too.’

She had two days in which to get herself ready, which meant that each evening she was kept busy—washing her abundant hair, doing her nails, pressing the blouses, packing a case.

‘Put in a woolly,’ suggested her mother, peering over her shoulder. ‘Two—that nice leaf-brown cardigan you had for Christmas last year and the green sweater.’ She frowned. ‘You’re sure we can’t afford one of those suits?’

‘Positive. I’ll do very well with what I’ve got, and if Professor van der Driesma doesn’t approve that’s just too bad. Anyway, he won’t notice.’

In this she was mistaken; his polite, uninterested glance as she opened the door to him on Saturday morning took in every small detail. He had to concede that although she looked businesslike she also looked feminine; with a lovely face such as hers she should be able to find herself an eligible husband...

He gave her a ‘good morning,’ unsmiling, was charming to her mother when he was introduced, and smiled at Esme’s eager, ‘You’ll give Julie time to send some postcards, won’t you?’ He picked up Julie’s case and was brought to a halt by Esme. ‘Don’t you get tired of seeing all that blood? Isn’t it very messy?’

Mrs Beckworth’s shocked ‘Esme’ was ignored.

‘Well, I’m only asking,’ said Esme.

The professor put the case down. ‘There is almost no blood,’ he said apologetically. ‘Just small samples in small tubes and, more importantly, the condition of the patient—whether they’re pale or yellow or red in the face. How ill they feel, how they look.’

Esme nodded. ‘I’m glad you explained. I’m going to be a doctor.’

‘I have no doubt you’ll do very well.’ He smiled his sudden charming smile. ‘We have to go, I’m afraid.’

Julie bent to say goodbye to Blotto, kissed her mother and sister, and kissed Luscombe on his leathery cheek. ‘Take care of them, Luscombe.’

‘Leave ’em to me, Miss Julie; ‘ave a good time.’

She got into the car; they were all so sure that she was going to enjoy herself but she had her doubts.

The professor had nothing to say for some time; he crossed the river and sped down the motorway towards Dover. ‘You are comfortable?’ he wanted to know.

‘Yes, thank you. I don’t think one could be anything else in a car like this.’

It was an observation which elicited no response from him. Was she going to spend four or five days in the company of a man who only addressed her when necessary? He addressed her now. ‘You’re very silent, Miss Beckworth.’

She drew a steadying breath; all the same there was peevishness in her voice. ‘If you wished me to make conversation, Professor, I would have done my best.’

He laughed. ‘I don’t think I have ever met anyone quite like you. You fly—how do you say it?—off the handle without notice. At least it adds interest to life. I like your young sister.’

‘Everyone likes her; she’s such a dear girl and she says what she thinks...’

‘It must run in the family!’ Before she could utter he went on, ‘She must miss her father.’

‘Yes, we all do. He was a very special person...’

‘You prefer not to talk about him?’ His voice was kind.

‘No. No, we talk about him a lot at home, but of course other people forget, or don’t like to mention his name in case we get upset.’

‘So—tell me something of him. Professor Smythe told me that he had a very large practice and his patients loved him.’

‘Oh, they did, and he loved his work...’ It was like a cork coming out of a bottle; she was in full flood, lost in happy reminiscences, and when she paused for breath the professor slipped in a quiet word or question and started her off again.

She was surprised to see that they were slowing as the outskirts of Dover slipped past them. ‘I talk too much.’

‘No, indeed not, Miss Beckworth; I have found it most interesting to know more of your father. You have a knack of holding one’s interest.’

She muttered a reply, wondering if he was being polite, and they didn’t speak much until he had driven the car on board the hovercraft and settled her in a seat. He took the seat beside her, ordered coffee and sandwiches, and with a word of excuse opened his briefcase and took out some papers.

The coffee was excellent and she was hungry. When she had finished she said, ‘I’m going to tidy myself,’ in an unselfconscious manner.

He matched it with a casual, ‘Yes, do that; once we land I don’t want to stop more than I have to.’

He got up to let her pass and, squeezing past him, she reflected that it was like circumnavigating a large and very solid tree-trunk.

Back in her seat once more, she looked out of the window and wondered how long it would take to drive to Leiden, which was to be their first stop.

Shortly afterwards they landed. ‘We’ll stop for a sandwich presently,’ the professor assured her, stuffed her into the car and got in and drove off.

‘Bruges, Antwerp, cross into Holland at Breda and drive on to the Hague; Leiden is just beyond.’

That, apparently, was as much as he intended to tell her. They were out of France and into Belgium before she saw the map in the pocket on the door. They were on a motorway, and such towns as they passed they skirted, but presently she started looking at signposts and traced their journey on the map. The professor was driving fast but, she had to admit, with a casual assurance which made her feel quite safe, although it prevented her from seeing anything much. But when they reached Bruges he slowed down and said, to surprise her, ‘This is a charming town; we’ll drive through it so that you get an idea of its beauty.’

Which he did, obligingly pointing out anything of interest before rejoining the motorway once more. The traffic was heavy here and Antwerp, as they approached it, loomed across the horizon. Before they reached the city he turned off onto a ring road and rejoined the motorway to the north of the city. Obviously, she thought, he knew the way—well, of course he would since he went to and fro fairly frequently. A huge road sign informed her that they were forty-eight kilometres from Breda, and after some mental arithmetic she decided on thirty miles. At the rate they were going they would be there in less than half an hour.

Which they were, still on the motorway skirting the town, driving on towards the Moerdijk Bridge and then on towards Rotterdam. Before they reached the bridge the professor stopped by a roadside café, parked the car and ushered her inside. It was a small place, its tables half-filled. ‘I’ll be at that table by the window,’ he told her; he nodded to a door beside the bar. ‘Through there, don’t be long—I’m hungry and I expect you are too.’

She was famished, breakfast had been a meal taken in another world, tea and dinner were as yet uncertain. She was back within five minutes.

‘I’ve ordered for us both; I hope you’ll enjoy my choice. I’m having coffee but they’ll bring you tea—not quite as the English drink it, but at least it’s tea.’

‘Thank you, I’d love a cup. Are you making good time?’

‘Yes. I hope to be at Leiden around teatime. You have a room close to the hospital. I shall want you tomorrow in the afternoon. In the morning I have several people to see so you will have time to look around. You may find the morning service at St Pieterskerk; it’s a magnificent building.’

‘I don’t speak Dutch or understand it.’

‘You don’t need to—the service is similar to your own church, and if you need to ask the way practically everyone will understand you.’

‘Then I’d like that.’ The café owner had brought the coffee and, for her, a glass of hot water on a saucer with a teabag; he came back a moment later with two dishes on which reposed slices of bread covered with slices of ham and two fried eggs.

‘This is an uitsmijter,’ said the professor. ‘If you don’t care for it, say so, and I’ll order something else.’

‘It looks delicious.’ She fell to; it not only looked good, it tasted good too, and, moreover, filled her empty insides up nicely. They ate without much talk; the professor was pleasant, thoughtful of her needs but not disposed to make idle conversation. Reasonable enough, she reflected, polishing off the last bits of ham; she had been wished on him and he didn’t like her, although he concealed his dislike beneath good manners. At least he hadn’t been able to fault her work...

They were back in the car within half an hour, heading towards Dordrecht and Rotterdam. As they left Dordrecht behind them the traffic became thicker, and as the outskirts of Rotterdam closed in on them she wondered how anyone ever found their way in the tangle of traffic, but it appeared to hold no terrors for her companion and presently they joined the long line of cars edging through the Maas Tunnel and then crossed the city and onto the motorway to den Haag. It bypassed the city, but here and there there were fields and copses which became more frequent as they reached the outskirts of Leiden.

As Professor van der Driesma drove through its heart Julie tried to see everything—it looked charming with its lovely old houses and bustling streets—but presently he turned into a wide street with a canal running through its centre. ‘Rapenburg,’ the professor told her. ‘The university and medical school are on the right.’

Julie, outwardly calm, felt nervous. ‘Will you be there?’ she asked.

‘No, I shall be at my house.’

She waited for more but it seemed that that was all she was to know. She persevered. ‘Do you live here?’

‘From time to time.’ He wasn’t going to say any more and presently he stopped before a narrow, tall house—one of a row of gabled houses just past the university buildings. ‘I think you will be comfortable here.’

He got out, opened her door, got her case from the boot and thumped the knocker on the solid front door. The woman who opened it was tall and thin and dressed severely in black, but she had a pleasant face and kind smile.

The professor addressed her in Dutch before turning to Julie. ‘This is Mevrouw Schatt. She will show you your room and give you your supper presently.’

He spoke to Mevrouw Schatt again, this time in English. ‘This is Miss Julie Beckworth, mevrouw. I know you’ll take care of her.’ He turned back to Julie. ‘I will call for you here at one o’clock tomorrow. Bring your notebook with you. I’ll tell you what I want you to do when we are there.’

‘Where?’

He looked surprised. ‘Did I not tell you? We shall be at the aula of the medical school—a discussion on various types of anaemia. Mostly questions and answers in English.’

Her ‘very well, sir’ sounded so meek that he gave her a suspicious look, which she returned with a limpid look from her green eyes.

He stood looking at her for a moment and she thought that he was going to say something else, but his ‘Good evening, Miss Beckworth’ was brisk. He shook Mevrouw Schatt’s hand and exchanged a friendly remark. At least, Julie supposed that it was friendly; she couldn’t understand a word.

‘Come, miss,’ said Mevrouw Schatt, and led the way up a steep flight of stairs and into a pleasant room overlooking the canal. It was rather full of furniture and the bed took up a great deal of space, but it was spotless and warm.

They smiled at each other and Mevrouw Schatt said, ‘The bathroom, along this passage. If you want anything you ask, miss.’ She turned to go. ‘I make tea for you, if you will come down soon.’

Left alone, Julie tried the bed, looked out of the window and unpacked what she would need for the night. So far everything had gone smoothly. She only hoped that she would be able to deal with the work. Presently she went downstairs to sit in the living room and have tea with her hostess.

The room was charming, the furniture old and gleaming, and there was a thick carpet underfoot, and heavy velvet curtains at the long windows which overlooked the street. Mevrouw Schatt switched on several little table-lamps so that the room was visible to passers-by. ‘It is the custom,’ she explained. ‘We are pleased to let others see how cosily we live.’

While she drank her tea and ate the little biscuits Julie nodded and smiled and replied suitably, and wondered what the professor was doing. If he had liked her, surely she would have stayed at his house? Would his wife object? She presumed that he had one, for he had never evinced any interest in any of the staff at the hospital, and, if not a wife, a housekeeper...

Professor van der Driesma had gone straight to the hospital and checked with his colleagues that the arrangements for the following afternoon were satisfactory. It was a pity that the seminar had to be on a Sunday, but he had a tight schedule; he very much doubted if he would have time to go to his home, but at least he could spend the night at his home here in Leiden.

He drove there now, past the university again, over the canal and into a narrow street beside the imposing library. It was quiet here and the houses, narrow and four-storeyed, with their variety of gables, were to outward appearances exactly as they had been built three hundred years ago. He drove to the end and got out, mounted the double steps to the front door with its ornate transom and put his key into the modern lock to be greeted by a deep-throated barking, and as he opened the door a big, shaggy dog hurled himself at him.

The professor bore the onslaught with equanimity. ‘Jason, old fellow; it’s good to see you again.’

He turned to speak to the elderly, stout woman who had followed the dog into the narrow hall. ‘Siska—nice to be home, even if only for one night.’ He put an arm round her plump shoulders.

‘I have an excellent tea ready,’ she told him. ‘It is a shame that you must dine out this evening.’ She added wistfully, ‘Perhaps you will soon spend more time here. You are so often in England.’ She went on, ‘If you would marry—find yourself a good little wife.’

‘I’ll think about it, Siska, if I can find one.’

He had his tea with Jason for company, and then the pair of them went for a long walk along the Rapenburg which led them past Mevrouw Schatt’s house. He could see Julie sitting in the softly lighted room; she had Mevrouw Schatt’s cat on her knee and was laughing.

He stopped to watch her for a moment. A beautiful girl, he reflected, and an excellent secretary; he had been agreeably surprised at her unflurried manner during their journey from England; with no fidgetting or demands to stop on the way, she had been an undemanding companion who didn’t expect to be entertained. He walked on, forgetting her as soon as he started to mull over the next day’s activities.

He was dining with friends that evening. He had known Gijs van der Eekerk since their student days together. Gijs had married young—a pretty girl, Zalia, who had left him and their small daughter when Alicia had still been a baby. She had been killed in a car accident shortly afterwards and now, after six years, he had married again—an English girl. It was a very happy marriage from all accounts, with Alicia devoted to her stepmother Beatrice, who was expecting a baby in the summer.

He drove to a small village some ten miles from Leiden, stopped the car before a solid square house behind high iron railings and got out, opening the door for Jason. His welcome—and Jason’s—was warm, and just for a moment he envied his old friend and his pretty wife and little daughter; they were so obviously in love and little Alicia was so happy. His evening was happy too; they spent an hour or so round the fire in the drawing room after dinner—Alicia had gone to bed—Jason and Fred, the van der Eekerk’s great dog, heaped together before it.

On the way home the professor addressed Jason, sitting beside him. ‘Do you suppose we shall ever find anyone like Beatrice? And if we do shall we snap her up?’

Jason, half-asleep, grumbled gently.

‘You agree? Then we had better start looking.’

The next morning, however, such thoughts had no place in the professor’s clever head; an early morning walk with Jason was followed by another visit to the hospital, this time to examine patients and give his opinion to his colleagues before going back to his home for lunch.

As for Julie, she had been up early, eaten her breakfast of rolls, slices of cheese, ham and currant bread, drunk a pot of coffee with them, and then, given directions by Mevrouw Schatt, had found her way to St Pieterskerk, where she stayed for the service—not understanding a word, of course. The sermon had gone on for a very long time, but the organ had been magnificent and some of the hymns had sounded very like those at home.

She walked back slowly, looking at the quaint old houses, wishing that she had more time to explore, but the professor had said one o’clock and Mevrouw Schatt had told her that they would eat their lunch at noon.

They got on well together, she and her hostess, who was ready to answer Julie’s string of questions about Leiden and its history. Her husband had been something to do with the university, she explained, and she had lived there all her life. She had a great deal to say about everything, but not a word about Professor van der Driesma.

He came at exactly one o’clock, and Julie was ready and waiting for him.

He bade her good afternoon without a smile, passed the time of day with Mevrouw Schatt and asked Julie if she was ready.

‘Yes, sir. What am I to do about my bag? Shall I take it with me or am I to fetch it later, before we leave?’

‘We shan’t leave until early tomorrow morning.’ He glanced at his watch and ushered her with speed into the car. The drive was very short indeed, thought Julie; they could have walked in five minutes...

He drove across the forecourt of the hospital and under an arch at one side of the building, parked the car, opened her door and closed it behind her with a snap. ‘Through here,’ he said, indicating a door.

Julie stood where she was. ‘Just a minute, Professor. I think there is something which must be said first.’ Her voice shook with rage. ‘You bring me here, drive me for miles, dump me, and now you expect me to go with you to some talk or other of which I know nothing. On top of that you alter your plans without bothering to tell me. I had my bag all packed...’

She paused for breath. ‘You are a very inconsiderate and tiresome man.’ She added coldly, ‘Hadn’t we better go in? It won’t do for you to be late.’

He was standing there looking down at her indignant face. ‘It seems that I owe you an apology, Miss Beckworth. I had not realised that you had suffered any discomfort during our journey. Since it is obvious that you feel the need to know exactly what I am doing hour by hour I will do my best to keep you informed. First, however, if you will allow it, we will proceed to the aula.’





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