Britannia All at Sea. Бетти Нилс

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      ‘The bird’s wing has been set; it will be cared for until it is fit to fly again.’ He spoke unsmilingly, but she didn’t notice that, she looked at him with delight.

      ‘Isn’t it incredible?’ she declared. ‘I mean, meeting like this after the sluice at St Jude’s and now you here, almost next door, as it were.’

      He looked down his splendid nose. ‘I can see nothing incredible about it,’ he said repressively. ‘It is a coincidence, Britannia, they occur from time to time.’

      He could call it that if he liked. She thought secretly of good fairies and kindly Fate and smiled widely. ‘Well, you don’t need to be so cross about it. I’ve never met such a prickly man. Have you been crossed in love or something?’

      The ferocious expression which passed over the professor’s handsome features might have daunted anyone of lesser spirit than hers. ‘You abominable girl!’ he ground out savagely. ‘I have never met anyone like you…’

      Britannia lifted a hand to tuck back a wet strand of hair. ‘What you need,’ she told him kindly, ‘is a wife and a family.’

      His mouth quivered momentarily. ‘Why?’

      She answered him seriously. ‘Well, you would have them to look after and care for and love, and they’d love you and bring you your slippers in the evening, and…’

      His voice was a well-controlled explosion. ‘For God’s sake, girl,’ he roared, ‘be quiet! Of all the sickly sentimental ideas…!’

      Two tears welled up in Britannia’s fine eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks. The professor muttered strongly in his own language, and with the air of a man goaded beyond endurance, got out of his car.

      ‘Why are you crying? I suppose that you will tell me that it’s my fault.’

      Britannia gave a sniff, wiped her eyes on a delicate scrap of white lawn and then blew her nose. ‘No, of course it’s not your fault, because you can’t help it, can you? It’s just very sad that you should think of a wife and children as being nothing more than s-sickly s-sentiment.’ Two more tears spilled over and she wiped them away impatiently as a child would, with the back of her hand.

      The professor was standing very close to her. When he spoke it was with surprising gentleness. ‘I didn’t mean that. I was angry.’

      She said in a woeful voice, ‘But you’re always losing your temper—every time we meet you rage and roar at me.’

      ‘I neither rage nor roar, Britannia. Possibly I am a little ill-tempered at times.’ The gentleness had a decidedly chilly edge to it now.

      ‘Oh, yes, you do,’ she answered him with spirit. ‘You terrify me.’ She peeped at him, to see him frowning.

      ‘I cannot believe that you are terrified of anyone or anything, certainly not of me. Try that on some other man, my dear girl, I’m not a fool.’

      She sighed. ‘Well, no—I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me.’

      He looked at her with cold interest. ‘And were the tears a try-out too?’

      She shook her head slowly; she might have met him again, just as she had dreamed that she might, but it hadn’t done much good. She said quietly: ‘Thank you very much for taking care of the bird,’ and got on to her bike and wobbled off at a great rate, leaving him standing there.

      She tried very hard not to think of him during the rest of the day, but lying in bed was a different matter; she went over their meetings, not forgetting a word or a look, and came to the conclusion that he still didn’t like her. She was on the point of sleep when she remembered with real regret that she had hardly looked her best; surely, if she had been wearing the new pink dress, he would have behaved differently? Men, her mother had always said, were susceptible to pink. Britannia sighed and slept.

      CHAPTER THREE

      IT SEEMED THAT Britannia was never to discover the professor’s taste regarding pink-clad females, but that was a small price to pay in the face of the frequency of their meetings. For she met him again the very next afternoon. Joan, laid low with a headache, had decided to stay indoors and Mevrouw Veske had an appointment with her dentist. Britannia, restless and urged by her friend to take advantage of the unexpectedly pleasant day, donned slacks, pulled on two sweaters, tied a scarf under her chin and went to fetch her bicycle. There was miles of open country around her; she chose a right-hand turn at the crossroads and pedalled down it, feeling a good deal more cheerful while she plotted ways and means—most of them quite unsuitable—of meeting the professor again. An unnecessary exercise as it turned out, for seeing a picturesque pond among the trees on the other side of the road she decided to cross over and get a better view. She was almost there when the professor’s magnificent car swept round the curve ahead and stopped within a foot or so of her.

      She jumped off her machine, quite undisturbed by the sight of his furious face thrust through the open window, and his biting: ‘This is becoming quite ridiculous—you’re not fit to ride a bicycle!’

      Britannia, a girl of common sense, nonetheless realised that her fairy godmother, kind Fate or just plain good luck were giving her another chance. The sight of the professor glowering from the opened window of his stupendous car sent a most pleasing sensation through her, although her pretty face remained calm. She said: ‘Hullo,’ and got no reply; the professor was swallowing rage. When he did at length speak, his voice was cold and nasty.

      ‘You were on the wrong side of the road. I might have killed you.’

      She stooped to pick up her bicycle, observing that it had a puncture in the back tyre which seemed of no great importance at the moment; it was much more important to get him into a good mood. She said reasonably: ‘I’m a foreigner, so you have to make allowances, you know. You aren’t very nice about it; after all, we have met before.’

      The blue eyes studied her in undisguised rage. ‘Indeed we have, but I see no reason to express pleasure at seeing you again. I advise you to travel on the correct side of the road and use the cycle path where there is one.’ He added morosely: ‘You’re not fit to be out on your own.’

      Britannia took his criticism in good part. ‘You can come with me if you like,’ she invited. ‘I daresay some healthy exercise would do you good; there’s nothing like fresh air to blow away bad temper.’ She smiled at him kindly and waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t she went on: ‘Oh, well, perhaps you can’t cycle any more…’

      The professor’s voice, usually deep and measured, took on an unexpected volume. ‘You are an atrocious girl. How you got here and why is no concern of mine, but I will not be plagued by you.’

      She looked meek. ‘I don’t mean to plague you. My back tyre’s punctured.’

      ‘Mend it or walk home!’ he bellowed, and left her standing there.

      ‘He drives much too fast,’ remarked Britannia to the quiet road. ‘And how do I mend a puncture with nothing?’

      She turned her machine and started to walk, doing sums as she went. She had been cycling for almost an hour—not hurrying—so she must have come at least ten miles. She would be late for lunch, she might even be late for tea. She had passed through a village some way СКАЧАТЬ