Uncertain Summer. Betty Neels

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      ‘Oh?’ it was her father this time. ‘Is he a very young man, then?’

      Serena dragged her thoughts away from Laurens and considered. ‘Oh, no—he must be years older—he looks about thirty-five, I suppose. I haven’t really noticed.’

      Her mother gave her a swift, penetrating glance and said with deceptive casualness: ‘Well, we can find out on Monday, can’t we?’ she smiled at her eldest child. ‘And how old is this Laurence?’

      ‘Laurens,’ Serena corrected her gently. ‘About twenty-six.’

      ‘Good-looking?’ asked Susan, who had been sitting silent all this time, not saying a word.

      ‘Yes, very. Fair and tall.’

      ‘What a rotten description,’ Susan sounded faintly bored. ‘If you’ve finished, shall we get washed up? There’s such a lot to do and there’s never time.’

      Serena rose obediently from the table, understanding very well that what her younger sister meant was not enough time to do her hair a dozen ways before settling on the day’s style, nor time enough to see to her nails, or try out a variety of lipsticks. She sighed unconsciously, remembering how nice it was to be seventeen and fall painlessly in and out of love and pore for hours over magazines—she felt suddenly rather old.

      In the end she did the washing up herself because Susan had her telephone call and the two boys disappeared with the completeness and silence which only boys achieve. She stood at the old-fashioned kitchen sink and as she worked she thought about Laurens, trying to make herself think sensibly. No one in their right minds fell in love like this, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else. She was, she reminded herself over and over again, a sensible girl, no longer young and silly like little Susan; she saw also that, there was a lot more to marriage than falling in love. Besides, Laurens, even though he had told her so delightfully and surprisingly that she was going to marry him—for surely that was what he had meant—might be in the habit of falling in love with any girl who chanced to take his fancy. She began to dry the dishes, resolving that, whatever her feelings, she would not allow herself to be hurried into any situation, however wonderful it might seem. She had put the china and silver away and was on her way upstairs to make the beds when she remembered the strange intent look Gijs van Amstel had given her when Laurens had suggested she should go out with him. There had been no reason for it and it puzzled her that the small episode should stick so firmly in her memory. She shook it free from her thoughts and joined her mother, already busy in the boys’ room.

      The day passed pleasantly so that she forgot her impatience for Monday’s arrival. When she had finished her chores she duly visited the sexton’s wife, admired the baby—the sixth and surely the last?—presented the proud mother with a small gift for the tiny creature, and turned her attention to the sexton’s other five children, who had arrived with an almost monotonous regularity every eighteen months or so. They all bore a marked resemblance to each other and, Serena had to admit, they all looked remarkably healthy. She asked tentatively: ‘Do you find it a bit much—six, Mrs Snow?’

      Her hostess smiled broadly. ‘Lor’ no, Miss Serena, they’m good as gold and proper little loves, we wouldn’t be without ’em. You’ll see, when you’m wed and ’as little ’uns to rear.’

      Serena tried to imagine herself with six small children, and somehow the picture was blurred because deep in her bones something told her that Laurens wouldn’t want to be bothered with a houseful of children to absorb her time—and his. He would want her for himself… The thought sent a small doubt niggling at the back of her mind, for she loved children; provided she had help she was quite sure she could cope with half a dozen, but only if their father did his share too, and Laurens, she was sure, even though she knew very little about him, wasn’t that kind of man. Disconcertingly, a picture of his cousin, lolling against the bed in his well-worn tweeds, crossed her thoughts; she had no doubt that he would make an excellent father, even though he did strike her as being a thought too languid in his manner. And probably he was already a parent. He was, after all, older than Laurens and must have settled down by now. She dismissed him from her mind, bade the happy mother and her offspring goodbye, and departed to make her second visit—a more difficult one—the organist’s wife had lost a small baby since Serena had been home last, it had been a puny little creature with a heart condition which everyone knew was never going to improve, but that hadn’t made it any easier for the mother. Serena spent longer there than she had meant to do, trying to comfort the poor woman while she reflected how unfair life could be.

      It was surprising how quickly the weekend flew by, and yet, looking back on it as she dressed on the Monday morning, Serena saw that it had been a tranquil, slow-moving period, with time to do everything at leisure. As she made up her pretty face she found herself wishing that she wasn’t going back to Queen’s, to the eternal bustle and rush of the Accident Room, the hurried meals and the off duty, when one was either too tired to do anything but fall into one’s bed, or possessed of the feverish urge to rush out and enjoy oneself. But if she didn’t go back she wouldn’t see Laurens. She tucked back a stray wisp of hair and stood back to inspect her person; she was wearing a short-sleeved silk blouse which exactly matched the deep clotted cream of her pleated skirt, whose matching jacket she left on the bed with her gloves and handbag, for she still had the breakfast to get. She put on the kettle, skipped into the dining-room and tuned the radio in to the music programme and went back to the stove, trying out a few dance steps to the too-loud music as she cracked eggs into a bowl. She dropped the last one on to the floor when a voice behind her said almost apologetically: ‘I must take the blame for that, but the front door was open and although I rang the bell the music—er—drowned it, I fancy.’

      She had whirled round and trodden in the egg as she did so. She said:

      ‘Damn!’ and then: ‘Good morning, Doctor van Amstel, you’re early,’ giving him the briefest of smiles.

      If he was put out by his cool reception he allowed nothing of it to show but said mildly: ‘Yes, I’m sorry for that, too, but Laurens was so anxious that I should be on time.’ His unhurried gaze took in the apron she had tied untidily round her slim waist and moved on to take in the singing kettle and the bacon sizzling in the pan. ‘I’ll come back in half an hour, shall I?’ He gave her a lazy grin and sauntered towards the door just as Mrs Potts trotted in. Showing no surprise at the sight of a very large strange man in her kitchen, she said briskly: ‘Good morning. You’ll be the cousin, I’m sure. How very early you must have got up this morning, you poor boy. You’ll have breakfast with us, of course, it’ll be ready in a minute.’

      Serena dished up bacon and put another few slices in. She felt all at once exasperated; she had been rude and inhospitable and the poor man had presumably had no breakfast; after all, he was driving her back. She said contritely: ‘I’m so sorry—I was surprised—I think I must have lost my wits. This is Doctor Gijs van Amstel, Mother—my mother, Doctor, and this is my father,’ she added as her parent joined them. She left them to talk while she got on with the toast, peeping once or twice at the doctor. He dwarfed her father both in height and breadth, his massive head with its pale hair towering over them all. He appeared to be getting on very well with her mother and father and something about his manner made her wonder if her first impression of him had been wrong—perhaps he wasn’t a junior partner at all. Her arched brows drew together in a frown as she pondered this; there was so much she didn’t know about Laurens and this man standing beside her.

      They left directly after breakfast, with the entire family waving goodbye from the door and an odd housewife or so from the nearby cottages waving too for good measure. The car bumped a little going up the lane and the doctor said easily: ‘Sorry about the car—I really must do something about it.’ He slowed a little as they turned into the wider road. ‘But СКАЧАТЬ