Love & Marriage
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Betty Neels
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CHAPTER ONE
SARAH looked out of the car’s windows at the flat, peaceful countryside of Holland, no longer listening to her stepfather’s angry voice blaming everyone and everything but himself for getting lost. Her mother, sitting beside him with the map, had been ignored when she had pointed out the road they should have taken, but the main butt of his ill humour was Sarah.
He turned his red, angry face and said over his shoulder, ‘You must have known that we had taken a wrong turning—why didn’t you say so?’
Sarah said in her quiet voice, ‘I don’t know Holland. I came with you and Mother because you wanted someone who could speak French while you were in France.’ She added before he could reply, ‘If you had told us that you intended going back home through Belgium and Holland I would have bought a Dutch dictionary—so that I could have asked the way,’ she pointed out in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Don’t annoy your father, dear,’ said her mother.
‘He isn’t my father; he’s my stepfather,’ said Sarah, and she wondered why her mother, after ten years or more, could bear to be married to him, and why she expected Sarah to think of him as her father. It had been mutual dislike at first sight, but her mother, who had managed to go through life turning a blind eye to anything which upset her, had steadfastly pretended that her ill-tempered husband and the daughter she had never quite understood were the best of friends.
Then, because she loved her mother, Sarah added, ‘There was a road sign a mile or so back. It said “Arnhem, seventeen kilometres”.’
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ asked her stepfather furiously. ‘Letting me drive miles out of my way.’
‘I did. You told me not to bother you.’
He drove on then, muttering under his breath. Sarah turned a deaf ear, vaguely aware of her mother’s conciliatory murmurs, uneasy now since he was driving much too fast. The road was narrow, with a ditch on either side and fields beyond; it stretched ahead of them with nothing in sight and the March day was drawing to a close. She thanked heaven silently that there were no curves or corners, and no traffic at all.
She had overlooked the ditches. Her stepfather, never a good driver, and an even worse one when he was in a bad temper, took a hand off the wheel to snatch the map from his wife’s lap, and the car shot over the narrow grass verge and tumbled into the ditch.
The ditch was half filled with water draining from the fields, and the car hit the muddy bottom with tremendous force, its bonnet completely buried.
Sarah, flung hither and thither and ending up rather the worse for wear, still in her seat belt, was too shocked to speak, but it was, in a way, reassuring to hear her stepfather swearing, and then shouting, ‘Get me out, get me out!’
Typical! thought Sarah, light-headed. What about Mother…? She came to then, scrambling round until she could undo the belt and lean over the seat where her mother was. Her mother was slumped over, her head against the dashboard, and she didn’t answer when Sarah spoke to her. Sarah leaned over and found her arm and felt for her pulse—beating, she was relieved to find, reasonably strong. Her stepfather gave another shout, and she said loudly, ‘Be quiet, do. Get out and help Mother, she’s hurt…’
‘You stupid girl. I’m hurt—my leg, my chest. Never mind your mother for the moment, go and get help. Be quick. Heaven knows how badly injured I am.’
‘This is your fault,’ said Sarah, ‘and all you can think of is that you’re hurt. Well, so is Mother…’
She wriggled out of her seat, and after a struggle managed to open the door of the car. The water, icy cold and thick with mud, came up to her knees, but she hardly noticed that. It was late afternoon and the sky was grey, but there was still plenty of light. She tugged at the handle of the door by her mother and found it jammed, so got back into the car again and leaned over to open it from inside. It didn’t budge.
Frantically she managed to undo her mother’s seat belt and haul her gently into a more comfortable position, relieved to feel her pulse was stronger now. There were rugs in the boot, but first she must turn off the engine, still running, and take a look at her stepfather. She hung over the back of his seat and managed to undo his seat belt and sit him up a little, not listening to his roars of rage.
And all this had taken only a few minutes, she realised, edging her way round to the boot and finding it thankfully burst open and the rugs easy to reach. She tucked them round her mother and stepfather and then scrambled up the bank and took a look. The flat countryside stretched round her, wide fields divided by ditches, a few trees, and not a house in sight. There was a clump of larger trees some way off. Perhaps there would be a farm there, but surely even on this quiet road there would be traffic or something, someone…
There was; still far off, but coming towards her, was a horse and cart. Sarah shouted then, and waved and shouted again until she was hoarse, but the cart didn’t increase its speed. She didn’t dare to leave her mother and stepfather, and watched it in an agony of impatience as the beast plodded steadily towards her. When the cart was near enough she ran towards it.
The man holding the reins halted the horse and stared down at her.
‘An accident,’ said Sarah. ‘Police, ambulance, hospital.’ And, since he didn’t seem to understand her, she said it all again and added, ‘Please, hurry…’
The man had a broad, dull face but he looked kind. He looked across at the upended car and then back at Sarah. ‘Politie?’
‘Yes, yes. Please, hurry…’
He nodded then, thought for a moment, and broke into speech. It was a pity that she couldn’t understand a word of it, but he ended with the word politie and urged his horse forward. Sarah watched the cart disappear slowly into the distance until the clump of trees hid it from view, and then she climbed back into the ditch.
Her mother was moaning a little, and Sarah tucked the rug more tightly around her and contrived to shift her legs so that they were free of the cold water which filled the front of the car. She tried to do the same for her stepfather, but one leg was at an awkward angle and she didn’t dare to touch it. She made him as comfortable as possible and climbed out of the ditch once more, to meet a heartening sight: the blue flashing lights of a police car coming at speed.
The two men in it were large, reassuringly calm, and spoke English. She wanted to fling herself on a broad chest and burst into tears of relief, but it didn’t seem the right moment.
‘My mother and stepfather are in the car,’ she told them, in a voice which shook only slightly. ‘They’re hurt. Is an ambulance coming?’
‘It comes at once. And you, miss? You are not hurt?’ the older of the two officers asked her.
‘No, I’m fine.’ She peered anxiously over the edge of the ditch to where the other officer was bending over her mother. She would have joined him, but the ambulance arrived then and she was urged to stand on one side while the policemen and the paramedics began the task of getting her mother and stepfather out of the car.
They were hefty men, and made short work of breaking down the car door, releasing her mother and lifting her into the ambulance. Getting her stepfather out was more difficult. His leg was broken and he was cut by broken glass, moreover he disputed their actions, shouting and swearing. Sarah was sorry that he was injured, but she hoped that the men would put his uninhibited behaviour down to shock.
It was almost dark now. While they had been busy, Sarah had unloaded their cases from the boot and stood with them, waiting to be told what to do next.
‘You will come with us to the hospital,’ said the older constable. ‘We will take your luggage to the police station and tomorrow you may come and fetch it.’ He waved the ambulance away and opened the car door for her. ‘You have everything, passports, money?’
‘Yes, I’ve put them in one of the cases. Where are we going?’
‘Arnhem.’ He gave her a brief glance. ‘You are OK?’
Sarah said, ‘Yes, thank you.’ She was alive, unhurt, although she was aware of aches and pains and wet and icy feet and legs; she was OK.
The hospital at Arnhem was large and modern, and the Accident Room was heaving with people. The two policemen set her down beside the ambulance, warned her to collect the cases from the police station in the morning and be ready to give a report of the accident, and sped on their way. She watched them go with regret; they had been briskly friendly—warning her stepfather that they would come to the hospital to see him in the morning, patting her on the shoulder in a kindly fashion—and now they had gone, siren sounding, blue lights flashing. Another accident?
Sarah followed the two stretchers into the hospital and presently found herself in a waiting room with a lot of other anxious people. Someone would come and report on her mother and stepfather, she was told by a busy nurse, taking down particulars and thankfully speaking English.
Sarah settled into one of the plastic chairs arranged around the room. Her feet were numb now, and she smelled horrible. A cup of tea, she thought longingly, and a nice warm bath and then bed. She was hungry, too, and she felt guilty about that with her mother and stepfather injured. People came and went. Slowly the room emptied. Surely someone would come for her soon. She closed her eyes on a daydream of endless pots of tea and plates piled high with hot buttered toast and slept.
Mr ter Breukel, consultant orthopaedic surgeon at the hospital, finished his examination of Mr Holt’s leg and bent his massive person over his patient. He studied the ill-tempered face and listened patiently to the diatribe directed at himself, his staff and everyone in general.
When Mr Holt drew breath, he said quietly, ‘You have a broken leg; it will need to be pinned and plated. You have two broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and superficial cuts and bruises. You will be put to bed presently and in the morning I will set the leg. You will need to stay here until it is considered expedient to return you to England.’
Mr Holt said furiously, ‘I demand to be sent to England immediately. How am I to know that you are competent to deal with my injuries? I am a businessman and have some influential friends.’
Mr ter Breukel ignored the rudeness. ‘I will see you in the morning. Your wife will be warded also. She has concussion but is not seriously hurt.’
He waited for Mr Holt to say something, and when he didn’t added, ‘Was there anyone else with you?’
‘My stepdaughter.’ Mr Holt gave him a look of deep dislike. ‘She’s quite capable of taking care of herself.’
‘In the circumstances,’ said Mr ter Breukel, ‘that is most fortunate.’
The Accident Room was emptying, so he could safely leave the minor cases to the two casualty officers on duty, but first he supposed he should find this stepdaughter. Probably with her mother…
Mrs Holt was fully conscious now, and complaining weakly. She had no wish to stay in hospital; she must have a private room, she wanted her own nightclothes, her own toiletries…
Mr ter Breukel bent over the stretcher, lifted a limp hand and took her pulse. It was steady and quite strong. ‘Your daughter?’ he asked quietly. ‘She was with you in the car?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Where is she? Why isn’t she here with me? She knows how bad my nerves are. Someone must fetch her. She must find a good hotel where I can stay for a few days until my husband can return to England.’
‘Mr Holt will have to remain here for some time, Mrs Holt, and I cannot allow you to leave this hospital until you have recovered from a slight concussion.’
‘How tiresome.’ Mrs Holt turned her head away and closed her eyes.
Mr ter Breukel nodded to the porters to wheel her away to the ward and went in search of the third member of the party.
The place was quieter now, and the waiting room was empty save for Sarah. He stood looking at her—such an ordinary girl, dirty and dishevelled, a bruise on one cheek and smelling vilely of the mud clinging to her person. A girl without looks, pale, her hair hanging in untidy damp streamers around a face which could easily pass unnoticed in a crowd. A girl completely lacking in glamour.
He sighed deeply; to fall in love at first sight with this malodorous sleeping girl, with, as far as he could see, no pretentious to beauty or even good looks, was something he had not expected. But falling in love, he had always understood, was unpredictable, and, as far as he was concerned, irrevocable. That they hadn’t exchanged a word, nor spoken, made no difference. He, heartwhole until that minute, and with no intention of marrying until it suited him, had lost that same heart.
But he wasn’t a callow youth; he would have to tread softly, otherwise he might lose her. He went close to her chair and said gently, ‘Miss Holt?’
Sarah opened her eyes and allowed them to travel up a vast expanse of superfine clerical grey cloth, past a richly sombre tie and white linen, until they reached his face.
She said clearly, ‘Not Miss Holt; he’s my stepfather. Beckwith—Sarah Beckwith. That’s a nice tie—Italian silk?’
Mr ter Breukel, aware that she wasn’t quite awake yet, agreed gravely that it was Italian silk. Her eyes, he saw with delight, were quite beautiful, a vivid dark blue, veiled by mousy lashes.
Sarah sat up straight and pushed her hair off her face. ‘I’m sorry, I fell asleep.’ She studied his face, a very trustworthy face, she decided, as well as a handsome one, with its high-bridged nose and firm mouth and heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Mother…?’
‘I am Litrik ter Breukel, consultant orthopaedic surgery. I’m sorry there was no one to see you. It has been a busy evening. Your mother is to stay here for a few days. She has been concussed, but should recover quickly. There are one or two cuts and bruises which will heal quickly. Your stepfather has a broken leg, fractured ribs, and he has been cut by glass. He must remain until he is fit to be sent back to England.’
‘Do I have to arrange that?’
‘No, no. We will see to that at the appropriate time.’
‘May I see Mother?’
‘Of course. But first I think you must be checked to make sure that you have no injuries. And you will need a tetanus injection and to be cleaned up.’
‘I’m not hurt, only dirty and a bit scratched. And I smell dreadful…’
She went without demur to the Accident Room, where he handed her over to a stout, middle-aged woman with a kind face and a harassed manner. She spoke English, too. Sarah submitted to being cleaned up, her scratches and bruises dealt with, her injection given, to the accompaniment of her companion’s pleased astonishment that she wasn’t more seriously injured, and then, looking clean and smelling of good soap, she was handed back to Mr ter Breukel, who, eyeing her with all the delight of a man in love, thought she looked like some small girl who had been run through the mangle and left to dry.
He said merely, ‘You feel better now? We will go to your mother.’ And he led the way through the hospital, in and out of lifts, up and down staircases, and eventually into a ward with a dozen beds in it.
Her mother had a corner bed, and was lying back comfortably, but when she saw Sarah she asked peevishly, ‘Where have you been? I feel terrible. I’m sure that I’m a good deal worse than these doctors say. You should have been here with me…’
Sarah said gently, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. I fell asleep…’
‘Asleep? You must have known that I was lying here in pain? And your poor father…’
‘Stepfather,’ said Sarah.
‘Yes, well—it is all very well for you, you don’t appear to have been hurt in the least.’ She added fretfully, ‘I knew this would happen; you always manage to annoy him.’
Sarah said nothing to that, and her mother closed her eyes. ‘Now go away and spare a thought for your poor mother before you go to sleep in a comfortable bed.’
Sarah bent and kissed an averted cheek, and then was led away by Mr ter Breukel, who had been standing just behind her, listening to every word.
He made no mention of their conversation, however, but walked her silently to the entrance, where she stopped and offered her hand. ‘You’ve been very kind. Thank you. I know my mother and stepfather will be all right here. May I come and see them in the morning?’
He had no intention of letting her go, and for once a kindly Fate lent a helping hand; Sarah gave a small choking gasp. ‘I’m going to be sick…’
There was a providential sink nearby, and she found herself leaning over it, a firm, cool hand holding her head…
Presently she gasped, ‘Oh, the relief,’ and then, aware of the hand, mumbled, ‘How awful for you. I’m so sorry.’
‘Best thing you could have done. You probably swallowed a good deal of ditchwater.’
He bent over her, wiped her face with his handkerchief and led her outside into the crisp March evening.
Sarah tugged on an arm to call a halt. ‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘I’m fine now.’
‘You have somewhere to go? Money? Do you know your way about Arnhem?’
She looked away, searching for an answer which wouldn’t sound like a fib.
‘The police said I could collect our cases and things in the morning from the police station…’
‘You know where that is?’
‘No, but I can ask.’
‘And until morning?’ he persisted.
She opened her mouth to utter something misleading but convincing.
‘No, no. Let us have no nonsense. You have no money, no clothes, you are extremely dirty and probably hungry. You will come home with me…’
He spoke pleasantly, but he sounded as though he meant it. All the same, she said tartly, ‘Indeed I won’t.’
Mr ter Breukel slid effortlessly into his bedside manner. ‘My dear young lady, my sister will be delighted to meet you, and help you in any way she can.’ He didn’t smile, but Sarah, peeping at him, had to admit that he looked—she sought the right word—safe.
‘If you’re sure I won’t be a nuisance, thank you.’
He nodded, walked to where a dark grey Rolls Royce was parked and popped her neatly into it, got in beside her and drove away.
After a moment Sarah asked, ‘Will I be able to arrange for Mother to go home soon? If she isn’t seriously hurt…’
‘Shall we leave that for the moment? Time enough when you have seen the police in the morning. You will probably have to make a statement, as will your parents. Once the matter has been dealt with, arrangements can be made for you to return to England.’
He drove to the city’s heart, where there were still ancient houses and shops which had miraculously escaped damage during the terrific battle towards the end of World War II, stopping presently in a narrow, canal-lined street.
The houses in it were old, narrow and tall, leaning against each other, each with a splendid gable. He stopped the car halfway down, got out and opened the door for Sarah. She got out and looked around her. She could have stepped back into the seventeenth century, for there was no traffic, no cars parked, only the rustle of trees lining the canal to break the stillness.
‘You live here?’
‘Yes.’ He took her arm and marched her across the narrow pavement and up some worn steps to a handsome door flanked by long narrow windows on either side of it. He unlocked the door and urged her gently before him into the narrow hall beyond, its walls panelled, black and white tiles underfoot, a brass chandelier, probably as old as the house, hanging from the beautiful plaster ceiling.
As they entered, a door at the end of the hall opened, and a short, stout man came to meet them. He was accompanied by a large dog with small yellow eyes and a thick grey pelt, who bared awesome teeth in what Sarah hoped was a smile. Apparently it was, for he pranced up to Mr ter Breukel and offered his head for a scratch with reassuring meekness.
Mr ter Breukel obliged, exchanged a few words with the man and switched to English. ‘This is Jaap; he and his wife look after me. And this is Max; he looks fierce, but he has the disposition of a lamb.’
Sarah shook Jaap’s hand, then patted Max’s woolly head and tried not to notice the teeth before she was propelled gently through a door into a high-ceilinged room with narrow windows and a hooded fireplace. She had no time to see more than that before a young woman got up from a chair by the cheerful fire and came to meet them.
‘Litrik, you’re late.’ She lifted a face for his kiss and smiled at Sarah.
‘Suzanne, this is Sarah Beckwith. She and her parents had a car accident this afternoon. They are at St Bravo’s and she has agreed to stay here with us for the night. The police have all their things, and it is rather late to find a hotel…’
Suzanne took Sarah’s hand. ‘How horrid for you, and we’ll love to have you; you must be feeling awful.’ She cast a discreet eye over Sarah’s deplorable person. ‘Would you like a bath before dinner? Anneke can get your clothes cleaned up while I lend you something to wear.’
She took Sarah’s arm. ‘This is fun—not for you, of course, but I’m so pleased you’re here. We’ll find Anneke and I’ll take you upstairs.’
She turned to her brother. ‘Dinner in half an hour? You don’t have to go back this evening?’
‘No, not unless something turns up.’ He gave a casual nod and smile and went to the fire, and Sarah, reassured by the matter-of-fact air he was careful to maintain, went back into the hall and up a carved staircase in a recess halfway down it.
A small, thin woman was waiting for them when they reached the landing.
‘This is Anneke,’ said Suzanne. ‘Jaap’s wife and a family friend for years and years.’
Sarah offered a hand once more and was aware that she was being carefully studied from beady brown eyes. Then Anneke smiled and led the way down a passage leading off the landing, opened a door and waved Suzanne and Sarah into the room beyond.
A charming room of pale pastel colours, deeply carpeted, with curtained windows a froth of white muslin. Sarah paused on the threshold. ‘My filthy shoes…’ She took them off and Anneke took them from her with a smile and said something to Suzanne.
‘Take everything off and have a bath. Anneke will see to your things and I’ll bring you some clothes.’ She studied Sarah’s small person. ‘We’re almost the same size. A sweater and trousers?’ She gave Sarah a little push. ‘Anneke’s running a bath for you; I’ll be back in ten minutes.’
Left alone, Sarah shed her damp and dirty clothes, laid them tidily on a towel so as not to spoil the carpet or quilt, and got into the bath. It was blissfully hot and delightfully scented. She could have stayed there for hours, but Suzanne, calling from the open door into the bedroom, roused her.
‘I’ve put some things on the bed. Something is bound to fit, more or less. Dinner in ten minutes.’
Sarah, wrapped in a vast white towel, went to have a look. There was a heap of coloured sweaters, a couple of pairs of trousers, gossamer undies, slippers…
Dressed, her hair still damp and tied back in an untidy plait for lack of ribbons or pins, the trousers on the large side and the pink sweater she had chosen shrouding her person, she took a final look at her reflection. She looked as plain as always, she decided, but at least she was clean and smelling sweet.
She went downstairs and found Jaap in the hall, waiting for her. He led her with a fatherly air back into the drawing room and Mr ter Breukel got up out of his chair and crossed the room with just the right air of a polite host ready to put an unexpected guest at ease.
Suzanne, watching him, hid a smile. Litrik, impervious to the charms of various young ladies that his family, anxious for him to marry, had produced, was showing interest in this nice little creature with the plain face and the lovely eyes. And the pink sweater suited her very well…
Sarah, accepting a chair and a glass of sherry, happily unaware of Suzanne’s thoughts, made polite conversation with her host and hostess, and, encouraged by Mr ter Breukel’s artless questioning, said that no, she had never been to Arnhem before, had never been in Holland—only her stepfather had wanted to return to England by the night ferry to Harwich.
‘Ah, yes—you live somewhere along the east coast? By far the easiest way to return.’
‘He has a house near Clapham Common—that’s London,’ said Sarah flatly. And, since his raised eyebrows invited more than that, added, ‘We—that is, Mother and Father, before he died, and me…’ She paused. Perhaps it was ‘I’. ‘We used to live in a small village in Berkshire.’
‘Delightful country,’ murmured Mr ter Breukel, inviting further confidences.
‘Yes, quite different from Clapham Common.’
‘You live at home?’
‘Yes. Mother isn’t very strong…’
Suzanne asked, ‘You’re not getting married or anything like that?’
‘No, we—I don’t go out much.’
Mr ter Breukel said easily, ‘One never knows what awaits one round the corner.’ He knew, of course, but patience was something of which he had plenty. Having found her, he wasn’t going to lose her by being hasty.
Jaap came to tell them that dinner was served; Suzanne took his arm and they crossed the hall to the dining room, with its panelled walls and oval table, the George the First Oak dresser along one wall, the oak Chippendale chairs. A pair of crystal candelabra stood on the dresser, and a silver and cut-glass epergne was at the centre of the table, which was set with lace mats and silverware—very plain, with a crest worn by time.
Sarah gave a quick glance around her and sighed with pleasure. Everything in the room was old and perfect and used—not taken for granted, but neither was it hidden away behind cabinet doors or packed in green baize, to be used only on very special occasions.
The food was good too, simple and beautifully cooked, enhanced by the plates upon which it was served; Delft, she recognised, and old, for they were patterned in pale lavender, not the blue one expected. Washing up would be a hazardous undertaking…
She drank the wine she was offered and Mr ter Breukel watched with satisfaction as the colour came back into her pale face. She hadn’t been injured but she had been shocked, although she had done her best to hide that. A good night’s sleep, he reflected, and tomorrow he would find the time to consider the future.
Suzanne escorted Sarah to her bed, after a cheerful goodnight from her host.
Sarah got into the silk and lacy nightie Suzanne had found for her and slid into bed, determined to make sensible plans for the morning; once she had retrieved their luggage and money and passports from the police, she reflected, she could decide what was best to be done. She would have to find out just how long her mother and stepfather would have to stay in hospital… That was as far as she got before falling into a refreshing sleep.
She woke to find Anneke standing by the bed with a little tray of tea and holding her clothes, clean and pressed, over one arm. Anneke beamed at her, nodding in response to her good morning, and handed her a note. The writing was a scrawl; it could have been written by a spider dipped in ink. With difficulty Sarah made out that breakfast was at eight o’clock and she would be taken to the hospital directly after the meal. So she smiled and nodded to Anneke, who smiled and nodded in return, before Sarah drank her tea and got out of bed. There wasn’t much time; she showered, dressed, did the best she could with her face and hair, and went downstairs.
Mr ter Breukel and Suzanne were already at the table, but he got up to pull out her chair and expressed the hope that she had slept well.
‘Very well,’ said Sarah. ‘Such a pretty room, and the sort of bed you sink into.’
‘Good. You had my note?’
She buttered a roll. ‘Yes. What shocking handwriting you have. But I suppose all medical men write badly so that no one can understand, if you see what I mean?’
Suzanne turned a laugh into a cough, and Mr ter Breukel said gravely, ‘I think that is very likely.’ He gave her a glance just long enough to take in the delightful sight of her in her cleaned and pressed clothes, no make-up and shining mousy hair. Sarah, not seeing the glance, drank her coffee and remarked that he would be wishing to leave for the hospital and she was quite ready when he wished to go.
‘Although I’m sure I should be quite all right to walk to the police station. Unless perhaps I should go to the hospital first?’
‘Yes, that would be best. Everything depends on the condition of your mother and stepfather.’ He got up from the table. ‘You’ll excuse me? I must telephone. Could you be ready to leave in ten minutes?’
She got into the car beside him presently; she had bidden Suzanne goodbye and thanked her for her kindness, and Suzanne had kissed her cheek, rather to Sarah’s surprise, and said it had been fun. Sarah, thinking about it, supposed that for Suzanne it had been just that, and she had liked her… She liked the man sitting beside her too.
At the hospital he nodded a casual goodbye, said that he would see her later, and handed her over to a nurse who took her to her mother.
Mrs Holt was awake and complaining.
‘There you are. I hope you’ll arrange for us to go back home as quickly as possible. I shall never recover in this place. Tea with no milk, and nothing but thin bread and butter and a boiled egg.’
Sarah bent to kiss her. ‘Did you sleep? Do you feel better this morning?’
‘Of course I didn’t close my eyes all night, and I feel very poorly. Have you got our things yet? I want my own nightgowns; someone must do my hair…’
‘I’m going to collect them this morning; I’ll bring whatever you need here, Mother.’
‘Have you seen your father?’
‘Stepfather,’ said Sarah. ‘No, Nurse tells me that he is to have his leg seen to this morning.’
‘How tiresome.’ Mrs Holt turned her head away. ‘Go and get my things; when you get back I’ll tell you if I want anything else.’
Sarah went through the hospital once more and, because she was a kind girl, asked if she could see her stepfather.
He was in a small ward with three other men, and she saw at a glance that he was in no mood to answer her ‘good morning’. She stood listening to his diatribe in reply to her enquiry as to how he felt, and, when he had run out of breath, said that she would come and see him after he had had his operation. Only to be told that he couldn’t care less if he never saw her again! So she bade him goodbye and started back to the entrance. Neither parent had asked where she had slept or how she felt.
Getting lost on the way out, she had time to think about her future. She supposed that some time during the day someone at the hospital would tell her how long her mother and stepfather would have to remain there. Mr ter Breukel had told her that someone would arrange their return to England, so it seemed best for her to go back as quickly as possible and look after the house until they returned.
She preferred not to think further ahead than that; life hadn’t been easy living at home, her sense of duty outweighing her longing to have a life of her own. But her mother, each time Sarah suggested that she might train for something and be independent, had made life unbearable, with her reproaches and sly reminders that her father had told Sarah to look after her mother. Then, of course, he had had no idea that his wife would remarry—and to a man who was in a position to give her a comfortable life. And who had taken a dislike to his stepdaughter the moment they had met.
She found the main entrance at last, but halfway to it she was stopped.
A porter addressed her in surprisingly good English. She was to wait—he indicated an open doorway beyond which people were sitting.
Perhaps she was to be told what arrangements had been made for her parents. She sat down obediently; there was no point in getting fussed. She had hoped to return to England that day, but probably she would have to spend another night in Arnhem. Which should hold no terrors for her; she would have some money once she had been to the police station, and all she had to do was wait for someone to tell her what to do next.
There were a great many posters on the walls, and she was making futile guesses as to what they were about when the porter tapped her on the shoulder.
She followed him back to the entrance hall and saw Mr ter Breukel standing by the doors. Her smile at the sight of him—filled with relief and delight—shook him badly, but all he said was ‘I’ll take you to the police station,’ with detached courtesy.
