Uncertain Summer

He was lying in bed doing nothing when she got to his room at last. He looked pale and there was a discontented droop to his mouth which she put down to the after-effects of his accident; probably he still had a bad headache. But he brightened when he saw her and began to talk in a most amusing way about himself and his day. Of his cousin he said not a word and Serena didn’t ask, content to be amused at his talk.

She saw him again the next morning during her dinner time, for she went, as she sometimes did, to Joan’s office for the cup of tea they had before the start of the afternoon’s work. It was, of necessity, a brief visit and as she left his room she passed Doctor Gijs van Amstel in the corridor. She wished him a good day and gave him the briefest of glances, because she had the feeling that if she did more than that he might be disposed to stop and talk to her, and for some reason—too vague to put into words—she didn’t want to do that.

The next few days began to form a pattern drawn around her visits to the surgical floor. She still went out in her off duty, for she had a great number of friends. She shopped too and went to the cinema with Bill Travers, but the only real moment of the days was when she tapped on the door of number twenty-one and heard Laurens’s welcoming: ‘Come in, Serena.’

She had seen no more of his cousin, and when she mentioned it to Joan it was to discover that he had returned to Holland and would be back again shortly. And Laurens never spoke of him, although he talked about everything else under the sun. Serena listened, hardly speaking herself, wrapped in a kind of enchantment because here, at last, was the man she had been waiting for and who, she was beginning to hope, had been waiting for her.

It surprised her that Joan, although she admitted to liking Laurens very much, could find anything wrong with him. ‘He’s a charmer all right,’ she agreed, ‘but ducky, be your age—can’t you see that if he can chat you up so expertly, he’s probably had a lot of practice and doesn’t intend to stop at you?’

Which remark made Serena so indignant that she could hardly find the words to answer such heresy. ‘He’s not,’ she insisted. ‘He’s cheerful and nice to everyone, and why shouldn’t we be friends while he’s here?’

Joan smiled. ‘I daresay you’re right, Serena, only don’t get that heart of yours broken, will you, before you’re sure it’s worth risking it.’

She went home that evening, to spend her two days off at the large, old-fashioned rectory where her father and mother had lived for most of their married life.

She caught a later train than usual that evening, because she had gone to see Laurens first and it was quite dark by the time she got out at Dorchester to find her father waiting for her in the old-fashioned Rover he had had for such a long time. She kissed him with affection and got in beside him, suddenly glad at the prospect of the peace and quiet of home. They didn’t talk much as they went through the town and out on to the road to Maiden Newton because she didn’t want to distract her parent’s attention. He was an unworldly man in many ways; he had never quite realized that traffic had increased since he had first taken to motoring; in consequence he drove with a carefree disregard for other cars which could be alarming unless, like his family, his companions knew him well.

Serena, who had iron nerves and was a passable driver herself, suffered the journey calmly enough; there wasn’t a great deal of traffic on the road and once through Frampton they turned off into a winding lane which although narrow, held no terrors for either of them for they knew every yard of it.

The village, when they reached it at the bottom of a steep hill, was already in darkness; only the Rectory’s old-fashioned wide windows sent splashes of brightness into the lane as they turned in the always open gate. They had barely stopped before the door was flung open, and Serena jumped out to meet her family.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE were quite a lot of people in the doorway—her mother, as small as Serena herself and almost as slim, Susan, who was seventeen and constantly in the throes of some affair of the heart, so that everyone else had the utmost difficulty in remembering the name of the current boyfriend, Margery, twenty, and married only a few months earlier to her father’s curate, a situation which afforded great pleasure to the family and her mother, especially because she was the plain one of the children, and Serena’s two young brothers, home from boarding school for the Easter holidays—Dan was twelve and George, the youngest, was ten. Their father hoped that they would follow in his footsteps and go into the Church, and probably they would, but in the meantime they got up to all the tricks boys of their age usually indulged in.

It was lovely to be home again; she was swept inside on a cheerful tide of greetings and family news, all of which would have to be repeated later on, but in the meantime the cheerful babble of talk was very pleasant. ‘Where’s John?’ Serena tossed her hat on to the nearest chair and addressed Margery.

‘He’ll be here. He had to go and see old Mrs Spike, you know—down by Buller’s Meadow, she’s hurt her leg and can’t get about.’

Serena took off her coat and sent it to join her hat. ‘Being married suits you, Margery—you’re all glowing.’

Her sister smiled. ‘Well, that’s how it makes you feel. How’s the hospital?’

‘Oh, up and down, you know…it’s nice to get away.’

They smiled at each other as Serena flung an arm around her mother’s shoulders and asked her how she was. The rest of the evening passed in a pleasurable exchange of news and the consuming of the supper Mrs Potts had prepared. They all sat around the too large mahogany table, talking and eating and laughing a great deal. The dining-room was faintly mid-Victorian and gloomy with it, but they were all so familiar with it that no one noticed its drawbacks. Presently, when there was no more to be eaten and they had talked themselves to a standstill, they washed up and went back to the sitting-room, to talk again until midnight and later, when they parted for the night and Serena went to her old room at the back of the house, to lie in her narrow bed and wonder what Laurens van Amstel was doing.

Breakfast was half over the next morning when the telephone rang; no one took any notice of it—no one, that was, but Susan, for the family had come to learn during the last few months that almost all the telephone calls were for her, and rather than waste time identifying the young man at the other end of the line, finding Susan and then returning to whatever it was they had been interrupted in doing, it was far better for all concerned if she answered all the calls herself. She tore away now, saying over her shoulder: ‘That’ll be Bert,’ and Serena looked up from her plate to exclaim: ‘But it was Gavin last time I was home—what happened to him?’

Her mother looked up from her letters. ‘Gavin?’ She looked vague. ‘I believe he went to…’

She was interrupted by Susan. ‘It’s for you,’ she told Serena. ‘A man.’

Serena rose without haste, avoiding the eyes focused upon her. ‘Some query at the hospital,’ she suggested airily as she walked, not too fast, out of the room, aware that if that was all it was, she was going to be disappointed. There was no reason why Laurens should telephone—he didn’t even know where she was; all the same she hoped that it was he.

She went into her father’s study and picked up the receiver. Her voice didn’t betray her excitement as she said: ‘Hullo?’

It was Laurens; his voice came gaily over the wire. ‘Serena!’

‘How did you know where I was?’ She sounded, despite her efforts, breathless.

He laughed softly. ‘Your friend Joan—such a nice girl—after all, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t know where you live, is there? What are you doing?’

‘Having breakfast. I’m not sure that I…’

‘You’re not sure about anything, are you, my dear gipsy? I miss you. When are you coming back?’

‘On Monday. I come up on an early morning train.’

‘Not this time—I’ll send Gijs down to pick you up, he’ll drive you.’

She shook her head, although he wasn’t there to see her vehement refusal.

‘No, thank you, I prefer to go by train—it’s very kind…’

‘Rubbish! Gijs won’t mind, he does anything anyone asks of him—more fool he.’ He spoke jokingly and she laughed with him.

‘All the same, I’d rather come up by train.’

He sounded very persuasive. ‘Not to please me? I hate to think of you travelling in a crowded train, and at least Gijs can give you lunch.’

She said in a panicky little voice: ‘But that’s impossible. I’m on duty at one o’clock.’

‘My beautiful gipsy, how difficult you make everything! Gijs will pick you up about nine o’clock on Monday morning. What are you going to do today?’

‘Nothing very interesting, just—just be at home.’ How could she tell him that she was going to make the beds for her mother and probably get the lunch ready as well and spend the afternoon visiting the sexton’s wife who had just had another baby, and the organist’s wife, who’d just lost hers? She felt relief when he commented casually: ‘It sounds nice. Come and see me on Monday, Serena.’

‘Yes—at least, I will if I can get away. You know how it is.’

‘Indeed I do—the quicker you leave it the better.’

‘Leave it?’ she repeated his words faintly.

‘Of course—had you not thought of marrying me?’

Serena was bereft of words. ‘I—I—’ she began, and then: ‘I must go,’ she managed at last. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, gipsy girl, I shall see you on Monday.’

She nodded foolishly without speaking and replaced the receiver gently. She hadn’t heard aright, of course, and even if she had, he must have been joking—he joked a lot. She sat down in her father’s chair behind his desk, quite forgetful of breakfast, trying to sort out her feelings. They slid silkily in and out of her head, evading her efforts to pin them down—the only thought which remained clearly and firmly in her mind was the one concerning Gijs van Amstel; she didn’t want to go back to London with him. The idea of being in his company for several hours disquieted her, although she didn’t know why; he had done nothing to offend or annoy her, indeed, he had exerted himself to be civil, and she had no interest in him, only the fact that he was Laurens’s cousin was the common denominator of their acquaintance, so, she told herself vigorously, she was merely being foolish.

She went back to her interrupted breakfast then, and although no one asked her any questions at all she felt compelled to explain into the eloquent silence. When she had finished, omitting a great deal, her mother remarked: ‘He sounds nice, dear, such a change from your usual patients—is his English good?’

Serena, grateful for her parent’s tactful help, told her that yes, it was, very good.

‘And this cousin—he’s coming to fetch you on Monday morning?’

Serena drank her cold tea. ‘Yes.’