A Star Looks Down

‘My doll, Jane, has brown eyes,’ Marineka tossed her fair hair over her shoulder. ‘It is to do with genes,’ she announced importantly.

Beth looked at the little girl with something like awe. She hadn’t known anything about genes until she was in the sixth form of the rather old-fashioned school her father had sent her to, but then of course she hadn’t a doctor for an uncle and her father, moreover, hadn’t held with girls knowing too much. She said hastily, before she became involved in a conversation concerning genetics in which she felt reasonably sure she would make but a poor show: ‘Have you any pets at home?’

It was a successful red herring; there were several cats, all with outlandish Dutch names, and a dog called Rufus, as well as a tame rabbit or so, goldfish in a pond in the garden and a canary, although the latter belonged to someone called Mies whose function in their home was not explained to her. It was an easy step from that for Dirk to describe his uncle’s two dogs, Gem and Mini, black labradors, and when Beth commented on their names, he gave her a sharp look. ‘They’re twins,’ he told her, and waited.

‘Oh, I see—Gemini, the heavenly twins! Very clever of someone to have thought of that.’

Her worth had obviously increased in his eyes. ‘Not many people think of that. Uncle Alexander has a cat too, called Mops and two horses as well as a donkey, and there’s a pond with ducks. We feed them when we go to stay with him.’

It would have been nice to have heard more, but what would be the good? It would only stir up a vague feeling which she supposed was envy. She suggested mildly that it was about time Alberdina went to her bed, and offered to help her take a bath, a suggestion which was received with such a lack of surprise that she concluded that the children were quite in the habit of having someone to look after them; no wonder the professor had been so anxious to find a substitute for their mother.

By half past eight they were tucked up, the two boys sharing a large room next to her own, the little girls across the landing. Beth, a little untidy after her exertions, retired to her room to change her sweater for a blouse and do her hair and face before going downstairs. Mrs Silver had said dinner at half past eight, and she was hungry.

It was lonely, though, after the bustle and noise of the hospital canteen, sitting at the oval table in the quiet dining room, with only Mrs Silver popping in and out with a succession of delicious foods, accompanying each dish with the strong encouragement to eat as much as she could. ‘For I do hear that those hospitals don’t feed their nurses all that well. Stodge, I daresay, miss—I don’t hold with all that starch; here’s a nice little soufflé, as light as a feather even though I do say it myself, you just eat it up.’

She trotted off again, with the advice that she would bring coffee to the sitting room in ten minutes’ time, and left Beth to eat up the soufflé and then dash upstairs to make sure that all the children were asleep. They were; she went down to the sitting room and drank her coffee, and then, feeling guiltily idle, went to examine the book shelves which filled one wall. Early bed, she decided, and a book; there was a splendid selection for her to choose from.

She was trying to decide between the newest Alistair Maclean and Ira Morris’s Troika Belle, which she had read several times already, when she heard steps in the hall and turned, a book in each hand, as the door opened and the professor came in.

He looked magnificent; a black tie did something for a man—it certainly did something for him. Not that he needed it, for he had the kind of looks which could get away with an old sweater and shapeless slacks, though Beth very much doubted if he ever allowed himself to be seen in such gear.

‘Presumably the sight of me has rendered you speechless,’ he commented dryly. ‘I’ve wished you good evening twice and all I get is a blank purple stare.’

She put the books down and came into the centre of the room. ‘I’m sorry…I was thinking. Is this your special room? Would you like me to go?’

‘My dear good girl, of course not. My study is at the back of the hall—out of bounds to the children, but consider yourself invited to make use of it whenever you wish—only don’t touch my desk.’

She smiled widely. ‘Is it a mess? Doctors seem to like them that way. I was going up to bed, actually. The children have been splendid—and how good they are at their English, even Alberdina.’ She made her way to the door. ‘I rather think they wake early in the morning and I want to be ready for them.’

He had taken up a position before the empty fireplace, his eyes on her face. ‘I’ve some messages from Martina about the children, could you sit down for a minute while I pass them on?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She perched on the edge of a large chair and folded her hands in her lap. ‘I hope Mevrouw Thorbecke is getting on well?’

‘Excellently.’ He pressed the old-fashioned bell by the fireplace and took a chair opposite hers. ‘I’ve been to a very dull dinner party, do you mind if I have some coffee and something to eat?’ He broke off as Mrs Silver came into the room.

They were obviously on the best of terms, for she clucked at him in a motherly fashion and burst at once into speech. ‘There, Professor, didn’t I know it—you were given a bad dinner and now you’re famished,’ and when he admitted that this was so: ‘You just sit there and I’ll bring you some coffee and sandwiches. I daresay Miss Partridge could drink another cup and keep you company.’

‘Of course,’ he said, before Beth could get her mouth open; Mrs Silver had gone by the time she managed: ‘I had coffee after dinner, thank you.’

‘You would prefer something else?’ His voice was blandly charming.

‘No, thanks.’ She spoke firmly and wondered how it was that ten minutes later she was sitting there with a cup of coffee in her hand, and moreover, eating a sandwich. She was still there an hour later; she had forgotten that her companion was someone who, in the ordinary way, she would have addressed as sir, taken his word for law in theatre, and if she had encountered him outside their working sphere, wished him a sedate time of day and nothing more; she only knew that she was content to sit in his company, listening to his mild nothings and replying in kind. The handsome ormolu clock on the mantelpiece chiming the hour recalled her to the astonishing fact that it was midnight.

‘Heavens, I never meant to stay as long as this,’ she exclaimed, aware of regret as she jumped to her feet and made for the door. The professor had got to his feet too and with his hand on the door she stopped short.

‘The messages,’ she exclaimed again, ‘you had some messages for me.’

He opened the door. ‘I am ashamed to say that I have forgotten every one of them—they couldn’t have been of much importance, could they? Your room is comfortable? You have everything you want?’

She told him yes, feeling a little uneasy about the messages, but there seemed nothing she could do about them now, so she wished him a good night and went to her room, where later, and still very wide awake, she thought about the evening, telling herself at the same time that it was only because she had been feeling lonely that she had found his company so very pleasant.

CHAPTER THREE

BETH took the children to Hyde Park in the morning and now that they had got used to her, a little of their natural high spirits were apparent; they screamed and laughed and ran races and fell over like any other child, and Beth, with no one much around to see, ran races too, her hair tumbling loose from her topknot and her cheeks flushed a healthy pink. And because it was such a lovely day, they walked home instead of taking the bus, with a good deal of stopping on the way to look at anything interesting which caught the eye of anyone in the party. They arrived on the doorstep in a happy chattering bunch and Beth rang the bell. It was the professor who opened the door to them and was instantly assailed by all four children, each telling their own version of the morning’s amusements, interlarded with loud declarations of hunger. He suffered them with good-natured patience, giving his opinion on anything he was asked, and behaving, Beth was glad to see, just as an uncle should, and when he looked over their heads to ask her if she had enjoyed herself too, she answered happily enough. ‘Oh, rather—it was super.’

‘Beth’s hair fell down,’ piped Alberdina. ‘She ran races, too, but she never won.’

‘She’s a girl,’ said Dirk kindly, and the professor smiled faintly.

‘I daresay that after a morning with this lot, Miss Partridge, you feel worn out. A glass of sherry before lunch, perhaps.’

She accepted, adding the proviso that it would have to be in a few minutes’ time. ‘I’ll just get them upstairs and tidied—and me too,’ she told him. ‘Would five minutes do?’

‘Admirably—I shall be in the sitting room.’

The children, she was quick to see, as once more neat as a new pin she sat sipping her sherry, were as good as gold; not only did they like their uncle very much, they had a healthy respect for him too. They sat quietly, Alberdina on her uncle’s knee, the others in a row on one of the sofas, and although they took part in the conversation, they didn’t make nuisances of themselves. Nanny must have been a paragon; Beth wondered uneasily if she had ever run races with the children in Hyde Park.

They were half-way through lunch when the professor mentioned in his placid way that he had wondered, as it was such a pleasant afternoon, if the children would like to go for a drive in the car. ‘With tea, of course,’ he finished amidst an excited outcry from his small relations.

‘And Miss Partridge?’ he wanted to know. ‘Do you care to come with us? Saturday afternoon, you know.’

Beth hesitated; it would be delightful to accept, on the other hand was he just being polite? She glanced quickly at the faces round her; the children at least looked pleased with the idea, and when she peeped at the professor, there was nothing in his face to suggest that he minded one way or the other. ‘Well—’ she said slowly, and was drowned by the children’s demands that she should go with them. ‘If you want to,’ she said a little shyly.

‘We shall be delighted to have your company, Miss Partridge. Shall we say half past two, then?’

The children were brushed and combed and buttoned into their coats much too soon, which gave her a little time to attend to her own person. She would have to wear the suit, for she had nothing else which would do, but at least she could do her hair again and do the best she could with her face. Wholly dissatisfied with the result, she went downstairs, the children strung out behind her, and found the professor sitting on the wall table in the hall, smoking his pipe. When he saw them he got up and went to the kitchen door and sent a subdued shout to Mrs Silver that they would be out for tea and he would be out for dinner as well, before marshalling his party out of the front door and into the car.