The Secret Pool

The child put up her face to be kissed and broke into a long excited speech until the doctor hushed her gently. ‘Let’s sit down for a moment,’ he suggested and glanced up as a stout woman came in with a tray. ‘Here’s Nel with the coffee.’ He said something to her and turned to Fran.

‘This is my housekeeper; no English worth mentioning, I’m afraid, but a most sensible and kind woman; we’d be lost without her.’ He spoke to her again—she was being introduced in her turn, Fran guessed—and then got up as he said, ‘Nel will show you where you can tidy yourself.’

The cloakroom into which Fran was ushered, tucked away down a short passage leading from the hall, was so unlike the utilitarian cubbyhole in her aunts’ house that she paused to take a good look. Powder blue tiles, silver grey carpet, an enormous mirror and a shelf containing just about everything a woman might need to repair the ravages upon her make-up. Fran sniffed appreciatively at the bottles of eau-de-toilette, washed her hands with pale blue soap and felt apologetic about using one of the stack of towels. She dabbed powder on her nose in a perfunctory manner, combed her hair and went back across the hall.

Father and daughter looked at her as she went in and she had the strong impression that they had been talking about her—naturally enough, she supposed; and when asked to pour out she did so in her usual unflurried manner.

Lisa had milk in her own special mug and sugar biscuits on a matching plate but they were largely ignored. She was a happy child, chuckling a great deal at her father’s soft remarks, meticulously translated for Fran’s benefit.

A very sick child, too, the charming little face far too pale, the small body thin above the sticks of useless legs. But there was no hint of despair or sadness; the doctor drew her into the talk, making a great thing of translating for her and urging her to try out a few Dutch words for herself, something which sent Lisa into paroxysms of mirth. Presently she demanded to sit on Fran’s lap, where she sat, Fran’s firm arm holding her gently, examining her face and hair, chattering non-stop.

They were giggling comfortably together when the young woman came back and Dr van Rijgen said, ‘This is Nanny. She has been with us for almost six years and is quite irreplaceable. She speaks little English. Lisa goes for a short rest now before lunch.’

Fran said, ‘How do you do, Nanny,’ feeling doubtful that such an old and tried member of the family might look upon her with jealousy. It was a relief to see nothing but friendliness in the other girl’s face and, what was more puzzling, a kind of excited expectancy.

Alone with her host, Fran sat back and asked composedly, ‘Will you tell me about Lisa? It’s not spina bifida—she’s paralysed isn’t she, the poor darling? Is it a meningocele?’

He sounded as though he was delivering a lecture on the ward. ‘Worse than that—a myelomeningocele, paralysis, club feet and a slight hydrocephalus.’ His voice was expressionless as he added, ‘Everything that could be done, has been done; she has at the most six more months.’

The words sounded cold; she studied his face and saw what an effort it was for him to speak calmly. She said quietly, ‘She is such a happy child and you love her. She would be easy to love…’

‘I would do anything in the world to keep her happy.’ He got up and walked over to the French window at the end of the room and opened it and two dogs came in: a mastiff and a roly-poly of a dog, very low on the ground with a long curly coat and bushy eyebrows almost hiding liquid brown eyes.

‘Meet Thor and Muff—Thor’s very mild unless he’s been put on guard, but Muff seems to think that he must protect everyone living here.’

He wasn’t going to say any more about Lisa. Fran asked, ‘Why Muff?’

‘He looks like one, don’t you think?’ He bent to tweak the dog’s ears. ‘Would you like to see the gardens? Lisa spends a good deal of time out here when the weather’s fine.’

There was a wide lawn beyond the house bordered by flower beds and trees. They wandered on for a few minutes in silence, with the doctor, the perfect host, pointing out this and that and the other thing which might interest her. But presently he began to ask her casual questions about her work, her home and her plans.

‘I haven’t any,’ said Fran cheerfully. ‘I would have liked to have stayed on at the Infirmary; at least I’d have had the chance to carve myself a career, but the aunts needed me at home.’

‘They are invalids?’

‘Heavens no, nothing like that. They—they just feel that—that…’

‘You should be at their beck and call,’ he finished for her smoothly.

‘Oh, you mustn’t say that. They gave me a home and I’m very grateful.’

‘To the extent of turning your back on your own future? Have you no plans to marry?’

‘None at all,’ she told him steadily.

He didn’t ask any more questions after that, but turned back towards the house, offering a glass of sherry while they waited for Lisa to join them for lunch.

She sat between them, eating with the appetite of a bird, talking non-stop, and Fran, because it amused the child, tried out a few Dutch words again. Presently they went into the garden once more, pushing the wheelchair, Fran naming everything in sight in English at Lisa’s insistence.

They had tea under an old mulberry tree in the corner of the garden and when Nanny came to take her away, Lisa demanded with a charm not to be gainsaid, ‘Fran is to come again, Papa—tomorrow?’

He was lying propped up against the tree, watching her. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow?’ he asked. ‘We might take Lisa to the sea—the sand’s firm enough for the chair.’

‘If she would like me to come, then I will—I’d like to very much.’

She was quite unprepared for the joy on the child’s face as her father told her. Two thin arms were wrapped round her neck and she was kissed heartily. In between kisses she said something to her father and squealed with delight at his reply. Fran looked from one to the other of them, sensing a secret, probably about herself. She certainly wasn’t going to ask, she told herself, and wished Nanny goodbye, encountering that same look of pleased anticipation. It was time she went home, she decided and was instantly and blandly talked out of it.

They dined in a leisurely fashion in a room furnished with an elegant Regency-style oval table and ribbon-backed chairs and a vast side table laden with heavy silver. Fran was surprised to find her companion easy to talk to and the conversation was light and touched only upon general topics. Lisa wasn’t mentioned and although she longed to ask more about the child, she was given no opportunity to pose any questions.

She was driven back to Clare’s flat, her companion maintaining a pleasant flow of small talk which gave away nothing of himself. And at the flat, although he accepted her invitation to go in with her, he stayed only a short time before bidding them all good night and reiterating that he would call for her at ten o’clock in the morning.

Clare pounced on her the moment he had gone. ‘Fran—you dark horse—did you know he’d be here? Did he follow you over to Holland?’

Fran started to collect the coffee cups. ‘Nothing like that, love, we don’t even like each other. He has a small daughter who is very ill; I think he has decided that it might amuse her to have a visitor. We got on rather well together, so I suppose that’s why he’s asked me to go out with them tomorrow.’

‘His wife?’ breathed Clare, all agog.

‘He is a widower.’

‘And you don’t like each other?’

‘Not really. He’s devoted to Lisa, though, and she liked me. I like her, too. You won’t mind if I’m away tomorrow?’

Her cousin grinned. ‘You have fun while you’ve got the chance.’

The weather was being kind; Fran awakened to a blue sky and warm sunshine. She was ready and waiting when Dr van Rijgen and Lisa arrived. She got in beside Lisa’s specially padded seat in the back of the car and listened, only half understanding, to the child’s happy chatter.

It was a successful day, she had to admit to herself as she got ready for bed that evening. They had gone to Noordwijk aan Zee, parked the car and carried Lisa and her folded chair down to the water’s edge where the sand was smooth and firm. They had walked miles, with the shore stretching ahead of them for more miles, and then stopped off for crusty rolls and hard-boiled eggs. They had talked and laughed a lot and little Lisa had been happy, her pale face quite rosy; and as for the doctor, Fran found herself almost liking him. It was a pity, she reflected, jumping into bed, that he would be at the hospital at Utrecht for all of the following day; it was even more of a pity that he hadn’t so much as hinted at seeing her again. ‘Not that I care in the least,’ she told herself. ‘When Lisa isn’t there he is a very unpleasant man.’ Upon which somewhat arbitrary thought she went to sleep.

She spent the next morning quietly with Clare and Karel, and took herself for a walk in the afternoon. Another week, and her holiday would be over. She hadn’t mentioned Dr van Rijgen in her letters to the aunts and upon reflection she decided not to say anything about him. She thought a great deal about little Lisa, too; a darling child and happy; she had quite believed the doctor when he had said that he would do anything to keep her so. She went back to the flat, volunteered to cook the supper while Clare worried away at some knitting and went to bed early, declaring that she was tired.

Karel had gone to work and she was giving Clare the treat of breakfast in bed when the doctor telephoned. He would be at the hospital all the morning, he informed her in a cool voice, but he hoped that she would be kind enough to spend the afternoon with Lisa. ‘I’ll call for you about half past one,’ he told her and rang off before she could say a word.

‘Such arrogance,’ said Fran crossly. ‘Anyone would think I was here just for his convenience.’

All the same, she was ready, composed and a little cool in her manner when he arrived. A waste of effort on her part for he didn’t seem to notice her stand-offish manner. To her polite enquiries as to his morning, he had little to say, but launched into casual questions. When was she returning home? What did she think of Holland? Did she find the language difficult to understand? And then, harshly, did she feel at her ease with Lisa?

Fran turned to look at him in astonishment. ‘At ease? Why ever shouldn’t I? She’s a darling child and the greatest fun to be with. I like children.’ She sounded so indignant that he said instantly, ‘I’m sorry, I put that badly.’ He turned the car into the drive. ‘A picnic tea, don’t you think? It’s such a lovely day.’ And, as she got out of the car, ‘It would be nice, if you are free tomorrow, if you will come with us to the Veluwe—it’s charming, rather like your New Forest, and Lisa sees fairies behind every tree. We’ll fetch you about half past ten?’

‘I haven’t said I’ll come,’ observed Fran frostily, half in and half out of the car.

‘Lisa wants you.’

And that’s the kind of left-handed compliment a girl likes having, thought Fran, marching ahead of him up the steps, her ordinary nose in the air.

But she forgot all that when Lisa joined them; in no time at all, she was laughing as happily as the little girl, struggling with the Dutch Lisa insisted upon her trying out. They had tea on the lawn again and when Nanny came to fetch Lisa to bed, Fran went, too, invited by both Nanny and the child.

Being got ready for bed was a protracted business dealt with by Nanny with enviable competence. But it was fun, too. Fran fetched and carried and had a satisfactory conversation with Nanny even though they both spoke their own language for the most part. They sat on each side of Lisa while she ate her supper and then at last was carried to her small bed in the charming nursery. Here Fran kissed her good night and went back to the day nursery, because it was Nanny’s right to tuck her little charge up in bed and give her a final hug. She had just joined Fran when the doctor came in, said something to Nanny and went through to the night nursery where there was presently a good deal of giggling and murmuring before he came back.