Fate Takes A Hand

‘Yes, well, we’ll see. Now, what shall we eat tomorrow? I’ll nip out and shop, if you like. Mrs Pearce won’t mind if it’s only for ten minutes.’

‘How about a nice macaroni cheese? That’s light enough for Peter—fish would be the thing, but I don’t trust fish on Mondays. Mashed swede with a bit of butter, and I’ll cream the potatoes. A little egg custard for afters.’

It was a good thing, reflected Eulalia later that evening, that Peter seemed to be quite well again. She had phoned the doctor and he had promised to look in some time tomorrow.

She went back to work in the morning, leaving Trottie to ask questions of their doctor when he came and get his advice. ‘I know it’s nothing much,’ she said, ‘but he had an awful bang on his head.’

Mrs Pearce was sympathetic but she didn’t offer to let Eulalia go home early. She said with casual kindness, ‘Boys will be boys, won’t they?’ Just as though it had been Peter’s fault, and added, ‘Luckily you have Miss Trott to look after him. I’ll want you to stay a bit later today—Lady Bearsted is sending her secretary for the flowers for her dinner party some time after six o’clock.’

Because she was worried about Peter the day went slowly. Mrs Pearce went home at five o’clock, leaving Eulalia to lock up once the flowers had been fetched. Six o’clock took twice as long as usual to come, and even then there was no sign of the secretary. She came finally, half an hour later, apologetic and harassed. ‘These dinner parties,’ she confided to Eulalia, ‘they’re ghastly. I’m supposed to get these flowers back and arranged on the table and round the rooms before everyone arrives about eight o’clock…’

Eulalia took the flowers out to the waiting taxi, watched it drive away and tore back to get her jacket and lock up. At least the rush hour was almost over and it wouldn’t take too long to get home.

All the same, it was well after seven o’clock when she reached the flat, to stop short on the pavement. Drawn up to the kerb was a dark grey Bentley.

A jumble of thoughts chased themselves round her head. Peter had been taken ill and their doctor had rung the hospital and Mr van Linssen had come to examine Peter. One heard of delayed collapse after concussion-Peter might be desperately ill. She flung open the door, almost tumbling down the steps in her hurry.

Trottie was standing at the table, a teapot in her hand. She looked up as Eulalia came in. ‘You are late, love; you must be tired, and famished into the bargain.’

‘Where’s Peter? What’s that man’s car doing outside? Why is he here?’

She had spoken a good deal louder than usual and Peter called from his room.

‘Aunt Lally—Mr van Linssen’s here—we’re playing draughts…’

Eulalia was feeling as anyone would who had believed the worst had happened and found that there was nothing to worry about. She had a wish to burst into tears but she swallowed them and went to Peter’s little room. Most of it seemed to be taken up by Mr van Linssen’s bulk. ‘Why are you here?’ she wanted to know, and then at Peter’s puzzled look she bent to kiss him and smile.

Mr van Linssen stood up, bending his head to avoid cracking it on the ceiling. ‘I happen to know your doctor,’ he told her smoothly. ‘We decided that it would save time if I were to come and check on Peter’s progress, since if he were to come he would still need to inform me of his findings.’

‘Peter’s all right?’

‘My dear Miss Warburton, if he were not, would we be playing draughts?’

She glared at him. What a nasty way he had of making her feel a fool. She was wondering if he would go now that she was home, and hoped that he would, but Trottie’s voice from the living-room begged them to come and have a nice cup of tea. ‘And I’ll give Peter his supper,’ she finished, and appeared a moment later with the tray. ‘Go and pour the tea, Miss Lally, I’m sure you could both do with a cup, and the doctor can tell you about Peter, for I can see you’re all of a fret.’

Eulalia, aware that Mr van Linssen was looking at her with an air of amusement, frowned and led the way, since there was nothing else she could do. Show him the door, of course, but that would be unthinkable. She should be grateful…

There was one of Trottie’s Madeira cakes on the table beside the teapot. She poured the tea, offered the cake and passed him the sugar-bowl.

‘You work long hours,’ he observed, and bit into the cake.

‘I had to wait to deliver some flowers. How is Peter, Mr van Linssen?’

‘He is perfectly fit, but before he returns to school I want him to be X-rayed again…’ At her look of fright he added, ‘No, no, don’t panic. I merely want to satisfy myself that the bones are correctly aligned and that there is no misplacement. Let me see—it is Tuesday today. Let him stay at home for the rest of this week. Bring him to the hospital tomorrow at ten o’clock.’

He saw the look on her face. ‘No—stupid of me, you would be at your shop. I’ll arrange for him to be fetched and brought back here. Trottie could accompany him, perhaps?’

‘You’re very kind.’ She was always telling him that, she thought. ‘I’m glad he’s quite well. He’s such a dear little boy.’

‘Yes.’

He passed his cup and she refilled it and passed him the cake. ‘Are you having a day off?’ she asked politely.

‘Er—no.’ He thought back over his busy day, which had begun with an emergency operation at four o’clock in the morning and was by no means at an end. ‘This is a delicious cake.’

She offered him more. It would spoil his supper or dinner, or whatever he had in the evenings, but he was a large man. He might have missed his tea.

He had missed his lunch too, but he didn’t tell her that.

He went presently to say goodbye to Peter and to tell him that he would be going to the hospital in the morning for an X-ray. ‘And you can go back to school on Monday.’

‘Oh, good. Will you come and see me again?’

‘Ah, yes, we still have to finish our game of draughts— I’ll see if I can find the time.’

Peter was reluctant to let him go. ‘Are you very busy every day?’

‘Yes, old chap, but now and again I have a day off.’

‘I think perhaps I’ll be a surgeon when I grow up.’

‘A splendid idea!’ They shook hands, and Mr van Linssen shook hands with Trottie too, but when Eulalia took him to the door he bent and kissed her, opened the door and went up the stone steps two at a time without a backward glance.

She banged the door shut. ‘He’s outrageous,’ she said furiously.

‘You’re a pretty girl, Miss Lally. Men like pretty girls.’

Eulalia ground her splendid teeth.

Mr van Linssen drove himself home. He had enjoyed kissing Eulalia but he wasn’t sure why he had done so. She was very pretty—indeed, beautiful when she wasn’t looking cross—but he had known and still did know other pretty women and felt no urge to kiss any of them. True, he kissed Ursula from time to time, but always circumspectly, as she was fussy about her make-up being spoiled. Their engagement was a well-conducted affair, with no display of emotion.

He had decided to marry her because she was so suitable to be his wife, and since he was no longer a young man and had decided that there was no ideal woman in the world for him. He had known from the first that Ursula didn’t love him; she liked him, was fond of him, and very content to marry him, for he had wealth and position and a certain amount of fame in his profession. They would get on well enough together, although she had revealed a pettishness and desire to have her own way which she had been careful not to let him see before they had become engaged. She had lost her temper once or twice and then apologised very prettily, but they had come near to quarrelling when he had told her that for part of the year they would live in Holland. ‘My home is there,’ he had pointed out reasonably. ‘I have beds in several hospitals. My home is in the country and I think that you would like it.’

She had screamed at him—at the idea of burying herself alive in some miserable little village with no shops and none of her friends. She would go mad. Of course, she would go there with him just to visit, but certainly not for more than a week or so. Perhaps they could take some of her friends with them…

He had given her a long, thoughtful look and had walked out of her mother’s house, so angry that he couldn’t trust himself to speak, and then later he had sent her the roses…

He left the main road presently and turned into an elegant little street off Cavendish Square. His house was at the end of a short terrace of Regency houses and was a good deal smaller than the others, with only two storeys, but it had the advantages of easy access to the mews behind and a minute garden at the back. He got out of his car, got his bag from the back seat and trod the three steps to his front door.

A thin middle-aged man opened it. He had a long face with an expression of resigned disapproval upon it, and his staid, ‘Good evening, sir,’ held reproach.

Mr van Linssen clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good evening, Dodge. I’m late—I got delayed.’ He started down the elegant little hall towards his study.

‘Nothing serious, I hope, sir.’

‘I got carried away playing a game of draughts and quite forgot the time.’

Dodge looked astonished. ‘Draughts, sir? Would you like dinner served very shortly?’