The Mistletoe Kiss

Beaker came to meet him as he opened his front door. His, ‘Good morning, sir,’ held faint reproach. ‘You were detained at the hospital? I prepared breakfast at the usual time. I can have it on the table in ten minutes.’

‘No need, Beaker, thanks. I’ve had breakfast. I’ll have a shower and change, and then perhaps a cup of coffee before Juffrouw van Moule gets here.’

‘You breakfasted at the hospital, sir?’

‘No, no. I boiled an egg and made some toast and had a pot of strong tea. I took someone home. We were both hungry—it seemed a sensible thing to do.’

Beaker inclined his head gravely. A boiled egg, he reflected—no bacon, mushrooms, scrambled eggs, as only he, Beaker, could cook them—and strong tea… He suppressed a shudder. A small plate of his home made savoury biscuits, he decided, and perhaps a sandwich with Gentlemen’s Relish on the coffee tray.

It was gratifying to see the professor eating the lot when he came downstairs again. He looked as though he could do with a quiet day, reflected his faithful servant, instead of gallivanting off with that Juffrouw van Moule. Beaker hadn’t taken to her—a haughty piece, and critical of him. He wished his master a pleasant day in a voice which hinted otherwise. He was informed that Juffrouw van Moule would be returning for tea, and would probably stay for dinner.

Beaker took himself to the kitchen where he unburdened himself to his cat, Humphrey, while he set about making the little queen cakes usually appreciated by the professor’s lady visitors.

Anneliese looked ravishing, exquisitely made-up, not a hair of her head out of place and wearing a stone-coloured crêpe de chine outfit of deceptive simplicity which screamed money from every seam.

She greeted the professor with a charming smile, offered a cheek with the warning not to disarrange her hair and settled herself in the car.

‘At last we have a day together,’ she observed. ‘I’ll come back with you after lunch. That man of yours will give us a decent tea, I suppose. I might even stay for dinner.’

She glanced at his profile. ‘We must discuss the future, Ruerd. Where we are to live—we shall have to engage more servants in a larger house, of course, and I suppose you can arrange to give up some of your consultant posts, concentrate on private patients. You have plenty of friends, haven’t you? Influential people?’

He didn’t look at her. ‘I have a great many friends and even more acquaintances,’ he told her. ‘I have no intention of using them. Indeed, I have no need. Do not expect me to give up my hospital work, though, Anneliese.’

She put a hand on his knee. ‘Of course not, Ruerd. I promise I won’t say any more about that. But please let us at least discuss finding a larger house where we can entertain. I shall have friends, I hope, and I shall need to return their hospitality.’

She was wise enough to stop then. ‘These people we are lunching with—they are old friends?’

‘Yes. I knew Guy Bowers-Bentinck before he married. We still see a good deal of each other; he has a charming little wife, Suzannah, and twins—five years old—and a baby on the way.’

‘Does she live here, in this village—Great Chisbourne? Does she not find it full? I mean, does she not miss theatres and evenings out and meeting people?’

He said evenly, ‘No. She has a husband who loves her, two beautiful children, a delightful home and countless friends. She is content.’

Something in his voice made Anneliese say quickly, ‘She sounds delightful; I’m sure I shall like her.’

Which was unfortunately not true. Beneath their socially pleasant manner, they disliked each other heartily—Anneliese because she considered Suzannah to be not worth bothering about, Suzannah because she saw at once that Anneliese wouldn’t do for Ruerd at all. She would make him unhappy; surely he could see that for himself?

Lunch was pleasant, Suzannah saw to that—making small talk while the two men discussed some knotty problem about their work. Anneliese showed signs of boredom after a time; she was used to being the centre of attention and she wasn’t getting it. When the men did join in the talk it was about the children eating their meal with them, behaving beautifully.

‘Do you have a nursery?’ asked Anneliese.

‘Oh, yes, and a marvellous old nanny. But the children eat with us unless we’re entertaining in the evening. We enjoy their company, and they see more of their father.’

Suzannah smiled across the table at her husband, and Anneliese, looking at him, wondered how such a plain girl could inspire the devoted look he gave her.

She remarked upon it as they drove back to Chelsea. ‘Quite charming,’ she commented in a voice which lacked sincerity. ‘Guy seems devoted to her.’

‘Surely that is to be expected of a husband?’ the professor observed quietly.

Anneliese gave a little trill of laughter. ‘Oh, I suppose so. Not quite my idea of marriage, though. Children should be in the nursery until they go to school, don’t you agree?’

He didn’t answer that. ‘They are delightful, aren’t they? And so well behaved.’ He sounded remote.

He was going fast on the motorway as the October day faded into dusk. In a few days it would be November, and at the end of that month he would go back to Holland for several weeks, where already a formidable list of consultations awaited him. He would see Anneliese again, of course; she would want to plan their wedding.

When they had first become engaged he had expressed a wish for a quiet wedding and she had agreed. But over the months she had hinted more and more strongly that a big wedding was absolutely necessary: so many friends and family, and she wanted bridesmaids. Besides, a quiet wedding would mean she couldn’t wear the gorgeous wedding dress she fully intended to have.

Anneliese began to talk then; she could be very amusing and she was intelligent. Ruerd wasn’t giving her his full attention, but she was confident that she could alter that. She embarked on a series of anecdotes about mutual friends in Holland, taking care not to be critical or spiteful, only amusing. She knew how to be a charming companion, and felt smug satisfaction when he responded, unaware that it was only good manners which prompted his replies.

He was tired, he told himself, and Anneliese’s chatter jarred on his thoughts. To talk to her about his work would have been a relief, to tell her of his busy week at the hospital, the patients he had seen. But the cursory interest she had shown when they’d become engaged had evaporated. Not her fault, of course, but his. He had thought that her interest in his work was a wish to understand it, but it hadn’t been that—her interest was a social one. To be married to a well-known medical man with boundless possibilities for advancement.

He slowed the car’s speed as they were engulfed in London’s suburbs. She would be a suitable wife—good looks, a charming manner, clever and always beautifully turned out.

On aiming back he said, ‘We’ll have tea round the fire, shall we? Beaker will have it ready.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Rather on the late side, but there’s no hurry, is there?’

The sitting room looked warm and welcoming as they went indoors. Humphrey was sitting before the fire, a small furry statue, staring at the flames. Anneliese paused halfway across the room. ‘Oh, Ruerd, please get that cat out of the room. I dislike them, you know—I’m sure they’re not clean, and they shed hairs everywhere.’

The professor scooped Humphrey into his arms. ‘He’s a well-loved member of my household, Anneliese. He keeps himself cleaner than many humans, and he is brushed so regularly that I doubt if there is a single loose hair.’

He took the cat to the kitchen and sat him down in front of the Aga.

‘Juffrouw van Moule doesn’t like cats,’ he told Beaker in an expressionless voice. ‘He’d better stay here until she goes back to the hotel. Could you give us supper about half past eight? Something light; if we’re going to have tea now we shan’t have much appetite.’

When he went back to the sitting room Anneliese was sitting by the fire. She made a lovely picture in its light, and he paused to look at her as he went in. Any man would be proud to have her as his wife, he reflected, so why was it that he felt no quickening of his pulse at the sight of her?

He brushed the thought aside and sat down opposite her, and watched her pour their tea. She had beautiful hands, exquisitely cared for, and they showed to great advantage as she presided over the tea tray. She looked at him and smiled, aware of the charming picture she made, and presently, confident that she had his attention once more, she began to talk about their future.

‘I know we shall see a good deal of each other when you come back to Holland in December,’ she began. ‘But at least we can make tentative plans.’ She didn’t wait for his comment but went on, ‘I think a summer wedding, don’t you? That gives you plenty of time to arrange a long holiday. We might go somewhere for a month or so before settling down.

‘Can you arrange it so that you’re working in Holland for a few months? You can always fly over here if you’re wanted, and surely you can give up your consultancies here after awhile? Private patients, by all means, and, of course, we mustn’t lose sight of your friends and colleagues.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘You’re famous here, are you not? It is so important to know all the right people…’

When he didn’t reply, she added, ‘I am going to be very unselfish and agree to using this house as a London base. Later on perhaps we can find something larger.’

He asked quietly, ‘What kind of place had you in mind, Anneliese?’

‘I looked in at an estate agent—somewhere near Harrods; I can’t remember the name. There were some most suitable flats. Large enough for entertaining. We would need at least five bedrooms—guests, you know—and good servants’ quarters.’

Her head on one side, she gave him another brilliant smile. ‘Say yes, Ruerd.’

‘I have commitments for the next four months here,’ he told her, ‘and they will be added to in the meantime. In March I’ve been asked to lecture at a seminar in Leiden, examine students at Groningen and read a paper in Vienna. I cannot give you a definite answer at the moment.’

She pouted. ‘Oh, Ruerd, why must you work so hard? At least I shall see something of you when you come back to Holland. Shall you give a party at Christmas?’

‘Yes, I believe so. We can talk about that later. Have your family any plans?’

She was still telling him about them when Beaker came to tell them that supper was ready.

Later that evening, as she prepared to go, Anneliese asked, ‘Tomorrow, Ruerd? You will be free? We might go to an art exhibition…?’

He shook his head. ‘I’m working all day. I doubt if I shall be free before the evening. I’ll phone the hotel and leave a message. It will probably be too late for dinner, but we might have a drink.’

She had to be content with that. She would shop, she decided, and dine at the hotel. She was careful not to let him see how vexed she was.

The next morning as the professor made his way through the hospital he looked, as had become his habit, to where Ermentrude sat. She wasn’t there, of course.

She was up and dressed, getting the house just so, ready for her mother and father. She had slept long and soundly, and had gone downstairs to find that the professor had left everything clean and tidy in the kitchen. He had left a tea tray ready, too; all she’d needed to do was put on the kettle and make toast.

‘Very thoughtful of him,’ said Emmy now, to George, who was hovering hopefully for a biscuit. ‘You wouldn’t think to look at him that he’d know one end of a tea towel from the other. He must have a helpless fiancée…’

She frowned. Even if his fiancée was helpless he could obviously afford to have a housekeeper or at least a daily woman. She fell to wondering about him. When would he be married, have children? Where did he live while he was working in London? And where was his home in Holland? Since neither George nor Snoodles could answer, she put these questions to the back of her mind and turned her thoughts to the shopping she must do before her parents came home.

They knew about the bomb, of course; it had been on TV and in the papers. But when Emmy had phoned her parents she had told them very little about it, and had remained guiltily silent when her mother had expressed her relief that Emmy had been on day duty and hadn’t been there. Now that they were home, exchanging news over coffee and biscuits, the talk turned naturally enough to the bomb outrage. ‘So fortunate that you weren’t there,’ said Mrs Foster.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I was,’ said Emmy. ‘But I was quite all right…’ She found herself explaining about Professor ter Mennolt bringing her home and him making tea.

‘We are in his debt,’ observed her father. ‘Although he did only what any decent-thinking person would have done.’

Her mother said artlessly, ‘He sounds a very nice man. Is he elderly? I suppose so if he’s a professor.’

‘Not elderly—not even middle-aged,’ said Emmy. ‘They say at the hospital that he’s going to marry soon. No one knows much about him, and one wouldn’t dare ask him.’

She thought privately that one day, if the opportunity occurred, she might do just that. For some reason it was important to her that he should settle down and be happy. He didn’t strike her as being happy enough. He ought to be; he was top of his profession, with a girl waiting for him, and presumably enough to live on in comfort.

Her two days went much too quickly. Never mind if it rained for almost all of the time. Her father was away in the day, and she and her mother spent a morning window shopping in Oxford Street, and long hours sitting by the fire—her mother knitting, Emmy busy with the delicate embroidery which she loved to do.

They talked—the chances of her father getting a teaching post near their old home were remote; all the same they discussed it unendingly. ‘We don’t need a big house,’ said her mother. ‘And you could come with us, of course, Emmy—there’s bound to be some job for you. Or you might meet someone and marry.’ She peered at her daughter. ‘There isn’t anyone here, is there, love?’

‘No, Mother, and not likely to be. It would be lovely if Father could get a teaching post and we could sell this house.’

Her mother smiled. ‘No neighbours, darling. Wouldn’t it be heaven? No rows of little houses all exactly alike. Who knows what is round the corner?’

It was still raining when Emmy set off to work the following morning. The buses were packed and tempers were short. She got off before the hospital stop was reached, tired of being squeezed between wet raincoats and having her feet poked at with umbrellas. A few minutes’ walk even on a London street was preferable to strap-hanging.

She was taking a short cut through a narrow lane where most of the houses were boarded up or just plain derelict, when she saw the kitten. It was very small and very wet, sitting by a boarded-up door, and when she went nearer she saw that it had been tied by a piece of string to the door handle. It looked at her and shivered, opened its tiny mouth and mewed almost without sound.

Emmy knelt down, picked it up carefully, held it close and rooted around in her shoulder bag for the scissors she always carried. It was the work of a moment to cut the string, tuck the kitten into her jacket and be on her way once more. She had no idea what she was going to do with the small creature, but to leave it there was unthinkable.

She was early at the hospital; there was time to beg a cardboard box from one of the porters, line it with yesterday’s newspaper and her scarf and beg some milk from the head porter.

‘You won’t ’arf cop it,’ he told her, offering a mugful. ‘I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, Emmy, and mum’s the word.’ He nodded and winked. She was a nice young lady, he considered, always willing to listen to him telling her about his wife’s diabetes.

Emmy tucked the box away at her feet, dried the small creature with her handkerchief, offered it milk and saw with satisfaction that it fell instantly into a refreshing sleep. It woke briefly from time to time, scoffed more milk and dropped off again. Very much to her relief, Emmy got to the end of her shift with the kitten undetected.

She was waiting for her relief when the supervisor bore down upon her, intent on checking and finding fault if she could. It was just bad luck that the kitten should wake at that moment, and, since it was feeling better, it mewed quite loudly.

Meeting the lady’s outraged gaze, Emmy said, ‘I found him tied to a doorway. In the rain. I’m going to take him home…’

‘He has been here all day?’ The supervisor’s bosom swelled to alarming proportions. ‘No animal is allowed inside the hospital. You are aware of that, are you not, Miss Foster? I shall report this, and in the meantime the animal can be taken away by one of the porters.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Emmy fiercely. ‘I’ll not allow it. You are—’

It was unfortunate that she was interrupted before she could finish.

‘Ah,’ said Professor ter Mennolt, looming behind the supervisor. ‘My kitten. Good of you to look after it for me, Ermentrude.’ He gave the supervisor a bland smile. ‘I am breaking the rules, am I not? But this seemed the best place for it to be until I could come and collect it.’

‘Miss Foster has just told me…’ began the woman.

‘Out of the kindness of her heart,’ said the professor outrageously. ‘She had no wish to get me into trouble. Isn’t that correct, Ermentrude?’

She nodded, and watched while he soothed the supervisor’s feelings with a bedside manner which she couldn’t have faulted.

‘I will overlook your rudeness, Miss Foster,’ she said finally, and sailed away.

‘Where on earth did you find it?’ asked the professor with interest.

She told him, then went on, ‘I’ll take him home. He’ll be nice company for Snoodles and George.’

‘An excellent idea. Here is your relief. I shall be outside when you are ready.’

‘Why?’ asked Emmy.

‘You sometimes ask silly questions, Ermentrude. To take you both home.’

Emmy made short work of handing over, got into her mac, picked up the box and went to the entrance. The Bentley was outside, and the professor bundled her and her box into it and drove away in the streaming rain.

The kitten sat up on wobbly legs and mewed. It was bedraggled and thin, and Emmy said anxiously, ‘I do hope he’ll be all right.’

‘Probably a she. I’ll look the beast over.’

‘Would you? Thank you. Then if it’s necessary I’ll take him—her—to the vet.’ She added uncertainly, ‘That’s if it’s not interfering with whatever you’re doing?’

‘I can spare half an hour.’ He sounded impatient.

She unlocked the door and ushered him into the hall, where he took up so much room she had to sidle past him to open the sitting-room door.

‘You’re so large,’ she told him, and ushered him into the room.

Mrs Foster was sitting reading with Snoodles on her lap. She looked up as they went in and got to her feet.

‘I’m sure you’re the professor who was so kind to Emmy,’ she said, and offered a hand. ‘I’m her mother. Emmy, take off that wet mac and put the kettle on, please. What’s in the box?’

‘A kitten.’

Mrs Foster offered a chair. ‘Just like Emmy—always finding birds with broken wings and stray animals.’ She smiled from a plain face very like her daughter’s, and he thought what a charming woman she was.

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