The Awakened Heart. Бетти Нилс
Читать онлайн книгу.
and told her that she was getting a lift home, but she hadn’t said much else…
‘Would you like to stop for coffee or do you suppose your mother would be kind enough to have it ready for us?’
It was as though he had known just what she had been thinking. ‘I’m sure she will expect us in time for coffee—that is, if you would like to stop…’
‘I should like to meet your parents.’ He sounded friendly, and she was emboldened to ask, ‘How long will you be in England?’
‘I shall go back to Holland in a couple of weeks.’
A remark which left her feeling strangely forlorn.
They were clear of the eastern suburbs by now and he turned off on to the road to Chipping Ongar. The countryside was surprisingly rural once they left the main road and when he took a small side-road before they reached that town she said in surprise, ‘Oh, you know this part of the country?’
‘Only from my map. I find it delightful that one can leave the main roads so easily and get comfortably lost in country lanes.’
‘Can’t you do that in Holland?’
‘Not easily. The country is flat, so that there is always a town or a village on the horizon.’ He added to surprise her, ‘What do you intend to do with your life, Sophie?’
‘Me?’ The question was so unexpected that she hadn’t a ready answer. ‘Well, I’ve a good job at St Agnes’s…’
‘No boyfriend, no thought of marriage?’
‘No.’
‘And it’s none of my business…’ he laughed. ‘Tell me, is it quicker to go through Cooksmill Green or take the road on the left at the next crossroads?’
‘If you were on your own it would be best to go through Cooksmill Green, but since I’m here to show you the way go left; there aren’t any villages until we get to Shellow Roding.’
It really was rural now, with wide fields on either side of the road bordered by trees and thick hedges, and presently the spire of the village church came into view and the first of the cottages, their ochre or white walls crowned by thatch, thickening into clusters on either side of the green with the church at one side of it, the village pub opposite and a row of small neat shops.
‘Charming,’ observed the professor and, obedient to Sophie’s instruction, turned the car down a narrow lane beside the church.
Her home was a few hundred yards beyond. The house was old and bore the mark of several periods, its colour-washed walls pierced by a variety of windows. A stone wall, crumbling in places, surrounded the garden, and an open gate to the short drive led them to the front door.
The professor brought the car to a silent halt, and got out to open Sophie’s door and reach on to the back seat for Mabel’s basket, and at the same time the door opened and Sophie’s mother came out to meet them. She was a tall woman, as splendidly built as her daughter, her dark hair streaked with grey, her face still beautiful. Two dogs followed her, a Jack Russell and a whippet, both barking and cruising round Sophie.
‘Darling,’ said Mrs Blount, ‘how lovely to see you.’ She gave Sophie a kiss and turned to the professor, smiling.
‘Mother, this is Professor van Taak ter Wijsma, who has kindly given me a lift. My mother, Professor.’
‘A professor,’ observed Mrs Blount. ‘I dare say you’re frightfully clever?’ She smiled at him, liking what she saw. Really, thought Sophie, he had only to smile like that and everyone fell for him. But not me, she added, silently careless of grammar; we’re just friends…
Mrs Blount led the way indoors. ‘A pity the boys aren’t at home; they’d have loved your big motor car.’
‘Perhaps another time,’ murmured the professor. He somehow conveyed the impression that he knew the entire family well—was an old friend, in fact. Sophie let Mabel out of her basket, feeling put out, although she had no idea why. There was no time to dwell on that, however. The dogs, Montgomery and Mercury, recognising Mabel as a well established visitor, were intent on a game, and by the time Sophie had quietened them down everyone had settled down in the kitchen, a large, cosy room, warm from the Aga, the vast dresser loaded with a variety of dishes and plates, the large table in its centre ringed by old-fashioned wooden chairs. There was a bowl of apples on it and a plate of scones, and a coffee-pot, equally old-fashioned, sat on the Aga.
‘So much warmer in the kitchen,’ observed Mrs Blount breezily, ‘though if I had known who you were I would have had the best china out in the drawing-room.’
‘Professors are ten a penny,’ he assured her, ‘and this is a delightful room.’
Sophie had taken off her coat and come to sit at the table. ‘Do you work together at St Agnes’s?’ asked her mother.
‘Our paths cross from time to time, do they not, Sophie?’
‘I’m on night duty,’ said Sophie quite unnecessarily. She passed him the scones, and since they were both looking at her she added, ‘If there’s a case—Professor van Taak ter Wijsma is a brain surgeon.’
‘You don’t live here, do you?’ asked Mrs Blount as she refilled his coffee-mug.
‘No, no, my home is normally in Holland, but I travel around a good deal.’
‘A pity your father isn’t at home, Sophie; he would have enjoyed meeting Professor van Taak…’ She paused. ‘I’ve forgotten the rest of it; I am sorry.’
‘Please call me Rijk; it is so much easier. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting your husband at some time, Mrs Blount.’
‘Oh, I do hope so. He’s a vet, you know; he has a surgery here in the village and is senior partner at the veterinary centre in Chipping Ongar. He’s always busy…’
Sophie drank her coffee, not saying much. The professor had wormed his way into her family with ease, she reflected crossly. It was all very well, all his talk about being friends, but she wasn’t going to be rushed into anything, not even the casual friendship he had spoken of.
He got up to go presently, shook Mrs Blount’s hand, dropped a casual kiss on Sophie’s cheek with the remark that he would call for her on Sunday next week about eight o’clock, and got into his car and drove away. He left Sophie red in the face and speechless and her mother thoughtful.
‘What a nice young man,’ she remarked artlessly.
‘He’s not all that young, Mother…’
‘Young for a professor, surely. Don’t you like him, darling?’
‘I hardly know him; he offered me a lift. I believe he’s a very good surgeon in his own field.’
Mrs Blount studied her daughter’s heightened colour. ‘Tom will be home for half-term in a couple of weeks’ time; I suppose you won’t be able to come while he’s here. George and Paul will be here too.’
‘I’ll do my best—Ida’s just back from sick leave; she might not mind doing my weekend if I do hers on the following week. I’ll see what she says and phone you.’
It was lovely being home; she helped her father with the small animals, drove him around to farms needing his help, and helped her mother around the house, catching up on the village gossip with Mrs Broom, who came twice a week to oblige. She was a small round woman who knew everyone’s business and passed it on to anyone who would listen, but, since she wasn’t malicious, no one minded. It didn’t surprise Sophie in the least to hear that the professor had been seen, looked at closely and approved, although she had to squash Mrs Broom’s assumption that she and he had a romantic attachment.
‘Oh, well,’ said Mrs Broom, ‘it’s early days—you never know.’ She added severely, ‘Time you was married, Miss Sophie.’
The