very useful.’
They both laughed as they started to walk back to the house.
Mrs Pearce was rather more enthusiastic about the trip. Loveday worried her a little; rising twenty-eight and still not married, and heaven knew it wasn’t for the lack of chances. Beryl, her twenty-two-year-old sister, had been married for six months, and her brother, the eldest of the family, intended marrying the following year now that he had a junior partnership in his father’s firm, and Phyllis was still only a schoolgirl—if her darling eldest daughter didn’t find someone soon she would be what Mrs Pearce persisted in calling an old maid. She never spoke her fears out loud, of course, but Loveday, gently cross-questioned each time she went home, was well aware of them. Sometimes she shared them too; as her mother knew, she had chances enough, and once or twice she had been on the point of saying yes, and each time something had made her hesitate even while common sense had told her that she was being foolish, waiting for someone she couldn’t even picture in her mind.
They all studied the brochures that evening; it was going to cost quite a lot, Loveday calculated, but she would have enough if she were careful, but Rimada was quite positive that she hadn’t nearly sufficient money.
‘I am not good with money,’ she explained to the Pearce family. ‘I buy things…’
‘Get your guardian to let you have some,’ struck in Loveday.
Rimada gave her a shocked look. ‘I would never…’ The look changed to one of delighted surprise. ‘But I have thought of something—of course, I will ask Mama—she gives me anything I want.’
‘Would you like to telephone her now?’ asked Mr Pearce helpfully.
She shook her head. ‘Better than that, I will visit her. She will send money for me to travel to Holland and I will arrange that I have four days off together—next week, I think. I will ask her and she will be pleased to give me all the money I need.’
Her companions looked at her with interest. Rimada’s faculty for getting her own way always interested them; they were moderately well off themselves, but it would never have entered Loveday’s head to ask her parents to pay for a holiday she could well afford for herself provided she saved for it. Not that they weren’t generous, but she was a grown woman, earning a sufficient income to keep her independent, and independence was vital to a girl on her own; especially, as Mrs Pearce frequently thought, rather sadly, if she didn’t intend to marry.
‘If your mother has no objection, dear,’ she murmured to Rimada, who looked surprised.
‘How can she object? I am her only child and my happiness is most important to her. She will arrange a ticket for me to fly home and she will arrange that Loveday will come with me, and pay for her too.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Loveday quietly. ‘I couldn’t possibly get away—besides, even if I could, I can well afford the fare, Rimmy.’
But Rimada was persuasive; at the end of half an hour’s argument Loveday had agreed to go with her; it would mean juggling with the off-duty, but that could be managed, she thought. But she insisted that she would pay her own fare to Holland and had to laugh when Rimada said plaintively: ‘I find you so strange, Loveday, to spend your own money when there is someone else to pay for you.’
They went back to the hospital two days later, early in the morning, their plans crystallized by numerous telephone calls, a number of lengthy discussions as to the clothes they should take with them on the cruise, and a close study of the brochures. Moreover, Loveday had a cheque in her purse which her father, in the privacy of the potting shed, had pressed upon her—to cover her fare to Holland, he had explained briefly. It only remained for them to book their flight to Schiphol for the end of the following week and reply suitably to Rimada’s mother, who had arranged, after a lengthy telephone call, for her daughter to draw enough money for her flight from an old family friend in London, and at the same time she had said a few words to Loveday, making her welcome in a charming little speech.
Some days later, Loveday, packing a small case ready for their early morning flight, reflected that the time and trouble taken in adjusting theatre duties so that she could be free over the weekend had been well worth it; she was looking forward to seeing Rimada’s home, and although her friend had assured her that there was absolutely no chance of her meeting her guardian, she found herself, against her will, wishing that there was. Only, of course, so that she might let him see that his peculiar behaviour had made no impression upon her. He would have to find himself another pretty girl to kiss, she told herself crossly; as many pretty girls as he wanted, she added savagely, not liking the idea at all.
She had known that Rimada’s home was a comfortable one, and she had supposed, without wasting too much thought about it, that her family were a good deal better off than her own; Rimada’s remarks about her fortune she had always taken with a pinch of salt, for her friend was inclined to flights of fantasy, so she really was surprised when they were met at Schiphol by a chauffeur-driven Mercedes. No hired car, this, for the man was obviously a well trusted servant and friend, greeting Rimada with the respectful familiarity of someone who had known her for a long time.
‘This is Jos,’ said Rimada. ‘He’s been with us ever since I can remember. He doesn’t speak English, but he’s a wizard driver.’
They tore along the motorway in the direction of Den Haag; Rimada’s home was to the north of that city, north too of Wassenaar, its fashionable suburb. As they went, she pointed out the more interesting aspects of the countryside through which they were passing and while Loveday obediently looked from left to right so as to miss nothing, she wondered if Rimada had been wise in her decision not to tell her mother the true purpose of her cruise. A decision which, she had assured Loveday, Terry had agreed with. If it were I marrying, thought Loveday, frowning thoughtfully at a windmill, I would have wanted Mother and Father to know—I would have wanted them to meet him too. But perhaps it wasn’t quite the same in her friend’s case. She settled back more comfortably and murmured her appreciation of a particularly fine church in the distance.
If she had been surprised at the car and the chauffeur, she was even more surprised at the sight of Rimada’s home; a large villa, embellished with balconies, turrets and fancy brickwork, set in the midst of a garden so precise that it might have been ruled out with a set-square, and so perfectly kept that it appeared to have been embroidered upon the ground rather than growing in the earth. The massive mahogany and glass door was flung open by a tall angular woman, whose rather harsh features broke into a smile as they got out of the car. ‘Jaantje,’ introduced Rimada as they went inside, and hardly pausing, crossed the thickly carpeted floor to a half-open door.
The room they entered was lavishly furnished in a style to make Loveday blink, and in the middle of its superabundance of velvet curtains, brocade chairs, cushions, little tables loaded with silver photo frames, lamps and overstuffed chairs, sat Rimada’s mother. It could be none other; here was Rimada, shorter and stouter and rather heavily made up, there were the blue eyes, as large as her daughter’s, and the sweet smile. The lady got to her feet as they went in, the folds of her gossamer garment—quite unsuitable for the time of day—floating around her in an expensive cloud of haute couture chiffon.
‘Lieveling—Rimtsje!’ She enfolded her daughter lovingly and with some difficulty, because Rimada was a head taller and very much larger than her mother. ‘And Loveday.’ She turned to smile. ‘I hear so much of you,’ she went on in perfect English, ‘you have been so kind to my little girl in her exile.’
Loveday shook hands and murmured; she had never thought of Rimada as being in exile before; perhaps her mother was given to embroider her conversation with the exaggerations which sometimes adorned her daughter’s. And she had never thought of her friend as a little girl, either; her mother had undoubtedly never seen her offspring making a play for the numerous young men who took her fancy at the Royal City.
They all sat down, and coffee was brought in presently while they talked—Rimada did most of the talking, to such good effect that by the time they had finished their second cups and nibbled the biscuits which went with them, she had coaxed more than twice the