“Mr. der Huizma,” said Daisy. “Oh, it would be you, wouldn’t it?” she added wildly.

It was nice to have been rescued, but why couldn’t it have been by a stranger? Why did it have to be someone who, if he remembered her at all, would have thought of her as a quiet, well-mannered girl? Now it would be as a silly, careless fool.

“Indeed it is I.” He held her by the arm.

At his hotel he ushered her across the narrow pavement and into the foyer. He turned to her, expressed the hope that she was none the worse for her ducking in the canal, and bade her goodbye.

But his large, firm hand felt strangely comforting and Daisy lingered for as long as possible in the hope of seeing him again.…

About the Author

Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Discovering Daisy
Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS a blustery October afternoon and the dark skies had turned the sea to a dull grey, its sullen waves eddying to and fro on the deserted beach. Not quite deserted, for a girl was walking there, stopping now and again to stare seawards, stooping to pick up a stone and hurl it out to sea and then walk on again. She looked small and lonely with so much emptiness around her, and certainly she was both, but only because there was no one there to see.

She marched along at a furious pace, making no attempt to wipe away the tears; they didn’t matter; they relieved her feelings. A good weep, she told herself, and everything would be over and done with. She would present a smiling face to the world and no one would be the wiser.

She turned back presently, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, tucked odds and ends of hair back under her headscarf, and assumed what she hoped was her normal cheerful expression. Climbing the steps back onto the sea front of the little town, she waved to the porter of the Grand Hotel across the road and started up the narrow, steep main street. The season was pretty well over and the town was settling down into its winter sloth; one could walk peacefully along its streets now, and chat unhurriedly with the shopkeepers, and the only cars were those of outlying farmers and the owners of the country properties dotted around the countryside.

There were narrow lanes leading off the street at intervals, and down one of these the girl turned, past a row of small shops converted from the old cottages which lined it; chic little boutiques, a jeweller’s, a tiny tea room and, halfway down, a rather larger shop with a sign painted over its old-fashioned window: ‘Thomas Gillard, Antiques’. The girl opened the door of the shop and the old-fashioned bell jangled.

‘It’s me,’she called ungrammatically, and pulled off her headscarf so that her nut-brown hair tumbled around her shoulders. She was an ordinary girl, of middle height, charmingly and unfashionably plump, her unassuming features redeemed from plainness by a pair of large hazel eyes, thickly fringed. She was dressed in a quilted jacket and tweed skirt, very suitable for the time of year but lacking any pretentions to fashion. There was no trace of her recent tears as she made her way carefully between the oak clap tables, Victorian Davenports, footstools and a variety of chairs: some very old, others Victorian button-backed balloon chairs.

Ranged round the walls were side cabinets, chiffoniers, and a beautiful bow-fronted glass cabinet, and wherever there was space there were china figurines, glass decanters and scent bottles, pottery figures and small silver objects. She was familiar with them all. At the back of the shop there was a half-open door leading to a small room her father used as his office, and then another door opening onto the staircase which led to the rooms above the shop.

She dropped a kiss on the bald patch on her father’s head as she passed him at his desk, and went up the stairs to find her mother sitting by the gas fire in the sitting room, repairing the embroidery on a cushion cover. She looked up briefly and smiled.

‘It’s almost teatime, Daisy. Will you put the kettle on while I finish this? Did you enjoy your walk?’

‘Very much. It’s getting quite chilly, though, but so nice to have the town empty of visitors.’

‘Is Desmond taking you out this evening, love?’

‘We didn’t arrange anything. He had to meet someone or other and wasn’t sure how long he would be gone…’

‘Far?’

‘Plymouth…’

‘Oh, well, he’ll probably get back fairly early.’ Daisy agreed. ‘I’ll get the tea.’

She was fairly sure Desmond wouldn’t come; they had gone out on the previous evening and had a meal at one of the town’s restaurants. He had met some friends there. Being in love, she saw very little wrong with him, but some of his friends were a different matter; she had refused to go with them to a nightclub in Totnes and Desmond had been icily angry. He had called her a spoilsport, prudish. ‘Time you grew up,’he had told her, with a nasty little laugh, and had taken her home in silence.

At the door he had watched her get out of the car and shot away, back to his friends, without saying another word. And Daisy, in love for the first time, had lain awake all night.

She had lost her heart to him when he had come into the shop, looking for glass goblets, and Daisy, being Daisy, twenty-four years old, plain, heartwhole and full of romantic ideas, had fallen instant prey to his superficial charm, bold good looks and flattering manners— all of which compensated for his lack of height. He was only a few inches taller than Daisy. He dressed well, but his hair was too long—sometimes, when Daisy allowed her sensible self to take over from romantic dreams, she did dislike that, but she was too much in love to say so.

He was a conceited man, and it was this conceit which had prompted him to invite Daisy out for dinner one evening, and that had led to more frequent meetings. He was a stranger to the little town, he had told her, sent by a London firm on a survey of some sort; he hadn’t been explicit about it and Daisy had supposed him to be in some high-powered job in the City, and that had given him the excuse to get to know her.

She helped her father in the shop, but she was free to come and go, so that first dinner soon led him to being shown the town. His apparent interest in it had encouraged her to take him to the local museum, the various churches, the row of cottages leading from the quay, old and bowed down with history. He had been horribly bored, but her obvious wish to please him was food for his ego.

He’d taken her out to tea, plying her with witty talk, smiling at her over the table, and she’d listened to him egotistically talk about himself and his important job, laughing at his jokes, admiring a new tie, or the leather briefcase he always carried, so necessary to his image.

That he didn’t care for her in the least didn’t bother him; she served as a distraction in the dull little town after the life he’d lived in London. She was a stopgap until such time as he could find the girl he wanted; preferably with good looks and money. And a good dresser. Daisy’s off-the-peg clothes earned her nothing but his secret mockery.

He didn’t come that evening. Daisy stifled disappointment, and spent the hours until bedtime polishing some antique silver her father had bought that day. It was worn smooth by the years, and usage, and she thought how delightful it would be to eat one’s food with such perfection. She polished the last spoon and laid it with the rest in a velvet bag, then put it in the wall cupboard where the small silver objects were housed. She locked the cupboard, shot the bolts on the shop door, locked it and set the alarm and went back upstairs. She had gone to the kitchen to make their evening drink when the phone rang.

It was Desmond, full of high spirits, apparently forgetful of their quarrel. ‘I’ve a treat for you, Daisy. There’s a dinner-dance at the Palace Hotel on Saturday evening. I’ve been invited and asked to bring a partner.’ He turned on the charm. ‘Say you’ll come, darling, it’s important to me. There’ll be several people I’ve been hoping to meet; it’s a good chance for me…’

When Daisy didn’t speak, he added, ‘It’s rather a grand affair; you’ll need a pretty dress—something striking so that people will turn round and look at us. Red—you can’t ignore red…’

Daisy swallowed back excitement and happiness as she said sedately, ‘It sounds very nice. I’d like to come with you. How long will it last?’

‘Oh, the usual time, I suppose. Around midnight. I’ll see you safely home, and I promise you it won’t be too late.’

Daisy, who if she made a promise kept it, believed him.

Desmond said importantly, ‘I’m tied up for the rest of this week, but I’ll see you on Saturday. Be ready by eight o’clock.’

When he rang off, she stood for a moment, happy once more, planning to buy a dress fit for the occasion. Her father paid her a salary for working in the shop and she had saved most of it… She went to find her mother to tell her.

There was only a handful of dress shops in the town, and since her father didn’t have a car, and the bus service, now that the season was over, had shrunk to market day and Saturday, Totnes and Plymouth were out of the question. Daisy visited each of the boutiques in the high street and to her relief found a dress—red, and not, she considered, quite her style, but red was what Desmond wanted…

She took it home and tried it on again—and wished she hadn’t bought it; it was far too short, and hardly decent—not her kind of a dress at all. When she showed it to her mother she could see that that lady thought the same. But Mrs Gillard loved her daughter, and wanted her to be happy. She observed that the dress was just right for an evening out and prayed silently that Desmond, whom she didn’t like, would be sent by his firm, whoever they were, to the other end of the country.

Saturday came, and Daisy, in a glow of excitement, dressed for the evening, did her face carefully and pinned her hair into a topknot more suitable for a sober schoolteacher’s outfit than the red dress, then went downstairs to wait for Desmond.

He kept her waiting for ten minutes, for which he offered no apology, and her mother and father, greeting him civilly, wished that Daisy could have fallen in love with any man but he. He made a great business of studying the dress. ‘Quite OK,’ he told her airily, and then frowned. ‘Of course your hair is all wrong, but it’s too late to do anything to it now…’

There were a great many people at the hotel, milling around waiting to go into dinner, and several of them hailed Desmond as they joined them. When Desmond introduced her, they nodded casually, then ignored her. Not that she minded that. She stood quietly listening to Desmond. He was a clever talker, knowing how to keep his listeners interested, and she could see that he was charming them.

She took the glass of wine she was offered and they made their way through the crowded foyer, stopping from time to time to greet someone Desmond knew, sometimes so briefly that he didn’t bother to introduce her. They sat with a party of eight in the restaurant, and presently Desmond, already dominating the talk at the table, made no attempt to include her in it. The man on her other side was young, with a loud voice, and he asked her who she was.

‘Came with Des? Not his usual type, are you? Cunning rascal wants to catch the eye of the guest of honour—he’s an influential old fellow, very strait-laced—thinks all young men should marry and settle down with a little woman and a horde of children. The plainer the better.’ He laughed. ‘You’re just the ticket, if I may say so.’

Daisy gave him a long, cold stare, suppressed a desire to slap his face, and instead chose a morsel of whatever it was on her plate and popped it in her mouth. If it hadn’t been for Desmond’s presence beside her she would have got up and walked out but he had impressed upon her the importance of the evening; his chance to meet the right people…

She sat through dinner, ignoring the awful man on her left and wishing that Desmond would speak to her. Only he was deep in conversation with the elegant woman on his right, and, from time to time, joining in talk with other people at the table. Perhaps it would be better once they started the dancing…

Only it wasn’t. True, he danced the first dance with her, whirling her around in a flashy fashion, but then he told her, ‘I must talk to a few people once this dance is over. Shan’t be long; you’ll get plenty of partners— you dance quite well. Only do, for heaven’s sake, look as though you’re enjoying yourself. I know it’s a bit above you, Daisy, but don’t let it intimidate you.’

He waved to someone across the ballroom. ‘I must go and have a word, I’ll be back,’he assured her, leaving her pressed up against a wall between a large statue holding a lamp and a pedestal holding an elaborate flower arrangement. She felt hemmed in and presently, when Desmond didn’t come back, lonely.

One side of the ballroom was open onto the corridor leading to the restaurant, and two men strolling along it paused to look at the dancers, talking quietly together. Presently they shook hands and the older man went on his way. His companion stayed where he was, in no hurry to leave, his attention caught by Daisy’s red dress. He studied her at some length. She didn’t look as though she belonged, and that dress was all wrong…

He strolled round the edge of the ballroom towards her, vaguely wishing to help her in some way. Close to her now, he could see that she wasn’t pretty, and looked prim, definitely out of place on the noisy dance floor. He stopped beside her and said in a friendly voice, ‘Are you like me? a stranger here?’

Daisy looked up at him, wondering why she hadn’t noticed him before, for he was a man who could hardly go unnoticed. Tall, very tall, and heavily built, with handsome features and grey hair cut short. He had a commanding nose and a rather thin mouth, but he was smiling at her in a reassuring way.

She said politely, ‘Well, yes, I am, but I came with someone—he has friends here. I don’t know anyone…’

Jules der Huizma was adept at putting people at their ease. He began a gentle rambling conversation about nothing in particular and watched her relax. Quite a pleasant girl, he reflected. A shame about the dress…

He stayed with her until presently he saw a man making his way towards them. When Desmond reached them, Mr der Huizma nodded in a friendly fashion and wandered away.

‘Who was that?’ demanded Desmond.

‘I’ve no idea—another guest?’Daisy added with unexpected tartness, ‘It was pleasant to have someone to talk with.’

Desmond said too quickly, ‘Darling, I’m sorry,’ and he gave her a smile to quicken her heartbeat. ‘I’ll make it up to you. I’ve been asked to go on to a nightclub in Plymouth—quite a jolly crowd. You can come too, of course. Another one won’t matter.’

‘Plymouth? But, Desmond, it’s almost midnight. You said you would take me home then. Of course I can’t go. In any case I wasn’t invited, was I?’

‘Well, no, but who’s to mind? Another girl won’t matter, and good Lord, Daisy, let yourself go for once— ’ He broke off as a girl joined them. A pretty girl, slim and dressed in the height of fashion, teetering on four-inch heels, swinging a sequinned bag, tossing fashionably tousled hair.

‘Des—there you are. We’re waiting.’

She glanced at Daisy and he said quickly, ‘This is Daisy; she came with me.’ He spoke sharply, ‘Daisy, this is Tessa.’

‘Oh, well, I suppose one more won’t matter. There’ll be room for her in one of the cars.’ Tessa smiled vaguely.

‘It’s kind of you to ask me,’ said Daisy, ‘but I said I would be home by midnight.’

Tessa’s eyes opened wide and she laughed. ‘A proper little Cinderella, though that frock’s all wrong—you’re too mousy to wear red.’ She turned to Desmond. ‘Take Cinderella home, Des. I’ll wait here for you.’

She turned on her ridiculous heels and was lost among the dancers.

Daisy waited for Desmond to say something, to tell her that he wouldn’t go with Tessa.

‘OK, I’ll take you home, but for heaven’s sake be quick getting your coat. I’ll be at the entrance.’ He spoke in an angry voice. ‘You’re doing your best to ruin my evening.’

Daisy said woodenly, ‘And what about my evening?’

But he had turned away, and she wasn’t sure if he had heard.

It took her a minute or two to find her coat under a pile of others in the alcove close to the entrance. She was putting it on when she became aware of voices from the other side of the screen.

‘Sorry you had to hang around for me, Jules. Shall we go along to the bar? There is still a great deal to talk about and I’m glad of the chance to see you after all this time. Wish it had been quieter here, though. Not much of an evening for you. I hope you found someone interesting to talk to.’

‘I found someone.’Daisy recognised the voice of the man who had been so pleasant. ‘A plain little creature in a regrettable red dress. A fish out of water…’

They moved away, and Daisy, not allowing herself to think, went to the entrance, where Desmond was waiting. He drove her home in silence, and only as she was getting out of the car did he speak. He said, unforgivably, ‘You look silly in that dress.’

Funnily enough, that didn’t hurt her half as much as the strange man’s opinion had done.

The house was quiet, with no light showing. She went in through the side door, along the passage to her father’s office and up the stairs to her room—small, but charmingly furnished with pieces she had chosen from the shop, none of it matching but all of it harmonising nicely. There was a patchwork quilt on the narrow bed, and plain white curtains at the small window, and a small bookshelf bulging with books.

She undressed quickly and then parcelled up the red dress to hand over to the charity shop in the high street. She would have liked to have taken a pair of scissors and cut it into shreds, but that would have been a stupid thing to do; somewhere there must be a girl who would look just right in it. Daisy got into bed as the church clock chimed one and lay wide awake, going over the wreck of her evening. She still loved Desmond; she was sure of that. People in love quarrelled, even in her euphoric state she was aware of that, and of course he had been disappointed—she hadn’t come up to his expectations and he had said a great many things she was sure he would regret.

Daisy, such a sensible, matter-of-fact girl, was quite blinded by her infatuation, and ready to make any excuses for Desmond. She closed her eyes, determined to sleep. In the morning everything would be just as it had been again.

Only it wasn’t. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected— a phone call? A quick visit? He seemed to have plenty time on his hands.

She busied herself arranging a small display of Coalport china, reflecting that she knew almost nothing about his work or how he spent his days. When he took her out in the evenings he would answer her queries as to his day with some light-hearted remark which actually told her nothing. But, despite the disappointment and humiliation of the previous evening, she was quite prepared to listen to his apologies—might even laugh about the disastrous evening with him.

Even while she consoled herself with these thoughts, good sense was telling her that she was behaving like a naive teenager, although she was reluctant to admit it. Desmond represented romance in her quiet life.

He didn’t phone, he didn’t come to see her, and it was several days later that she saw him on the other side of the high street. He must have seen her, for the street was almost empty, but he walked on, to all intents and purpose a complete stranger.

Daisy went back to the shop and spent the rest of the day packing up a set of antique wine glasses which an old customer had bought. It was a slow, careful job, and it gave her ample time to think. One thing was clear to her; Desmond didn’t love her—never had, she admitted sadly. True, he had called her darling, and kissed her and told her that she was his dream girl, but he hadn’t meant a word of it. She had been happy to believe him; romance, for her, had been rather lacking, and he had seemed like the answer to her romantic dreams. But the romance had been only on her side.

She wedged the last glass into place in its nest of tissue paper and put the lid on the box. And at the same time she told herself, I’ve put a lid on Desmond too, and I’ll never be romantic again—once bitten…!

All the same, the next weeks were hard going. It had been easy to get into the habit of seeing Desmond several times a week. She tried to fill the gaps by going to films, or having coffee with friends, but that wasn’t entirely successful for they all had boyfriends or were engaged, and it was difficult to maintain a carefree indifference as to her own future in the face of their friendly probings. She got thinner, and spent more time than she needed to in the shop, so that her mother coaxed her to go out more.

‘There’s not much doing in the shop at this time of year,’ she observed. ‘Why not have a good walk in the afternoons, love? It will soon be too cold and dark, and there’ll be all the extra custom with Christmas.’

So Daisy went out walking. Mostly the same walk, down to the sea, to tramp along the sand, well wrapped up against the early November wind and rain. She met a few other hardy souls; people she knew by sight, walking their dogs. They shouted cheerful greetings as they passed and she shouted back, her voice carried away on the wind.

It was during the last week of November that Daisy met once more the man who had likened her to a fish out of water. Jules der Huizma was spending a few days with his friend again, at his house some miles out of the town, enjoying the quiet country life after the hurry and stress of London. He loved the sea; it reminded him of his own country.

He saw her some way ahead of him and recognised her at once. She was walking into the teeth of a chilly wind bearing cold drizzle with it, and he lengthened his stride, whistling to his friend’s dog so that it ran on ahead of him. He had no wish to take her by surprise, and Trigger’s cheerful barks would slow her down or cause her to turn round.

They did both. She stopped to pat his elderly head and looked over her shoulder; she greeted him politely in a cool voice, his words at the hotel still very clear in her head. And then forgot to be cool when he said, ‘How delightful to meet someone who likes walking in the rain and the wind.’

He smiled at her as he spoke, and she forgave him then for calling her a fish out of water—a plain fish too. After all, in all fairness she had been both. Indeed, when it came to being plain she would always be that.

They walked on side by side, not talking too much for the wind was too fierce, and presently, by mutual consent, they turned back towards the town, climbed the steps and walked up the main street.At the corner of the lane, Daisy paused. ‘I live down here with my mother and father. Father has an antiques shop and I work there.’

Mr der Huizma saw that he was being dismissed politely. ‘Then I hope that at some time I shall have the opportunity to browse there. I’m interested in old silver…’

‘So is Father. He’s quite well known for being an expert.’

She put out a wet gloved hand. ‘I enjoyed the walk.’ She studied his quiet face. ‘I don’t know your name…’

‘Jules der Huizma.’

‘Not English? I’m Daisy Gillard.’

He took her small damp paw in a firm grip. ‘I too enjoyed the walk,’he told her gently. ‘Perhaps we shall meet again some time.’

‘Yes, well—perhaps.’ She added, ‘Goodbye,’ and walked down the lane, not looking back. A pity, she thought, that I couldn’t think of something clever to say, so that he would want to see me again. She remembered Desmond then, and told herself not to be so stupid; he wasn’t in the least bit like Desmond, but who was it that wrote ‘Men were deceivers ever’? Probably they were all alike.

She took care for the next few days to walk the other way—which was pointless since Mr der Huizma had gone back to London.

A week or so later, with the shops displaying Christmas goods and a lighted Christmas tree at the top of the high street opposite the church, she met him again. Only this time it was at the shop. Daisy was waiting patiently by the vicar, while he tried to decide which of two Edwardian brooches his wife would like. She left him with a murmured suggestion that he might like to take his time and went through the shop to where Mr der Huizma was stooping over a glass-topped display table housing a collection of silver charms.

He greeted her pleasantly. ‘I’m looking for something for a teenage god-daughter. These are delightful—on a silver bracelet, perhaps?’

She opened a drawer in the large bow-fronted tallboy and took out a tray.

‘These are all Victorian. Is she a little girl or an older teenager?’

‘Fifteen or so.’ He smiled down at her. ‘And very fashion-conscious.’

Daisy held up a dainty trifle of silver links. ‘If you should wish to buy it, and the charms, Father will fasten them on for you.’ She picked up another bracelet. ‘Or this? Please just look around. You don’t need to buy anything—a lot of people just come to browse.’

She gave him a small smile and went back to the vicar, who was still unable to make up his mind.

Presently her father came into the shop, and when at last the vicar had made his decision, and she’d wrapped the brooch in a pretty box, Mr der Huizma had gone.

‘Did he buy anything?’asked Daisy. ‘Mr der Huizma? Remember I told you I met him one day out walking?’

‘Indeed he did. A very knowledgeable man too. He’s coming back before Christmas—had his eye on those rat-tailed spoons…’

And two days later Desmond came into the shop. He wasn’t alone. The girl Daisy had met at the hotel was with him, wrapped in a scarlet leather coat and wearing a soft angora cap on her expertly disarranged locks. Daisy, eyeing her, felt like a mouse in her colourless dress; a garment approved of by her father, who considered that a brighter one would detract from the treasures in his shop.

She would have liked to have turned away, gone out of the shop, but that would have been cowardly. She answered Desmond’s careless, ‘Hullo, Daisy,’ with composure, even if her colour was heightened, and listened politely while he explained at some length that they were just having a look round. ‘We might pick up some trifle which will do for Christmas…’

‘Silver? Gold?’ asked Daisy. ‘Or there are some pretty little china ornaments if you don’t want to spend too much.’

Which wasn’t a polite thing to say, but her tongue had said it before she could curb it. It gave her some satisfaction to see Desmond’s annoyance, even though at the same time she had to admit to a sudden wish that he would look at her—really look—and realise that he was in love with her and not with the girl in the red coat. It was a satisfying thought, but nonsense, of course, and, when she thought about it, it struck her that perhaps she hadn’t loved him after all. All the same, he had left a hole in her quiet life. And her pride had been hurt…

They stayed for some time and left without buying anything, Desmond pointing out in a rather too loud voice that they were more likely to find something worth buying if they went to Plymouth.A remark which finally did away with Daisy’s last vestige of feeling towards him…

During her solitary afternoon walks, shorter now that the Christmas rush had started, she decided that she would never allow herself to get fond of a man again. Not that there was much chance of that, she reflected. She was aware that she was lacking in good looks, that she would never be slender like the models in the glossy magazines, that she lacked the conversation likely to charm a man.

She had friends whom she had known for most of her life; most of them were married now, or working in some high-powered job. But for Daisy, once she had managed to get a couple of A levels, the future had been an obvious one. She had grown up amongst antiques, she loved them, and she had her father’s talent for finding them. Once she’d realised that she’d studied books about them, had gone to auctions and poked around dingy little back-street second hand shops, occasionally finding a genuine piece. And her father and mother, while making no effort to coerce her, had been well content that she should stay home, working in the shop and from time to time visiting some grand country house whose owners were compelled to sell its contents.

They had discussed the idea of her going to a university and getting a degree, but that would have meant her father getting an assistant, and although they lived comfortably enough his income depended very much on circumstances.

So Daisy had arranged her future in what she considered to be a sensible manner.

She thought no more about Desmond. But she did think about Mr der Huizma—thoughts about him creeping into her head at odd moments. He was someone she would have liked to know better; his calm, friendly manner had been very soothing to her hurt feelings, and he seemed to accept her for what she was—a very ordinary girl. His matter-of-fact manner towards her was somehow reassuring.

But there wasn’t much time to daydream now; the shop was well known, Mr Gillard was known to be an honest man, and very knowledgeable, and old customers came back year after year, seeking some trifle to give as a present. Some returned to buy an antique piece they had had their eye on for months, having decided that they might indulge their taste now, since it was Christmas.

Daisy, arranging a small display of antique toys on a cold, dark December morning, wished that she was a child again so that she might play with the Victorian dolls’ house she was furnishing with all the miniature pieces which went with it. It had been a lucky find in a down-at-heel shop in Plymouth—dirty and in need of careful repair. Something she had lovingly undertaken. Now it stood in a place of honour on a small side-table, completely furnished and flanked by a cased model of a nineteenth century butcher’s shop and a toy grocery shop from pre-war Germany.

All very expensive, but someone might buy them. She would have liked the dolls’ house for herself; whoever bought that would need to have a very deep pocket…

Apparently Mr der Huizma had just that, for he came that very day and, after spending a considerable time examining spoons with her father, wandered over to where she was putting the finishing touches to a tinplate carousel.

He bent to look at the dolls’ house. She wished him good morning, then said in her quiet voice, ‘Charming, isn’t it? A little girl’s dream…’

‘Yes? You consider that to be so?’

‘Oh, yes. Only she would have to be a careful little girl, who liked dolls.’

‘Then I’ll buy it, for I know exactly the little girl you think should own it.’

‘You do? It’s a lot of money…’

‘But she is a dear child who deserves only the best.’

Daisy would have liked to have known more, but something in his voice stopped her from asking. She said merely, ‘Shall I pack it up for you? I’ll do it very carefully. It will take some time if you want it sent. If you do, I’ll get it properly boxed.’

‘No, no. I’ll take it with me in the car. Can you have it ready in a few days if I call back for it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I shall be taking it out of the country.’

Going home for Christmas, thought Daisy, and said, ‘I’ll be extra careful, and I’ll give you an invoice just in case Customs should want to know about it.’

He smiled at her. ‘How very efficient you are, and how glad I am that I have found the house; presents for small children are always a problem.’

‘Do you have several children?’

His smile widened. ‘We are a large family,’ he told her, and with that she had to be satisfied.

CHAPTER TWO

PACKING up the dolls’house, wrapping each tiny piece of furniture carefully in tissue paper, writing an inventory of its contents, took Daisy an entire day, and gave her ample time to reflect upon Mr der Huizma. Who exactly was he? she wondered. A man of some wealth to buy such a costly gift for a child, and a man of leisure, presumably, for he had never mentioned work of any kind. And did he live in England, or merely visit England from time to time?And if so where did he live?

Mr der Huizma, unaware of Daisy’s interest in him and, truth to tell, uncaring of it, was strolling down the centre of the children’s ward of a London teaching hospital. He had a toddler tucked under one arm—a small, damp grizzling boy, who had been sobbing so loudly that the only thing to do was to pick him up and comfort him as Mr der Huizma did his round. Sister was beside him, middle-aged, prematurely grey-haired and as thin as a rail. None of these things were noticed, though, for she had the disposition of an angel and very beautiful dark blue eyes.

She said now, ‘He’ll ruin that suit of yours, sir,’ and then, when he smiled down at her, asked, ‘What do you intend to do about him? He’s made no progress at all.’

Mr der Huizma paused in his stride and was instantly surrounded by a posse of lesser medical lights and an earnest-faced nurse holding the case-sheets.

He hoisted the little boy higher onto his shoulder. ‘Only one thing for it,’ He glanced at his registrar. ‘Tomorrow morning? Will you see Theatre Sister as early as possible? And let his parents know, will you? I’ll talk to them this evening if they’d like to visit…’

He continued his round, unhurried, sitting on cot-sides to talk to the occupants, examining children in a leisurely fashion, giving instructions in a quiet voice. Presently he went to Sister’s office and drank his coffee with her and his registrar and the two housemen. The talk was of Christmas, and plans for the ward. A tree, of course, and stockings hung on the bed and filled with suitable toys, paper chains, and mothers and fathers coming to a splendid tea.

Mr der Huizma listened to the small talk, saying little himself. He would be here on the ward on Christmas morning, after flying over from Holland in his plane very early, and would return home during the afternoon. He had done that ever since he’d taken up his appointment as senior paediatrician at the hospital, doing it without fuss, and presenting himself at the hospital in Amsterdam on the following day to join in the festivities on the children’s ward there—and somehow he managed to spend time with his family too…

A few days before Christmas he called at the shop to collect the dolls’ house. Daisy, absorbed in cleaning a very dirty emerald necklace—a find in someone’s attic and sold to her father by its delighted owner—glanced round as he came into the shop, put down the necklace and waved a hand at the dolls’ house shrouded in its wrappings.

‘It’s all ready. Do take care not to jog it about too much. Everything is packed tightly, but it would be awful if anything broke.’

He wished her good evening gravely, and added, ‘I’ll be careful. And we will unpack it and check everything before Mies sees it.’

‘Mies—what a pretty name. I’m sure she will love it. How old is she?’

He didn’t answer at once, and she wished she hadn’t asked. ‘She is five years old,’ he said presently.

She wanted to ask if he had any more children, but sensed that he wasn’t a man who would welcome such questions. Instead she said, ‘I’ll get Father to give you a hand—have you a car outside?’

When he nodded, she asked, ‘Are you going back to Holland today?’ She sighed without knowing it. ‘Your family will be glad to see you…’

He said gravely, ‘I hope so. Christmas is a time for families, is it not?’He studied her quiet face. ‘And you? Do you also attend a family gathering?’

‘Me? Oh, no. I mean there isn’t a family—just Mother and Father and me.’She added quickly, ‘But we have a lovely Christmas.’

Mr der Huizma, thinking of his own family gathered at his home, wondered if that were true. She didn’t seem a girl to hanker after bright lights, but surely Christmas spent over the shop with only her parents for company would be dull. He dismissed a vague feeling of concern for her as her father came into the shop; theirs had been a chance meeting and they were unlikely to see each other again.

He and Mr Gillard carried the dolls’house out to his car, and before he drove away he came back into the shop to thank her for her work with it, wish her a happy Christmas and bid her goodbye.

There was an air of finality about his words; Daisy knew with regret that she would not see him again.

She thought about him a good deal during Christmas. The shop was busy until the last minute of Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day was filled to the brim, with the morning ritual of opening their presents, going to church and sitting down to the traditional dinner in the late afternoon. On Boxing Day she had visited friends in the town and joined a party of them in the evening—all the same, she found time to wonder about him…

And of course on the following day the shop was open again. It was surprising what a number of ungrateful recipients of trinkets and sets of sherry glasses and china ornaments were anxious to turn them into cash. And then there was a lull. Money was scarce after Christmas, and customers were few and far between, which gave Daisy time to clean and polish and repair with her small capable hands while her father was away for a few days at an auction being held on one of the small estates in the north of the country.

He came back well satisfied; not only had he made successful bids for a fine set of silver Georgian tea caddies and a pair of George the Second sauce boats, but he had also acquired a Dutch painted and gilt leather screen, eighteenth-century and in an excellent condition—although the chinoiserie figures were almost obscured by years of ingrained dirt and dust. It had been found in one of the attics and had attracted little attention. He had paid rather more than he could afford for it, and there was always the chance that it would stay in the shop, unsold and representing a considerable loss to him. But on the other hand he might sell it advantageously…

It fell to Daisy’s lot to clean and restore it to a pristine state, something which took days of patient work. It was a slow business, and she had ample opportunity to think. It was surprising how often her thoughts dwelt on Mr der Huizma, which, considering she wasn’t going to see him again, seemed a great waste of time.

It was towards the end of January, with the screen finished and business getting brisker, when two elderly men came into the shop. They greeted her with courtesy, and a request that they might look around the shop, and wandered to and fro at some length, murmuring to each other, stooping down to admire some trifle which had caught their eye. Daisy, whose ears were sharp, decided that they were murmuring in a foreign language. But they spoke English well enough when her father came into the shop, passing the time of day with him as they continued their leisurely progress.

They stopped abruptly when they saw the screen, right at the back of the shop. For two calm, elderly gentlemen they exhibited a sudden interest tinged with excitement. There was no need for her father to describe it to them; it seemed that they knew as much about it as he did, possibly more. They examined it at length and with great care, asked its price, and without further argument took out a chequebook.

‘I must explain,’ said one gentleman, and Daisy edged nearer so as not to miss a word. ‘This screen— you tell me that you bought it at an auction at the Kings Poulton estate? I must tell you that an ancestress of ours married a member of the family in the eighteenth century and brought this screen with her as part of her dowry. It was made especially for her. You will have seen the initials at the edge of the border—her initials. When we were last in England we enquired about it but were told that it had been destroyed in the fire they had some years ago. You can imagine our delight in discovering that it is safe—and in such splendid condition.’

‘You must thank my daughter for that,’ said Mr Gillard. ‘It was in a shocking state.’

The three of them turned and looked at her. She smiled nicely at them, for the two elderly gentlemen were friendly, and she was intrigued by the screen’s history and the chance discovery they had made of it. ‘It is very beautiful,’she said. ‘I don’t know where you live, but you’ll need to be very careful with it; it’s fragile…’

‘It must return, of course, to our home in Holland— near Amsterdam. And we can assure you, young lady, that it will be transported with great care.’

‘In a van, properly packed,’ said Daisy.

The elder of the two gentlemen, the one with the forbidding nose and flowing moustache, said meekly, ‘Most certainly, and with a reliable courier.’He paused, and then exchanged a look with his companion.

‘Perhaps you would undertake the task of bringing the screen to Holland, young lady? Since you have restored it you will know best how it should be handled, and possibly you will remain for a brief period to ensure that no harm has come to it on the journey.’

‘Me?’ Daisy sounded doubtful. ‘Well, of course I’d love to do that, but I’m not an expert, or qualified or anything like that.’

‘But you would do this if we ask you?’

She glanced at her father.

‘A good idea, Daisy, and you are perfectly capable of doing it. You’ll need a day for travelling, and another day for the return journey, and a day or two to check that everything is as it should be.’

‘Very well, I’ll be glad to do that. I’ll need a couple of days in which to pack the screen…’

The moustached gentleman offered a hand. ‘Thank you. If we may return in the morning and discuss the details? I am Heer van der Breek.’

Daisy took the hand. ‘Daisy Gillard. I’m glad you found your screen.’

His companion shook hands too, and then they bade her father goodbye.

When they had gone, Daisy said, ‘You’re sure I can do it? I can’t speak Dutch, Father.’

‘No problem, and of course you can do it, a sensible girl like you, my dear. Besides, while you’re there you can go to Heer Friske’s shop in Amsterdam—remember he wrote and told me that he had a Georgian wine cooler I might be interested in? Colonel Gibbs has been wanting one, and if you think it’s a genuine piece you might buy it and bring it back with you.’

‘Where will I stay?’ asked the practical Daisy.

‘Oh, there must be plenty of small hotels—he will probably know of one.’

It was surprising how quickly matters were arranged. In rather less than a week Daisy found herself sitting beside the driver of the small van housing the screen on her way to Holland. She had money, her passport, and directions in her handbag, a travelling bag stuffed with everything necessary for a few days’ stay in that country, and all the documents necessary for a trouble-free journey. She was to stay at Meneer van der Breek’s house and oversee the unpacking of the screen and its installation, and from there she was to go to Amsterdam and present herself at Mijnheer Friske’s shop. A small hotel close by had been found for her and she was to stay as long as it was necessary. Two or three days should be sufficient, her father had told her.

Excited under her calm exterior, Daisy settled back to enjoy her trip. Her companion was of a friendly disposition, pleased to have company, and before long she was listening with a sympathetic ear to his disappointment at missing his eldest daughter’s birthday. ‘Though I’ll buy her something smashing in Amsterdam,’ he assured her. ‘This kind of job is too well paid to refuse.’

They crossed on the overnight ferry, and since Mijnheer van der Breek had made all the arrangements for their journey it went without a hitch and in comfort.

It was raining when they disembarked in the early morning, and Daisy, looking around her, reflected that this flat and damp landscape wasn’t at all what she had expected. But presently there was a watery winter sun, and the built-up areas were left behind. They stopped for coffee, and then drove on.

‘Loenen aan de Vecht,’ said the driver. ‘The other side of Amsterdam on the way to Utrecht. Not far now—we turn off the motorway soon.’

He bypassed Amsterdam and emerged into quiet countryside, and presently onto a country road running beside a river. ‘The Vecht,’ said Daisy, poring over the map.

It was a delightful road, tree-lined, with here and there a pleasant house tucked away. On the opposite bank there were more houses—rather grand gentlemen’s residences, with sweeping lawns bordering the water and surrounded by trees and shrubs.

Before long they came to a bridge and crossed it.

‘Is it here?’ asked Daisy. ‘One of these houses? They’re rather splendid…’

They turned in through wrought-iron gates and drew up before an imposing doorway reached by stone steps. There were rows of orderly windows with heavy shutters and gabled roofs above the house’s solid face, and an enormous bell-pull beside the door. Daisy got out and looked around her with knowledgeable eyes. Seventeenth-century, she guessed, and probably older than that round the back.

The driver had got out too and rung the bell; they could hear its sonorous clanging somewhere in the depths of the house. Presently the door was opened by a stout man, and Daisy handed over the letter Mijnheer van der Breek had given her in England.

Invited to step inside, she did so, prudently asking the driver to stay with the van, and was led down a long, gloomy hall to big double doors at its end. The stout man flung them open and crossed the large and equally gloomy apartment to where Mijnheer van der Breek sat. He handed him the letter and waved Daisy forward.

Mijnheer van der Breek got up, shook hands with her and asked, ‘You have the screen? Splendid. It is unfortunate that my brother is indisposed, otherwise he would have shared my pleasure at your arrival.’

‘It’s outside in the van,’said Daisy. ‘If you would tell me where you want it put the driver and I will see to it.’

‘No, no, young lady. Cor shall help the man. Although you must supervise its removal, of course. We have decided that we want it in the salon. When it has been brought there I will come personally and say where it is to go.’

Daisy would have liked five minutes’ leisure, preferably with a pot of tea, but it seemed that she wasn’t to get it. She went back to the van, this time with Cor, and watched while the men took the screen from the van and carried it carefully into the house. More double doors on one side of the hall had been opened, and she followed them into the room beyond. It was large and lofty, with tall narrow windows heavily swathed in crimson velvet curtains. The furniture was antique, but not of a period which Daisy cared for—dark and heavy and vaguely Teutonic. But, she had to admit, a good background for the screen.

Time was taken in getting the screen just so, and she finally heard Mijnheer van der Breek’s satisfied approval. What was more, he told her that she might postpone unwrapping it and examining it until after they had had luncheon. It was only after he had seen his treasure safely disposed that he sent for his housekeeper to show Daisy her room.

Daisy bade the driver goodbye, reminded him to drive carefully and to let her father know that they had arrived safely, and followed the imposing bulk of the housekeeper up the elaborately carved staircase.

She was led away from the gallery above and down a small passage, down a pair of steps, along another passage, and then finally into a room at the corner of the house with windows in two walls, a lofty ceiling and a canopied bed. The floor was polished wood, with thick rugs here and there. A small table with two chairs drawn up to it was in one corner of the room, and there was a pier table with a marble top holding a Dutch marquetry toilet mirror flanked by a pair of ugly but valuable Imari vases. The room was indeed a treasure house of antiques, although none to her liking. But the adjoining bathroom won her instant approval. She tidied her hair, did her face and found her way downstairs, hopeful of lunch.

It was eaten in yet another room, somewhat smaller than the others, but splendidly furnished, the table laid with damask cloth and a good deal of very beautiful silver and china. A pity that the meal didn’t live up to its opulent surroundings.

‘A light lunch at midday,’explained Mijnheer van der Breek, and indeed it was. A spoonful or two of clear soup, a dish of cold meats, another of cheeses, and a basket of rolls, partaken of so sparingly by her host that she felt unable to satisfy her appetite. But the coffee was delicious.

Probably dinner would be a more substantial meal, hoped Daisy, rising from the table with her host and, since he expected it of her, going to examine the screen.

She spent the afternoon carefully checking every inch of the screen; removing every speck of dust, making sure that the light wasn’t too strong for it, making sure that the gilt wasn’t damaged. She hardly noticed the time passing, and she stopped thankfully when the housekeeper brought her a small tray of tea. She worked on then, until she was warned that dinner would be at seven o’clock. She went to her room and changed into a plain brown jersey dress which did nothing to improve her appearance but which didn’t crease when packed…

Both elderly gentlemen were at dinner, so that she was kept busy answering their questions during the meal—a substantial one, she was glad to find; pork cutlets with cooked beetroot, braised chicory and large floury potatoes smothered in butter. Pudding was a kind of blancmange with a fruit sauce. Good solid fare. Either the gentlemen didn’t have a good cook or they had no fancy for more elaborate cooking. But once again the coffee was delicious. Over it they discussed her departure.

‘Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?’suggested Mijnheer van der Breek, and glanced at his brother, who nodded. ‘You will be driven to Amsterdam,’ she was told. ‘We understand that you have an errand there for your father. We are most grateful for your help in bringing the screen to us, but I am sure that you would wish to fulfil your commission and return home as soon as possible.’

Daisy smiled politely and reflected that, much as she loved her home, it was delightful to be on her own in a strange country. She would see as much of Amsterdam as possible while she was there. She would phone her father as soon as she could and ask him if she might stay another day there—there were museums she dearly wanted to see…

She was driven to Amsterdam the next day by the stout man in an elderly and beautifully maintained Daimler. The hotel her father had chosen for her was small and welcoming, down a small side-street crisscrossed by canals. The proprietor spoke English, and led her up a steep staircase to a small room overlooking the street. He reminded her that the evening meal was at six o’clock, then went back to his cubby-hole by the entrance.

It was a gloomy afternoon, already turned to dusk. Too late to visit Heer Friske’s shop, so Daisy contented herself with tidying her person, unpacking her few clothes and then sitting down in the overstuffed chair by the window to study a map of the city. Complicated, she decided, as she found the small square where Heer Friske had his shop. But she had all day before her on the morrow and, since her father had had no objection to her staying for a second day, she would have a whole further day sightseeing before going back on the night ferry.

She went downstairs presently, to the small dining room in the basement, and found a dozen other people there, all of them Dutch. They greeted her kindly and, being a friendly girl by nature, she enjoyed her meal. Soup, pork chops with ample potatoes and vegetables, and a custard for pudding. Simple, compared with the fare at Mijnheer van der Breek’s house, but much more sustaining…

She slept well, ate her breakfast of rolls and cheese and cold meat, drank several cups of coffee and, thus fortified, started off for Heer Friske’s shop. The hotel didn’t provide lunch, and in any case she didn’t intend to return before the late afternoon. As she started to pick her way through the various streets she saw plenty of small coffee shops where she would be able to get a midday snack.

She missed her way several times, but, being a sensible girl, she didn’t get flustered. All the same, she was glad when she reached the shop. It was small and old and the window was crammed with small antiques. She spent a minute or two studying them before she entered the shop. It was dark inside, lighted by rather feeble wall-lights, and extended back into even deeper gloom. The whole place was crowded with antiques. Daisy made her way carefully towards the old man sitting at a desk in the middle of it all.

She said, ‘Good morning,’ and offered a hand, guessing quite rightly that he wasn’t the kind of man who would waste time on unnecessary chat, for he barely glanced at her before resuming the polishing of a rather fine silver coffee pot.

‘Daisy Gillard,’ said Daisy clearly. ‘You told my father that you had a Georgian wine cooler. May I see it, please?’

Heer Friske found his voice and spoke in strongly accented English. ‘You are here to buy it? You are capable?’

‘My father thinks so.’

He got up slowly and led her further into the shop, where the wine cooler stood on top of a solid table. He didn’t say anything, but stood back while she examined it. It was a splendid specimen, in good condition and genuine. ‘How much?’ asked Daisy.

His price was too high, but she had expected that. It took half an hour’s bargaining over several cups of coffee before they reached an amount which pleased them both. Daisy made out a Eurocheque, said that she would return on the following day to make arrangements to convey the unwieldy cooler to the station, and took her leave, pleased with herself and happy to have the rest of the day in which to do exactly what she liked.

By the time she got back to the hotel in the late afternoon she was tired but content; she had crammed the Rijksmuseum, two churches, Anne Frank’s house and a canal trip into her time, stopping only for a brief while to consume a kaas broodje and a cup of coffee.

At dinner she told her companions where she had been and they nodded approval, pointing out that the evening was when she should take the opportunity of walking to the Leidesplein to get a glimpse of the brightly lighted square with its cafés and hotels and cheerful crowds.

Daisy, a cock-a-hoop over her successful day, decided that she would do just that. It was no distance, and although it was a chilly night, with a sparkling frost, there was a moon and plenty of people around. She found her way to the Leidesplein easily enough, had a cup of coffee at a street stall while she watched the evening crowds, and then started back to the hotel.

However, somehow she mistook her way, and, turning round to check where she had come from, took unguarded steps backwards and fell into a canal.

She came to the surface of the icy water and her first thought was thankfulness that she hadn’t had anything valuable about her person; the second was a flash of panic. The water wasn’t just cold, it smelled awful—and tasted worse.There were probably rats… She opened her mouth and bawled for help and swam, very hampered by her clothes, to the canal bank. Slippery stones, too steep for her to scramble up. She bawled again, and, miracle of miracles, a firm hand caught her shoulder while a second grabbed her other arm, almost wrenching it from its socket. She was heaved onto the street with no more ado.

‘Not hurt?’ asked her rescuer.

‘Ugh,’ said Daisy, and was thankfully sick, half kneeling on the cobbles.

‘Only very wet and—er, strong-smelling,’ added a voice she knew.

He bent and set her on her feet. ‘Come with me and we’ll get you cleaned up.’

‘Mr der Huizma,’ said Daisy. ‘Oh, it would be you, wouldn’t it?’ she added wildly. It was nice to have been rescued, but why couldn’t it have been by a stranger? Why did it have to be someone who, if he’d remembered her at all, would have thought of her as a quiet, well-mannered girl with a knowledge of antiques and a liking for walks by the sea. Now it would be as a silly, careless fool.

‘Indeed it is I.’ He had her by the arm. ‘Across this bridge is the hospital where I work. They will soon have you clean and dry again.You didn’t lose anything in the canal?’

‘No. I didn’t have more than a few gulden with me. I only turned round to see where I was…’

‘Of course,’ agreed Mr der Huizma gravely, ‘a perfectly natural thing to do. This way.’

The hospital was indeed close by. He led her, squelching and dripping, into the casualty entrance and handed her over to a large bony woman who clucked sympathetically and led Daisy away before she had time to utter a word of thanks to Mr der Huizma. Her clothes were taken from her, she was put under a hot shower, her hair was washed and she was given injections. The sister, who spoke good English, smiled at her. ‘Rats,’ she said, plunging in the needle. ‘A precaution.’

She was given hot coffee, wrapped in a hospital gown several sizes too large and a thick blanket, and sat on a chair in one of the cubicles. She felt quite restored in her person, but her mind was in a fine jumble. She had no clothes; her own had been taken away, but even if they were washed they would never be dry enough, and how was she to get back to the hotel? No one had asked her that yet. She rubbed her long mousy hair dry and began to worry.

The cubicle curtains were parted and Sister appeared; looming beside her was Mr der Huizma. Daisy stared up at them from the depths of her blanket.

‘My clothes? If I could have…?’

Sister interrupted her in a kind, forceful voice. ‘Mr der Huizma will take you back to your hotel and explain what has happened. Perhaps you would be good enough to bring back the blanket, slippers and gown in the morning?’

‘Oh! Well, thank you. I’m a great nuisance, I’m afraid. Shall I take my clothes with me?’

‘No, no. They are being washed and disinfected. You may collect them in the morning.’

Daisy avoided the doctor’s eye. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so tiresome. I’m very grateful…’

Sister smiled. ‘It is a common happening that people—and cars—should fall in the canals. You will come to no harm, I think.’

Mr der Huizma spoke. ‘Shall we go, Miss Gillard?’

So Daisy, much hampered by the blanket and the too-large slippers, trotted beside him, out of the hospital, and was shoved neatly into the dark grey Rolls Royce outside.

It was a short drive, and beyond expressing the polite hope that she would enjoy the rest of her stay in Amsterdam, he had nothing to say. And as for Daisy, it seemed to her it was hardly the occasion for casual conversation.

At the hotel he ushered her across the narrow pavement and into the foyer, where he engaged the proprietor in a brief conversation, not a word of which Daisy could understand. But presently he turned to her, expressed the hope that she was none the worse for her ducking, and bade her goodbye.

Daisy, at a disadvantage because of the blanket, thanked him again, untangled a hand from the blanket and offered it. His large, cool hand felt strangely comforting.

The next morning, her normal, neatly dressed self, not a hair out of place, she took a taxi to the hospital, handed over the blanket, the gown and the slippers in exchange for her own clothes, and made a short speech of thanks to Sister, who nodded and smiled, wished her a happy day and a safe return home and warned her to be careful.

There was no sign of Mr der Huizma, and there was no reason why there should have been; he was obviously a senior member of his profession who probably only went to Casualty when his skills were required. All the same, Daisy lingered for as long as possible in the hope of seeing him.

Mijnheer Friske had the wine cooler packed up ready for her to take. She arranged to collect it that evening, when she went to get her train to the Hoek. It would be unwieldy, but no heavier than a big suitcase, and there would be porters and her father had said that he would see that she was met at Harwich. She assured Heer Friske that she would be back in good time, checked the contents of her handbag—ticket, passport, money and all the impedimenta necessary for her journey—and set off to spend the rest of the day window shopping, exploring the city and buying one or two small gifts.

Being a girl of common sense, she left her clothes, including those the hospital had returned to her, with the kindly Heer Friske, taking only her coat with her which she presently left at a dry cleaners to be collected later. Everything was going very smoothly, and she intended to enjoy her day.

And she did, cramming in as much as possible; another museum, a church or two, antique shops, browsing round the Bijnenkorf looking for presents.

It was late afternoon, after a cup of tea and an elaborate cream cake, when she started on her way back to Heer Friske’s shop.

She walked through the narrow streets, thinking about her stay in Holland—a very enjoyable one, despite the ducking in a canal that had been the means of meeting Mr der Huizma again. Not quite the meeting she would have chosen. Aware of her lack of looks, she was sure that a soaking in canal water had done little to improve them. And there was nothing glamorous about a hospital blanket.

She was almost at Heer Friske’s shop, walking down a narrow quiet street with no one to be seen, the houses lining it with doors and windows shut, when she was suddenly aware of danger. Too late, unfortunately. Someone snatched her handbag, and when she struggled to get it back someone else knocked her down. She hit the cobbles with a thump, was aware of a sudden terrible pain in her head, and was thankfully unconscious.

The two men disappeared as swiftly and silently as they had appeared. It was ten minutes or so before a man on a bicycle found her, and another ten minutes before an ambulance arrived to take her to hospital.

CHAPTER THREE

MR DER HUIZMA, leaving the hospital in the early morning after operating on a small baby with intussusception, met Casualty Sister in the foyer, also on her way home. He paused to wish her good morning, for they had known each other for some years, and enquired after her night.

‘Busy—as busy as you, sir. By the way, the English girl is back…’

He paused in his stride. ‘She was to return to England last night. What has happened to her?’

‘Mugged. She was brought in about five o’clock. Concussion. No identification, of course—they took everything. They traced her name from the admissions book and notified the hotel. The proprietor couldn’t give much information, only that she had paid her bill and intended to leave for England that evening.’

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