Betty Neels - The Silver Thaw

They ate their dinner with splendid appetites and Amelia went early to bed. The hotel manager had told them that a short walk in the morning would take them behind the little town and up the lower slopes of the mountains where the view of the fjord was something worth seeing, and Amelia persuaded her father to delay his fishing trip for an hour so that she and Tom might go. Her father hadn’t minded; he had the rest of the short day to look forward to and there was a man who worked down on the quay who would tell him just where he could go for salmon.

Amelia, getting sleepily ready for bed, yawned widely and decided that she was enjoying herself hugely.

The morning walk was all that she had hoped for. They had turned off the road and taken a rocky lane leading up to the houses clinging so precariously to the lower slopes of the mountains. There were no roads here, only paths leading from one house to the next, and they had been built in haphazard charm between the birch trees. They left them behind presently, climbing over the rough ground, and then stopped to admire the view. It was cold, too, with a sky filled with clouds which every now and then allowed the sun to shine through. Amelia had brought the binoculars with her and used them now, picking out isolated houses along the shore. ‘It’s cold enough for snow,’ she declared.

‘A bit early for that,’ observed Tom, ‘though I must say it’s rather wintry.’ He smiled at her. ‘Rather different from St Ansell’s.’

She said impulsively: ‘Tom, let’s come here on our honeymoon,’ and was chilled by his careless:

‘Isn’t it a bit too early to make plans?’

She said tonelessly: ‘Yes, of course, I was only joking. We’d better get back or Father will get impatient.’

Walking back briskly, she kept the conversation cheerful and impersonal. Tom didn’t want to talk about their future together, that was obvious. Perhaps she was too impatient, she must remember that; perhaps, she thought uneasily, she wanted her own way too much.

Her father was sitting on the rough stone wall bordering the road, his back to them, looking out to the fjord and talking to someone—a man who when he saw them, got to his feet, unfolding his great height slowly. He was broad-shouldered and heavily built as well as tall, with a handsome face whose eyes were heavy-lidded above an imposing nose. His hair was dark, as far as she could see, and his eyes as he frankly appraised Amelia were very blue.

She didn’t like his stare. She lifted her chin and looked down her straight little nose, at the same time taking in the fact that he was wearing corduroy slacks stuffed into boots and a fisherman’s waterproof jacket. Another fisherman, she thought, and how like Father to find him! He’s probably the only one for miles around and they had to meet—and I don’t like him, she told herself.

Her parent was in high good humour. ‘Hullo, my dear,’ he beamed at her. ‘You see I’ve found another enthusiast. This is Doctor van der Tolck from Holland, like us, on holiday. My daughter Amelia and her fiancé, Doctor Tom Crouch.’ He stood back smiling while they shook hands and murmured politely, and Amelia, meeting the Dutchman’s sleepy gaze, had a sudden strange feeling, as though everything had changed; that nothing would ever be the same again; that there was no one else there, only herself and this giant of a man, still staring at her. She put out a hand and caught Tom’s sleeve in a fierce grip which made him glance at her in surprise. Tom was there, right beside her, and she was going to marry him…

The man smiled faintly, just as though he read her thoughts and mocked them, and made some remark to Tom. She told herself, seconds later, that she had imagined the whole puzzling thing.

‘Doctor van der Tolck has a boat here too,’ observed Mr Crosbie with satisfaction. ‘He’s staying at the hotel, got here last night on the coastal express. We might go out together—he tells me that the Raftsund is a good area for cod.’

‘What are we going to do with the catch?’ asked Amelia.

‘Oh, let the hotel people have it,’ declared her parent carelessly. ‘Well, how about moving off?’

She took a quick peep at the Dutchman, who was standing quietly, saying nothing, apparently waiting for the rest of them.

‘We’ll go and pick up the food,’ she offered, and gave Tom’s sleeve a tug. ‘Tom?’

‘Do that, my dear, and ask them to let you have Doctor van der Tolck’s sandwiches at the same time.’

‘I have to go back to the hotel,’ he had a slow deep voice, ‘I’ll pick my food up then.’ He smiled at Mr Crosbie. ‘Shall I come down to the quay with you—you were going to show me that rod of yours.’

Amelia turned away with Tom beside her. On the way to the hotel she said with a touch of pettishness: ‘Why on earth does Father have to dig up these chance acquaintances—I expect he’ll stick like a leech now!’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘No, I do not,’ she said a little too sharply, ‘butting in like that.’

‘Probably your father suggested that we should join forces—rather difficult to refuse in the circumstances.’

‘Rubbish, Tom—he could have made some excuse.’

He gave her a long considered look. ‘You do dislike him, don’t you?’

She bounced through the hotel door. ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘I shall keep out of his way.’

A decision which Doctor van der Tolck had apparently made too, for he had little or nothing to say to her when she and Tom rejoined him and her father presently—polite enough, but she mistrusted the wicked gleam in his eyes and the faint smile when he spoke to her, which he did only when politeness made it imperative.

He left them presently, agreeing easily with Mr Crosbie that he would join them in his own boat within ten minutes. He was as good as his word, manoeuvring it alongside their own vessel while he exchanged opinions with Mr Crosbie as to the best area in which to fish. They settled the important question at last, working their way down towards the Raftsund and presently they anchored, not too far apart, and settled down to the serious business in hand. The clouds had strengthened and the sun no longer shone even fitfully, the mountains around them were grey and cold and Amelia secretly found them a little frightening. She went into the cabin and made coffee and sat there in comparative warmth, drinking it after handing out mugs to her father and Tom. The doctor, she saw out of the corner of her eye, had a thermos flask and even at a distance was a picture of contentment.

The weather worsened as the day went on and by three o’clock it was disagreeably cold and windy. Mr Crosbie reluctantly conceded the wisdom of returning to dry land before the rain, falling gently so far, became torrential. But he had had a good day; he and Tom sorted their catch while Amelia took the wheel. She was good at it. She passed their new acquaintance within a few feet, sending the boat tearing through the dark water before he had even got his engine going. It was galling, half way there, to be overtaken. He was making fast as she approached the quay and without speaking to her, performed the same service for her, and when she thanked him, rather haughtily, he grunted.

She left the three men there, telling each other fishy tales while they gloated over their catches, and went up to the hotel, where she ordered tea in her room and had a bath, far too hot.

It was difficult to avoid Doctor van der Tolck. The hotel wasn’t large and except for a couple of commercial travellers and a rather subdued family—on their way, the manager confided, to a funeral on the outskirts of the town—they were the only guests. True, by the time she had joined her father and Tom in the bar, a trickle of young men with their girls came in, but they kept to themselves although they were friendly enough. Amelia, sipping her sherry, made idle conversation and kept an eye on the door. Doctor van der Tolck was just the kind of man to join them for the evening unasked.