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Three for a Wedding
Betty Neels









Dear Reader,

Looking back over the years, I find it hard to realise that twenty-six of them have gone by since I wrote my first book Sister Peters in Amsterdam. It wasn’t until I started writing about her that I found that once I had started writing, nothing was going to make me stop —and at that time I had no intention of sending it to a publisher. It was my daughter who urged me to try my luck.

I shall never forget the thrill of having my first book accepted. A thrill I still get each time a new story is accepted. Writing to me is such a pleasure, and seeing a story unfolding on my old typewriter is like watching a film and wondering how it will end. Happily of course.

To have so many of my books re-published is such a delightful thing to happen and I can only hope that those who read them will share my pleasure in seeing them on the bookshelves again … and enjoy reading them.









Three for a Wedding

Betty Neels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u5124dfd0-7916-5482-a656-1691a2ea81aa)

Title Page (#u6105135c-5053-580f-bb98-c8a7b692c5bc)

CHAPTER ONE (#ueb6351aa-18cd-5cee-ae88-2f8a261601cb)

CHAPTER TWO (#ue17f1758-b2e6-522f-a79a-8a476a2beff2)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_04363816-fba1-5b17-af11-21898854a5e6)


PHOEBE BROOK, Night Sister on the medical block of St Gideon’s hospital in one of the less salubrious quarters of London, raised a nicely kept hand to her cap, twitched it to a correct uprightness, and very quietly opened the swing doors into the women’s medical ward. Her stealthy approach to the night nurse’s desk might at first glance have seemed to be a desire to catch that young lady doing something she ought not; it was in actual fact, due to a heartfelt desire not to waken any of the patients. She had herself, when a student nurse, done her nights on the ward, and again when she was a staff nurse; she knew only too well that Women’s Medical, once roused during the night hours, could become a hive of activity—cups of Horlicks, bedpans, pillows rearranged, even a whispered chat about Johnny failing his eleven-plus, and what would Sister do if she were his mum—so it wasn’t surprising that the nurse sitting at the desk put down her knitting and got to her feet with equal stealth, at the same time casting a reproachful look at the clock. She was supposed to go to her dinner at midnight, and it was already half past, and that added on to the fact that she had been alone for the last hour, all of which thoughts Sister Brook read with ease and a good deal of sympathy, even though she had small chance of getting a meal herself. She whispered:

‘Sorry, Nurse, I got held up on Men’s Medical—a coronary. Come back in an hour.’

The nurse nodded, instantly sympathetic, thinking at the same time that nothing on earth would induce her to take a Night Sister’s post once she had taken her finals, and why Sister Brook, with a face like hers, hadn’t gone out and got herself a millionaire was beyond her understanding.

She crept to the door, leaving the subject of her thoughts to hang her cape on the chair and lay the pile of papers she had brought with her on the desk—the bed state, the off-duty rota, the bare bones of the report she would have to hand over to the Night Superintendent in the morning—she looked at them longingly, for it would be nice to get the tiresome things done before she left the ward, then she might have time to snatch a cup of tea and a sandwich. But first she must do a round. She went, soft-footed, past the first three beds, their occupants, recovering from their several ailments, snoring in the most satisfactory manner, but the occupant of the fourth bed was awake. Mrs Tripp was elderly and extremely tiresome at times, but the nursing staff bore with her because, having bullied the doctor into telling her just what was wrong with her, she was fighting the inevitable with so much gusto that Sir John South, the consultant in charge of her case, confided to his registrar that he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she didn’t outlive the lot of them out of sheer determination. Nonsense, of course; Mrs Tripp would never go home again to her ugly little red brick house in a back street near the hospital—she knew it and so did everyone else. The nursing staff indulged her every whim and took no notice when she showed no gratitude, which was why Sister Brook paused now and whispered: ‘Hullo, Mrs Tripp—have you been awake long?’

‘All night,’ said Mrs Tripp mendaciously and in far too loud a voice so that Sister Brook was forced to shush her. ‘And now I’m wide awake, ducky, I’ll have a …’

Sister Brook was already taking off her cuffs, musing as she did so that on the few occasions when she had to relieve a nurse on a ward, she invariably found herself hard at work within a few minutes of taking over. She stole out to the sluice, collecting two more requests on the way, and as all three ladies fancied a hot milk drink to settle them again, it was the best part of twenty minutes before she was able to sit down at the desk.

She had just begun the bed state, which didn’t tally as usual, when the doors were opened once more, this time by a young man in a white hospital coat, his stethoscope crammed in its pocket. He looked tired and rather untidy, but neither of these things could dim his slightly arrogant good looks. He took a seat on the edge of the desk, right on top of the bed state, and said:

‘Hullo, Phoebe—good lord, haven’t you got any nurses about tonight? I’ve been hunting you all over. That coronary, he’s gone up to Intensive Care, so that lightens your burden a bit, doesn’t it?’

She smiled at him; she was a beautiful girl, and when she smiled she was quite dazzling. Before he had met her, he had always scoffed at descriptions of girls with sapphires in their eyes and corn-coloured hair, but he had been forced to admit that he was wrong, because Phoebe had both, with the added bonus of a small straight nose and a mouth which curved sweetly, and although she wasn’t above middle height, her figure was good if a little on the plump side. She was, he had to own, quite perfect; the one small fact that she was twenty-seven, three years older than himself, he did his best to ignore; he would have preferred it otherwise, but one couldn’t have everything … As soon as he had taken a couple more exams he would ask her to marry him. He hadn’t intended to marry before he was thirty at least, with a fellowship and well up the ladder of success, but if he waited until then she would be thirty herself—a little old, although she would make a splendid wife for an ambitious young doctor, and looking at her now, she didn’t look a day over twenty.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he wanted to know.

She didn’t bother to tell him that she had missed her own midnight meal; that she would get a sketchy tea into the bargain. ‘Yes—but you must be very quiet, I’ve only just got them all quiet again.’ She got up. ‘Keep an eye on the ward,’ she begged, and slipped away to the kitchen.

She came back presently with two mugs, a thick slice of bread and butter atop each of them, and handed him his with a murmured: ‘I haven’t had my meal.’

‘Poor old girl—I’ll take you out for a good nosh on your nights off.’

‘I can’t, Jack, I’m going home. Sybil’s got a week’s holiday, and I haven’t seen her for ages.’

Sybil was her younger sister, twenty-three and so like her that people who didn’t know them well occasionally confused their identities, which was partly why Sybil, when she decided to be a nurse too, had gone to another training school—a London hospital and not very far away from St Gideon’s—but what with studying for her finals and Phoebe being on night duty, they saw very little of each other. Soon it would be easier, Phoebe thought, taking a great bite out of her bread and butter, for Sybil had sat her hospital finals and the last of the State exams had been that morning. When she had qualified, as she would, for she was a clever girl, they would put their heads together and decide what they would do. The world, as the Principal Nursing Officer had told Phoebe when she had offered her the post of Night Sister, was her oyster. That had been three years ago and she still hadn’t opened her particular oyster —there were jobs enough, but she had wanted to stay near Sybil until she was qualified. Now perhaps they would go abroad together.

Her train of thought was interrupted by her companion, who put down his mug, squeezed her hand and went out of the ward. Phoebe watched him go, the smile she had given him replaced by a tiny frown. He was going to ask her to marry him—she was aware of that and she didn’t know what to do about it. She liked him very much, they got on well together —too well, she thought shrewdly —they had similar tastes and ideals, but surely, she asked herself for the hundredth time, there was more to it than that? And shouldn’t she know if she loved him? Was this all that love was, a mild pleasure in someone’s company, a sharing of tastes, a gentle acceptance of being a doctor’s wife for the rest of her days—for Jack, she felt sure, would expect her to be just that and nothing more, she would never be allowed to steal the scene. Would her heart break if she never saw him again, or if, for that matter, he were to start taking some other girl out for a change? She was older than he; she had pointed this out to him on several occasions, and more than that, being a softhearted girl she had never allowed the thought that she found him very young upon occasion take root in her mind.

The hour ticked away. She solved the bed state, puzzled out the off duty for another two weeks, and was dealing with old Mrs Grey, who was a diabetic and showing all the signs and symptoms of a hyperglycaemic coma, when Nurse Small came back. They dealt with it together, then Phoebe, gathering up her papers and whispering instructions as to where she would be if she was wanted again, went silently from the ward, down the long corridor, chilly now in the small hours of an April morning, and into the office which was hers during the night when she had the time to sit in it. She had barely sat down when her bleep started up—Children’s this time, and could she go at once because Baby Crocker had started a nasty laryngeal stridor. She had to get Jack up after a while; he came to the ward in slacks and a sweater over his pyjamas, and they worked on the child together, and when he finally went, half an hour later, she walked down the corridor with him, starting on her overdue rounds once more. At the end of the corridor, where he went through the door leading to the resident’s quarters, he gave her a quick kiss, said ‘See you’ and disappeared, leaving her to make her way to Men’s Medical on the ground floor, musing, as she went, on the fact that although his kiss had been pleasant, it hadn’t thrilled her at all, and surely it should?

The early morning scurry gave her little time to think about herself. Fortified by a pot of strong tea, she did her morning rounds, giving a hand where it was wanted and then retiring to her office to write the report and presently to take it along to her daytime colleague before paying her final visit to the Night Super. A night like any other, she thought, yawning her way to breakfast, where Sadie Thorne, Night Sister on the Surgical side, was already waiting for her. Night Super was there too, a kindly, middle-aged woman, whose nights were filled with paper work and an occasional sortie into which ward was in difficulties. She was good at her job and well liked, for she never failed to find help for a ward when it was needed and had been known to roll up her own sleeves and make beds when there was no one else available. But normally, unless there was dire emergency in some part of the hospital, or a ‘flu epidemic among the nurses, she did her work unseen, supported by Phoebe and Sadie and Joan Dawson, the Night Theatre Sister. She looked up from her post now as Phoebe sat down, wished her good morning just as though they hadn’t seen each other less than an hour since, and went back to her letters, while Phoebe made inroads on her breakfast, thinking contentedly that in another twenty-four hours’ time she would be going home. She caught Sadie’s eye now and grinned at her.

‘One more night,’ she declared.

‘Lucky you. Going home?’

Phoebe nodded. ‘With Sybil —she’s got a week off and goes back to night duty.’

Night Super looked up briefly. ‘I hear she did very well in her hospitals.’

‘Yes, Miss Dean. I don’t know how well, but I hope she’s in the running for one of the prizes.’

‘Like her sister,’ murmured the Night Super, and Phoebe, who had gained the gold medal of her year, went a becoming pink.

She packed her overnight bag before she went to bed, because on the following morning there would be barely time for her to tear into her clothes and catch the train. Then she washed her hair, and overcome by sleep, got into bed with it hanging like a damp golden curtain round her shoulders.

The night was fairly easy—the usual mild scares, the usual emergency admission, and hubbub on the children’s ward, because one of its small inmates was discovered to be covered in spots. Phoebe, called on the telephone by an urgent voice, made her way there as quickly as she could, sighing. It was early in the night, she still had her rounds to make.

The child was a new patient, admitted just as the day staff were handing over thankfully to their night colleagues, and not particularly ill. She was popped into a cot while the more urgent cases were attended to, presently she would be bathed, her hair washed, and tucked up for the night.

Phoebe, looking quite breathtakingly beautiful in her dark blue uniform, trod quietly down the ward with a nod to the nurses to get on with what they were doing and not mind her. The child was sitting on a blanket in its cot, eating a biscuit. It looked pale and undernourished and was, like so many of the children who were admitted, too small, too thin and lacklustre as to eye—not through lack of money, Phoebe knew, but through the parents’ neglect; good-natured and unthinking, but still neglect. She smiled at the elderly little face, said brightly, ‘Hullo, chick, what’s your name?’ and at the same time peered with an expert eye at the spots.

There were a great many of them, and when she peeped beneath the little flannel nightshirt there were a great many more. She straightened up and spoke to the nurse who had joined her. ‘Fleas,’ she said softly, so that no one would hear save her companion. ‘Infected too. A mild Savlon bath, Nurse, usual hair treatment and keep a sharp eye open. Give her a milk drink and let me know if she doesn’t settle. She’s a bronchitis, isn’t she? She’ll be seen in the morning, but if you’re worried let me know.’ She turned away and then came back to say in a low voice: ‘And wear a gown.’ Her lovely eyes twinkled at the nurse, who smiled back. ‘And I might as well do a round now I’m here, mightn’t I?’

The night went smoothly after that. She was accustomed to, and indeed expected, the diabetic comas, coronaries and relapses which occurred during the course of it. She dealt with them as they arose with a calm patience and a sense of humour which endeared her to the rest of the night staff. She even had time for a quick cup of tea before she went to give her report.

She arrived at Waterloo with a couple of minutes to spare. There was no sign of Sybil—she would be on the train, a long train, and only its front carriages went to Salisbury; she jumped into the nearest door and started walking along the corridor. Her sister was in the front coach, sitting in an empty compartment with her feet comfortably on the seat opposite her, reading a glossy magazine. She was very like Phoebe, but her good looks were a little more vivid, her eyes a shade paler and her voice, when she spoke, just a tone higher.

‘Hullo, Phoebe darling, here by the skin of your teeth, I see. How are you —it’s ages since we saw each other.’ She was putting Phoebe’s bag on the rack as she spoke, now she pushed her gently into a window seat. ‘Here, put your feet up and have a nap. We can talk later. I’ll wake you in good time.’

And Phoebe, now that she had caught her train and greeted her sister, did just as Sybil suggested; in two minutes she was asleep. She wakened, much refreshed, at the touch on her arm and sat up, did her face, tidied her hair and drank the coffee Sybil had got for her, then said contritely: ‘What a wretch I am —I quite forgot. How about the hospitals?’

Sybil grinned engagingly. ‘The Gold Medal, ducky! I couldn’t let you be the only one in the family with one, could I? I don’t get the State results for six weeks, but I don’t care whether I pass or not.’ She looked secretive and mischievous at the same time, but when Phoebe said: ‘Do tell—something exciting?’ all she would say was: ‘I’ll tell you later, when there’s no hurry. Look!’

The carriage door was flung open and a horde of people surged in, making conversation impossible. The train shuddered, gave a sigh as though it disliked the idea of leaving the station, and continued on its way. At Shaftesbury, they got out; they lived in a small village close to Sturminster Newton, but Aunt Martha, who had moved in to look after them when their mother had died, and stayed on when their father died a few years later, liked to come and fetch them in the second-hand Austin which they had all three bought between them. She was on the platform now, in her tweed skirt and her twin-set, a felt hat of impeccable origin wedged on her almost black hair, only lightly streaked with grey despite her fifty-odd years. It framed her austere good looks and gave colour to her pale face, which broke into a smile as she saw them. She greeted them both with equal affection and walked them briskly to where the car was parked, telling Sybil to sit in front with her so that Phoebe, if she felt so inclined, could continue her nap undisturbed in the back.

Which she did without loss of time, waking after a blissful fifteen minutes to find that they were already going through East Orchard; at the next village, named, inevitably, West Orchard, they would turn off on to a side road which would bring them to Magdalen Provost, where they lived—a very small village indeed, which Phoebe had declared on several occasions to have more letters to its name than it had houses. It was a charming place, only a mile or so from the main road, and yet it had remained peacefully behind the times; even motor cars and the twice daily bus had failed to bring it up to date, and by some miracle it had remained undiscovered by weekend househunters looking for a holiday cottage, probably because it was so well hidden, awkward to get at, and in winter, impossible to get out of or into by car or bus because it lay snug between two hills rising steeply on either side, carrying a road whose gradient was more than enough for a would-be commuter.

Aunt Martha rattled down the hill and stopped in the centre of the village where the church, surrounded by a sprinkling of houses, the pub and the post office and village stores which were actually housed in old Mrs Deed’s front room, stood. Phoebe’s home stood a little apart from the rest, surrounded by a stone wall which enclosed a fair-sized, rather unkempt garden. The house itself wasn’t large, but roomy enough, and she loved it dearly; she and Sybil had spent a happy childhood here with their parents, their father, a scientist of some repute, pursuing his engrossing occupation while their mother gardened and kept house and rode round the countryside on the rather fiery horse her husband had given her. Both girls rode too, but neither of them were with their mother when she was thrown and killed while they were still at school, and their father, considerably older than his wife, had died a few years later.

Aunt Martha drew up with a flourish before the door and they all went inside. It was a little shabby but not poorly so; the furniture was old and well cared for and even if the curtains and carpets were rather faded, there was some nice Georgian silver on the sideboard in the dining room. Phoebe, now wide awake, helped bring in the cases and then went upstairs to change into slacks and shirt before joining Aunt Martha in the kitchen for coffee, regaling that lady with the latest hospital news as they drank it, but when Sybil joined them, the talk, naturally enough, centred around her and her success. It wasn’t for a few minutes that Phoebe came to the conclusion that it was she and their aunt who were excited about the results and not Sybil herself. She wondered uneasily why this was and whether it had something to do with whatever it was Sybil was going to tell her. Prompted by this thought, she asked:

‘Shall we go for a walk after lunch, Syb?’ and the uneasiness grew at the almost guilty look her sister gave her as she agreed.

They went to their favourite haunt—a copse well away from the road, with a clearing near its edge where a fallen tree caught the spring sun. They squatted comfortably on it and Phoebe said: ‘Now, Sybil, let’s have it. Is it something to do with St Elmer’s or about your exams?’

Her sister didn’t look at her. ‘No—no, of course not—at least … Phoebe, I’m giving in my notice at the end of the week.’

Phoebe felt the uneasiness she had been trying to ignore stir, but all she said was: ‘Why, love?’

‘I’m going to get married.’

The uneasiness exploded like a bomb inside her. ‘Yes, dear? Who to?’

‘Nick Trent, he’s the Medical Registrar. He’s landed a marvellous job at that new hospital in Southampton. We’re going to marry in two months’ time —he gets a flat with the job and there’s no reason for us to wait.’

‘No, of course not, darling. What a wonderful surprise—I’m still getting over it.’ Phoebe’s voice was warm but bewildered. They had discussed the future quite often during the past six months or so and Sybil had never so much as hinted … They both went out a good deal, she had even mentioned Jack in a vague way, but she had always taken it for granted that the two of them would share a year together, perhaps in some post abroad. Sybil had known that, just as she had known that Phoebe had stayed at St Gideon’s, waiting for her to finish her training. She asked in a voice which betrayed none of these thoughts: ‘What’s he like, your Nick?’

‘I knew you’d be on my side, darling Phoebe.’ Sybil told her at some length about Nick and added: ‘He wanted to meet you and Aunt Martha. I thought we might fix a weekend—your next nights off, perhaps.’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘He’s got a car—we could all come down together.’

Phoebe smiled. ‘Nice—I shall be able to snore on the back seat,’ and then, quietly: ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, Syb?’

‘Oh, Phoebe darling, yes, and I don’t know what to do unless you’ll help me. You see, a few weeks ago I was chosen to take a job in Holland …’

Phoebe had her head bowed over the tree-trunk, watching a spider at work. She said placidly: ‘Yes, dear—go on.’

‘Well, it’s some scheme or other cooked up between St Elmer’s and some hospital or other in Delft—there’s a professor type who specialises in fibrocystitis—he’s over here doing some research with old Professor Forbes, and the scheme is for a nurse from Delft to come over here and me to go there for two months. But first I’m supposed to go to the hospital where he’s working—you know that children’s hospital where they’ve got a special wing—the idea being that I shall be so used to his ways that it won’t matter where I work. I thought it would be fun and I said I would, and then Nick … we want to get married.’

‘Of course, but you could get married afterwards, dear. It would only be a few months—not long.’

Her young sister gave her a smouldering glance. ‘Yes, it is,’ she declared. ‘I won’t!’

‘Well, tell your people at hospital that it’s all off.’

‘I can’t—all the papers and things are signed and the hospital in Delft has made all the arrangements. Phoebe, will you go instead of me?’

‘Will I what?’ uttered Phoebe in a shocked voice.

‘Go instead of me.’

‘How can I possibly? It couldn’t be done—it’s absurd—they’d find out.’

‘You know you’re dying to leave and get off night duty and try something else for a change. Well, here’s your chance.’

‘But I’m not you.’

‘Near enough, no one need know. No one’s ever seen us at the children’s hospital, nor in Delft, have they? Even if they had, we’re so alike.’

‘I thought you said the Dutch doctor had seen you?’

‘Pooh, him—he looked half asleep; I don’t think he even looked at me, and we were only together for a couple of minutes, and I hardly spoke.’ She added persuasively: ‘Do, darling Phoebe! It sounds mad, doesn’t it? but no one’s being harmed and it’s not really so silly. And don’t worry about the man, I doubt if he even noticed that I was a girl.’ She sounded scornful.

‘He sounds ghastly—I suppose he speaks English?’

‘So well that you know he’s not,’ explained her sister, ‘and he’s got those vague good manners …’

‘I’ll not do it,’ said Phoebe, and was horrified when Sybil burst into tears.

‘Oh, dear,’ she wailed through her sobs, ‘now I don’t know what I’ll do at least, I do. I shall run away and hide until Nick goes to Southampton and we’ll get married in one of those pokey register offices and n-no one will come to the w-wedding!’

Phoebe sat watching her sister’s lovely face. Even while she cried she was beautiful and very appealing and she loved her dearly besides, she had promised her father that she would look after her. She said now: ‘Don’t cry, love —I’ll do it. I think it’s crazy and I’m not sure that if I’m caught I shan’t get sent to prison, but it’s only for a couple of months and if you don’t go someone else will, so it might as well be me. Only promise me that you’ll have a proper wedding, the sort Mother and Father would have liked you to have. And are you sure about Nick? I mean really sure —it’s for the rest of your life.’

Sybil smiled at her through her tears. ‘Oh, Phoebe, I’m sure—I can’t explain, but when you love someone like I love Nick, you’ll know. You’re a darling! We’ll fix it all up while we’re here, shall we? Just you and me—Nick doesn’t know, I was so excited and happy I forgot to tell him and when I thought about it later I couldn’t. And Aunt Martha …’

‘We won’t tell anyone at all,’ said Phoebe. Now that she was resigned to the madcap scheme she found herself positively enjoying the prospect of a change of scene. ‘I’m quite mad to do it, of course. Now begin at the beginning and tell me exactly what it’s all about. Are you sure this doctor didn’t get a good look at you?’

‘Him? Lord, no, Phoebe. I told you, he’s the sleepy kind, eyes half shut—I should think that half the time he forgets where he is. You’ll be able to twist him round your little finger.’

‘What’s his name?’

Sybil looked vague. ‘I can’t remember. I’ll find out for you, and the name of the hospital and where he lives and anything else I’m supposed to know.’

‘Which reminds me—I don’t know an awful lot about fibrocystic disease—hasn’t it got another name?’

‘Mucoviscidosis, and you can forget it. The treatment hasn’t changed much in the last year or so and you know quite enough about it—I remember telling me about several cases you had on the Children’s Unit …’

‘Three years ago,’ murmured Phoebe.

‘Yes, well … I’ll bring you up to date, and what does it matter anyway, for the whole idea is that I—you should be seconded to this hospital so that you can learn all about this man’s new ideas.’

‘And afterwards? Am I supposed to go back to St Elmer’s and spread the good news around?—then we are in the apple cart.’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m free to do what I like when I come back from Holland. As far as St Elmer’s goes, they think I’m giving in my notice so’s I can get a job somewhere else when I get back to England.’

‘My passport,’ hazarded Phoebe suddenly. ‘Supposing this man sees it? Or don’t we travel together when we go?’

‘Oh, yes, that’s all been arranged, but remember the British and the non-British split up when they get to the Customs. Anyway, he’s hardly likely to breathe over your shoulder, he’s not that sort.’

‘He sounds a dead bore,’ Phoebe said slowly. ‘I’m not sure …’

‘You promised —besides, there are bound to be other people around —housemen and so forth.’ She paused. ‘I say, there’s nothing serious between you and Jack, is there?’

Phoebe shook her head and said thoughtfully: ‘And if there was, this is just what’s needed to speed things up —I can’t quite make up my mind …’

‘Then don’t,’ said Sybil swiftly. ‘Phoebe love, if it were the real thing, you wouldn’t even stop to think—you’d know.’ She grinned and got up. ‘You see, this is just what you need, away from it all you’ll have time to decide.’

Phoebe got to her feet. ‘Perhaps you’re right, love. Now tell me, you and your Nick, when do you want to get married?’

They spent the rest of their walk happily discussing wedding plans and clothes. Phoebe had a little money saved, but Sybil none at all.

‘Well, that doesn’t matter,’ declared Phoebe. ‘There’s enough to buy you some decent clothes and pay for the wedding,’ and when Sybil protested: ‘I’m not likely to marry first, am I?’ she wanted to know soberly, and then broke off to exclaim: ‘Look—three magpies, they must have been eavesdropping. What is it now? One for anger, two for mirth, three for a wedding …’

They giggled happily and walked home arm-in-arm.

By the time Phoebe returned to St Gideon’s from her nights off, she and Sybil had their plans laid, the first step of which was for her to resign immediately. It would work out very well, they had discovered; she would be due nights off before she left, time to go home, explain to Aunt Martha that she had taken a job with this Dutch doctor and would be going to Holland, collect the uniform Sybil’s hospital were allowing her to keep until she returned to England, and make her way to the children’s hospital, where, according to Sybil, she was expected. The one important point to remember was that for the time being, she was Sybil and not Phoebe.

She went to the office to resign on the morning after her return, to the utter amazement of the Chief Nursing Officer. She was a nice woman, interested in her staff and anxious to know what Phoebe intended to do—something, of course, which Phoebe was unable to tell her, for most of the big hospitals knew each other’s business and probably the exchange scheme at St Elmer’s was already common property. Miss Bates would hear sooner or later via the hospital grapevine, that Sybil had left to get married, probably she already knew that she had been seconded for the scheme, she wasn’t above putting two and two together and making five.

‘I haven’t quite decided,’ Phoebe told her, playing safe. ‘I think I shall have a month or two’s holiday at home.’

If Miss Bates considered this a curious statement from a member of her staff whom she knew for a fact depended upon her job for her bread and butter, she forbore from saying so. She thought Phoebe a nice girl, clever and remarkably beautiful. She hoped that she would marry, because she deserved something better than living out her life between hospital walls. Miss Bates was aware, just as the rest of the hospital, that the Medical Registrar fancied Night Sister Brook, but she was an astute woman, she thought that the affair was lukewarm and Sister Brook, despite her calm disposition, was not a lukewarm person. She sighed to herself, assured Phoebe that she would always be glad to see her back on the staff should she change her mind, and hoped that she would enjoy her holiday.

Phoebe didn’t see Jack during her first night’s duty; he had gone on a few days’ leave and wouldn’t be back for two more days—something for which she was thankful, for it seemed a good idea to let the hospital know that she was leaving first. The news would filter through to him when he got back and he would have time to get used to the idea before they encountered each other, as they were bound to do.

They met over the bed of a young girl three nights later—an overdose and ill; there was no time to say anything to each other, for the patient took all their attention, and when he left, almost an hour later, he gave her some instructions to pass on to the nurses, and walked away. Ten minutes later Phoebe left the ward herself. She had done her first round, thank heaven, so she could spare ten minutes for a cup of coffee. She opened the door of her office at the same time as the junior nurse on the ward arrived with the tray and she took it from her with a word of thanks, noting with a sinking heart that there were two cups on it—presumably Jack intended to have a cup with her. She pushed the door open and found him inside, standing by the desk, glowering.

He said at once; ‘I’m told you’re leaving. Rather sudden, isn’t it?’

Phoebe sat down, poured coffee for them both and opened the biscuit tin before she answered him. ‘Yes, Jack. I—I made up my mind while I was on nights off. Sybil’s leaving too.’

He looked slightly mollified. ‘Oh—you’re off together somewhere, I suppose. For how long?’

‘No—I’ve decided to have a little holiday, staying with relatives.’ The idea had just that minute popped into her head and she hated lying to him, but after all, it wasn’t his business. ‘I feel unsettled.’

He stirred his coffee endlessly, looking at it intently. ‘Yes, well, I suppose if you feel you must—I shall miss you, Phoebe, but I daresay you’ll be ready to come back by the time I decide to marry. I shall ask you then.’ He glanced up briefly. ‘Everything has to be just as I want it first.’

That jarred. Was she not important enough to him—more important—than the set pattern he had laid out for them both, and without first finding out if she wanted it that way? She could see it all—the engagement when he was suitably qualified and had his feet on the first rung of the consultant’s ladder, the wedding, the suitable home, suitably furnished, all the things that any girl would want, so why did she feel so rebellious?

It was all too tepid, she decided. It would be nice to be swept off her feet, to be so madly loved that the more mundane things of life didn’t matter, to rush off to the nearest church without thought of the right sort of wedding. She passed him the sugar and sipped her coffee. If Nick could marry Sybil on his registrar’s pay and find it wonderful, why couldn’t Jack feel the same way? She began to understand a little of what Sybil had meant about loving someone, and she knew at that moment that she would never love Jack—like him, yes, even be fond of him, but that wasn’t at all the same thing.

She said quietly: ‘Jack, I can’t stop you doing that, but I don’t think it’s going to be any use.’ She stared at him over the rim of her mug, her lovely eyes troubled.

‘I’ll be the best judge of that,’ he told her a shade pompously, ‘and until then I prefer not to discuss it.’

He was as good as his word; they discussed the patient they had just left until, with a huffy good night, he went away.

She should mind, Phoebe told herself when she was alone. She had closed the door on a settled future, and just for a moment she was a little scared; she was twenty-seven, not very young any more, and although she could have married half a dozen times in the last few years, that was of no consolation to her now. She sighed and pulled the bed state towards her. It seemed likely that she was going to be an old maid.




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_6f614fdd-60f5-521c-a926-7e0edfc47596)


A MONTH later, on her way to Magdalen Provost, St Gideon’s behind her, the doubtful future before her, Phoebe reflected that everything had gone very well—there had been no snags, no one had wanted to know anything, no awkward questions had been asked. Sybil had already left and was at home making plans for her wedding to Nick, whom Phoebe considered to be all that could be desired as a brother-in-law. Sybil was going to be happy; now that she had met him Phoebe had to admit that in Sybil’s place, she would have done exactly as she had done. Even Aunt Martha had accepted everything calmly—she had liked Nick too, had been generous in her offers of help to the bride, and was entering into the pleasurable excitement of a wedding in the family with a great deal more zest than Phoebe had supposed she would. And as for her own future, when she had told her aunt what she intended doing, without bringing Sybil’s part into it at all, the older lady had wholly endorsed her plans.

‘It’s high time you had a change,’ she stated approvingly, ‘it sounds a most interesting scheme and you’ll enjoy a change of scene. What did Jack have to say?’

Phoebe had told her rather worriedly and added: ‘I feel guilty, Aunt, but honestly, I didn’t let him think that I … I don’t think I encouraged him at all; we just sort of liked being together.’

‘Well, my dear,’ her aunt had said briskly, ‘there’s a good deal more to being in love than liking each other’s company, and I’m sure you know that. Have you been able to convince him, or does he still think you might change your mind?’

‘I told him I wouldn’t do that.’

She remembered the conversation now, sitting in the train, and wondered what would happen if she suddenly discovered that she had made a mistake and was in love with Jack after all, and then dismissed the idea because they had known each other for a year or more and surely by now she would have some other feeling for him other than one of friendship. She decided not to think about it any more—not, in fact, to think of anything very deeply, but to take each day as it came, at least until she returned to England.

It was Nick and Sybil who met her at Shaftesbury, for Nick was spending a day or so at Magdalen Provost before taking Sybil to meet his parents. They discussed the wedding as he drove his car, a Saab, rather too fast but very skilfully, in the direction of the village, but presently he interrupted to ask: ‘Phoebe, what’s the name of this man you’re going to work for? I’ve an idea I know something about him.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Phoebe lightly, ‘because I don’t—his name’s van Someren.’

Nick tore past an articulated wagon at a speed which made her wince. ‘I knew his name rang a bell,’ her future relative told her cheerfully. ‘Old van Someren—met him at one of those get-togethers …’

‘Then you can tell me something about him,’ said Phoebe firmly.

‘Don’t know anything—surely your people have given you all the gen?’

‘Oh, I don’t mean that. How old is he, and is he nice, and is he married?’

They were going down the hill into the village at a speed which could if necessary, take them through it and up the other side. ‘Good lord, I don’t know—thirty, forty, I suppose—and what do you mean by nice? To look at, his morals, his work?’

‘Just … oh, never mind, you tiresome thing. You’re not much help. There’s ten years between thirty and forty, but perhaps you haven’t noticed,’

Nick laughed and brought the car to a sudden halt outside the house. ‘Poor Phoebe—I’d have taken a photo of him if I’d known. Tell you one thing, though, I’m sure someone told me that he’s got a boy, so he must be married.’ He turned in his seat to look at her. ‘When do you go, tomorrow?’

‘On an afternoon train. I said I’d arrive at the hospital in the evening.’

‘We’ll take you in to Shaftesbury—we’d go the whole way, but we’ve still got to see the parson about this and that.’ They were all out of the car by now, loitering towards the door. ‘You’ll be at the wedding, won’t you?’

It was Sybil who answered for her. ‘Of course she will. I know I’m not having any bridesmaids, but Phoebe’s going to be there,’ she turned to her sister, ‘and you’d better be in something eye-catching, darling.’

‘It’s your day, Syb. I thought of wearing dove grey—that’s if Doctor van Someren allows me to come.’

‘You’ll have days off—all you have to do is save them up and tell him you have to attend a wedding. Anyway, didn’t I read somewhere that the Dutch set great store on family gatherings? Of course you’ll be able to come.’

She sounded so worried that Phoebe said reassuringly: ‘Don’t you worry, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

They went indoors then, to Aunt Martha, busy in a kitchen which smelled deliciously of something roasting in the oven, and no one mentioned the Dutch doctor again.

Twenty-four hours never went so quickly. Phoebe, joining the queue at Waterloo station for a taxi, felt as though she hadn’t been home at all. She would miss going down to Magdalen Provost and she doubted very much if she would get another opportunity of a weekend before she left England. She had quite forgotten to ask Sybil the arrangements for her off-duty, but surely she would manage a day or two before she left the children’s hospital. She got out of the taxi, paid the man and rang the visitors bell of the Nurses’ Home. If anyone wanted to see her so late in the day, the warden would doubtless give her the message. But there was only a request that she should present herself at the Principal Officer’s office at nine o’clock the next morning, and when she stated simply that she was Nurse Brook, the warden hadn’t wanted to know any more than that, but took her up to a rather pleasant little room, offered her a warm drink and wished her good night. So far, so good, Phoebe told her reflection in the mirror, and went to bed and slept soundly.

The Principal Nursing Officer was brisk and busy. As Phoebe went into the room she said: ‘Ah, yes, Nurse Brook. Splendid. Will you go along to the Children’s Unit and they’ll put you in the picture —I’m sure it has already been made clear to you that this scheme is housed here temporarily, and it’s run quite separately from the hospital itself. Anything you want to know, there will be someone you can ask there.’

She smiled quite kindly in dismissal and pulled a pile of papers towards her, and Phoebe, murmuring suitably, got herself out of the office, sighing with relief that it had all been so easy, aware at the same time that she should be feeling guilty and failing to do so because she remembered Sybil’s happy face.

The Children’s Unit was across the yard. Supposedly there was another way to it under cover, but she couldn’t see it and it was a lovely sunny day and she welcomed the chance to be out of doors, if only for a minute or two. The door stood open on to the usual tiled, austere entrance, a staircase ascending from it on one side, a row of doors lining its other wall. On the one marked ‘Doctor van Someren’ she knocked, for it seemed good sense to get to the heart of the matter at once. No one answered, so she opened the door and went inside. It was a small room and rather dreary, with a large desk with its swivel chair, shelves full of books and papers and two more chairs, hard and uncomfortable, ranged against one wall. Phoebe, who had seen many such offices, wasn’t unduly depressed at this unwelcoming scene, however. Hospitals, she had learned over the years, were not run for the comfort of their staff. There was an inner door, too. She crossed the room and tapped on it and a woman’s voice said ‘Come in.’ It was an exact copy of the room she had just left, only smaller, and had the additions of a typewriter and a woman using it. She wasn’t young any more and rather plain, but she looked nice and when Phoebe said: ‘I’m Nurse Brook and I’m not at all sure where I’m supposed to be,’ she smiled in a friendly fashion.

‘Here,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘if you like to go back to the other room, I’ll see if Doctor van Someren is available. I expect you want to start work at once.’

She went back with Phoebe to the doctor’s room, waved a hand at one of the chairs and disappeared. Phoebe sat for perhaps ten seconds, but it was far too splendid a day not to go to the window and look out. It was too high for her to see much; obviously whoever had built the place had considered it unnecessary for the occupants to refresh themselves with a glimpse of the outside world. But by standing on tiptoe she was able to see quite a pretty garden, so unexpected that she opened the bottom sash in order to examine it with greater ease.

She didn’t hear the door open. When she turned round at last, she had no idea how long the man had been standing there. She frowned a little and went a faint pink because it was hardly the way she would want an interview to begin, with her leaning out of the window, showing a great deal more leg than she considered dignified for a Ward Sister but then she wasn’t a Ward Sister she really would have to remember … And he wasn’t in the least like the picture Sybil had painted of him. He was a big, broad-shouldered man and very tall, something her sister had forgotten to mention, and she, for that matter, had forgotten to ask. His hair was the colour of straw which she thought could be streaked with grey; it was impossible to tell until she got really close to him. And she was deeply astonished to find him good-looking in a beaky-nosed fashion, with a firm mouth which looked anything but dreamy, and there was nothing vague about the piercing blue gaze bent upon her at the moment.

‘Miss Brook,’ his voice was deep, ‘Miss Sybil Brook?’

She advanced from the window. ‘Yes, I’m Miss Brook,’ she informed him pleasantly, pleased that she didn’t have to tell a downright fib so soon in the conversation. There would be time enough for that; she only hoped that she wouldn’t get confused … ‘You’re Doctor van Someren, I expect. How do you do?’ She held out her small capable hand and had it gripped in a gentle vice. For one startled moment she wondered if he could be the same man whom Sybil had seen, and then knew that it was; his face had become placid, his eyelids drooping over eyes which seemed half asleep, his whole manner vague.

‘Er—yes, how do you do?’ He smiled at her. ‘I think it would be best if I were to take you to the ward—you can talk to Sister Jones, and later there will be some notes and so on which I should like you to study.’ He went over to the desk and picked up a small notebook and put it in his pocket, saying as he did so: ‘I’m sometimes a little absentminded … I shall be doing a ward round in an hour, I should like you to be there, please.’

He sat down at the desk and began to open a pile of letters stacked tidily before him, quite absorbed in the task, so that after a few minutes Phoebe ventured to ask: ‘Shall I go to the ward now, sir?’

He looked up and studied her carefully, just as though he had never set eyes on her before. ‘Ah—Miss Brook, Miss Sybil Brook,’ he reminded himself. ‘I really do apologise. We’ll go at once.’

Following him out of the room and up the stairs Phoebe could understand why Sybil had described him as vague—all to the good; she saw little reason for him to discover that she wasn’t Sybil; she doubted if he had really looked at her, not after that first disconcerting stare.

Sister Jones was expecting her, and to Phoebe’s relief turned out to be a girl of about her own age, with a cheerful grin and soft Welsh voice which had a tendency to stammer. She greeted the doctor with a friendly respect and Phoebe was a little surprised to hear him address her as Lottie. She hoped he wasn’t in the habit of addressing his nursing staff by their christian names, for not only would she find it difficult to answer to Sybil, she discovered at that moment that she had no wish to tell him a fib. He was too nice—an opinion presently endorsed when he did his ward round; he was kind too and his little patients adored him.

There were ten children in the ward, most of them up and about, full of life and filled, too, with a capacity for enjoyment which fibrocystics seemed to possess as a kind of bonus over and above a child’s normal capacity to enjoy itself. They were bright too, with an intelligence beyond their years, as though they were being allowed to crowd as much as possible into a life which would possibly be shortened. The small boy Doctor van Someren was examining at that moment was thin and pale, but he laughed a good deal at the doctor’s little jokes, discussed the cricket scores and wanted to know who Phoebe was. The doctor told him briefly and went on: ‘And now, how about that tipping and tapping, Peter?’

A question which called forth a good deal of sheepish glances and mutterings on Peter’s part. He didn’t like hanging over his bed, being thumped by a nurse at six o’clock in the morning, he said so now with considerable vigour, and everyone laughed, but instead of leaving it at that, Phoebe was glad to see the doctor sit down on the side of the bed once more and patiently explain just why it was good for Peter to hang head downwards the minute he woke up each morning. Having made his point Doctor van Someren strolled towards the next bed, murmuring as he went:

‘What a sad thing it is that this illness is so difficult to tackle.’ He looked at Phoebe as he spoke and seemed to expect an answer, so she said: ‘Yes, it is, but I’m afraid I don’t know enough about it to pass any opinion.’

‘A refreshing observation,’ he said surprisingly. ‘I find, during the course of my work, that there are a distressing number of people who have a great deal too much opinion and very little sense. I fancy that you have plenty of sense, Nurse Brook.’ He nodded at her in a kindly way, sat down on the next bed and became instantly absorbed in its occupant. Phoebe, standing close behind him, found herself wondering how old he was. She had been right, there was quite a lot of grey mixed in with the straw-coloured hair. She guessed forty, but a moment later when he turned his head to speak to Sister Jones, and she could study his face, she decided that he was a good deal younger than that.

She had been a little disturbed to find that she was to go to Delft in ten days’ time, for she had imagined that it would be longer than that, as it wasn’t very long in which to get to know the doctor and his methods, and now she very much doubted if she would be able to get home again before she went, for Sister Jones had explained at some length that it was hoped that she would take her days off singly because the time was too short for her to miss even two days together; there was so much for her to learn. She had agreed because there was nothing else she could do, and in any case she would be going home for the wedding—she dragged her thoughts away from that interesting topic and applied herself to what the doctor was saying. He had some interesting theories and a compelling way of talking about them which held one’s attention; by the end of the day she found herself deeply interested, both in the man and his ideas, and was a little surprised to find that the ward seemed very empty without him, rather like a room without its furniture, and yet he was a quiet man, there was nothing flamboyant about him—indeed, when he wasn’t actually engaged in his work, he was positively retiring.

In her room, after a friendly cup of tea with the other staff nurses, Phoebe undressed slowly, thinking about him, and when she was finally ready for bed she didn’t go to sleep immediately, but sat up against the pillows, her golden hair cascading round her shoulders, her lovely face, devoid of the small amount of make-up she used, creased in a thoughtful frown. It wasn’t turning out a bit as she had expected —she had expected to feel regrets, even guilt, but she didn’t feel either, only a faint excitement and a certainty that she was going to enjoy every minute of Sybil’s scheme.

Her feelings were strengthened during the next ten days; it seemed strange to be a staff nurse again, but Sister Jones was a dear and the other nurses were pleasant to work with. There was plenty of work on the ward, for Doctor van Someren was a man who expected his orders to be carried out to the letter, and it was sometimes hard and exacting. He had given Phoebe a number of books to read, some of them written by himself, and she couldn’t help but be impressed by the string of letters after his name. He was undoubtedly clever, which might account for his moments of vagueness and for his habit of staring at her, which at first she had found a little trying until she decided that he was probably deep in thought and wasn’t even aware of her.

She was to spend five nights on duty, because there was a good deal to do at night and he wanted her to be conversant with that as well, and to her surprise Doctor van Someren had himself suggested that she should have two days off afterwards so that she could go home before returning to London to meet him for the journey. He had offered no information about the trip. She supposed they would travel by train and cross from Harwich, and although she would have liked to know very much, she hadn’t liked to ask him because he had appeared so preoccupied when he had told her; he had moved away even as he was speaking, his registrar and housemen circling around him like satellites round their sun.

Phoebe hadn’t been best pleased about going on nights, although she didn’t care to admit to herself that the main reason for this was because she wouldn’t see Doctor van Someren—and she liked seeing him, even though he was a married man and never seemed to see her at all. Apparently he had no eyes for women, however lovely—unlike his Registrar and George the houseman, both of whom found her company very much to their liking. She sighed and wondered, not for the first time, what his wife was like, then pushed the ward doors open, ready to take the day report from Sister Jones on her first night on. Life seemed strangely-dissatisfying.

The children took a lot of settling; she and Rawlings, the student nurse on with her, were still hard at it when Doctor van Someren came quietly into the ward. Phoebe laid the little girl carefully on to the pillows stacked behind her, conscious that her heart was beating a good deal faster than it should do.

‘Any trouble?’ he asked quietly, and she shook her head and smiled at him because it was so nice to see him unexpectedly.

‘No, thank you, sir. They’re very good, but we’ve still got two more to see to.’ She was apologetic because it was almost nine o’clock, but he made no sign of having heard her, only stood looking down on the child, comfortable and sleepy now, and presently he went away.

He came each night, conveying without words that his visits were simply because he liked the children and not because he had doubts as to his nurses’ ability. And in the small hours of the night—her third night on, when Andrew, the ten-year-old in the corner bed, died, he was there again, with his registrar and Night Sister. But Phoebe noticed none of them, doing what she had to do with a heavy heart, and later, when there was no more to be done, going into the kitchen on some excuse or other because if she didn’t shed some of the tears her throat would burst. She neither saw nor heard Doctor van Someren; it was his apologetic little cough which caused her to spin round to face him. She said wildly: ‘You see, I’ll be no good for your scheme—I can’t bear it when this happens—he was so little.’

She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes to blot the tears, and despite them, her lovely face was quite undimmed.

The doctor said nothing for a moment, but crossed to the table, ladled tea into the pot, lifted the boiling water from the gas ring and made the tea. ‘On the contrary, you will be very good, because you feel deeply about it.’ He looked at her and in a voice suddenly harsh, asked: ‘And how do you suppose I feel?’

She sniffled, ‘Awful. I’m sorry.’ She began to gather mugs on to a tray. ‘I mean I’m sorry because I’m being a fool, and I’m sorry for you too, because this happens despite all you do.’

He took the tray from her. ‘You are kind, Miss Brook, but the boot is on the other foot—soon we shall win our battle, you know.’ He kicked open the door. ‘And now dry your eyes and have a cup of your English tea—I should warn you that in Holland our tea is not as you make it, but our coffee is genuine coffee, which is more than I can say for the abomination I am offered here.’ He smiled at her and she found herself smiling back at him; he really was nice—absentminded, perhaps, a little pedantic and, she fancied, old-fashioned in his views, but definitely nice.

But the sadder side of her work was seldom in the ascendant—there was a good deal of fun with the children too, and the nurses, under Sister Jones’ rules, were a happy crowd. And over and above that, Doctor van Someren’s enthusiasm spilled itself over the lot of them, so that very soon Phoebe found herself looking forward to going to Holland, where, so Sister Jones told her, his work was having a steady success—no spectacular results, just a slow, sure improvement in his little patients. She found herself wishing that she, in her small way, would be able to help him to attain his goal.

There was a party on the ward—a farewell party for Doctor van Someren—on her last night on duty. She got up an hour or so earlier than usual and went along to help with the peeling of oranges, the dishing out of ice-cream and the wiping of sticky hands. It was noisy and cheerful and it would have been even greater fun if various important people to do with the hospital hadn’t been there too, to take up the guest of honour’s time and attention. All the same, he found the time to wish each child goodbye and then crossed the ward to thank Phoebe for her help and to hope that the children would settle.

‘They will give you a little trouble, perhaps,’ he hazarded, ‘and strictly speaking it is not good for them, but they must have their fun, don’t you agree, Miss Brook?’

She nodded understandingly, aware as he was that during the early part of the night there would be a great deal of chatter and requests for drinks of water, and little tempers as well as tears, but they would sleep eventually and they had loved every minute of it. She looked around her, reflecting how strange it was that a few paper hats and balloons could create a party for a child.

He turned away. ‘I shall see you here at seven o’clock in the evening, on the day after tomorrow,’ he reminded her, and before she could ask how they were to go to Holland, he had gone, large and quiet, and very quickly.

She spent two busy days at home; there was a great deal she would have liked to discuss with Sybil, but somehow Aunt Martha always seemed to be with them, and beyond a few safe commonplaces about her work, she could say very little. Only when they had gone to bed, Sybil had come along to her room and sat on the bed and demanded to know if everything was all right.

Phoebe nodded. ‘I think so—you were quite right, Doctor van Someren is absentminded, but only sometimes. He’s a splendid doctor though. I expected him to be older —he seems older than he really is, I think, but only when he’s worried. I like the work …’

Sybil interrupted her happily. ‘There, didn’t I say that it was a good thing when you agreed to go instead of me? And I bet you’re far better at it than I should ever be. How are you going to Holland?’

‘I don’t know—I’ve been told to go to the hospital tomorrow evening at seven o’clock, that’s all. What clothes shall I take?’

It was well after midnight before this knotty problem was solved to their entire satisfaction. Phoebe, remembering the doctor’s gentle remark that he hoped that she wouldn’t have too much luggage, decided to take one case, a small overnight bag and her handbag—a stout leather one capable of holding everything she was likely to need en route. The overnight bag she stuffed with night things, and as many undies as she could cram into it, and the case she packed under Sybil’s critical eye with uncrushable cotton dresses, sandals, two colourful swimsuits, a sleeveless jersey dress in a pleasing shade of blue, a very simple dress in strawberry pink silk and, as a concession to a kindly fate, a pastel patterned party dress which could be rolled into a ball if necessary and still look perfection itself.

This task done, she felt free to wish her sister good night and go to bed herself. Not that she slept for several hours; her mind was too full of her job, and woven in and out of her more prosaic thoughts was the ever-recurring reflection that she was pleased that she would be seeing a good deal more of Doctor van Someren during the next few weeks.

The morning was taken up with last-minute chores and a discussion about the wedding, coupled With a strong reminder from Aunt Martha to make very sure that she returned home for it. She was thinking how best to settle this matter when her taxi drew up outside the hospital entrance and she stepped out. There was no one about. Through the glass doors she could see the head porter’s back as he trod ponderously in the direction of the covered way at the back of the hall—perhaps she should go after him and find out … She actually had her hand on the door when Doctor van Someren said from behind her:

‘Good evening, Miss Brook. You are rested, I hope? If you would come with me?’

It annoyed her that she felt flustered. She wished him a good evening in her turn in a rather cool voice and followed him to the hospital car park.

They stopped beside a claret-coloured Jaguar XJ 12 and she tried to conceal her surprise, but her tongue was too quick for her. ‘My goodness,’ she exclaimed, ‘is this your?’

He looked faintly surprised. ‘Yes—you didn’t tell me that you disliked travelling by car. It is the simplest way …’

‘Oh, I don’t—I love it. Only she’s so splendid and she took my breath I didn’t expect … And I’m sure it’s the simplest way, only I don’t know which way that is.’

He put down her case and bag the better to give her his full attention. ‘Did I not tell you how we should be travelling?’

She shook her head.

‘Dear me —you must forgive me. By car, of course. We shall load it on to the Harwich boat and drive to Delft from the Hoek when we land in the morning. You are a good sailor?’

‘Yes—though I’ve only crossed to Calais twice. We nearly always went by plane, and I loathed it.’

‘We?’ he prompted her gently.

‘My mother and father and s …’ she stopped just in time, ‘me,’ she added lamely, and felt her cheeks warm, but he didn’t seem to notice and she drew a relieved breath. How fortunate it was that he wasn’t an observant man, only with his patients. He picked up her case and put it in the boot, already packed with books and cases and boxes—no wonder he had hoped that she wouldn’t bring too much luggage with her.

It was extraordinary how many times during their journey to Harwich that she had to stop to think before she replied to his casual questions. She hadn’t realised before how often one mentioned one’s family during the course of even the most ordinary conversation; she seemed to be continually fobbing him off with questions of her own about his work, their journey, details of the hospital where she would be working—anything, in fact, but her own home life. It was a relief when he slid the car to a halt in the Customs shed, a relief tempered with regret, though, because he was a most agreeable companion and she had found herself wishing that she could have told him all about Sybil and Nick, and her own part in the deception they were playing upon him. When she had consented to take Sybil’s place she hadn’t thought much about the other people involved; now she found that it mattered quite a lot to her.

They had a meal on board and Phoebe talked feverishly about a dozen subjects, taking care not to mention her home or her family, and the doctor made polite comments upon her sometimes rather wild statements, and didn’t appear to be aware of the fact that she repeated herself upon occasion, but as soon as they had had their coffee, he observed pleasantly: ‘I expect you would like to go to your cabin, Miss Brook,’ and stood up as he said it, so that there was nothing else for her to do. Besides, he had a briefcase with him; he was already opening it when she looked back on her way out of the restaurant.

Possibly, she thought crossly, he had been dying for her to go for hours past. She undressed slowly and hung her oatmeal-coloured dress and jacket carefully away so that they would be creaseless and fresh in the morning. ‘Not that it would matter,’ she told herself, getting crosser. ‘If I wore hot pants and a see-through blouse he wouldn’t notice!’

She lay down on her bunk, determined not to go to sleep so that she would be able to tell him that she had spent an uncomfortable night—no, not uncomfortable, she corrected herself—it was a delightful cabin, far more luxurious than she had expected, certainly first class and on the promenade deck. It surprised her that the hospital authorities were willing to spend so much money on a nurse. She would have been just as comfortable sharing a cabin with another girl, although she doubted if she would have had the cheerful services of the stewardess who promised tea at six o’clock and begged her to ring her bell should she require anything further. With difficulty Phoebe brought her sleepy mind back to Doctor van Someren; it would be nice if she were to see a great deal of him in hospital—presumably she would be working on one of his wards, but perhaps he would leave the actual instruction to one of the more junior members of his team. She frowned at the idea and went to sleep.

She slept all night and, much refreshed by her tea, dressed, did her face and hair with care and went along to join the doctor for breakfast, looking as though she had slept the clock round and spent several leisurely hours over her toilette. His eyes, very bright beneath the arched colourless brows, swept over her and then blinked lazily. He wished her a good morning, hoped she had slept well and begged her to sit down to breakfast, something she was only too glad to do. Coffee and toast would be delightful, but the ship seemed to be a hive of activity and they had already docked; perhaps he hadn’t noticed. She mentioned it diffidently, to be instantly reassured by his easy: ‘I have a theory that it is quicker to be last off the ship.’ A remark which, it turned out, was perfectly true, for by the time they had finished, the last of the passengers were leaving the ship and the Jaguar was swinging in mid-air, on its way to dry land.

There was no delay in the Customs shed but a good deal of talk in Dutch, which sounded like so much nonsense in her ears, so that she didn’t pay attention but stood looking about her. She was recalled from this absorbing pastime by Doctor van Someren’s voice and she turned at once to answer him and in the same split second was aware that he had called her Phoebe and she had responded. She felt the colour leave her face and then flood back, washing her from neck to forehead with a delicate pink. She would have liked to have said something—anything, but her brain, like her tongue, was frozen. It was the doctor who spoke.

‘Very interesting. I have been wanting to do that since we met.’ His voice was thoughtful, but she could have sworn that he was secretly amused. He turned away to speak to a porter and she followed him to where the car stood waiting in the cobbled yard beyond the station. It was only after she had got into it and he had taken the seat beside her that she asked in a small voice: ‘How did you know my name?’ and then: ‘Are you going to send me back?’

He didn’t look at her. ‘Your sister mentioned you, and no why should I? You are an admirable nurse, obviously far more experienced than you wished me to believe. I don’t know the reason for the deception, but I imagine it was a sufficiently good one.’

‘When did you find out?’

He sounded surprised. ‘When we met, naturally.’

She faltered a little. ‘But Sybil and I are so alike, people can never tell us apart, only when we’re together, or—or they look at us properly.’

‘And your sister decided that I hadn’t studied her for a sufficient length of time to make your substitution risky. You are not in the least like her.’

They were already out of the town, tearing along the highway, but she really hadn’t noticed that. She opened her mouth to refute this opinion, but he went on smoothly: ‘No, don’t argue, Miss Phoebe Brook. I’m not prepared to enlarge upon that at the moment, you will have to take my word for it.’

Phoebe stared out at the flat countryside without seeing any of it.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she told him stiffly, and thought how inadequate it was to say that. She was sorry and ashamed and furious with herself for playing a trick on him. ‘It was a rotten thing to do. At the time, when Sybil—when I arranged to do it, it seemed OK I hadn’t met you then,’ she added naively, and failed to see his slow smile and the gleam in his eyes.

He gave the Jag her head. ‘Do you care to tell me about it? But only if you wish …’

She felt quite sick. ‘It’s the least I can do.’ She stared miserably at a group of black and white cows bunched round a man in the middle of a field as green and flat as a billiard table. ‘I’m the one to blame,’ she began, faintly aggressive in case he should argue the point, and when he didn’t: ‘You see, Sybil wants to get married—quite soon …’ She was reminded of something. ‘I should like to save up my days off and go home for the wedding, though I don’t suppose you have anything to do with the nurses’ off duty.’

They were in the heavy early morning traffic now and approaching a town. ‘Is that Delft?’ she wanted to know.

‘Yes, it is. I have nothing to do with the nurses’ off duty,’ he was laughing silently again and she frowned, ‘but I imagine I might be able to bring my influence to bear.’

To her surprise he edged the car into the slow lane and then into the lay-by ahead of them, switched off the engine and turned to look at her intently. ‘Perhaps if I were to ask you a few questions it would be easier for both of us.’ He didn’t wait for her to answer him. ‘Supposing you tell me where you were working to begin with. You are older than your sister,’ he shot her a hooded glance, ‘and I think that you have held a more responsible post …’

She choked on pricked vanity —did she look such an old hag, then? Very much on her dignity, she said stiffly: ‘I was Night Sister at St Gideon’s—the medical block. I’m twenty-seven, since you make such a point of it …’ She paused because he had made a sound suspiciously like a chuckle. ‘I will explain exactly what happened …’

She did so, concisely and with a brevity which did justice to her years of giving accurate reports without loss of time. When she had finished she stole a look at him, but he was staring ahead, his profile, with its forceful nose and solid chin, looked stern. Perhaps he was going to send her back after all. She conceded that she deserved it. But all he said in a mild voice was: ‘Good, that’s cleared the air, then,’ started the car again and allowed it to purr back into the stream of fast-moving traffic. ‘The hospital is in the heart of the city. It’s not new—there is a very splendid one, you must go over it while you are here—but the one in which you will work is very old indeed and although we have everything we require, it is dark and awkward. But the children are happy and that is the main thing. You will be on a sixteen-bedded ward of fibrocystics, but all the research work is done at the new hospital—St Jacobus.’

She found her voice. ‘What’s the hospital called—the one where I shall be?’

‘St Bonifacius. You’ll find that most of the staff speak English, and as for the children, I have discovered long ago that they will respond to any language provided it is spoken in the right tone of voice. Besides, there are a number of words which are so similar in both languages that I have no doubt you will get by.’

She hoped it would be as easy as it sounded. They were going slowly now through the compact little city, its winding streets lined with old houses, some of them so narrow that there was only room for a front door and a window, some so broad and solid that they should have been surrounded by parklands of their own. The streets were intersected by canals linked by narrow white bridges. She had the impression that she would be lost immediately she set foot outside the hospital door.

The silence had lasted a long time. Phoebe asked in a polite voice:




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