Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Never the Time and the Place

Never the Time and the Place
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. How could he be so handsome…and yet so cold? Ward Sister Josephine Dowling was heartbroken over the end of her engagement – but how could she marry a man she didn’t really love? What she didn’t expect, though, was to have to cope with her tears and the arrogant attitude of the brilliant Dr Julius van Tacx.He seemed to make a habit of finding her just when she was feeling – and looking – her worst. And yet he was incredibly handsome…



They didn’t stop much. The afternoon was already dim and once the sun had set it would be difficult to find their way.
They rounded the lake, made their way through the grottos and went through the gates as twilight descended on the little cottages beyond it.
“Let’s go into the church?” suggested Mr. van Tacx, and took her arm. It was still open, the last of the daylight lighting up the stone knight on his tomb just inside the door. They wandered down the aisle and went into the tiny chapel on one side. Then they wandered back toward the door and stopped by mutual consent to look back at the dim gentleness of the interior.
“I should like to be married here,” said Mr. van Tacx surprisingly. And when Josephine gave him an amazed look— “To you, of course, Josephine.”
He sounded quite sure about it.
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, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Never the Time and the Place
Betty Neels



CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE
THE RAIN pouring down from a grey, sodden sky had turned the gold and red of the October afternoon into a landscape of gloom, with rivulets of water trickling on to the road from the high banks on either side of it and a never ending shower of leaves drifting down from the trees clustered behind them. But the girl squelching along the lane didn’t in the least mind the weather; to be in the country, away from chimney pots and little mean streets of small dismal houses and the never ending noise, was contentment. She was going at a good pace, well wrapped against the weather, tendrils of bright chestnut hair hanging bedraggled around her pretty face, wet from the rain. She was a tall girl and well built and even the wringing mackintosh she wore couldn’t disguise her splendid figure.
There was a dog with her; a black Labrador, his sleek coat soaked, plodding along beside her with evident enjoyment, tongue lolling, his eyes turned to her face every moment or so, listening to her quiet voice. ‘So you see, Cuthbert, you’ll not have me to take you for walks—you’ll have to make do with Mike or Natalie when they’re home. Of course, I’ll come home whenever I can but Yorkshire is a long way.’ She came to a halt and stared down at the devoted creature. ‘I ought to be feeling very happy, but I’m not. Do you suppose it’s wedding nerves? I’ve got the awful feeling that I don’t want to get married at all. Oh, Cuthbert…’ She bent right down and twiddled his wet ears, and he licked her hand gently.
Very few cars came along the lane and what with the noise of the rain and the wind in the trees, she hadn’t heard the car coming up the hill behind them; a Bentley, sliding to a dignified halt within a few feet of them. She stood up then, hushed Cuthbert’s indignant bark, and went to poke her head through the window by the driver.
‘You should have sounded your horn,’ she told the man at the wheel severely. ‘You could have run us down.’
She found herself looking into two of the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen. His voice was just as cold. ‘Young lady, I am not in the habit of running anyone or anything down. Is this a private road?’
‘Lord no. It leads to Ridge Giffard from East Giffard and after that there’s Tisbury.’
‘I am aware of my surroundings. I was wondering why you had the effrontery to criticise my driving on a public road.’
Gently the girl’s softly curving mouth rounded into an indignant O and her large grey eyes narrowed. A rat trap of a mouth in a rugged, handsome face; pepper and salt hair, cut short, and a commanding nose; she surveyed them without haste. At length she said kindly, in the tone of voice one might use to humour an ill tempered child, ‘You’re touchy, aren’t you? And a stranger to these parts?’ She straightened up. ‘Well, don’t let me keep you. You say you’re aware of your surroundings, so I won’t need to tell you that they’ll be moving the cows across at Pake’s Farm a mile along on the next bend.’ She added, ‘A pedigree herd, too.’
The man in the car gave a low rumble of laughter although he didn’t look amused. ‘No, you don’t need to tell me, young lady, but I can see that it gives you a good deal of satisfaction to do so.’ He asked to surprise her, ‘Are you married?’
And when she shook her head, ‘Something for a man to be thankful for.’
She wasn’t in the least put out. ‘That could be a compliment,’ she told him sweetly. ‘Mind how you go.’
The cold eyes swept over her before he drove away. It was like a bucket of cold water.
‘Anyone else would have offered us a lift,’ she told Cuthbert. ‘Not that we would have accepted.’
She started walking again, the afternoon would soon turn into an early evening and they had another mile or so to go.
The pair of them negotiated a gate presently and took to the fields, going at a right angle to the road, to cross a stile at the end of the second field and come into a narrow lane running between trees. It went quite steeply down hill in a series of bends, passing a cottage or two on the way until the village appeared; a cluster of cottages, a shop or two and half a dozen larger houses, with ancient tiled roofs and eighteenth century fronts. The girl went past them all, waving once or twice to the few people in the street, and turned in through an open gateway at the end of the village. The drive was short, leading to an outbuilding used as a garage and then turning to broaden out before the low, sprawling house. It was built of red brick like most of the houses in the village but it had a thatched roof and mullioned windows and a very solid front door, ignored by the girl who turned down the side of the house, went through a tumbledown stone archway and opened a door leading from the garden.
The room she went into was small with a stone flagged floor, probably in earlier days a garden room, but now a repository for a collection of shabby coats and mackintoshes, shapeless caps and hats and an untidy row of footwear of all kinds. She took a towel from a peg on the wall, rubbed Cuthbert dry and then took off her own mac and opened another door leading this time to a short passage which in its turn ended in the kitchen. A large, low ceilinged room with an old-fashioned scrubbed table in its centre, windsor chairs at either end of it, and a wooden dresser taking up most of one wall. There was an Aga Stove and a rag rug spread before it on the brick floor, occupied by a tabby cat who hardly moved as Cuthbert flung himself down with a contented sigh. There were a number of doors leading from the room, one of which was partly open.
‘Josephine?’ asked a muffled voice from behind it, ‘is that you, dear? Where did I put the blackcurrant jam—I thought it was on the top shelf…’
The pantry door was pushed open and Mrs Dowling came into the kitchen. They were very alike, mother and daughter, the one still showing signs of the beauty of the other, both with grey eyes and gentle mouths, although Mrs Dowling’s hair was heavily streaked with silver.
‘Nice walk?’ she asked, forgetting the jam.
‘Lovely. I can’t think why I work in London, Mother, when I could spend my days here…’
‘Well, you won’t be there much longer, darling. In another month or two you’ll be married to Malcolm and I daresay the Yorkshire Moors are just as beautiful as our bit of the country.’
Josephine cut a slice off the loaf on the table and began to eat it. She said thoughtfully, ‘Well, yes, they’re beautiful, but they’re a long way away.’
‘You’ll have Malcolm’s mother and father,’ her mother pointed out.
‘So I shall,’ Josephine agreed slowly. She had fought a long hard battle with herself over her future mother-in-law; they didn’t like each other and never would. Josephine, voicing her doubts to Malcolm, had come up against an easy-going amusement which refused to recognise her difficulties. They would settle down nicely, he had assured her, half laughing, it was because they didn’t know each other very well, all that would be changed when they saw each other daily. A prospect which made Josephine shudder; Malcolm was going into his father’s practice and was perfectly content to live within a stone’s throw of his parents’ house; it was one of the things which worried her, especially if she were to wake in the night and think about it, although in the morning her worries seemed rather silly.
She said, ‘The jam—it’s on the bottom shelf, right at the back. I’ll get it.’ She emerged presently from the cupboard and put the pot on the table. ‘I met a man while I was out. In a Bentley—I’ve never seen him before—is there someone staying up at the Manor?’
Mrs Dowling was cutting bread and butter. ‘Not that I know of, but the Vicar’s wife mentioned someone saying they were staying over at Branton House. She didn’t know anything about him, though she’d heard that he was a foreigner.’
‘Never an Arab going to buy the place?’
‘Heaven forbid—the Forsyths have been there for hundreds of years. I daresay your father will know.’
But presently, sitting round the fire in the comfortable, shabby drawing room, she forgot about him. Her father, the local GP, had been at Salisbury Hospital, visiting a patient and an old friend after lunching with colleagues, and the talk was of them and their doings. Presently he got up to take evening surgery. Josephine cleared away the tea things and washed the delicate old china and rubbed up the silver spoons which her mother had always used each day, and then started to prepare the supper. Tomorrow evening, she thought with a sigh, she would be back in London, sitting in her office writing the report; it would be a busy day—theatre day—the gyny ward was always full but the turnover was brisk and for the most part the patients were very cheerful. She loved her work and she was going to miss it when she married Malcolm. It was only recently that she had had niggling doubts; things that hadn’t seemed to matter too much now mattered a great deal; Yorkshire was a far cry from Ridge Giffard and she was essentially a home loving girl. She had always been content, living in the old house, coming home from boarding school and then leaving it to train as a nurse, but even then she had come home on her free days, and now, a Ward Sister and the possessor of a second-hand Mini, she found it easy enough to drive to and fro when she had her free weekends. She would miss Mike and Natalie, she didn’t see much of them these days for they were both away from home for a good part of the year, Natalie at school taking her O levels and Mike in his first year at medical school. And the house she and Malcolm were to have—it was small and modern and had what she considered to be a pokey little garden. It worried her that she minded that so much. Surely, if she loved Malcolm, it shouldn’t matter?
She fed Cuthbert his supper and Mrs Whisker, the tabby, and fetched the lamb cutlets from the fridge. She liked cooking. Now she set to work cooking cucumber gently in a big pan, egg and breadcrumbing the cutlets and adding them to the cucumber and while they were simmering gently, she put on the potatoes and peeped at the celery braising in the oven. Her father would be hungry; the waiting room had been full and the phone had been ringing often enough; by the time he had done his evening rounds it would be eight o’clock or half past. Apple crumble and cream would make a nice afters; she set to work happily.
Putting her pie in the oven presently, she wondered idly about the man in the Bentley; he would be hundreds of miles away by now and would have forgotten her entirely. It surprised her that she felt vague regret about this.
He wasn’t hundreds of miles away; he was a bare half dozen, having a drink before dinner with his host and hostess at Branton House, exchanging polite conversation about the weather. During a comfortable pause—for they were old friends and didn’t need to keep up an unceasing chat—he remarked idly, ‘I met a girl as I was coming here. A strapping creature with a lovely face and enormous grey eyes. She had a Labrador with her and they both appeared to be enjoying the weather. She gave me a sound telling off for not sounding my horn. I might add that she and the dog were standing in the centre of the road and seemed to consider it to be theirs.’
His hostess laughed. ‘Josephine Dowling—she’s a darling, the eldest of our doctor’s three children. She’s a Ward Sister at St Michael’s—I daresay you’ll meet her.’
The man’s eyes were half closed. ‘I look forward to that. But perhaps she won’t recognise me…’
‘Don’t be silly, Julius.’ His hostess smiled widely. He was a tall man powerfully built and dressed with a quiet elegance; moreover, he had a face which a woman wouldn’t forget easily. She had no doubt that when Josephine saw him she would know him at once. A pity she was to be married—she might have taken Julius’s mind off his recently broken engagement…

Twenty-four hours later, Josephine was sitting exactly as she knew she would be, in her office at the end of the landing outside the ward, with the door open so that she could keep an eye on the comings and goings of the visitors. It had been a very busy day; there had been four cases for theatre and Mr Bull, the surgeon, had been in a fiendish temper for all of them so that the Student Nurses who had accompanied the patients had come back with eyes like saucers and a greatly increased knowledge of rude words. After the last case he had come on to the ward looking like a thunder cloud, dragging behind him a posse of reluctant lesser fry, trying to avoid his eye and terrified that he might shoot questions at them as he went from bed to bed. Josephine, quite used to him, gave him a soothing good afternoon and watched him blow out his moustache, a sure sign that he was put out.
‘Fools,’ he uttered strongly, ‘I have nothing but fools to work for me.’ Josephine drew herself up to her splendid height and met his choleric eye. ‘Not you, Jo—depend on you, don’t I? And why you have to go and marry some young fool of a GP. I don’t know… How’s that last patient? I knew I’d find CA, but I think she’ll do.’
Josephine led him across the ward to where the operation cases were sleeping peacefully behind their screens. ‘She’s doing nicely, sir. She came back from the Recovery Room an hour ago. I’m glad she’s okay—her husband phoned—he’ll be in presently—not to see her, he just wants to know what’s happened.’
Mr Bull might have a nasty temper but he was a kind man as well. ‘I’ll be in the hospital for another hour, if he comes before then let me know. I’ll have a word with him.’
Josephine beamed at him. ‘How nice of you, he’ll be so relieved.’ She went to the bed while Mr Bull took a look at his patient and then went in turn to the other three.
‘Might as well do a quick round,’ he muttered and set off with Josephine keeping pace, her Staff Nurse, Joan Makepeace, trotting behind, closely followed by the students.
There were sixteen patients in the ward and half of that number were sufficiently recovered from their operations to gather, cosily dressing-gowned, in little groups and discuss and enlarge upon their various conditions. They did this cheerfully, their troubles nicely behind them, the prospect of going home in the near future buoying up their spirits.
Mr Bull waited a little impatiently while the nurses hurried these ladies back to sit by their beds, and then spoke a few words to each of them. For some reason which Josephine never quite fathomed, his patients, almost without exception, adored him. He wasn’t particularly nice to them, but even when imparting some unpleasant news to them he managed to convey his certainty that he would be able to cope with it and restore them to their homes in perfect health.
But most of his time was taken up with the patients who hadn’t reached the happy state of shuffling along to the day room, with these he spent time and trouble, reassuring them, reading up their notes carefully, sometimes asking questions that were pertinent to the apprehensive students behind him. His quick round had taken a good half hour and had left Josephine busier than ever, rearranging her patients once more, sending nurses to a tea they had almost missed, giving the Staff Nurse a hand with the evening medicine round. She sat now, waiting for the last of the visitors to go so that she could do her final round and then finish her report, turning over in her mind Mr Bull’s parting shot as he marched out of the ward. ‘I’m off to Brussels for a month, Jo, lecturing and marking exam papers, heaven help me. An old friend and colleague will be standing in for me—clever bloke, well known and highly thought of.’ He had given a guffaw of delighted laughter. ‘Don’t let him oust that fellow you are going to marry.’
She had said a little starchily, ‘That’s not likely, sir. I hope you enjoy your stay in Brussels.’ And at the same time she had felt a twinge of excitement and interest.
The night staff, coming on duty, interrupted her thoughts; she dismissed them at once and started reading the report.
This took some time; the four operation cases were gone into with meticulous detail and then the remaining ladies discussed at varying lengths. ‘And Mrs Prosser,’ finished Josephine, referring to an elderly lady who had given more trouble than the whole ward put together, ‘Mr Bull sees no reason why she shouldn’t go home in two days’ time—that’ll be Saturday. She’s dead set on staying the weekend, though. Says there’ll be no one at home to look after her. Nobody came to see her this evening, so I couldn’t discover if that’s true or not, but we do need the bed and she’s already been in several days longer than usual.’
She got up to go. ‘And Mr Bull tells me he’ll be going away for a month. He’s got someone coming to do his work, though. Have a good night.’
She picked up the big bag she took on duty with her, filled with the impedimenta needed by a young woman cut off from such things as she might require in the way of make-up, her purse, the letters she hadn’t had time to read, and an assortment of pens, her gold watch and a spare pair of tights, and left the ward. The nurses who had been on duty with her had already gone, the landing was silent as she crossed it, went through the wide swing doors at the further end and started down the stone staircase. She was in the more modern part of the hospital, but not as modern as all that; woman’s surgical and the gyny ward had been built some thirty years before and attached to the central, early Victorian block, a not very happy union, architecturally speaking. It was even worse on the opposite side, where the hospital had been enlarged only recently. It held the most modern of equipment and boasted colour schemes in the wards and such refinements as a tasteful waiting room for relatives, cloakrooms for the nursing staff and silent swift lifts which never broke down. But strangely, the nurses preferred the Victorian wing, despite the lack of colour schemes, even preferring in many cases to work in the central block, where the medical patients were housed in gloomy wards which no amount of modernising would ever disguise.
Josephine sped down the staircase, poked her head round the swing doors of the ward below her own, and finding Mercy Latimer already gone, went on her way. On the ground floor she crossed the entrance hall and went down a dark passage at its back which ended in a large door with ‘Nursing Staff Only’ painted on it. She went through this into another passage, very clean and smelling of furniture polish, and started up the stairs at the end. The Sisters had bed sitting rooms on the first floor, reached by a swing door on the landing and once through that she could hear the steady murmur of voices coming from the end of the corridor before her. She unlocked her door, flung her cap and bag on the bed and went on towards the sound of rattling tea cups.
There were half a dozen young women crammed into the small kitchen, intent on making tea. She was on good terms with them all, for they had all trained, just as she had, at St Michael’s.
‘Late off, aren’t you?’ asked Mercy.
‘Mr Bull did a round and it took me the rest of the afternoon and evening to catch up. He’s going away for a month…’
‘Bully for you,’ the small fair-haired girl spoke. ‘Think of all the empty beds.’
‘You’ll be lucky.’ Caroline Webster, the Senior Theatre Sister, spooned tea into a giant pot. ‘There’s someone coming to do his work for him. A glutton for work, so I’m told. Coming into theatre tomorrow afternoon with Mr Bull to cast an eye around. I expect you’ll get him, too, Jo.’
Jo put milk in a mug and spooned in sugar lavishly. ‘I hope not, you know what it’s like the day after ops, one long rush with drips and dope and the poor dears not feeling their best. And Mrs Prosser,’ she added gloomily, ‘he’ll be someone new to complain to. You see, just as we’ve got her all fixed up to go home on Saturday, she’ll get him to let her stay.’
The night had not gone well, Josephine discovered when she went on duty in the morning. The operation cases had, true enough, slept their way through the night in a drugged sleep, but everybody else had been disturbed on several occasions by Mrs Prosser, who declared herself to be dying, neglected and in need of cups of tea, cold drinks and bed-pans. That she had been on her feet for days now and perfectly able to get herself to the loo was an argument delivered in a fierce whisper by the night Staff Nurse, which she swept aside so noisily that they were forced to give in to her. She lay in bed now, looking smug, having declared herself incapable of getting out of her bed.
Josephine listened with a sympathetic ear to the night Staff Nurse’s report and sent her and her junior off duty with a promise that something would be done before the night, and once her nurses had dispersed to see to breakfasts she asked Joan to stay behind for a few minutes.
‘The side ward, the one at the other end of the ward that we don’t use unless we have to—we’ll put her in there. She’s not to be neglected, mind, but she must get up as usual—she can sit there and have her meals there, and when Mr Bull does his round I’ll see if he’ll talk to her.’
Josephine supervised the move. Mrs Prosser, at first delighted at getting so much attention, became incensed when she discovered that she was to be on her own. Josephine waited until she had finished her diatribe, forcefully delivered, about the cruelty of nurses and herself above all, and then she pointed out reasonably, ‘Well, Mrs Prosser, if you are feeling as poorly as you say, then I think that you should be kept as quiet as possible. I think Mr Bull will agree with me. He’s doing a round later this morning and you can tell him exactly what is wrong. Your temperature and pulse are quite normal, and you ate your breakfast and you haven’t been sick.’
Mrs Prosser said a rude word, but Josephine, inured to the colourful vocabulary of the majority of her patients, took not a bit of notice. She left Mrs Prosser’s door half open and swept back down the ward, distinctly eye catching in her dark blue cotton uniform and frilled cap; other hospitals might dress their nurses in nylon and paper caps, St Michael’s hadn’t changed the material or the cut since they were first designed in the mid-nineteenth century. Perhaps they weren’t as comfortable as the modern overall, but the St Michael’s nurses wore them with pride and spent time getting their caps just so.
With Josephine’s eye here, there and everywhere, the ward gradually assumed the perfection she expected. The ill ladies were attended to, comforted, their hair nicely combed, and set against their pillows, those who were able, got from their beds and were settled in chairs, and the in betweens, not yet quite well enough to do much for themselves, were encouraged to swing their legs out of bed, totter for little walks under the watchful eye of a nurse, and then sit up in their beds, where, feeling pleased with themselves, they read the paper or knitted. And in the meantime Joan Makepeace and a Senior Student Nurse had started the treatments and the dressings. By the time the nurses started going to their coffee the morning was successfully embarked upon its routine.
Mr Bull arrived just as Josephine, having checked that all was going well with her patients, was thinking of her own coffee. He surged into the ward, bringing a wave of good humour with him. He was accompanied by the colleague who was to do his work while he was away; the man in the car, no less. She halted for a moment, on her way down the ward to meet them, and then went on, her colour a little high, but her calm unimpaired.
Mr Bull gave her a jovial greeting. ‘Jo—everything spick and span, I see—I’ve never managed to catch you out yet, have I? I’ve brought Mr Julius van Tacx—he’ll be doing my work for me while I’m away. Julius, meet my favourite Ward Sister, Josephine Dowling. She’s getting married very shortly, more’s the pity.’
Josephine extended a large, well kept hand and had it engulfed in an enormous grip. She said, ‘How d’you do?’ in a rather colourless voice and was taken aback when he replied, carelessly.
‘Oh, we have met already, haven’t we?’
Mr Bull was all ears. ‘Oh, where?’
‘In the middle of a country road in a rainstorm. Miss Dowling took exception to my driving.’
Mr Bull was by no means insensitive to atmosphere. He glanced at Jo’s wooden countenance and then at Mr van Tacx’s amused face and said uneasily, ‘Yes, well—I daresay you’ll work very well together. This is one of the best run wards in the hospital.’
Mr van Tacx bowed his head slightly in what Josephine considered to be a mocking gesture. His, ‘Of course,’ sounded mocking, too.
She said austerely, ‘Naturally I and my nursing staff will do everything to make things as easy as possible for Mr van Tacx.’
‘Oh, I don’t expect things to be easy,’ he told her cheerfully, ‘but I daresay we’ll rub along.’
There was nothing to reply to this. Jo led the way to the first bed and the round began, supported by a posse of students, Joan Makepeace and a Student Nurse clutching a pile of patients’ notes. It took twice as long, of course, Mr van Tacx had to have every sign and symptom explained to him as well as reading the foot of every bed as they came to it. Josephine, longing for her coffee, allowed no vestige of her impatience to show, making suitable replies to the questions fired at her, producing the correct forms seconds before they were asked for, behaving in short, just as a well trained nurse ought. So much so in fact that Mr Bull paused at the end of the ward to enquire what was the matter with her. ‘Swallowed the poker, Jo?’ he asked. ‘You don’t need to be so starchy just because Mr van Tacx is here.’
Jo looked down her beautiful nose. ‘I hope that I shall treat Mr van Tacx exactly as I have always treated you, sir,’ she said sweetly. ‘Would you like to see Mrs Prosser? I’ve put her in the end side ward. She kept everyone awake last night and is convinced that she isn’t well enough to go home. I suggested to her that if she were in a room by herself she might begin to feel better.’
‘Oh, God—must I see her? There’s nothing wrong is there?’
Josephine glanced at her notes. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Oh, well, in that case…’ He caught her eye. ‘You think I’d better have a word?’
She nodded and led the way to the side ward. Mrs Prosser was sitting up in her bed, waiting for them. She didn’t waste time with any good-mornings, but launched her attack without preamble. They stood listening imperturbably until she stopped for lack of breath.
‘Well, Mrs Prosser,’ said Mr Bull, ‘here is a well-known specialist who has come to examine you. I do feel that if he pronounces you fit you have no option but to take his advice and go home on Saturday.’
Josephine had to admit that Mr van Tacx handled Mrs Prosser with a masterly touch; he examined her with a thoroughness which impressed even that lady, then treated her to a brief lecture, delivered in his deep faintly accented voice, ending it with a flattering observation on her fortitude and ability to cope with any future difficulties.
Josephine, who had decided that she didn’t like him, was forced to allow admiration for his handling of the difficult old lady. Leaving Mrs Prosser smirking amongst her pillows, she led the way to her office where Mr Bull waved away his retinue. He was in a good mood; coffee would take twice as long as usual, thought Josephine, which meant that she would be all behind with the paperwork. She was a calm tempered girl, and patient; she poured coffee for the three of them and sat down to drink hers at the desk while the two gentlemen disposed themselves—Mr Bull in a canvas chair in one corner of the small room, the Dutchman leaning against a radiator. There was no question of social conversation, of course. They plunged immediately into several knotty problems which had revealed themselves during the round, turning to her from time to time to verify some sticky point. It was when they got up to go at last that Mr van Tacx paused as they were going through the door.
‘I shall be seeing you presently, Sister Dowling, there are one or two points we might discuss. I hope we shall enjoy a pleasant relationship.’
Josephine gave him a thoughtful look. ‘I hope so, too, sir.’ She hadn’t much liked his silken tones. Rather childishly, she made a face at the closed door, said, ‘Pooh to you,’ and then drew a pile of reports towards her, only to be interrupted a moment later by the door being thrust open again to admit Mr van Tacx’s handsome head.
‘Shall we let bygones be bygones?’ he wanted to know, and smiled at her with such charm that just for the moment she liked him very much. Before she could answer him, he had gone again, leaving her with her feelings nicely muddled.
As she might have known, he was thoroughly discussed at midday dinner. Caroline and Mercy both pronounced him dreamy. ‘Such a lovely dark brown voice!’ enthused the latter. ‘And so good looking. Caroline, you’re a lucky devil, you’ll see him four times a week, besides the times he might stroll in for the odd cup of coffee.’
Caroline, a pretty girl with curly blonde hair and big baby blue eyes, smirked. ‘I know. What a bit of luck Jo’s out of the running—I wouldn’t stand a chance, nor would you.’
‘Speak for yourself.’ Mercy turned a gamin little face to Jo. ‘What do you say, Jo?’
‘Why, that he’s a man who knows his job—he’d have to or Mr Bull wouldn’t let him near his patients in the first place.’
‘You don’t like him?’
‘I don’t know him, so how can I tell?’ asked Jo reasonably. ‘Does anyone know anything about him?’
‘Not a thing. He’s Dutch, qualified here as well as in Holland, lives near Leiden, had a flourishing practice and likes lots of sugar in his coffee…’
Josephine turned thoughtful eyes on to her friend’s face. ‘Not bad, considering you only met him for the first time this morning.’
‘You wait a week, Jo. I must find out if he’s married or got a girl. Married, I should think—he’s not all that young, is he? Probably got a pack of children and a wife…’
‘Then why isn’t she with him? I mean, he’s in a service flat, one of those posh ones just behind Harrods, I heard old Chubb’—Chubb was the Senior Porter—‘telling one of the porters to take some luggage there.’
Several pairs of eyes were turned upon Mercy, who had volunteered this interesting information, and she smiled round the table. ‘What’s more, I heard him say that Mr van Tacx has friends in Wiltshire—Tisbury…’ She stopped short. ‘Jo, you live near there…’
Josephine took a mouthful of wholesome steamed pudding before she replied. ‘I’ve met him—when I was home, you know. He passed me in his car, going towards Tisbury, but he could have been making for several villages…’
‘How do you know it was him?’
‘He stopped.’ Jo treated the table to a calm stare. ‘It was very wet,’ she volunteered as though that was sufficient explanation.
‘Lord, what a chance—and it had to be you, Jo, safely settled with your Malcolm.’
It was a pity, mused Josephine on her way back to the ward, that for some reason which she couldn’t explain, she felt neither safe nor settled. It was a very good thing that Malcolm was calling for her that evening; he was a junior partner in a large practice on the fringe of Hampstead and it was his free evening. She hadn’t seen him for more than a week, which was perhaps why she had this strange feeling of uncertainty about the future. Perhaps she had got into a rut, staying on at St Michael’s after she had trained, thoroughly entrenched in her job and unlike some of her friends who had to help with family finances, quite comfortably off. Indeed, Malcolm had laughingly told her that she wouldn’t be able to indulge her taste for expensive clothes once they were married. ‘There’ll be plenty of money,’ he explained, ‘but I don’t believe in wasting it on fripperies—Mother makes a lot of her dresses, I’m sure she’ll give you a hand.’
Josephine shuddered at the thought; his mother’s clothes, clothing an extra outsize for a start, were as remote from fashion as the moon was from cheese. She was still frowning about it when she reached her office. Joan would be there with a tray of tea which they would share while they planned the rest of the day’s work and discussed the ill patients. Visitors were already waiting impatiently outside the swing doors and during the next hour there was very little to do other than check on the post-op cases. Young Student Nurses had all been given some chores to keep them busy until the bell was rung and they could do teas. Joan would have cast an eye where necessary. She sighed for no reason at all, and opened her office door.

CHAPTER TWO
MR VAN TACX was standing with his back to the door, looking out of the window at the view; the windowless wall bounding the theatre wing, separated from the gyny ward by a strip of grass supporting a plane tree. He turned round as Josephine went in so that his massive person shut out most of the daylight, and leaned against the window frame.
‘Do you ever look out of the window?’ he asked.
‘Only if I have to. Is there something you want, sir?’
‘I should like to go over the notes of the post operation cases…’
He paused as the door opened and Joan came in with the tea tray. She stopped short and said, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you were here, sir.’
She glanced at Josephine. ‘Shall I get another cup, Sister?’
Josephine ignored his slow smile. ‘Why, yes, Staff, and stay will you? Mr van Tacx wants some notes—Mrs Shaw, Mrs Butterworth, Miss Price and Mrs King.’ She sat down at her desk and picked up some forms lying on it. ‘Mrs Butterworth’s Path Lab report’s back.’ She lifted her eyes to Mr van Tacx’s impassive face. ‘I daresay you took a look at it, sir.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ he said to surprise her. ‘I should dislike it very much if you were to poke around my desk, and I rather fancy you would feel the same way.’ He smiled his charming smile again and she found herself smiling back.
‘Oh, that’s better,’ he said quietly as Joan came back with the tea cup. Josephine, who seldom blushed, found herself doing just that, too. But she poured the tea in her usual calm manner, laid the notes on the desk and offered her chair. He waved that aside, however, and went to sit on the radiator and sip his tea and read through the notes. Presently he held out his hand for the Path Lab report and studied that, too.
‘Radiotherapy, I think, don’t you, Sister? Let us get her on her feet first though, so that she feels she is making good progress. You keep your patients in for that?’
‘Usually, it depends on the patient…’
‘Yes, of course. And these other ladies…’ He passed his cup for more tea and began on the other notes. Josephine drank her own tea and watched him. She had to admit that he was very good looking but she wasn’t sure if she liked his faint air of arrogance. Accustomed to getting his own way, she decided, and probably quite nasty if he didn’t.
He looked up suddenly and returned her look with a long cool one of his own. He said quietly, ‘I think that we must get to know each other, Sister Dowling.’ And then he got up to go.
When they were alone, Joan said, ‘He’s nice, isn’t he? I don’t mean good looking and all that, he’s got every nurse in the place on her toes. I’m not sure what it is but if I were in a tight corner I’d shout for him…’
Josephine gave her Staff Nurse a surprised look. Joan Makepeace was one of the most level headed girls she had ever met, popular with nurses and the students and house-men alike, not particularly pretty but kind and hard working and while not lacking dates, she had made it plain that she had no intention of taking anyone seriously until she had achieved what she had set out to do; have a ward of her own. She admired Josephine. Indeed, her ambition was to be exactly like her, calm and serene and able to cope with any emergency which might arise. She knew that she had a chance of getting Josephine’s job when she left to marry, but genuinely regretted her going. She said carefully, ‘I haven’t thought about him, Joan…’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you would—I mean you’ve got Malcolm.’
Josephine, who hadn’t given Malcolm a thought for the best part of the day, agreed.
The period of quiet was over, there was still ten minutes to go before visiting time was over; Josephine went into the ward, cast a quick eye over the four operation cases, agreed to talk to their visitors presently and made her way slowly round the ward, to be stopped every few yards by relatives and friends. Some of their questions she couldn’t answer, they were better dealt with by one of the surgeons; she would have to get Mr Bull’s registrar, Matt Cummings to come up to the ward. But all the other questions she answered patiently and helpfully, knowing that to the people concerned they were important. Back in her office she phoned Matt and then, one by one, invited the anxious mothers and sisters and daughters to come and talk. There were never any husbands in the afternoon, they came in the evening, clutching flowers and things in paper bags and sometimes they rather shyly offered her a gift. Chocolates mostly, sometimes a bag of oranges or a melon and as Christmas approached, nuts. She accepted them with gratitude because it was nice that in the middle of what was to most men a domestic upheaval, they remembered the nurses.
Malcolm was waiting for her; she had got off duty rather later than usual and had hurried to change and make her way to the front entrance. He was standing by the entrance, reading an evening paper, and she paused, unseen as yet, to look at him. Not over tall, stoutly built, nice looking in a smug kind of way. It struck her forcibly that she couldn’t possibly marry him. In ten years time he would be satisfied with his life, following in his father’s footsteps, content to take over from him and probably when his father died, having his mother to live with them… He had never been keen on an evening out, she suspected. No, she knew now that once they were married, she would be expected to stay at home or at best visit his family. The enormity of it all shook her; she felt guilty and mean, but surely it was better to cry off now rather than go through with an unhappy marriage? And why, she asked herself miserably, should she suddenly be aware of these things? True she had had doubts from time to time but she had supposed that was natural enough in an engaged woman, but now it wasn’t doubts, it was dreadful certainty.
She walked on again and he looked up and saw her. His, ‘Hullo old girl,’ did nothing to reassure her, nor did the perfunctory kiss he dropped on her cheek, but she struggled to respond to it, feeling guiltier than ever so that she responded rather more warmly than usual and he drew back with a ‘Hey—what’s got into you, Jo?’ And when she just shook her head, ‘Had a busy day, no doubt—well, we’ll go to a cafe and have a meal. That’ll set you on your feet again.’
She longed to tell him that a cafe wouldn’t help in the least; champagne and an exotic dinner at some fashionable restaurant might have helped, but she doubted that even. She said urgently, ‘Malcolm, could we go somewhere quiet where we can talk?’
‘Quiet? Why do we want to be quiet?’ He was ushering her into his car as he spoke. He added rather irritably, ‘I’m not made of money, you know…’
A rather unfair remark, she decided, sitting silent beside him.
The restaurant was fairly full and noisy. They found a table for two and he said as they sat down, ‘Steak for you?’ And when she said that no she would have a poached egg on toast, he observed shortly, ‘Whatever is the matter with you, Jo? I always order a steak for you…’
She said lamely, ‘I’m not hungry, Malcolm,’ and then trying hard to recapture something she knew was lost for ever, ‘Have you had a busy day?’
‘Oh, God, yes. I’ll be glad to be shot of the Hampstead practice, there’ll be just enough to keep me busy with Father, there’s nothing like a country practice—one knows everyone in the district, a settled routine…’
‘Is that what you want, Malcolm? Don’t you want to—to stretch your wings? Use your knowledge?’
He laughed. ‘Jo, you’re not yourself this evening, what on earth’s got into you. Why should I want to wear myself out when I can drop into a comfortable country practice with my father?’
She abandoned the egg on toast. She was appalled to hear herself say, ‘Malcolm, I don’t want to get married.’
He finished his mouthful before he replied. ‘Rubbish, Jo. You’re just tired—you don’t know what you are saying.’
She said doggedly, ‘But I do. I—I’ve felt uncertain for a week or two but I thought—well, I thought I’d get over it, but I haven’t, Malcolm. I’d make you a bad wife—there are all sorts of reasons—living so far away and being so near your parents. Your mother doesn’t like me much, you know that; she thinks I’m too keen on clothes and don’t know enough about keeping house, and I want to do more than just be a housewife—and I’m not sure that I love you enough, Malcolm.’ She paused and went on bravely. ‘I’m not even sure if you love me enough. You see, I think, perhaps you’re mistaken in me—I don’t like being told what to do and being taken for granted. Why do I have to eat steak when we go out just because you think I want to? Can’t you see that if you expect me to eat steak because you order it for me, you’ll expect me to do everything else you think is good for me.’
Malcolm gave an indulgent laugh, which infuriated her. ‘You are just being silly, Jo. Good Lord, we’re to be married in a couple of months, you can’t break everything off now.’
‘You mean to tell me that you think we should go ahead with the wedding even when I know in my heart that I don’t want to marry you?’
He shrugged. ‘You’ll feel differently in the morning. Besides, what will everyone say…’
‘They’d say a lot more if I ran away after we were married.’
‘You don’t mean that. Why do women have to exaggerate so?’
She saw that she wasn’t going to get through his smugness. She said soberly, ‘I’m not exaggerating, Malcolm, I mean every word.’ And she took the ring off her finger and pushed it across the table towards him. ‘Please will you take me back to St Michael’s.’
He picked up the ring and put it in his pocket. ‘If that’s how you feel, the quicker we part company the better. You’re not the girl I thought you were.’
She agreed sadly, ‘You’ll meet some girl who’ll make you happy, Malcolm. I’m very sorry, but it’s far better to part than to be unhappy for the rest of our lives.’
He muttered something, and because she was a kindhearted girl and blamed herself she was honest and said so, to be brought up short by his, ‘Oh save that, I’m beginning to think that once I’ve got over the awkwardness of it all, it’ll be a good thing.’
He paid the bill and they went out to the car and got in without speaking. They still hadn’t said a word when he drew up at the Hospital entrance.
Josephine opened her door. ‘Well, goodbye, Malcolm— I’m sorry…’
He presented an unmoved profile to her. ‘I doubt that,’ he told her, and caught the door and slammed it shut and drove away without another word.
She stood for a moment watching the tail lights receding and then pushed the glass swing doors open. Mr van Tacx was standing just inside, barring her path.
‘Hullo,’ he observed ‘had a tiff?’
It was a bit too much; Josephine lifted a pale face to his, blinking back tears. ‘What do you know about tiffs?’ she asked him bitterly and sped past him, intent on getting to her room so that she could have a really good cry.
It was a good thing that most of her friends were out for the evening or had retired to their beds. She lay in a very hot bath, crying her eyes out, and then as red as a lobster and quite worn out, got into her bed. She had expected to stay awake all night, but she fell asleep at once and didn’t wake until she was called in the morning. Nothing could disguise her swollen eyelids or her still pink nose; she did the best she could with make-up and was grateful when her friends said nothing at breakfast even though they cast covert glances at her.
It was perhaps a good thing that her day turned out to be so busy that she had no time to spare for herself; there was no sign of Mr van Tacx, which considering his nasty remark on the previous evening, was a good thing, but Matt did a round, pronounced himself satisfied, declared himself delighted that Mrs Prosser would be leaving them in the morning and had a cup of coffee before he went away again. But not before he had stopped on his way out of the ward to speak to Joan. Josephine, coming out of her office behind him, saw Joan’s pink face and her smile; whatever the girl said, she couldn’t hide the pleasure at whatever Matt was saying. Bereft of her own romance, Josephine was delighted to see another blossoming under her nose. Matt was quiet and solid and nothing much to look at, but he was a clever surgeon; Joan would suit him admirably. Josephine went on down the ward, already busy with plans to arrange the off duty so that Joan would be free when Matt had his half days.
The next day they admitted three patients for operations on the morrow; Mrs Prior, a timid little lady with an over-bearing husband who button-holed Josephine and demanded to know just exactly what was to be done to his wife. She asked him mildly if his own doctor hadn’t already explained it to him.
‘’Corse ’e ’as. But ’oo’s ter believe ’im, eh? The missus ain’t all that ill, and ’oo’s ter look after me?’
‘You?’ said Josephine gently. ‘Most husbands manage very well. I’ll get one of the surgeons to see you if you like. Your wife will have her operation in the morning and you can phone about one o’clock and come round in the evening and talk to someone about her.’
She was glad to see him go and she suspected that his wife, meek though she was, was just as glad. The other two ladies were easier to deal with; both married and middle aged with worried husbands anxious to do the right thing. She put their minds at rest and when they had gone went along to have a little chat with the three women. Mr Bull had fallen into the habit of letting her describe their operations to his patients; most of them wanted to know exactly what would be done and more importantly, if it was going to hurt. Josephine reassured them, gave them a clear idea of what the surgeon intended doing and suggested that they should get themselves unpacked, bathed and into bed, ready for the House Surgeon to examine them. He was new to the team, enthusiastic about his work and tended to frighten the patients by his sheer earnestness. Josephine took care to be with him so that she could tone down some of his more frank remarks. Frankness, she felt, should be left to the registrar, or better still, the consultant gynaecologist.
The next morning, being theatre day, was busy, but after the trauma of getting Mrs Prosser away Josephine welcomed the business with relief. Dr Macauley, the anaesthetist, had seen the patients on the previous evening and now they lay in their beds, looking strangely alike in their white theatre gowns and caps. Mrs Prior was to go first, Josephine drew up the pre-med, and went along to Mrs Prior, lying meekly, waiting uncomplainingly for whatever was about to happen to her. She slowed her steps as the ward door at the far end opened and Mr van Tacx came unhurriedly in. He was dressed impeccably, the very picture of a successful consultant in his dark grey suit and subdued tie and he brought with him a distinct air of assurance and at the same time a feeling of ordinariness so that the three ladies, waiting, outwardly calm and inwardly wishing with all their hearts that they might jump out of their beds and go home, were instantly put at rest. His ‘good morning, Sister,’ was uttered in the casual tones of one greeting the milkman on his round and when he sat down on the end of Mrs Prior’s bed, she gave him a look which Josephine could only describe to herself as adoring.
He talked to each one of them in turn, in a calm, pleasant voice which she could only admire. The thought crossed her mind that if she had to have an operation at any time, then Mr van Tacx would do very nicely for the surgeon. The three ladies obviously felt the same way, for they smiled and nodded and Mrs Prior hardly noticed when she slid the premed into her arm.
Josephine took them to the theatre, leaving Joan in charge, something she had started when she had taken over the ward, for she had discovered soon enough that the patients, semi-conscious as they were, were wheeled away with quieter minds if they knew that she was with them. Once in the anaesthetic room and the patient out cold within seconds of the anaesthetist’s skilful insertion of the needle, she handed over to a Senior Student Nurse.
She felt regret at having to do this, she would dearly have loved to have watched Mr van Tacx operating. She went back to the ward and set about the daily routine until they phoned from the Recovery Room to say that Mrs Prior was ready to be fetched and would she send up the next case please.
She whisked the next lady up to the anaesthetic room; a placid person, already half asleep and uncaring, and then went to supervise the return of Mrs Prior.
Mrs Prior seemed to have shrunk, her small pale face smaller and paler than ever. Josephine received her instructions from Fiona, the Recovery Room Sister, nodded briskly and saw her safely back to the ward and into her bed, detailing a Student Nurse to take fifteen minute observations and report if she was worried. ‘And you nip off to dinner,’ she told Joan, ‘and take Nurse Thursby and Nurse Williams with you, there’s still Mrs Gregory to go up but she’s a straightforward Colpol—and Mrs Clark shouldn’t take more than an hour. With luck we’ll be clear by five o’clock…’
‘Your dinner, Sister?’
‘Oh, I’ll have a sandwich and a pot of tea later on.’
The day wore on, Mrs Clark came back, smiled vaguely at Josephine as she gave her an injection and she went peacefully to sleep, leaving her free to do a round of her patients and check Mrs Prior once more. There was a little colour in her cheeks now and Josephine checked the blood transfusion and cast an eye over the nurse’s observation board. Joan was back by now with the two nurses, and Josephine sent the Senior Student Nurse to her dinner; she would have to wait for her own pot of tea; Mrs Gregory had been gone for some time and she must be on the ward when she came back.
They rang shortly afterwards and she went along to collect her patient; ‘straightforward,’ whispered Fiona, ‘and what a duck Mr van Tacx was to work for. Lucky you,’ she added and winked over her mask.
‘That’s as maybe,’ hissed Josephine peevishly, ‘I want a meal—I missed coffee and it’s gone two o’clock.’
‘We stopped for coffee after Mrs Prior,’ said Fiona smugly, ‘and I managed a sandwich before Mrs Gregory.’
Josephine was getting that lady settled in her bed and giving instructions to Nurse Thursby at the same time. A good little nurse, reliable but uncertain of herself. She listened now, repeating Josephine’s instructions rather apprehensively.
‘And don’t be scared,’ begged Josephine, ‘the bell’s there, I or Staff will come at once and in any case I’ll be popping in and out to see how things are.’
She became aware that Nurse Thursby’s eye had strayed to a spot behind her and looked over her shoulder. Mr van Tacx was there, immaculate again just as though he hadn’t spent the morning in theatre gear and rubber boots. Indeed, he had all the appearance of a prosperous stockbroker or something executive in the city, accustomed to a pen in his hand and not the scalpel. He nodded to Josephine, smiled at Nurse Thursby and bent over his patient, who opened her eyes blearily and closed them again.
‘She’s had her morphia?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ Josephine’s voice was quiet but it had a faint edge. ‘Mrs Gregory has just returned to the ward and been put to bed.’
He nodded again. ‘The other two?’
Josephine went with him to Mrs Clark, still peacefully sleeping and then to Mrs Prior. He stood for a minute looking at her, read her chart, took her pulse and held the curtain aside for Josephine to go past him.
‘Your office, Sister?’
She led the way, pausing to tell Joan to give Mrs Gregory her injection. Despite her busy day she looked serene and very beautiful, even if a little untidy about the head.
In the office she sat down behind her desk and Mr van Tacx sat down cautiously in the canvas chair which sagged and creaked under his weight.
‘Could we have a pot of tea?’ he enquired. ‘It’s rather late for lunch and I have a teaching round in half an hour.’
She beamed at him. ‘I’m so glad you’ve asked. I missed coffee and dinner, too. Just a sec.’
She left him sitting and crossed the landing to the kitchen where Mrs Cross, the ward orderly, was getting the tea trolley ready for the patients’ teas. She looked up as Josephine went in and left the trolley to turn the gas up under the kettle. ‘Not ’ad yer dinner,’ she said accusingly, ‘I can ’ear yer stomach rumbling from ’ere. Tea and a sandwich or two—you go back ter the office and I’ll bring it.’
‘You’re a dear, Mrs Cross, and could you put on another cup and saucer? Mr van Tacx missed his lunch and he’s famished as well as thirsty.’
‘Is ’e now? A fine body of a man like ’im needs ’is food. If yer was to ring them so-and-so’s in the kitchen, they could send up a bit of ’am.’
Mr van Tacx was lying back at his ease with his eyes shut. Josephine lifted the receiver but he didn’t open them.
‘Mr van Tacx has missed his lunch. Will you send up some ham for sandwiches please, right away…’
‘Cheese?’ He asked softly with his eyes still shut.
‘And cheese,’ she added firmly, ‘and please be quick. He has a teaching round very shortly.’
‘I can see that we are going to get on very well together.’ His eyes were still closed.
‘I hope so, sir.’
He opened one eye. ‘A whole month—do you suppose we shall be able to keep this affability up?’
She gave him a wary look. ‘I cannot see why not, sir.’
‘I hope that if and when we meet out of working hours, you will refrain from addressing me as sir.’
‘If you wish that—but we are very unlikely to meet.’
‘There is a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we may.’ He opened the other eye. ‘Your William Shakespeare, or to put it more simply, “Nothing is so certain as the unexpected”.’
And while she was still staring at him.
‘Mrs Prior…’ He was businesslike now. ‘I’m afraid we may be too late there but we’ll do what we can. She is married? Husband? Children?’
‘A husband. There’s a son in Australia.’
‘Would she be cared for if we sent her home?’
‘I doubt it. Mr Prior was concerned about himself when he talked to me. He may have been worried, of course.’
‘I’ll see him. If necessary we’ll send her to a convalescent home and she can come back for radiotherapy in a week or two.’
Mrs Cross came in then, bearing a loaded tray which she dumped on to Josephine’s desk. ‘There yer are, Sister, there’s enough for the pair of yer—as nice a bit of ’am as I seen for a long time and real cheese, not that stuff they send us for the diabetics when we ’ave ’em. On account of you being important,’ she explained kindly to Mr van Tacx who was looking at her with a fascinated eye. ‘Now eat up and there’s more tea if yer fancy it.’
Josephine thanked her and when Mrs Cross had gone said demurely, ‘She doesn’t mean to be familiar—she’s above rubies and has been here for heaven knows how many years. She has never gone on strike or gone slow and once or twice when there’s been a flap on, she’ll just stay in the kitchen making tea to keep us going.’
She poured the tea, a strong, dark brew which she milked generously before she passed it with the sugar bowl.
Mr van Tacx helped himself lavishly and sipped appreciatively. ‘I have acquired the habit of drinking tea,’ he remarked. ‘In Holland we drink coffee, and tea is milkless and much weaker. This would drive a train.’
He settled into his chair and Josephine said severely, ‘If you don’t sit still the chair is going to collapse. Have a sandwich.’
They sat for a moment in a pleasant companionship but presently Mr van Tacx started to discuss the patients and Josephine became at once a Ward Sister who knew exactly what was expected of her. She replenished their cups, passed the sandwiches to his side of the desk and got out her pen; like Mr Bull, he fired off instructions at an alarming rate and she couldn’t hold all of them in her head.
Presently he got up to go. ‘I’ll be in later,’ he told her, ‘and ring down to the lodge when Mr Prior gets here. You’re on this evening?’
She didn’t tell him that she should have been off duty at five o’clock but as so often happened on theatre day, she had stayed on duty.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m on until eight o’clock, Mr van Tacx, and I’ll phone down for you. But will you be here?’
He said coldly, ‘Did I not make myself clear, Sister?’
A remark which effectively wiped away the faint liking she had begun to admit to.
At supper, when she was at last off duty, several of her friends wanted to know why she hadn’t gone off duty. ‘How’s that new man?’ they wanted to know. ‘Slow?’
She shook her head. ‘Oh, no, but the first case took about twice as long as he had expected and then I stayed on because that particular patient’s husband was coming to visit. He was a bit difficult yesterday. Mr van Tacx came up to see him…’
‘And what’s Malcolm going to say to that?’ asked a voice, ‘staying on duty just to oblige a consultant and him too good looking to be true.’ The speaker sighed gustily. ‘I wouldn’t mind being in your shoes, Jo…’
Josephine put her knife and fork carefully together on her plate. She didn’t like the girl who spoke; the Medical Ward Sister, a good nurse but spiteful at times. ‘You can jump in any time you like,’ she said calmly, ‘for my part you can have carte blanche, and as for Malcolm, since we are no longer engaged, he has no say in the matter.’
She got up from the table and walked out of the canteen and the hapless girl who had spoken was attacked from all sides. To her cries that she hadn’t known and she hadn’t meant any harm anyway she met with a forthright warning to hold her silly tongue in future and mind her own business.
Josephine went to her room, took off her cap, wrapped a tweed coat over her uniform, pulled her leather boots over her black tights, and left the nurses’ home by the side door nearest the car park used by the staff. She wasn’t very clear as to what she intended to do or where she was going—it was already dark, a nasty blustery evening and chilly. She wanted above all things to go home but that was too far. She unlocked the Mini and got into the driver’s seat and sat there, her mind a miserable blank.
‘And where are you going?’ asked Mr van Tacx gently, and poked his head through the open window.
She had let out a squeak of fright which she covered in a dignified but breathless, ‘Out, Mr van Tacx, and I do not care to have the wits scared out of me…’
‘Sorry.’ He sounded not in the least sorry and he made no attempt to remove his head from the window. ‘Feeling low, aren’t you? It’s unpleasant to be jilted…’ She muttered furiously and he went on calmly, ‘Oh, several persons have told me, you’re a nine days wonder you know. You’ll get over it.’
‘I do not care to discuss my affairs with you, Mr van Tacx and I cannot think of what possible interest they can be to you anyway.’
‘Well, no—why should you? All you really need now is a shoulder to weep into and someone to listen. I haven’t felt the need of a shoulder myself but I’m willing to lend you mine—you’ll feel better when you’ve talked about it.’
She said furiously, ‘How could you possibly know?’
‘Because I’ve been jilted myself.’ He opened the door. ‘Move over, I’ll drive somewhere where we can have coffee or a drink.’
She opened her mouth to refuse, realised that it would be useless anyway and found herself squashed into the other seat. The small part of her brain that wasn’t numbed by surprise, noted that a Mini really wasn’t a car for a man of his size.
‘Do you mind where we go?’ He didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Is the tank full?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. We’ll keep to this side of town shall we? Do you know Epping Forest? Buckhurst Hill—the Roebuck—we can get something there.’
He didn’t speak as they took the little car through Hackney and on to the dreary bricks of Leyton and Wanstead, but then going north towards Epping Forest, he began to talk. Later she couldn’t remember what he had said, but his voice had been pleasantly soothing and she had relaxed. By the time they reached the Roebuck she had pulled herself together, even felt a little ashamed of herself. Next time, she promised herself, she would be armed against being taken unawares, and anyway, by the morning the whole Hospital would know…
The pub was very much to her taste, actually a country hotel with a comfortable bar nicely filled. Mr van Tacx parked the Mini and marched her briskly inside and sat her down at a table in a quiet corner.
‘Coffee and a brandy with it and sandwiches?’
She nodded, suddenly remembering that she was still in uniform and that she had done nothing to her hair or her face. It was disconcerting when he observed, ‘You look quite all right and no one can see the uniform.’
He wandered off then to the bar and came back presently with coffee and the brandy, followed a moment later by a plump smiling girl with the sandwiches.
‘I went to supper,’ said Josephine.
‘Did you eat anything?’
‘Well, no…’
‘Eat up, we can’t have you wilting away while Mr Bull’s gone—I need all the help I can get.’
She didn’t believe that; he looked the kind of man who would never need help, certainly not with his work. She said, searching for a safe topic, ‘There’s a long waiting list…’
‘I know.’ He bit into a sandwich. ‘Drink your brandy. What do you intend to do?’
Her eyes watered as she sipped. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t be a dim girl. Get him back? Forget him and dedicate yourself to nursing for ever and ever? Or turn your back on him and start again? There are plenty of fish in the sea, you know, and you’ve the looks to pick and choose.’
Later on, she thought, when she had the time to think about it, his words were going to annoy her very much, but at the moment nothing seemed quite real. She took a sip of coffee to counteract the brandy and said with dignity, ‘I prefer not to discuss it with you. I appreciate your kindness in bringing me here, I really do, but my—my private life can be of no interest to you…’
‘Don’t be so priggish. What you mean to say is mind your own business. How old are you?’
Really, there was no end to the man’s arrogance. ‘Twenty-five almost twenty-six.’ She hadn’t meant to answer him, normally she wouldn’t have done but she wasn’t quite herself, it was, after all, only five days since she and Malcolm had split up and somehow the hurt of it was biting deeper now than it had done to begin with. She had her mouth open to remind him that that wasn’t his business either when he observed casually, ‘At least you’re not an impetuous young girl,’ and ignoring her affronted glance at this, ‘I’m thirty-four, a good age for a man to marry should he find the right girl.’
Josephine bit into another sandwich. Temper had sharpened her appetite.
‘That sounds very cold blooded…’
‘Indeed not, I enjoy female companionship, I enjoyed, too, falling head over heels in love—unfortunately the young lady in question threw me over for a man with rather more worldly goods than I…’
Josephine asked the obvious question. ‘Was she pretty?’
‘Delightfully so.’
‘And—and you loved her very much?’
‘Very much.’
She was a kind-hearted girl. She said warmly, ‘I’m sorry, I really am, you must feel awful.’
‘One learns to live with it.’ He got up. ‘I’ll get more coffee.’ She watched him cross to the bar. He didn’t look like a man with a broken heart, but she supposed that he was a man who kept his feelings hidden. She sipped the rest of her brandy and felt it warm her cold insides. It loosened her tongue, too. She said chattily as he sat down, ‘I don’t suppose that’s why, you’re so—so… You were awfully rude when we met—I daresay you hate all women. I didn’t like you, you know, I’m not sure if I do now.’
She drank some coffee; perhaps she shouldn’t have said that. She glanced at Mr van Tacx, staring at her from across the table, and was reassured to see that he was smiling. All the same she said uncertainly, ‘I didn’t mean to be rude,’ and then like a child, ‘I’m not used to drinking brandy.’
His voice was bland. ‘You’ll sleep well after it. Drink your coffee, we’re going back.’
She felt pleasantly tired as he drove away from the Roebuck. She closed her eyes and slept soundly until he stopped the car in the car park, and lifted her head from the shoulder she had rested it on. He studied her sleeping face for a few moments before setting her upright, smiling faintly. He said briskly, ‘Wake up, Josephine…’
She opened her eyes at once and blinked round and then at him. ‘Oh, we’re back—I’m sorry, I fell asleep. Oh, dear, what must you think…’
He leaned over and opened her door. ‘Jump out while I lock the car.’
He sounded abrupt and she made haste to do as he asked and then took the keys from him. ‘Thank you,’ she began in a rush, ‘I do appreciate your kindness…’
He then looked at her unsmiling. ‘Good night, Josephine!’ And when he had nothing more to say, she stood uncertainly for a moment and then went away.

CHAPTER THREE
EATING A hasty breakfast the next morning, she came to the conclusion that she felt a bit shy about meeting Mr van Tacx again, a needless worry, as it turned out, for he made a lengthy round during the morning and never once was his manner anything other than remotely pleasant. The round finished, he and Matt spent ten minutes drinking coffee in the office while they changed treatments and drugs, discussed the next intake and gave Josephine instructions as they did so. And when they finally went he gave her a cool stare which left her feeling quite indignant. He might at least have smiled just once. After all, they had exchanged confidences on the previous evening—at least, she amended, most of it had been on her part although he had been full of advice.
She thumped a pile of charts on to the desk. Well, she wouldn’t take a word of it, she would do exactly as she wanted, she might even, if Malcolm saw fit to apologise, consider marrying him after all…
Even as she thought this, she knew in her heart that she would do no such thing and in any case, hadn’t he said that she wasn’t the girl he had thought she was? He couldn’t have loved her… ‘There is no good crying over spilt milk,’ said Josephine.
It was her weekend off at the end of the week; it seemed interminable, the days dragging themselves slowly from morning to evening and at the same time almost impossibly busy. Mr van Tacx came and went, stalking through the ward with Matt at his heels and Josephine making a third. He had little to say to her and that about the patients. It was as if they had never met outside the ward; she must have annoyed him in some way she decided, and she told herself that it did not matter in the least. Knowing quite well that it did, even though her heart was broken because Malcolm didn’t want to marry her. That wasn’t true either, it was she who had broken off their engagement; she felt quite guilty when she remembered that; when she got home she would explain it all to her mother and see what she had to say.
Operation day went off tolerably well but Mrs Prior worried her. She wasn’t picking up at all; she should have been out of bed by now, walking around a bit, taking an interest in her hair and face and swapping gossip with the other ladies. She did none of these things though, but lay quietly in bed, neither reading nor knitting, not repelling the other patients attempts at a chat, but certainly not encouraging them. It worried Josephine and she confided in Matt who must have in his turn, confided in Mr van Tacx for after the round on Friday he went straight to the office, sat down in the canvas chair, and said, ‘Now, Mrs Prior—I understand you’re not happy about her?’
‘No, I’m not, sir. I can’t put a finger on it but she doesn’t seem to mind if she gets well or not.’
‘Husband?’
‘He comes most evenings but never speaks to any of us.’
‘Make an appointment with him, will you? Monday evening, I’ll come here if you will give me a ring when he arrives.’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘She may not want to go home. Try and find out, will you? If that’s the case we’ll get her into a convalescent home. She’s not due for radiotherapy yet, is she?’
‘No, another two weeks…’
She refilled his cup and offered the biscuit tin to Matt. He took one and asked, ‘Off this weekend, Jo?’
For some reason she hadn’t wanted Mr van Tacx to know that. She said guardedly, ‘Well, yes,’ and then hurriedly, ‘How’s the baby, Matt?’
A happy turn in the conversation. Matt spent a minute or so describing his small nephew’s first tooth, before picking up his pen to write Mr van Tacx’s instructions on the pile of charts before him. Josephine, peeping at his absorbed face, thought that he hadn’t heard her anyway.
She caught an evening train and less than two hours later was hurrying down the platform at Tisbury to where her father was waiting. It was a raw evening, already dark and overcast, but as far as she was concerned it could snow or blow a gale; to be home, in any weather, was bliss.
They drove the few miles from Tisbury, through the narrow high hedged lanes with Cuthbert’s head thrust between them. In answer to her father’s query as to her week’s work, she admitted that they had been busy, ‘And how about you, Father?’ she wanted to know.
‘Oh, the usual at this time of the year, my dear—chests and varicose veins and one or two cases of flu—quite nasty ones…’
They were still arguing amicably over a flu epidemic when they reached the house and while her father put the car away she hurried into the kitchen with Cuthbert hard on her heels. Her mother was there stirring something in a saucepan and Josephine sniffed delightedly ‘onion soup and something tasty in the oven.’ She hugged her mother. ‘It’s heaven to be home.’
‘And lovely to see you, darling. Where’s your father?’
‘Putting the car in the garage. I’ll take up my bag…’
‘Supper’s ready.’ Her mother looked at her. ‘Tired, Jo?’ Her eye fell on her daughter’s ringless hand but she didn’t say anything.
‘Five minutes—I’ll start dishing up.’
They had eaten supper and Josephine and her mother were washing the dishes while her father caught up with the paper work before Mrs Dowling said, ‘You’re not wearing your ring, Jo?’
It was the opening she had been waiting for but now that she had it it was hard to begin. She stacked plates carefully. ‘Well, no Mother. I—I was going to tell you and Father. We—that is I, decided that we didn’t suit each other. I’ve left it a bit late, haven’t I? Only three months from the date we’d fixed, but somehow I couldn’t go on with it. I thought I loved Malcolm, truly I did, but last time, when I was home out walking with Cuthbert I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to marry him, so I told him.’ She sighed. ‘He was angry but he had every right to be. Just for a few days I felt awful, I mean, I’d got used to the idea of getting married.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/betti-nils/never-the-time-and-the-place/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.