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A Summer Idyll
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.When Dr. George Pritchard asked Phoebe to marry him, she hadn't needed much persuading. The recent death of her aunt had left her penniless and without a job. Besides, she did like him.So what if he'd made it plain that he wasn't in love with her; at least she knew where she stood. It wasn't until the wedding that she began to wonder if liking was going to be enough…



“My dear girl, it’s after midnight—
you should be in bed!”
Phoebe found herself apologizing. “I’m sorry—I went to sleep over my book.” She added, in the hope that it might put things right, “I didn’t mean to wait up for you.”
His cool voice chilled her. “No? I hardly expect you to be a wife who checks on every breath her husband takes.”
His words hurt her so much that she could have wept, but that wouldn’t help matters. She said pleasantly, “I can promise you I won’t do that.” She got to her feet and carefully put the book on the lamp table. “My goodness, I’m asleep on my feet—it’s been a long day, hasn’t it? Good night, George.”
She gave him a bright smile and went upstairs and into her room. Once there, she undressed in a fury of haste, jumped into bed and for no reason that she could think of, had a good cry.
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

A Summer Idyll
Betty Neels



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

CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS quite ten minutes after a ragged chorus of church bells had tolled the hour of five before Phoebe tapped on the office door and when bidden, entered. Sister Evans was at her desk, looking as fierce as usual, and without glancing up she asked briskly: ‘Yes, what is it?’
Phoebe didn’t allow the eagerness she felt to sound in her voice. ‘I’ve finished, Sister—I’m off at five o’clock.’
‘Very well, Nurse Creswell.’ It was a surprised Phoebe who heard Sister wish her a pleasant evening. She thanked her politely and whisked herself out of the office and back down the ward. Almost at the doors old Mrs James sat up in bed. ‘Nurse, nurse—I feel sick!’
There wasn’t another nurse to be seen. Busy in the sluice or the kitchen or even having a cosy chat in the linen cupboard—it was such a safe time on a medical ward, not time for evening medicines, far too early for the getting ready of suppers, a most unlikely hour for a houseman to do a round and Sister safe in her office. Phoebe sighed, nipped into the sluice room for a bowl and hurried back with it. Just my luck, she thought silently, proffering it and arranging a towel in a strategic place, just when she needed at least an hour to get ready before Basil expected her. A precious ten minutes went by before Mrs James decided that she felt better and consented to be tucked up once more.
The hospital, hedged in by East End streets lined with small grey houses, was old, added to from time to time, regardless of level floors or unnecessary staircases, so that Phoebe was quite out of breath by the time she reached her room in the nurses’ home, a state not helped by the speed in which she flung off her uniform, showered and then began to dress. She had given a good deal of thought to what she should wear, Basil had mentioned casually that the party was being given by a cousin of his—a real swinger, he had called her, and possessed of stunning good looks. Phoebe, surveying her own very ordinary features in the mirror, wished wholeheartedly that the cousin would spare some of her good looks for her. There was nothing wrong with her face, she supposed, but it would never set the world on fire. And mousy hair did nothing to help, and since no one had ever pointed out that her eyes were beautiful grey and heavily fringed, she set no great store by them. She sat down and did her face and then her hair, twisting it up in a neat knot and pinning it carefully before getting into the new separates she had bought in the January sales, a pleasant shade of green and of a fine jersey, just right for a spring evening. She had only been out with Basil three times, and she was still secretly surprised that she was going out with him and that he seemed to like her. He was one of the most popular housemen and could have taken his pick of any number of girls far prettier than she. He was good-looking too, and never at a loss for conversation. Phoebe thought he was marvellous, and she had a perpetual daydream, in which he fell in love with her, married her and became a successful consultant with a Harley Street practice with her running a flat-fronted Regency house and entertaining his rich patients in a little something from Bellville Sassoon. Nonsense, she told herself firmly several times a day, while a tiny corner of her mind persisted in denying that.
She put on the plain court shoes she had saved to buy, found her velvet jacket and, with a couple of minutes to spare, made her way round to the car park at the back of the hospital where the staff kept their cars.
Basil’s car was there—an elderly Triumph, its vivid red needing a good clean—but Basil wasn’t; he was at the other end of the row of cars, leaning on the bonnet of a sleek Rover, talking to Staff Nurse Collins whose father was well-heeled enough to keep his daughter in a style quite inaccessible to a nurse living on nothing but her pay. Phoebe stayed where she was, not sure whether to join them or look as though she hadn’t seen them. She decided on the latter, and presently was relieved to hear Basil’s voice remarking that there she was and why hadn’t she given a shout.
She mumbled something or other, bereft of words as usual when she was with him, although her smile made up for that, and when he opened the car door, she got in. She had hoped he would say something nice about her outfit, but he hardly glanced at it, merely said that they would have to step on it if they weren’t to miss the best of the food.
The cousin lived miles away, near Croydon. What with Basil taking a wrong turning and all the evening traffic, the party was in full swing by the time he had found a place to park the car and they had walked back to the rather staid-looking house in a quiet street. Although neither the house nor the street were quiet; the din met them as they opened the old-fashioned iron gate and pushed open the half-open door.
The moment they were inside, Phoebe saw that she was dressed quite wrongly; there were dozens of girls there, wearing slinky black dresses with deep vee necklines and no backs worth mentioning, and those who weren’t wearing black were in tight pant suits, glittering with gold and sequins. The girl who came to meet them was wearing black satin, skin tight and short; she wore one very large dangling earring and there were pink streaks in her dark hair. She flung her arms round Basil, kissed him with great warmth and then looked at Phoebe. ‘Girl-friend?’ she enquired, ‘Basil, I can’t believe it?’
The amused look she cast at Phoebe sent the colour flying into her cheeks, and it stayed there because Basil looked at her too with a faint derisive smile. ‘Hardly that,’ he said, but he took Phoebe’s arm and squeezed it, and the smile changed so quickly that she thought that she might have imagined it.
The girl grinned, ‘I’m Deirdre,’ and when Phoebe said politely: ‘How do you do? I’m Phoebe,’ she said rather impatiently: ‘Well, come on in and meet everyone.’ Somebody went past with a tray of drinks and she caught him by the arm. ‘Have a drink for a start.’
It tasted like sugared petrol, but Phoebe sipped it obediently, keeping close to Basil because she didn’t know a soul there. True, he threw names at her carelessly from time to time, but faces came and went so rapidly that she never caught up with them. And presently she found herself against a wall and Basil at the other end of the room surrounded by a crowd of people all laughing their heads off. She had hidden her glass behind a great vase filled with lilac and was trying to look as though she was enjoying herself; not that that mattered, because no one noticed her. It seemed like hours later when Basil reappeared, a glass in his hand. ‘Hullo there,’ he began carelessly. ‘Having a good time? I say, this is some party—haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years.’ He looked at her and frowned. ‘You look a bit of a wet blanket, darling—it’s not quite your scene, perhaps.’
She was anxious to please him. ‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ she assured him. ‘I came here just for a minute or two, to get my breath.’
He dropped a casual kiss on her cheek. ‘Oh, good. There’s masses of food in the other room, but I daresay you’ve had all you want.’
He slid away, leaving her with her mouth watering; she was famished, now that she came to think about it. Hunger sent her edging her way through the people milling round the room. She found a plate and collected tiny sausage rolls, smoked salmon on slivers of brown bread and butter, tiny vol-au-vents, a stick of celery—hardly a meal, but it would keep her empty insides quiet for a little while—then she found a chair in a corner of the room, and was surprised when presently she was joined by another of the guests. A thin, pale man, in a good grey suit, looking, she had to admit, as much like a fish out of water as she did.
‘On your own?’ he asked.
‘No, but I’ve—that is, the man I came with has heaps of friends here—and of course he wants to talk to them.’
He gave her a long considered look. ‘Not quite your sort,’ he commented. ‘Not mine either—a lot of lay-abouts with too much money and nothing to do. You look as though you earn your own living?’
It was hardly a compliment, but it was so nice to talk to someone that she felt no resentment. ‘Yes, I’m training to be a nurse.’
‘Good Lord—who did you come with?’
‘Basil Needham. He’s a houseman at St Coram’s.’
Her companion said, ‘Good Lord,’ again, and gave her another faintly pitying look. ‘I’d never have believed it of him.’
She misunderstood him and said earnestly: ‘Oh, he’s very clever—I expect he’ll be famous one day.’ Her eyes shone with delight at such a prospect and the man looked vaguely uncomfortable.
‘Not very old, are you?’ he observed.
‘Twenty-two.’ She looked around her. ‘Are people beginning to go? I must find Basil…’
‘Oh, they’ll go to a night club.’
‘Well, I’ll have to find him just the same—we’ll have to get back to St Coram’s.’ She added politely: ‘It’s been nice meeting you. I expect you’re going to a night club too.’
He got to his feet. ‘God forbid—I live here.’ He walked away, leaving her gaping after him, and then she forgot him as Basil pushed his way through the people leaving.
‘There you are. We’re all going on to a disco…’
Phoebe wasn’t listening. ‘Who was that man?’ she asked. ‘He said he lived here.’
‘Well, of course he does, you little idiot, he’s Deirdre’s husband. Get your coat—it’ll be a bit of a squash in the car, but that won’t matter.’
‘We’re going back to St Coram’s?’
He gave her an impatient look. ‘Good God, no! Do get a move on.’
Phoebe, a mild-tempered girl, didn’t budge. ‘I’m not coming,’ she said mulishly.
‘Don’t be a fool! You’ve no way of getting back on your own.’
Which was true enough. She had thrust a handful of small change into her purse, probably not enough to get her back to St Coram’s. Her mind boggled at the long walk ahead of her, even if she could get a bus for part of the way.
‘If you could lend me some money for a taxi?’ she suggested diffidently.
‘No way. I’ll need all I’ve got with me. Get a bus.’ Just for a moment Basil looked uncertain. ‘You won’t change your mind?’
She shook her head, willing him to change his, but he didn’t; he turned on his heel and left her without so much as a backward glance. After a minute or so Phoebe followed him, to find the hall empty. She picked up her coat for a moment, pausing, then put it on and went to the door. She was on the point of going through it when the man she had spoken to during the evening came into the hall.
‘Everyone gone?’
‘Yes. I’m just…that is…thank you for a nice party.’
‘Not going to the disco?’
‘Well, no. I’m going to catch a bus…’
He had come to stand beside her. ‘I’ll drive you back to your hospital.’ He muttered something under his breath, it sounded like, ‘It’s the least I can do.’ But she wasn’t sure of that.
Phoebe said politely: ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but you have no need.’
For answer he took her arm, banged the door behind them and crossed the pavement to a Mercedes parked at the kerb. Phoebe got in, since there seemed no point in protesting further, and was whisked across London without further ado. Her companion didn’t say a word until they had reached the hospital, and when she thanked him he said carelessly: ‘Not at all. I’d better go and look for my wife, I suppose.’
Phoebe couldn’t think of anything suitable to reply to this; she murmured goodnight and smiled uncertainly. It surprised her very much when he leaned across to say to her: ‘Give him up, my dear—he’s not for you.’
He had driven away before she could think of an answer to that one too.
And it seemed as though he would be right. Phoebe didn’t see Basil at all the following day—nor, for that matter, for several days to come. And when at last she met him face to face as she came back from the Path Lab he gave her a cool nod and would have walked right past her if she hadn’t stopped him with a firm voice which surprised her as much as it surprised him.
‘Didn’t you worry?’ she asked. ‘Leaving me to get back on my own from that party?’
He flushed a little. ‘Worry? Why should I worry? A sensible girl like you—you’re hardly likely to attract unwelcome attentions, are you?’
His faint sneer made her wince, but all the same she asked: ‘Why not?’
She knew the answer; she supposed that because she had thought that she was in love with him, it was going to hurt, however nicely he put it.
But he didn’t bother with niceness. ‘My dear girl, you’re not silly enough to imagine you’re pretty?’
‘Then why did you take me out?’
Basil laughed. ‘An experience, shall we say—a very unrewarding one, I might add.’
Phoebe didn’t say anything to that: she stood on tiptoe in her sensible black shoes and smacked his cheek hard. She was appalled the moment she had done it; it was an unpardonable thing to do, she told herself as she bolted back to the ward, to find Sister irate at the length of time she had been away. She stood meekly before that lady, letting her run on and on, and then, impatiently dismissed, skipped back to the ward to her endless chores.
There was an auxiliary nurse off sick, which meant that there was even more to do than usual; she steadily trotted to and fro, getting hot and untidy, responding to her patients’ wants, glad at the same time that she had so much to occupy her that there was precious little time to think. Only when she was off duty did she allow her thoughts to dwell on Basil—a broken dream, she admitted that honestly, and she had been a fool to indulge in it. He’d been amusing himself between girlfriends, she had no doubt—like eating a slice of bread and butter between rich cream cakes.
She sat down at her functional dressing table, took off her cap and studied her face. Presently she unpinned her hair and pushed it this way and that, judging the effect. It was no good—she remained, at least to the casual eye, uninteresting. In her dressing gown presently, she trailed along the corridor and joined her friends over tea and a gossip, while at the back of her mind the idea of leaving—going right away—was already forming. She could give a month’s notice and start again at another hospital. It would be a wrench, because she had been happy during the last year; she was never going to be brilliant in the nursing world, but she was good with patients and kind and gentle. Besides, she was young enough to start again. The idea had solidified into certainty by the time she was in bed; a fresh start, and she would forget the hurt Basil had inflicted.
She slept soundly because she was tired, but when she woke she knew that her mind was made up. She would go that very morning and see the Principal Nursing Officer, something she hardly looked forward to, as that lady was known among the lesser fry at the hospital as the Tartar—a quite unsuitable name, as it happened, for she was by no means fiery in character, although her wooden expression, and the fact that she smiled only at Christmas and the Annual Ball, made her intimidating. But Phoebe, having decided, wasn’t going to be put off by that. When the breakfasts had been served and Sister had come on duty, she knocked on the office door, ready with her request to go to the office at nine o’clock.
But the speech was unnecessary. Sister looked up as she went in. ‘They’ve just rung through, Nurse—you’re to go down to the office at once. Run along.’
Phoebe didn’t run, mindful of Sister Tutor’s remarks about fire and haemorrhage, but she walked very fast, wondering what on earth she’d done.
She put an anxious hand to her cap, knocked on the door and was bidden to go in. The Tartar’s wooden features wore an expression which Phoebe could only imagine to be sympathy, although she spoke briskly enough.
‘Nurse Creswell, your aunt, Miss Kate Mason, is ill. She has asked her doctor to send for you—apparently you are her only relative.’ She gave Phoebe an accusing look as though that was her fault. ‘She feels most strongly that your place is by her side so she may be nursed back to health. I should add, Nurse, that your aunt is suffering from chronic bronchitis and crippling arthritis and is unlikely to regain a state of health when she will be unable to do without your care. It means, of course, that you will have to give up your training for at least the immediate future.’
Phoebe stared at the Tartar’s cold eyes while she digested this information. Here was help not quite what she would have wished for, but a loophole of escape. Aunt Kate was a holy terror; dictatorial and on the mean side, she had ignored her family for years and Phoebe, the last member of it left, hadn’t seen her for some time. So like Aunt Kate, she mused, to turn a cold shoulder on the family and then demand help as though it was her right. But it was an escape…
‘Am I to go at once, Miss Ratcliffe?’
‘Naturally. I consider this an emergency and the doctor who is attending her stresses the need for nursing help as soon as possible. You will be given compassionate leave until your leaving date and you will, of course, receive payment until that day. You may go today, Nurse Creswell, and I trust that your year with us as a student nurse has given you a good grounding for whatever tasks you will need to undertake.’
Phoebe sorted this out. ‘Yes, Miss Ratcliffe, I’ll do my best.’ She added rather shyly: ‘I’ve been very happy here.’
The Tartar inclined her head graciously. ‘I trust that your future will be as happy, Nurse. Goodbye.’
Very doubtful, thought Phoebe, speeding back to the ward to tell Sister. Aunt Kate lived in Suffolk, in a village which she remembered only vaguely—but even if it had been a large town, she doubted very much whether she would get a great deal of time to spare. All the same, she liked the country; she would use some of her savings to buy a bike, so that when she had an hour or so… She was already making the best of a bad job when she knocked once more on Sister’s door.
Sister was surprised and flatteringly reluctant to let her go. ‘Not that I can do much about it,’ she grumbled. ‘I quite see that if your aunt has no one else to look after her, there’s nothing else to be done.’
Phoebe refrained from saying that Aunt Kate had sufficient money to employ a private nurse if she so wished.
‘Well, you’d better go,’ sighed Sister, ‘and you were turning into quite a good nurse too.’
Phoebe bade her goodbye, announced her departure to the nurses on the ward, explained to the patients, and took herself off to her room, where she started to pack. She was about halfway through this when two of her friends came over to change their aprons. They listened to her with astonishment, heedless of returning to their wards, begged her to write, and promised to say goodbye on her behalf to her other friends.
‘What about Basil?’ one of them asked.
Phoebe bent over her case, ramming things in with some force. ‘I’ve had no time to see him or let him know,’ she said casually. ‘I daresay we’ll meet up some time.’
Her companions exchanged glances. ‘Well, have fun, Phoebe—we shall miss you.’
She would miss them too, she thought, sitting in the train, gazing out at the flat Essex countryside, but perhaps she would make new friends in the village. It was quite a long journey, and by the time the train reached Stowmarket, she was famished. She put her two cases in the left luggage at the station, then went into a nearby café and had a meal of sorts before collecting her luggage once more and crossing the square to board the bus for Woolpit. It was a five-mile ride and Phoebe sat in the almost empty bus, watching the first signs of spring with delight. London’s parks were all very well, but they couldn’t compete with primroses and the bread-and-cheese in the hedges under a thin sunshine from a pale blue sky. The bus turned off the by pass, rattled down the narrow road to the village and stopped at one side of the village green. Aunt Kate’s house was on the other side, beyond the village pump, a nice old house with sash windows and tall Tudor chimneys. Phoebe said goodbye to the driver and carried her cases across the green, put them down in the porch which sheltered the white wood door, and thumped the knocker. The Tartar had told her that she would telephone the doctor to say that Phoebe was coming at once, but she doubted if she was expected quite as soon.
The door opened cautiously and a girl of sixteen peered round it.
‘Hullo,’ said Phoebe, ‘I’ve come to look after Miss Mason. May I come in? I’m expected.’
The girl smiled then. She opened the door wide, took one of Phoebe’s cases from her and said breathlessly: ‘Oh, miss, come in, do. I said I’d stay until you got ’ere, ’e said I was to, but now I can go ’ome.’
‘Do you come each day?’ asked Phoebe quickly. ‘And what’s your name?’
‘Susan, and I come mornings, to clean and that—there’s been a nurse, but she won’t come no more—couldn’t manage with Miss Mason’s ways. Went this morning, early she did.’
Hence the urgency, thought Phoebe. The doctor, whoever he might be, must think of her as a gift from heaven. She could imagine his relief; being a niece of his troublesome patient, she could hardly pack her bags and leave.
‘Well, I’m here now,’ said Phoebe hearteningly. ‘Just show me where my room is and where you keep everything. Is my aunt in bed? Asleep?’
Susan nodded. ‘She usually has a nap till tea.’ She added anxiously. ‘We could be quiet like.’
Phoebe nodded in wholehearted agreement. Let her just have time to look around her and make a cup of tea, she prayed hopefully, and followed Susan down the hall.
She remembered the house well enough. The kitchen was at the right of the passage at the back, a roomy old-fashioned place, its only concession to modern times being the gas stove. Aunt Kate had never seen the sense in spending money on washing machines and the like when she could get a young local girl to do the chores for a small wage. All the same, it was a pleasant place as well as old-fashioned, and it was clean. Phoebe nodded understanding at Susan’s pointing finger; the larder, the sink, the various drawers and the old-fashioned dresser. They went quietly out again and disregarded the sitting room and dining room doors, then crept up the stairs beside the back door. The landing was roomy and had four doors leading from it as well as a narrow stair leading to the attics. One door was closed; and they listened long enough to hear the snores from behind it and then crossed to one of the rooms at the front of the house. It was rather sparsely furnished and the curtains and bed spread were a depressingly dull green, but it overlooked the street and the pale sun made it cheerful. A vase of flowers, thought Phoebe, and her few bits and pieces scattered around, would make all the difference. She nodded to Susan, took off her coat and left it on the bed and accompanied her silently downstairs again.
‘Tomorrow?’ she asked.
Susan nodded. ‘Ar past eight, miss, till ’ar past twelve.’ She was putting on her coat. ‘There’s things for supper in the larder—eggs and that.’
Phoebe opened the door, wished her goodbye and closed it quietly. Tea first, she decided, and something to eat. She was famished again, and once Aunt Kate woke she would probably be kept busy.
She put the kettle on, found teapot, tea, a bottle of milk and the sugar bowl and half a packet of digestive biscuits, and presently sat down at the table. It wasn’t much of a meal, but she felt all the better for it and after she had tidied up she poked her head into the larder and assessed its contents. Eggs, some fish on a plate—but only enough for one—bread in the bin, butter, some old cheese and nothing much else. She wondered what the nurse had had to eat, and what, for that matter, she was to eat herself. The cupboards yielded a good supply of flour and oats and rice and sugar though; given time she should be able to whip up some sort of meal for the invalid. She found a tray and put it ready in case Aunt Kate should wake. It was well after four o’clock and perhaps she should take a look.
There was no need, a bell tinkled urgently and Phoebe hurried up the stairs, tapped on her aunt’s door and went in.
Aunt Kate was propped up in bed, swathed in a thick shawl and by no means in a good temper. ‘So there you are,’ she snapped between coughs. ‘And high time too—when a body can’t depend on her own kith and kin taking care of her it’s a poor state of affairs. I don’t know what the world’s coming to!’
Phoebe didn’t know either, and since Aunt Kate’s remarks were exactly the same as the last time they had met, she said merely: ‘I came as soon as the hospital had your message, Aunt Kate, I’m sorry you are ill.’
‘Pooh,’ said Aunt Kate strongly. ‘Fiddlesticks—and don’t think you’ll get a penny piece from me, my girl— I’ve better ways of leaving my money.’ She added quickly: ‘Not that I have any money, living here on my own with no one to bother about me.’
‘The nurse?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Bah—stupid woman, all she could think of was her meals.’ She shot Phoebe a grumpy look, her dark little eyes half closed. ‘Do you eat a lot?’
‘Yes,’ said Phoebe simply. ‘Would you like your tea now?’
Aunt Kate had a fit of coughing. ‘Yes—thin bread and butter with it. When I’ve had it I’ll talk to you.’
It was hard to be sorry for the old lady; she was ill and crippled with arthritis, and Phoebe did her best to pity her as she went back to the kitchen. She made the tea, cut paper-thin bread and butter and at the same time made jam sandwiches for herself, since she was still hungry, and having settled her aunt against her pillows with the tea tray on the bed table, went down again to make another pot of tea to accompany the sandwiches. She had just finished the last of them when Aunt Kate rang the bell.
‘You’ll stay of course,’ she began without preamble. ‘You’re my niece, my great-niece, and it’s your duty.’
‘I’ve been training as a nurse,’ observed Phoebe mildly.
‘Time enough for that after I’ve gone. I’ll not last long that Dr Pritchard says I’m good for a few more years yet, but I know better.’
‘What happened to Dr Bennett?’ asked Phoebe, vaguely remembering a small neat man with a goatee beard who called Aunt Kate ‘dear lady’ and sometimes had stayed for tea.
‘Retired, drat him. Now I have to bear with this little whipper-snapper who takes no notice of me whatsoever.’ Aunt Kate pushed the bed table away impatiently. ‘You can take this; I’ll have a bit of fish for my supper—done in milk, mind—and an egg custard.’
Phoebe took the bed table away and picked up the tray. ‘Tomorrow,’ she said with firm gentleness, ‘perhaps you will give me some money and I’ll buy some food. There’s almost nothing to eat in the house.’
‘My appetite’s poor,’ snapped Aunt Kate.
‘I expect so, but mine isn’t. If I’m to stay, Aunt Kate, then I shall want to be fed, and since I’ve no money of my own, I’m afraid you’ll have to pay me a salary.’
The old lady’s eyes snapped. ‘My own niece demanding a salary?’
‘That’s right. After all, you had to pay the nurse, didn’t you? Private nurses are very expensive.’
Aunt Kate mumbled something in a cross voice and Phoebe was given to understand that she would be given pocket money—the sum mentioned would buy toothpaste and shampoo and tights, but precious little else, but Phoebe was satisfied. It was, after all, a small declaration of independence; if she hadn’t taken a stand then and there, she would have become a doormat.
She took the tea tray downstairs and went back again to wash her aunt’s face and hands and make her bed, chatting cheerfully as she did so. The doctor, her aunt told her grudgingly, came in the morning after surgery; it was he who had insisted on her having a nurse after calling unexpectedly one afternoon and finding her out of bed and struggling to get downstairs to get herself a meal.
‘Why not the district nurse?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Won’t have her near me,’ declared Aunt Kate, and Phoebe sighed; the old lady took fierce dislikes to some people and no amount of inconvenience to other people would alter that. ‘Nothing more than a baggage, that nurse Dr Pritchard made me have. Always looking at herself in the glass, wanting time off, if you please, said she needed recreation.’ Aunt Kate gave a weary little snort. ‘As though she had anything to do here! Susan cleans the house.’
Phoebe held her tongue and then asked what time she wanted her supper.
‘Half past seven, and no later. And mind you do that fish in milk.’
Phoebe left a bedside light on, laid spectacles, book, handkerchief and bell within reach and took herself off to the kitchen. The fish looked unappetising; a morsel of creamed potato might brighten it up a bit, and she could purée a few carrots.
She had just set the egg custard in its pan of warm water when the front door was opened. Susan couldn’t have closed it properly and she hadn’t bothered to look herself. It might be a neighbour, but she doubted that; Aunt Kate didn’t encourage neighbours; she ought to go into the hall and see who it was, but if she did the custard might spoil if she didn’t get it into the oven at once.
Her decision was made for her. The kitchen door, half open, was flung wide and a large man came in. He was tall as well as broad with fair hair, cut short; a handsome face and a decidedly brisk manner.
‘So you got here,’ he stated with satisfaction. ‘Thought I’d make sure you had arrived, otherwise it would have been the district nurse and fireworks. What’s your name?’
‘Phoebe Creswell.’ Phoebe frowned. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Pritchard, George.’ He held out a hand and smiled and she didn’t feel put out any more; he had a smile which was nice, friendly and reassuring. ‘I hope your aunt is pleased to see you.’
Phoebe closed the door gently on the custard. ‘Well, yes, I think on the whole she is.’
He nodded. ‘Good. She’s ill, you know that.’ His gaze swept round the kitchen and stayed on the fish. ‘Her supper?’ he wanted to know. ‘What about you?’
She was touched that he had thought of that. ‘Well, there’s nothing much in the house—I can’t think what the nurse had to eat. I’ll make some toasted cheese.’ The small nose twitched; she was hungry again. After all, she hadn’t had much to eat all day—a good cooked dinner. Her mouth watered at the thought.
‘I’m on the other side of the green. When I’ve done my rounds I’ll send my housekeeper over to sit here while you have supper with me. No, don’t argue, it’ll give me a chance to explain your aunt’s case to you and discuss medicines and so on.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘About eight o’clock. Right?’
Phoebe nodded happily. If this was Aunt Kate’s little whipper-snapper then she liked him. She closed the door after him and went back to her cooking. Life was suddenly full of promise. She hadn’t thought of Basil even once.

CHAPTER TWO
AUNT KATE, while showing no gratitude for her supper, ate all of it, reminded Phoebe that she would have a glass of hot milk at nine o’clock precisely and told her grudgingly that she might go downstairs and eat her own meal. But first she needed her pillows shaken up, her spectacles, glass of water, and the local newspaper. Only then did she add: ‘At least your cooking is passable, and don’t forget my milk.’ She added: ‘I shall be perfectly all right for an hour or so. When you’ve cleared up you can unpack your things.’
‘Yes, Aunt Kate.’ Phoebe spoke mildly, her thoughts on supper.
She had had the forethought to leave the front door on the latch, and before she had done more than clear the tray, a thin elderly woman came quietly in. She was dressed in a thick skirt and a grey cardigan, which, with her pepper-and-salt hair cut severely short and her pale face, gave Phoebe the impression that she was looking at an etching. They shook hands and she changed her mind. Mrs Thirsk had the bluest eyes she had ever met, and when she smiled her whole face lit up.
‘Supper’s on the table, Miss…’
‘Call me. Phoebe, please, Mrs Thirsk.’
‘Phoebe.’ The smile came and went again. ‘But I’ll just see to these…’
‘You leave them. The doctor said you were to go straight over.’ She studied Phoebe’s small, too thin figure. ‘You look as though you could do with a good hot meal.’
‘Oh, I could—there’s been no time…’
‘And nothing in the house, I’ll be bound.’ Mrs Thirsk went to the sink and filled the bowl with water from the kettle. ‘I’ve brought my knitting,’ she stated. ‘Take your jacket, it’s chilly.’
Phoebe nodded, slung her cardigan over her shoulders and went out of the house, across the green, to tap on the solid wooden door of the doctor’s house. It was a good deal grander than her aunt’s, of white bricks, with a tiled roof and Elizabethan chimneypots to match and latticed windows. She stood back to get a better view just as the door was opened.
‘Come in,’ invited Dr Pritchard, ‘it’s rabbit stew with dumplings—one of Mrs Thirsk’s masterpieces.’
The hall was square, with a curved staircase to one side of it and several doors leading from it. The floor was of flagstones covered for the most part with rugs with a carved chest along one wall. A large black labrador pranced to meet Phoebe as she went in, sniffed her fist and barked cheerfully.
‘Beauty,’ said Dr Pritchard, ‘I hope you like dogs?’
‘Oh, yes, but I’ve never had one of my own.’ She gave him a rather shy smile. ‘I like cats too.’
‘In the kitchen,’ he said briefly, ‘a basket full of them; Venus has just had kittens.’
He pushed open one of the doors and she went past him into the sitting room, a low-ceilinged, beamed and cosily furnished room, with chairs pulled up to the log fire in the wide hearth.
‘You could do with a glass of sherry,’ stated the doctor, and handed her one before she could answer. ‘Do sit down.’
They didn’t talk much as they had their drinks, only a few questions and answers; how long was it since she had been there? How far was she with her training? Did she intend to resume that later on?
To all of which she replied a little vaguely, since she hadn’t really thought about it yet. And over supper the doctor kept the conversation on general topics while they ate with healthy appetites. It was only when they had carried the dishes to the kitchen, admired Venus and her kittens and taken the coffee tray into the sitting room that he started to tell her about Aunt Kate.
‘Of course, she can’t last out much longer,’ he explained. ‘She’s worn out and her heart is already weak. I’ve done what I can, but she refuses to go into hospital or a nursing home and the nurse I arranged for was given short shift. How about you? You’ve not had much to say so far.’
‘Well, I’ve not had much time to think about it, have I? Phoebe’s quiet face was turned to the fire. ‘Of course, I shall stay even if Aunt Kate dislikes it, and she will in a few days, even though she insisted on my coming. She’s never liked anyone in the family and I’m the only one left now. She says it’s my duty.’
She glanced at the doctor watching her intently. ‘There’s nothing else to do,’ she added simply. ‘But I’d much rather not.’
‘Any ties?’ he asked idly, and when she looked puzzled. ‘Boy-friends and so forth?’
Phoebe went pink. ‘No.’ She had the urge to tell him all about Basil and how coming to Aunt Kate’s had solved that problem for her, but after all, she had only just met him. When she didn’t say anything he said slowly: ‘Well, that makes things easier, doesn’t it? Now, as to treatment…’
He was all at once the doctor.
‘When he had finished she said: ‘I’ll do my best, Dr Pritchard. Do you come every day to see Aunt Kate?’
‘Oh, yes. Just a quick check up, you know.’ He smiled at her very kindly. ‘And don’t forget to pass on any problems, however small.’
It seemed the right moment to go and he made no effort to keep her, but walked across the green to her aunt’s door and waited until Mrs Thirsk opened it, said a few brief words to Phoebe and went back with her. Phoebe, closing the door slowly, watched them go, comforted by the fact that they were within shouting distance.
Aunt Kate was sitting up in bed reading. As Phoebe went in she looked up and asked: ‘My milk—is it ready? It’s more than time—and I have some pills to take.’
‘Yes, Aunt, I’ll fetch the milk now and your pills. Is there anything I can do for you before you have them?’
Aunt Kate rapped out a list of small wants. ‘And mind you lock up properly,’ she ended breathlessly ‘I never trusted that other creature.’ She fell into a fit of coughing and finally gasped crossly: ‘For heaven’s sake, Phoebe, don’t just stand there!’
It took almost an hour to settle Aunt Kate for the night. When she was at last satisfied that everything had been done to her satisfaction, she lay back against her pillows, allowed Phoebe to shade the bedside light and declared herself ready for sleep. ‘And don’t forget that I like my tea at seven o’clock,’ she commanded as Phoebe bade her goodnight.
There were chores to do downstairs, but presently she locked up and went to her room where she unpacked and undressed. The room looked better already with her own things scattered round it. Tomorrow she would get some flowers and look in the cupboard on the landing and see if there was a more colourful bedspread.
Aunt Kate was asleep, looking old and frail, so that Phoebe, peeping round the door, felt a pang of real pity. With any luck, she would sleep the night through. Phoebe crept into the bathroom on the other side of the landing and turned on the old-fashioned geyser and presently sank into a hot bath. The day had been long and eventful and she was tired. It was an effort to get herself out and into her bed, and once there she was asleep at once.
She was used to getting up early. She was downstairs in the kitchen in her dressing gown making tea when Aunt Kate rang her bell. Phoebe picked up the tea tray and hurried upstairs, to find the old lady irritable and impatient.
‘Still in your dressing gown?’ she wanted to know. ‘I hope you’re not lazy…’
Phoebe wished her good morning, sat her up against freshly shaken pillows and offered her pills and tea. ‘I’ll dress while you drink your tea, and then I’ll freshen you up before breakfast.’
She prudently didn’t wait for Aunt Kate to disagree, but whisked herself back to her own room, got into a grey wool dress which did nothing for her at, all, tied her hair back with a ribbon to save time, and went back to Aunt Kate.
Aunt Kate was as firmly against being washed and put into a clean nightie as Phoebe was determined that this was to be done. Phoebe won. A stint on Women’s Medical Ward had taught her how to get round elderly ladies who wanted to do exactly the opposite of what was asked of them; calm, kindness and never-ending patience were three virtues she had acquired and she was by nature a kind girl. Aunt Kate, almost without realising it, found herself washed, clad in another of her old-fashioned nightgowns, her hair combed and pinned into a tidy knot, and then she was lifted into a bedside chair, where she sat watching clean sheets being put on her bed and wearily scolding at the extra washing which would have to be done. Phoebe popped her back into bed while she was still complaining. ‘There,’ she said, ‘isn’t that better? I’ll get your breakfast.’
Coddled egg, thin bread and butter and a cup of tea, nicely arranged on a tray—even Aunt Kate could find no fault with that. Phoebe went back to the kitchen and boiled an egg, made some toast and a pot of tea and sat down at the table to eat her own breakfast, while she made a list of the shopping which had to be done. She hadn’t finished when Susan arrived, accepted a cup of tea, and declared her intention of giving the kitchen a good going over. ‘But I’ll tidy up first, miss, only Miss Mason don’t much like me in her room.’
‘Then I’ll do it—you see to the rest of the house, Susan, just as you always do. Dr Pritchard doesn’t come until after surgery, does he? I’ll go out as soon as I’ve seen to my aunt and do the shopping.’
Aunt Kate had eaten most of her breakfast. ‘And what do you fancy for your lunch?’ enquired Phoebe. ‘I’m going to the shops presently. What about a morsel of chicken and potato with some mashed parsnips?’
‘Chicken costs a lot of money,’ observed Miss Mason.
‘Cheaper than meat, Aunt Kate. And I’ll get a marrow bone and make soup—that’s nice with toast for supper.’ She added carefully: ‘I’ll need some money.’
Aunt Kate put her hand under the bedclothes and withdrew a purse, she had sat with it in her hand while Phoebe had made the bed. ‘I’m a poor old woman,’ she said with mournful mendacity. ‘We’ll be starving at this rate.’
‘I’m a good manager,’ Phoebe assured her, ‘but there really is nothing in the larder, and you need good nourishing food. The milkman called just now and said you only had a pint every other day; I asked him to leave a pint each day. I can make milk puddings and custards which won’t cost much and will do you good.’ She added cunningly: ‘There’s masses of rice in the kitchen cupboard, and semolina too—no need to buy those for weeks.’
‘You’ll use up everything there is,’ demanded Aunt Kate, ‘and not waste my money!’
Phoebe was nipping round the room with a duster; she could have written her name on the old-fashioned mantlepiece. Obviously the nurse had either not bothered, or Aunt Kate had refused to let her keep the room clean, let alone tidy. The floor could do with a good Hoovering, only she doubted if Aunt Kate had such a thing in the house. Oblivious to her aunt’s complaining voice, she wiped down the ledges and the table tops, and collected newspapers, pacifying her aunt with the paper which had just arrived. Promising to be back to give her her elevenses, she got a jacket and let herself out of the house. It was only just after nine o’clock and the street was quiet, although there were several cars outside the doctor’s house, Phoebe walked the short distance to where the shops were—the butcher’s, the general store and Post Office, and tucked in between these, a bow-fronted window full of small antiques. She paused a moment to peer at these before opening the door of the stores. There was no one in the shop, but the old-fashioned bell at the door brought a small round woman from the door behind the counter.
‘Miss Mason’s niece,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘Susan said you was come.’
Phoebe offered a hand over the counter. ‘Phoebe Creswell,’ she said politely.
‘Mrs Platt. Come to stock up a bit, ‘ave you? By all accounts there weren’t much in the house. Can’t say I blame that nurse—not that I liked her, mind you—a stuck-up piece if ever there was one.’
She studied Phoebe’s pleasant not quite pretty face and nodded. ‘Now what’s it to be?’
Phoebe studied her list. She had whittled it down as far as she dared, for Aunt Kate hadn’t been over-generous with the housekeeping. Luckily Mrs Platt was sympathetic; Phoebe made her purchases, bought some stamps for herself and went to the butcher next door. He obliged with a piece of chicken, a large bone and two lamb chops, made the observation that it was a pleasure to have her for a customer, and bade her a cheerful good morning. At least the people were friendly, she thought, and the morning was bright and the sky blue. Life could be far worse. Just for the moment she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon Basil, but only for a moment; he wasn’t worth wasting time over. She went back into the house, watched, if she did but know it, by Dr Pritchard, pausing between patients. Only when she had closed the door behind her did he press his buzzer and turn an impersonally friendly face to his next patient.
Phoebe put away her purchases, made a neat list of what she had spent, and took it upstairs with her aunt’s egg and milk. She listened to Aunt Kate’s tirade over the cost of everything without rancour, handed over the change and observed that she was going to find out from Susan where she could buy vegetables. She slipped away before her aunt could argue.
Susan was a mine of information. Her own dad had a tidy bit of garden, she could bring anything within reason any time she was asked, she said.
So Phoebe made another list, argued prices with Susan and went back upstairs to ask for the money. ‘Far cheaper than I could buy in a shop,’ she pointed out cheerfully, ‘and Susan will bring just as much as we need; there won’t be any waste.’ And this argument appealed to Aunt Kate, who produce the purse once more.
Susan had done her best with the kitchen. Phoebe shared the Nescafé with her, and, left alone, began on the lunch. She was peeling potatoes when Dr Pritchard came in. His ‘Hullo,’ was brisk and friendly. ‘I never knock,’ he advised her. ‘Susan’s always sweeping and dusting and I know my way around.’ He gave her a quick look. ‘Sleep well?’
‘Me? Oh yes, thank you. Aunt Kate had a good night, she’s got a very rapid pulse and a bit of a temperature; I’ve written them down upstairs. She ate most of her breakfast and took her pills.’
‘Then we’ll have a look at her, shall we?’
We waited while she washed her hands and then followed her upstairs.
Aunt Kate received him with a testy observation that she didn’t need him, that she was feeling better and that if she wanted him to visit she would send a message.
To all of which he merely nodded his handsome head, observed that it was nice to see her looking so much better and that he would take a look at her chest now that he was there.
He was kind and gentle, waiting patiently while she coughed and grumbled, struggling for breath. He put his stethoscope away presently and sat down by the bed to enquire in a leisurely fashion just how she felt.
The old lady cast him a waspish look. ‘None the better for seeing you, young man. I doubt you know anything about me—all I need is a bottle of tonic to get me on my feet and something to ease the cough.’
It was no good talking to Aunt Kate about antibiotics, Phoebe could see that, and Dr Pritchard didn’t really try, he remarked that it was early days for a tonic to be of much use but that he would send over a bottle of something to help the cough.
Phoebe’s eyes flew to the bottles already arranged tidily on the chest of drawers, some only half finished. She looked away and caught the doctor’s eye, a limpid stare which forbade her to make any comments about the half-empty bottles. It was as they went downstairs and she was on the point of opening the door for him that he said: ‘Your aunt forgets easily. Pop over to the surgery in about half an hour, I’ll give you a bottle of linctus; keep on with the antibiotics. Her heart’s weaker, but there’s nothing much I can do for congestive heart failure at this stage.’
‘I’ll take care of her,’ said Phoebe. ‘You’ll—you’ll come if I’m worried? There’s no phone…’
‘I’ll come.’ He nodded and strode off across the green. Perhaps she should have offered him a cup of coffee, she thought, watching his broad back disappearing into his house.
Life settled itself into a routine, taking care of an increasingly querulous Aunt Kate, shopping as frugally as she was able and taking snatches of time off whenever she could. The highlight of her day was Dr Pritchard’s visit—not that he wasted much time on her, merely giving her fresh instructions, enquiring casually as to her own welfare and urging her to get out into the fresh air as often as she could. ‘Make a point of going for a walk before you do the shopping,’ he suggested. ‘Susan’s in the house and she’ll let me know if I’m needed in a hurry.’
His intent eyes studied her face. ‘You’re too thin and far too pale.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Pining for the bright lights or a boy-friend?’
She was furious to find herself blushing. ‘No, I’m very happy here.’
His grunt was unbelieving.
Days became weeks and March became April, and the early mornings were now a delight. She read letters from her friends at St Coram’s and found herself glad that she wasn’t there any more. There was nothing to do in Woolpit, and yet she was content with her dull life, nor did she look ahead. It was soothing to live from day to day, forgetting the past and paying no attention to the future. Aunt Kate took up more and more of her time, for she was becoming weaker and more difficult to nurse. She had no appetite now and Phoebe spent a long time with her nose in a cookery book, turning out appetising little meals which, as often as not, were not eaten. But ill though she was, Aunt Kate’s tongue hadn’t lost its sharpness, nothing was right. Phoebe spent too much money on the food, didn’t answer the bell as quickly as she should, left her poor old aunt alone for hours on end…
She said nothing, because it was clear that Aunt Kate was getting worse. Dr Pritchard had taken to calling in twice a day now, never stopping for more than a few minutes, but it was comforting to know that he was very aware of the situation. Phoebe had been in Woolpit almost three weeks when Aunt Kate began to go downhill fast. Phoebe took to sitting up late and getting up very early and then, finally, getting into her dressing gown and sitting in a chair in Aunt Kate’s room and dozing through the night, waking at the first cough or movement.
‘Getting tired?’ Dr Pritchard wanted to know. ‘Hang on if you can—I don’t want to upset her by bringing in a strange face. I’ll come over about midnight. Would you like Mrs Thirsk to sleep here?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘No, thank you all the same. I’ll be all right. If—if I’m worried I shall run over and fetch you?’
‘Right, do that.’
Her aunt was weaker when he came that afternoon. ‘Plenty to drink if she’ll take it, and keep her comfortable,’ he said and went again.
With the evening the house seemed very quiet. Phoebe saw to her patient, made herself some tea and finally got ready for bed. She longed to sleep, but although Aunt Kate was sleeping she looked much worse. She curled up in a chair just beyond the lamp’s dim light and longed for Dr Pritchard to come. But that wouldn’t be for another couple of hours.
He came long before then, opening the street door and calling softly as he came into the house. When he came into the room Phoebe got out of the chair. ‘I am glad you’re here,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think—that is, I think Aunt Kate’s not so well…’
He had gone to bend over his patient. ‘We won’t disturb her. I’ll stay—you can go to bed, you’re asleep on your feet!’
‘Is she…?’ And when he nodded: ‘I’ll stay, she’s my aunt.’
So they sat facing each other in the big bedroom while Aunt Kate slipped peacefully away. It was after midnight when the doctor stood up finally.
‘You’d better sleep at my place,’ he suggested gently.
‘I’ll be quite all right, thank you. Would you like tea before you go?’
‘A good idea. I’ll get the writing done while you are making it. You’d rather stay here?’
‘Yes.’ She went past him and down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There was really a good deal to think about, but she was far too tired.
They drank their tea almost in silence, while Dr Pritchard did his writing, and she got up and went to the door with him when he’d finished. It was a chilly night and she shivered as she opened it, and not altogether with cold, although her thanks and goodnight were composed enough. He took the door handle from her. ‘Mrs Thirsk will be over in five minutes,’ he told her and was gone before she could argue.
Indeed, she didn’t much want to argue. She was thankful not to be alone in the house despite her assurances to him, and the housekeeper’s matter-of-fact presence was comforting. She waved away Phoebe’s apologies, took the cup of tea which she was offered and sat talking about nothing much for a few minutes. Then she got up briskly, asked where the hot water bottles were kept, filled them, gave one to Phoebe and told her with brisk kindness to go to bed, ‘And no getting up at crack of dawn,’ she warned. ‘I’ll see that you’re up in time for Susan before I get the doctor’s breakfast.’
Phoebe hardly heard her. She said goodnight in a wispy voice and went upstairs and presently got into her bed, listening with childish relief to Mrs Thirsk’s rather heavy footfall mounting to the room on the other side of the landing. The bed hadn’t been made up, thought Phoebe sleepily, and closed her eyes.
When she opened them Mrs Thirsk was standing by the bed with a cup of tea in her hand. ‘Plenty of time, Phoebe. Just you drink this up and then come down when you’re ready. I’ve put everything out for your breakfast. I’ll be off now—you’ll be all right?’
Phoebe sat up in bed, her mousy hair a fine curtain round her still pale face. ‘Oh, Mrs Thirsk, thank you! Yes, of course I will.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure what to do…’
‘Doctor will be over when he’s had his breakfast—he’ll know,’ said Mrs Thirsk comfortably.
Things seemed so different now. The morning was bright and sunny and Dr Pritchard would see to everything. Phoebe dressed and got her breakfast, then opened the door to Susan, who in some mysterious way knew all about Aunt Kate. ‘Poor ol’ soul,’ she observed in her soft courteous country voice. ‘She’ll be better off where she is. When’s the funeral, miss?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘I don’t know—I don’t know anything at present.’
Dr Pritchard came then, and sat himself down at the kitchen table. ‘The district nurse will be here in a few minutes,’ he observed. ‘Now listen to me…’
He had thought of everything. When he had finished he said, ‘Mr Cole, your aunt’s solicitor, will come here for the funeral—you’ll stay here for the time being, of course. Do you mind being in the house alone?’
‘No.’ She glanced at Susan, sitting between them, listening to every word. ‘Susan and I could springclean.’
‘You’ll sleep here on your own?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She looked enquiringly at him and he said: ‘You’ll have it to yourself, Phoebe.’ He started for the door. ‘Borrow Mrs Thirk’s bike and take yourself off for a ride round, and don’t come back until after twelve.’ He smiled. ‘Doctor’s orders!’
The next day or so went quickly enough. Susan came each morning and the pair of them scrubbed and polished and turned out cupboards and drawers, and Phoebe was too tired in the evenings to do more than tumble into bed. She saw almost nothing of Dr Pritchard, but he was there, on the other side of the green, and she was content with that.
It surprised her that so many people came to the funeral. The church was full, but only a handful of people came back to the house afterwards and they didn’t stay long. And when the last one had gone Mr Cole sat down in the sitting room and opened his briefcase.
‘Miss Mason’s will is brief,’ he began in his dry elderly voice. ‘It was made some months ago, before you came to nurse your aunt.’ He smoothed the paper in his hand. ‘I will read it to you.’
Aunt Kate had left every penny she possessed, a not inconsiderable amount, to charity, and the house was to be sold and the proceeds of it given to a list of charities she named. ‘I leave nothing to my sole surviving relation, Phoebe Creswell,’ she had written. ‘She is young and strong enough to make her own way in life.’
Mr Cole coughed and folded the paper carefully. ‘I regret this, Miss Creswell—you could, of course, contest it.’
Phoebe shook her head. She supposed that in the back of her mind she had nurtured the faint hope that Aunt Kate had left her a small sum, but she wasn’t surprised at the will and since Aunt Kate didn’t want her to have any money, then she for her part had no intention of trying to get it.
‘I can go back to nursing,’ she pointed out quite cheerfully, ‘and I really didn’t expect anything, Mr Cole. Aunt Kate didn’t like me—indeed, we hardly knew each other.’
Mr Cole grunted morosely. ‘I still regret it, my dear. You have, after all, interrupted your training in order to look after her.’
‘Yes, but I daresay she didn’t realise that. I can always start again.’
‘There is, of course, no hurry for you to leave here. The place will have to be sold, but it will probably take some time and it will be all the better for someone living here. Have you any money?’
‘Well, I can manage for a week or two, but I can’t afford to pay Susan.’
Mr Cole looked thoughtful. ‘Ah yes—well…it would be quite in order for the estate to settle her wages until such time as the house is sold. I can arrange that and I will see that she is told. You will remain for the time being?’ Phoebe said yes, she would. A week or two would give her time to apply to be taken on as a student nurse—not in London, though. She didn’t want to go back there, she didn’t much care if she never saw London again, nor St Coram’s, nor Basil. Certainly not Basil.
He arrived the next day, driving up in his flashy little car and hooting furiously in front of the house. Phoebe, upstairs sorting blankets, poked her head out of the window, and when she saw who it was, gazed down at him speechlessly.
‘Hullo there—aren’t you going to let me in?’ He spoke loudly enough for the neighbours to hear—indeed, Dr Pritchard, on the other side of the green, heard him and turned a placid gaze on him through his surgery window. He had been about to ring for the next patient, now he took his hand off the bell and waited to see what would happen.
Phoebe withdrew her head and went down to open the door, to stand squarely in the doorway. She didn’t invite Basil in. Not only was she aware that several people would be peering through their windows at her, but she really didn’t want to see Basil. She realised this with great relief. She had got over him entirely—indeed, looking at him, she wondered how on earth she could ever have thought she was in love with him in the first place.
She said soberly, ‘Hullo, Basil,’ and waited.
‘Well, aren’t I to come in?’ he asked, and flashed her his charming smile.
‘No, I’d rather you didn’t.’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve driven all this way to see how you were getting on. How’s that aunt of yours?’
‘Aunt Kate died a few days ago.’
‘Left you all her worldly goods and the house? Lucky you!’
‘Aunt Kate didn’t leave me anything.’
‘The miserable old…’ He stopped at the look on Phoebe’s face.
‘She was my aunt, she was entitled to leave her money to anyone she wished. I hardly knew her.’
‘Hard luck, old girl. Coming back to St Coram’s?’
Phoebe studied his face. Very good-looking, but there was something missing. ‘No.’
‘Oh, come on, now!’
‘Why do you ask?’
He shrugged again. He wasn’t going to tell her that he had had a bet with some of the other housemen that he would persuade her to return to St Coram’s. ‘Idle curiosity. I say, aren’t you really going to ask me in?’
‘No.’ She added: ‘I’m very busy. Goodbye.’ She closed the door in his face.
Basil muttered to himself, got into his car and roared off, and Dr Pritchard, his face still placid, rang for the next patient.
When he had done his morning rounds he crossed the green and knocked on the door. Phoebe, still upstairs, poked her head out of the window again. She said with marked relief: ‘Oh, it’s you—I’ll come down. Susan’s just gone.’
She was very untidy and faintly grubby with it. Dr Pritchard eyed her keenly and went past her into the kitchen. ‘Having a busy morning?’ he wanted to know.’
‘Well, yes, there is a lot to do. The whole house needs a good clean, and I’m making an inventory—in case someone wants to buy the furniture and things.’
‘Not lonely?’
‘No, Susan comes.’
‘Your aunt didn’t leave you the house?’ The doctor sounded very casual.
Phoebe hadn’t told anyone about the will. ‘No—she left everything, this house as well, to charities. I’m just staying for a few days. Mr Cole said I could until they put the house up for sale, it’ll give me a chance to apply for training somewhere.’
He leaned against the kitchen table. ‘And that’s what you intend to do?’
‘Yes,’ said Phoebe in a determined voice. She picked up the crockery spread on the table, ready to pack, and started to stack it neatly.
‘Start all over again?’
‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’
‘Only if that’s what you want.’ He went to the door. ‘You and I must have a talk. A pity I have to go out this evening. How about tomorrow morning? Before surgery? Say eight o’clock, we’ll have half an hour. I’ve been having breakfast at half-past seven—have it with me?’
She hesitated. ‘Thank you, but isn’t that—I mean, isn’t it rather an odd time?’
He grinned. ‘I don’t imagine anyone in the village could possibly weave a romance round breakfast at half-past seven in the morning, do you?’
Phoebe went pink. ‘No, of course not. Aren’t I silly… I’d like to come. What do you want to talk about?’
He was suddenly serious. ‘Why, your future, Phoebe, what else?’
She went back to her sorting of the contents of the linen cupboard, wondering why he should show even a faint interest in what she intended to do. But it spurred her on to make some definite plans. When she had finished with the endless counterpanes, pillowcases and enormous linen sheets her aunt had favoured, she changed into the grey dress, did her face and tidied her hair and went down to Mrs Platt’s shop. One end of the counter was stacked with weekly magazines and daily newspapers, but there wasn’t a Nursing Mirror or Nursing Times among them. Phoebe bought some sausages for her supper, then crossed the street to the row of brick cottages where the district nurse lived. Nurse Wilkins was at home, getting her lunch and feeding her cats; she called ‘Come in’ in answer to Phoebe’s knock and shouted: ‘I’m in the kitchen, come through.’ She smiled when she saw who it was, ‘Hullo, love, feeling lonely?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘I’ve got too much to do—the house goes up for sale in a few days and I’m getting it ready.’
‘Miss Mason didn’t leave it to you? The village seemed to think she might, and she had pots of money.’
‘Everything is to go to several charities.’ And at the look of disbelief on her companion’s face: ‘It doesn’t matter—I hadn’t expected anything, she didn’t have anything to do with the family for years and years.’
‘Until she needed someone to nurse her. What are you going to do?’
‘That’s why I came. Have you any copies of the Nursing Times? I’ll apply to start training.’
‘But didn’t I hear that you’d done a year already? Won’t your old hospital take you back?’
‘I don’t want to go back to London. I’d forgotten how lovely it is living in the country. I thought I’d try a provincial town.’
Nurse Wilkins prudently refrained from pointing out that the country could be quite a long way from a provincial town large enough to have a training school for nurses. ‘You’ll find a pile in the sitting room—there are some Nursing Mirrors there too—take as many as you want. I’d ask you to stay to have a meal, but I popped back for half an hour from a midder case. I’m sorry you’ve had such rotten luck.’
‘That’s all right. Actually I’ve liked being here very much, and thanks.’
Nurse Wilkins waved her spoon at her. ‘Any time.’
There were depressingly few hospitals offering vacancies. Phoebe made a careful note of them while she ate her lunch and then sat down to apply to each one of them. She couldn’t expect to be taken on for at least a month, but she had a little money saved, so perhaps she could find a job in Stowmarket while she waited for the answers. She wrote her letters, and since she had no stamps and Mrs Platt was closed for the half day, put on her jacket and took herself off for a long walk. The house seemed very empty when she got back. She made tea, then sat in the kitchen at the table and worked out how long she would be able to manage on the money she had. The result wasn’t very satisfactory. She went into the sitting room and settled down to washing the china in the cabinet opposite the window. While she was doing it she saw Dr Pritchard, splendid in a black tie, get into his Bristol and drive off. Somehow the sight of him made her feel lonelier than ever. She ate her sausages gloomily, then took herself off to bed and stayed awake a long time feeling depressed.
It was a relief to wake early to a lovely morning with the sun already streaming through the window. She got up and dressed in the grey dress once more, did her hair rather more severely than usual and at half-past seven crossed the green and rang Dr Pritchard’s bell.
Mrs Thirsk opened the door with a cheerful good morning, and the news that she was on the point of dishing up the bacon and eggs and would Phoebe like to go straight into the dining room. ‘Doctor had an early morning call, and he’s having a shave, but he’ll be down in a moment.’
‘Oh,’ said Phoebe, ‘perhaps some other time—I mean, I daresay he’s tired…’
‘No, he’s not, only ravenous. Good morning, Phoebe.’ He had come down the stairs and caught her arm and whisked her into the dining room. ‘Pour the coffee, there’s a good girl.’
She did as she was asked, taking a quick look at him. He didn’t look in the least tired and his manner was as unhurried as it always was.
Mrs Thirsk came in with their breakfast then, and beyond a word here and there for politeness’ sake, he said very little. Only when they had got to the toast and marmalade and his third cup of coffee did he ask: ‘Made any plans?’
‘I’ve borrowed some nursing magazines from Nurse Wilkins and written to five hospitals to see if they’ll take me in their training schools.’
‘Posted them?’
Phoebe thought it a funny question. ‘As a matter of fact, no—I hadn’t any stamps.’
‘Good. Tear them up, I’ve got a much better idea.’
She opened her grey eyes wide. ‘You have? Whatever is it?’
‘It seems to me to be an excellent idea if we were to get married.’
Phoebe’s eyes almost popped out of her head. ‘Married? You and me? But you don’t and I don’t…that is, we don’t know anything about each other.’
‘Oh, I know a great deal about you, quite enough to be sure you’ll make me an excellent wife. As for me—well, I live here, don’t I? I live in this house and intend to live here for the rest of my life. I like it here. I like to travel too. My mother is Dutch; my father died several years ago and she spends a good deal of the year in Holland—she has a home there as well as a house in Grantchester; naturally I visit her frequently.’
Phoebe closed her open mouth to ask: ‘You’re half Dutch?’ A silly question, but it was all she could think of.
‘Yes.’ He smiled at her. ‘I could practise there if I wished—I qualified there as well as in England.’
‘Oh, yes, well…’ She gave him a bewildered stare. ‘But why do you want to marry me?’
‘I’m thirty-two and it’s time I settled down. I haven’t met a girl I wanted to marry, someone who would fit into my life—but you, you would. We could, of course, get to know each other better, have a long engagement, but what would be the point of that? You have no plans for the future, no money, no family, your heart is whole…’
Phoebe nodded. ‘Yes, oh yes. But I’m not sure…I mean, would it work?’
‘I can’t think why not. We get on well, don’t we? We might just as well get married now and get to know each other.’ He smiled kindly. ‘I won’t rush you, Phoebe. We’ll have a month or two of getting to know each other, just as an engaged couple would, only we’ll get married for the sake of convenience.’
Phoebe was still bowled over. ‘I—I must think about it—it’s a bit of a surprise.’
He glanced at his watch and said matter-of-factly: ‘Off you go, then. I must start surgery. Only promise me one thing—don’t send those letters until you’ve made up your mind. Give it a couple of days’ thought.’
‘All right,’ said Phoebe, ‘I’ll think about it, and I won’t send those letters.’
‘Good girl! I must fly.’ He patted her shoulder and left the room as Mrs Thirsk came in.
‘It was a lovely breakfast,’ said Phoebe. ‘Thank you, Mrs Thirsk.’ She had no idea how agitated her face looked, nor did she see Mrs Thirsk’s thoughtful glance. ‘I must get on with the packing up,’ she told that lady, and got herself out of the house.

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