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The Edge of Winter
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.Did he really love another? Meeting Dr Crispin van Sibbelt, Araminta Shaw found him both bad tempered and yet, she had to admit, rather attractive! And staying in Holland to nurse a sick relative provided the perfect opportunity for her to fall in love with him.Yet even when he, too, was talking of marriage, Araminta discovered there was someone else close to his heart. What was she to do?









“You’re extremely rude! I was actually beginning to like you.


“But I see now that you’re exactly the same as you were when we met….”

“Do tell me.” He sounded amused and not in the least repentant.

“Bad tempered and impatient and laughing at me.” She drank the rest of her coffee and said in a small, polite voice, “Thank you for my lunch,” and put out a hand to pick up her purse, but his own large hand came down, very gently, onto hers.

“I’m all those things, and more,” he told her quietly, “but could you not like me a little despite them?”

She sat looking at his hand. It felt cool and strong, cherishing hers in its grasp—the hand of someone who would help her if ever she needed it. She said uncertainly, “I don’t understand you, or know anything about you, but I do like you.”

The hand tightened just a little. “Good,” said the doctor.




About the Author


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




The Edge of Winter

Betty Neels









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




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE




CHAPTER ONE


THE little town was small and snug, tucked in between the Cornish hills and cliffs, and the late afternoon sun shone on its slate roofs and brightened the whitewashed walls of the cottages clustered round its small harbour, although there was a chilly wind blowing in from the sea. It was not yet five o’clock, but the October afternoon was already drawing in, and the girl climbing the path from the harbour towards the car park at the side shivered a little as she paused to look back before she rounded the corner, to thread her way through the few cars there and then follow the cliff path.

It was a little late for a walk, she reflected, but she had been playing backgammon with her father all the afternoon, sitting in the lounge of the Lobster Pot Hotel, and she had stolen frequent glances out of the old-fashioned bow window overlooking the harbour and felt envy of the intrepid yachtsmen gowling briskly out to the open sea. It would have been nice to have gone sailing, but although several of the younger men staying in the little town had scraped the beginnings of an acquaintance with her, it had come to nothing; her father and aunt had absorbed all her leisure, and quite unwittingly; they were darlings and she loved them devotedly, but they tended to forget that she was all of twenty-five with a responsible job, a life of her own, and well able to take care of herself.

She turned her back on the harbour, left the car park behind and took the path along the cliff top. Round the next great headland of grey rock was Falmouth, but it might have been a hundred miles away, for there was nothing to see but the rough grass around her and the sea below. She stopped again to watch the gulls wheeling in from the sea; the wind was freshening, but despite this there were still two or three sailing boats out to sea and she sat down for a moment on a tussock of coarse grass the better to watch them, pulling the high neck of her sweater closer and retying her long honey-coloured hair. She was a pretty girl, with large dark blue eyes fringed with honey-coloured lashes which she didn’t darken and a straight little nose above a generous mouth; her long legs were encased in old slacks and when she stood up she showed herself to be a little above middle height and slim without being skinny.

The path was a narrow one, sometimes running close to the cliff edge so that she had a clear view of the sea surging amongst the rocks below, sometimes turning inland between trees and shrubs. She walked briskly, her thoughts busy. Tomorrow she would be leaving Cornwall and returning to London; to St Katherine’s, where she was the Accident Room Sister, and in a way, she reflected, she wouldn’t mind going back. She loved her father and Aunt Martha dearly, but they were elderly now, content to sit with a book or play cards and take a daily walk along the harbour, activities which weren’t enough for her own youthful energy. But the week of doing almost nothing had done her good; she felt rested and relaxed, ready to tackle a hard day’s work, and besides, there was another week’s holiday to look forward to—just before Christmas, when she would go home to the pleasant little house in its small, well kept garden, tucked tidily into one of the narrow side streets of the Somerset village where she had been born and brought up. It was delightful once the summer tourists had gone, with its wide main street and Dunster Castle towering over it, and if she felt like it, she could walk down to the water to catch a glimpse of Wales on the other side of it, and if that wasn’t enough, there was always Minehead a mile or so away.

The path had found its way back to the edge of the cliff once more and she slowed her pace to watch the clouds bunched angrily on the horizon. It would rain, but not yet. She had time to walk back to the hotel without fear of getting wet, and the faint sea mist beginning to creep up didn’t worry her either; she had walked the path almost daily and knew it well enough.

She was on the point of turning back when her eye caught something moving far below her—something white. There was someone there, waving, and leaning precariously over the cliff face, she could hear a faint treble shout. She looked carefully round her; there was no boat within miles and certainly no other human being, and right before was an apology of a path, trickling out of sight down the rough cliff face. Someone had apparently gone down that way and was unable to get back. She could, of course, go back to the town and get help, but that would take too long; it would be dark by then and almost certainly raining. Whoever it was down there was unable to walk or climb and they would get soaked and cold. If she went down now, she and the unfortunate below would be back on the cliff top within fifteen minutes or so, and if they were injured and couldn’t climb—well, all the more reason for her to go down and see what could be done.

The path was steep but perfectly safe, and she didn’t find it too difficult; heights didn’t bother her and she was surefooted enough. She was halfway down when she saw that it was a child on the little patch of sand between the sharp spines of rock, and she quickened her pace, for the child wasn’t moving.

It was a girl, a little girl of eight or so, with a small face puffed and red with tears and one leg bent awkwardly beneath her. She was wearing shorts and it was her T-shirt which she had been waving.

She said at once in a hoarse little voice: ‘I thought no one would ever come—what’s your name?’

‘Araminta Shaw—what’s yours?’ Araminta recognised that an exchange of names spelled security for the child, and smiled cheerfully at her.

‘I’m Mary Rose Jenkins and I’ve hurt my leg—I fell…’ She burst into tears, and Araminta sat down beside her and hugged her close and let her cry. Presently she wailed: ‘I can’t move it—I tried, but it hurts. What shall we do?’ She looked round with an anxious face. ‘It’s getting dark.’

‘Not yet, it’s not,’ said Araminta, and eyed the telltale bump, already discoloured, just above the child’s thin ankle. A Pott’s fracture, and how on earth was she going to find anything to splint it, and even if she found it, how were they going to get up the cliff again? Piggyback, if the child could bear the pain and she herself could manage the path with the uncertain weight of the child on her shoulders; she would tackle that problem when she came to it. Now she said cheerfully: ‘Let’s put that shirt back on, and then I’m going to do something about that leg of yours. You see, we must get it straight, poppet, before we climb back up that cliff path. I shall hurt you, I’m afraid, but you’re a brave girl, aren’t you?’

She dropped a kiss on the tangled brown hair, slid the shirt back on and studied their surroundings; surely there would be some wood lying around; an old box, a broken spar, even some cardboard. There was always flotsam and jetsam on the sea shore. ‘Look, Mary Rose,’ she explained, ‘I want to find a piece of wood to tie to your leg—it won’t hurt nearly as much then. Will you be OK while I look round? I won’t go far.’

There was nothing, absolutely nothing at all. She went back to where the child waited so patiently and sat down beside her and took off the knee socks she was wearing under her slacks; they were by no means ideal, but she could tie the little girl’s legs together, using the sound leg as a splint. She told Mary Rose what she was going to do, begged her to keep as still as she could, and bent to her task. In hospital, she reflected, with everything to hand, the fracture could have been reduced and the leg put in plaster with the child happily unconscious under anaesthetic; now all she dared to do was to lift the little broken leg gently until it was beside its fellow and tie her socks above and below the fracture. Mary Rose screamed all the while she was doing it, but she had to shut her ears to that; all she could do when she had finished was to hold the child close and soothe her, and presently, as the pain dulled a little, Mary Rose dozed off.

Araminta sat awkwardly, the child’s small body pressed close to hers, while she debated what to do next. To go up the cliff path was going to be so difficult that it would be almost impossible; but to stay there all night was impossible too, an opinion borne out by the first few drops of rain. They became a downpour within minutes, and the wind, still freshening, sent scuds of spray on to the small stretch of sand. Really, thought Araminta, it couldn’t be worse. There was no shelter, and Mary Rose had wakened and was voicing her displeasure in no uncertain manner. Araminta, who didn’t quail easily, quailed now. ‘This,’ she declared strongly, ‘is the utter end!’

Only it wasn’t; a yacht was coming round the next headland, still some way off, but at least sailing in their direction. She waved, wishing she had something colourful which the people on board might see more easily in the deepening gloom, told Mary Rose the good news, laid her down carefully and then went right to the water’s edge and waved again. The yacht turned a little away from them, out to sea, giving the rocky coast a wide berth; probably those on board hadn’t even seen her. But she went on waving even though her arms ached; she shouted too, quite uselessly, but it made her feel better. When the yacht turned again, inland this time, she hardly dared to hope that she had been seen. She watched anxiously to see what would happen next and shouted with delight when its slender nose was pointed towards land. She waved again and then went to reassure Mary Rose, who had rolled over on to her bad leg and was screaming with pain. Araminta bent over the child, doing the best she could, and when she straightened, it was to see a rubber dinghy nosing its way slowly through the treacherous water between the outcrops of rock. She ran down to the water again, peering through the driving rain, and splashed into the surf, already so wet that she hardly noticed the water round her ankles.

‘Oh, what a blessing!’ she cried happily. ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life—I thought we’d be stuck here…’

The occupant of the dinghy cut its motor, pulled it half out of the water and stood up. He was a big, heavily built man and very tall, with dark hair greying at the temples; his hawklike good looks wore a look of extreme ill-humour as he stood looking down at her. He was just as wet as she was, his thick sweater heavy with rain and sea water, his slacks sopping. He said harshly: ‘You silly little fool—don’t you know that these cliffs are dangerous?’ He caught sight of Mary Rose. ‘And what’s that?’

Araminta eyed him with disfavour; he might have come to their rescue, but he didn’t need to be quite so nasty about it. She said snappily:

‘That is a little girl—she’s broken her leg, I certainly shouldn’t have waved to you otherwise; I’m perfectly capable of climbing the cliff path.’

He smiled nastily. ‘My dear good woman, I’m not in the least interested in your climbing prowess. How do you know the child’s leg is broken?’ He was by Mary Rose’s side now, sitting on his heels, not touching anything, just looking. ‘A Pott’s,’ he murmured, and Araminta said in a surprised voice: ‘Yes, it is—how did you know?’

‘I’m a doctor,’ he answered her blandly as he gently undid the socks, ‘and how did you know?’

‘I’m a nurse.’

‘You surprise me.’ He ignored her gasp of annoyance, and bent to see the extent of the damage. He retied the socks presently, saying coolly: ‘Well, at least you had the sense to leave it alone. I’ll get her on board and put in at Mousehole. She can go to Falmouth by ambulance.’

‘Can’t you sail back to Falmouth?’ Araminta wanted to know. ‘It’s quite close…’ He gave her a withering look. ‘The wind,’ he explained with a frosty patience which set her teeth on edge. ‘We should have to sail into it and it would take twice as long.’ He bent over the child again and his dark face was lighted by a smile now. ‘We’re all going back home in my boat,’ he told her. ‘Once we are there we’ll get that leg seen to.’ He touched Mary Rose’s brown hair with a gentle finger. ‘What a brave little girl you are!’ He stood up and looked out to sea to where the yacht was anchored. ‘Get into the dinghy,’ he ordered Araminta, ‘and sit down. I’ll put the child in your lap.’

She did as she was told, seething silently. Now was hardly the time to tell someone—someone who was rescuing them from an unpleasant situation—that she considered him to be the rudest man she had ever encountered. She cuddled the little girl close during the short journey, and only when they reached the yacht did she wonder how on earth they were to get on board.

She need not have worried; there was someone waiting for them, a grey-haired, thick-set elderly man with powerful arms, who reached over the boat’s side and lifted Mary Rose as though she had been a feather and disappeared below with her. Araminta watched the yacht dancing in the choppy sea and wondered what she was supposed to do. ‘Hold the rail,’ her companion advised her, ‘and pull yourself aboard—it’s quite easy. Wait until I say so.’

It didn’t look in the least easy, but she was beyond worrying about it; when he said ‘Right,’ she pulled herself up and helped by an unexpected boost from behind, landed untidily on the yacht’s deck. It didn’t help at all to see the man spring lightly on deck beside her without any effort at all and proceed to tie up the dinghy. ‘Go below,’ he said over his shoulder. And she went.

It was warm and snug in the cabin. Mary Rose was on a padded couch along one wall and the elderly man was pouring tea into four mugs. He looked up as their rescuer joined them and spoke in a language Araminta couldn’t understand, and when he nodded, fetched a bottle and poured some of its contents into the mugs. ‘Brandy,’ said the dark man, ‘and get those wet clothes off—and the child’s, too.’ He went to a locker and pulled out a couple of sweaters and some blankets.

‘Use these.’

Araminta didn’t say anything; not because she could think of nothing to say; there was a great deal she was storing up for a more suitable occasion—besides, her teeth were chattering too hard to make speech effective. She gave Mary Rose some of the hot tea and drank her own. The brandy sent a warm glow through her and she was on the point of remonstrating with their unwilling host when he urged the child to drink the rest of her tea, but he forestalled her with a quiet: ‘Yes, I know what you’re about to say, but we have an hour’s sailing before us and the sea’s choppy—she needs to sleep.’

He swallowed his own tea, spoke to the older man and went on deck, to be followed at once by his companion.

Araminta began to undress Mary Rose—luckily there was almost nothing to take off; the sweater was far too large, but it was warm and enveloped the child completely. She wrapped a blanket round her and saw with relief that she was already half asleep.

It didn’t take her more than a moment to tear off her own sweater and put on the one she had been given. She was forced to turn up its sleeves to half their length, and it was so long that she debated whether to take off her slacks as well, but she decided against that; she wouldn’t look dignified, and she wanted to be that at all costs. She settled for damp slacks and her dignity, plaited her damp hair and longed for a mirror. The yacht was moving now, and just as its owner had said, the sea was choppy; she supposed it was the brandy which made her feel so unconcerned about it.

Mary Rose was deeply asleep now and likely to remain so, what with fright and pain and brandy. Araminta pulled up a stool and sat by the couch, one arm over the child, and looked about her. She knew very little about yachts, but this one struck her as extremely comfortable; its furnishings were simple, but there was no lack of comfort. She fell to wondering who the owner might be and why he had spoken in a foreign tongue to the other man. She frowned a little; he had spoken fluent English to her, but now that she thought about it, there had been the faintest accent. The object of her thoughts came back at that moment, walking through the cabin without a word, to enter a cubby-hole at its end which presumably held radio equipment, for she could hear his voice speaking to someone, but when he came back it was obvious to her from his aloof expression that he had no intention of telling her anything. He said nothing, only opened a cupboard in the wall, took out a packet of sandwiches and laid them on the table beside her.

Araminta ate two of them, for she was peckish. The walk had sharpened her appetite and then there had been the climb down the cliffs and some considerable time waiting beside the child. The sandwiches were excellent—smoked salmon and very fresh brown bread; she eyed the rest of them hungrily as she wrapped them up again, but Mary Rose might wake and feel hungry too. But she didn’t; not once during the rest of the rather unpleasant hour did she stir, and a good thing too, thought Araminta, for the sea was now quite rough and the wind had veered, slowing their progress. The elderly man had come below briefly to give her another mug of coffee and ask her, in his peculiar English, if she needed anything and was the little girl all right. She accepted the coffee gratefully, not moving from her stool, and wondered as she drank it if anyone had missed the child yet. Surely by now—she glanced at the clock and saw to her astonishment that it was almost half past eight; they must have been on the beach much longer than she had thought. Her father and Aunt Martha would certainly be wondering where she was, and Mary Rose’s parents would be frantic… Her thoughts were interrupted once more by the dark man, who stayed just long enough to tell her that they would be entering the harbour within the next few minutes. He disappeared as quickly as he had come.

She knew almost nothing about sailing, but it seemed to her that the yacht was berthed very smoothly and in a few minutes both men came into the cabin; when the boat’s owner bent to pick the little girl up, Araminta observed urgently: ‘She’s very sound asleep. She’s all right, isn’t she?’

His severe expression softened into a brief smile. ‘She’s a very little girl and she’s had a lot of brandy.’

There was nothing she could answer to that; she picked up their damp clothes and followed him up on deck. It was raining still and very dark, and there was no sign of the wind easing. There were a few lights here and there, shining through the curtain of rain, but no one about. The three of them made their way silently down the small harbour’s arm and on to the quayside, the little girl cradled in the dark man’s arms, Araminta close at his heels and behind her the elderly man, walking stolidly into the rain.

Araminta skipped a step or two and caught up with the leader of the party. ‘Where are we going?’

‘A pub—somewhere where there are people who will know whose child this is and where we can telephone.’

‘There’s the Lobster Pot just along here.’ She waved into the dimly lighted narrow street ahead of them, which ran round the harbour. ‘They’re…’

‘I know—I’ve been here before.’

‘How rude,’ said Araminta severely, and went past him to open the hotel door. It was in the side wall of the hotel and led straight into the downstairs bar. There were quite a number of people in it, among them her father and aunt, in deep discussion with the hotel’s owner, but they paused in mid-sentence when they saw her and her companions, and Aunt Martha, a formidable-looking lady with severe features and a well-disciplined hair style, made her way briskly through the throng around her and demanded briskly: ‘Araminta, where have you been? We’ve been very worried—and who are these people?’

Her sharp eyes took in the child in the man’s arms and his companion and then returned to her bedraggled niece.

‘Sorry you were worried, Aunt,’ said Araminta, knowing that under the rather fierce exterior was a very nice old lady who loved her. ‘I found this little girl, and these gentlemen very kindly picked us up in their yacht and brought us back. The child’s leg is broken and this gentleman is a doctor, so if…’ she paused and looked at him, standing silently beside her. ‘If you would say what you want us to do?’ she asked him. ‘A room with a firm table—something I can use for splints, and someone to telephone for an ambulance to take the child to hospital and to discover to whom she belongs.’

It was like being back at St Katherine’s, carrying out a consultant’s orders without waste of time. ‘There’s an office behind the reception desk, I’m sure the owner…’ She was already there, asking for its use and if someone would see about the ambulance. ‘Two sticks,’ she reminded herself aloud and heard the man chuckle; worse, he followed it with a: ‘You’ve more sense than I imagined.’ He spoke in a faintly mocking voice which made her grit her splendid teeth. But it was no time to consider her own feelings, so she pushed the table into a better position and went to fetch the variety of sticks offered as well as a splendid collection of scarves, ties and napkins to tie them with. She chose the most suitable of them, smiled briefly at her father, standing quietly in a corner, and went back to where Mary Rose, still mercifully tipsy, lay.

She admitted to herself later that the child’s bony little leg had been expertly splinted, the ends of the bone brought into alignment before the splints were put on; probably they were in as good a position as they needed to be before the plaster was applied. It was a pity she would never know that; Mary Rose had been whisked off to Falmouth in the ambulance and the dark man had gone with her, while his companion had gone back to the yacht. Both men had said goodbye to her, the elder with grave courtesy, the younger with a curt brevity which allowed her to see that he couldn’t care less if he never saw her again.

She went to bed much later, having repeated her story a great many times for the benefit of her father and aunt, the owner of the hotel and most of the guests staying at the hotel. The police had come too, bringing with them a distraught young woman who had slipped out to the shops, thinking it was safe to leave her small daughter alone for a little while. Araminta answered the police-man’s questions, accepted the woman’s thanks awkwardly and asked if the child was safely in hospital. The police sergeant said that yes, she was, with the leg nicely plastered, and that the gentleman who had been such a help us there too. Possibly, he added, Araminta herself would see him on the following day, for he would be returning to his yacht.

But in the morning there was no sign of him, although the yacht was still in the harbour. Araminta, put out for no good reason, dressed in her well-cut tweed suit, put her shining hair up in a neat coil on the top of her pretty head, got into her elderly Mini and began the drive back to London. Her father and aunt saw her off. Her father, as usual, had very little to say beyond wishing her a good journey and not too much work. It was Aunt Martha who said in her measured tones:

‘That was an interesting man who brought you back yesterday. A pity you won’t see him again, my dear.’

Araminta put a stylishly shod foot down on the accelerator. ‘He was the rudest man I’ve ever met,’ she pronounced coldly. ‘The only pity is that I shan’t see him to tell him so.’




CHAPTER TWO


ST KATHERINE’S was one of the older hospitals, maintaining its proud reputation despite its out-of-date wards, its endless corridors and numerous, quite unnecessary flights of stairs. It looked particularly depressing and down-at-heel as Araminta parked the Mini in the shed reserved for the nursing staff and walked across the wide forecourt and in through the hospital’s forbidding entrance. She had driven the two hundred and seventy-odd miles with only the shortest of breaks and it had taken her eight hours; she was tired and hungry and anxious to get to her small basement flat not five minutes’ walk away from the hospital, but first she had to let Pamela Carr, the relief Sister who had been doing her duties for her, know that she was back, so that she wouldn’t need to come on duty in the morning. She found her in the Accident Room, and for once there was a mere handful of patients there, and none of those in dire need. Sylvia Dawes was there too, sitting in the office, frowning over the pile of forms on the desk. She was a small, neat girl, Junior Sister on the department and a great friend of Araminta. She looked up as she went in and said in a relieved voice: ‘Oh, good, you’re back—now I can leave these wretched things for you. Did you have a good time?’

Araminta perched on the edge of the desk, ‘Lovely. Quiet—rotten weather most of the time, though, but a smashing hotel; oak beams and comfy chairs and gorgeous food.’

‘No men?’

She shook her head. ‘Middle-aged, and one or two sailing enthusiasts.’

‘Did you go sailing, then?’

‘No—yes—well, I did, just once.’

‘Was it fun?’

Araminta allowed her thoughts to dwell on the ill-tempered giant who had rescued her and Mary Rose. ‘No, not really,’ she admitted, and felt regret that it hadn’t been. ‘Anything happen while I was away?’

‘The usual,’ Sylvia told her, and Araminta nodded her head. ‘The usual’ covered a multitude of things: road accidents, small children who had fallen into the washing machine, old ladies with fractured thighs, old men dying for lack of warmth or good food, housewives who had fallen off chairs while hanging the curtains, youths with broken noses and badly cut up faces, coronaries, and distraught men and women of all ages who had taken an overdose. She got off the desk, said: ‘Oh, well—back to work tomorrow. Pam’s off in the morning, isn’t she? Are we on together at eight o’clock?’

Sylvia nodded. ‘I’m off at one o’clock and then two days off—you’ve got Staff Nurse Getty, though, and that nice Mrs Pink as well as two students.’

Araminta nodded in her turn. ‘I’m going home now—see you in the morning.’ She said goodnight and went back to the Mini and drove herself back into the street, to turn into a narrow, dark thoroughfare not a stone’s throw away. It was lined with grim Victorian houses, all exactly alike and all long since turned into flats. She stopped half way down the terrace, opened the squeaky area gate and descended the steps to the neatly painted door of her flat, and went inside. There was the tiniest of lobbies leading to a quite large sitting room where she cast down her handbag, wound the clock, switched on the radio and then went back to the car for her luggage before driving a few yards down the road where she had a lock up garage. The little car safely stowed, she went back to the flat, shut the door on the dark evening and went along to the minute kitchen to put on the kettle.

The little place looked pleasant enough with the lamps switched on and the gas fire burning; she went to the bedroom next and unpacked her case, then made tea and sat down to drink it, casting a housewifely eye round her as she did so. The place needed a good dust, otherwise it was as clean and tidy as she had left it; its cheerful red carpet brushed, the colourful cushions nicely plumped up, the small round table where she had her meals shining with polish. It was a very small flat and rather dark on account of it being almost a basement, but Araminta counted herself lucky to have a home of her own, and so close to her work, too.

She poured herself a second cup and looked through her post; the electricity bill, a leaflet asking her if she had any old iron or scrap metal, and a letter or two from friends who had married and gone to live in other parts of the country. She read them all in turn and poured more tea. ‘What I would really like,’ she told herself out loud, ‘would be a huge box of wildly expensive flowers and a note begging me to spend the evening at one of those places where the women wear real diamonds and there’s a champagne bucket on very table.’ She kicked off her shoes for greater comfort. ‘I should have to wear that pink dress,’ she mused, absorbed in her absurd daydream, ‘and I’d be fetched by someone in a Rolls—the best there is—driven by…’ She stopped, because the dark, bad-tempered man in the yacht had suddenly popped into her head, so clearly that there was no question of anyone else taking his place.

‘Fool,’ said Araminta cheerfully, and took the tray out to the kitchen.

The morning began badly with a severely burned toddler being brought in by a terrified mother. Araminta, her honey-coloured hair crowned by a frilled cap, her slim person very neat in its navy blue uniform and white apron, sent an urgent message to James Hickory, the Casualty Officer, to leave his breakfast and come at once, and began the difficult task of saving the child’s life; putting up a plasma drip, assembling the equipment they would need, preparing the pain-killing drug the small screaming creature needed so urgently. It was an hour or more before Mr Hickory, the redoubtable Mrs Pink and Araminta had done everything necessary; the small, unconscious form was wheeled away to the ICU at last, and she was able to turn her attention to the less serious cases which had come in and which Staff Nurse Getty was dealing with.

The morning followed its usual pattern after that, with a steady stream of patients arriving, being treated, and dispatched, either home again or to the appropriate ward, and because there was a sudden rush at midday, Araminta didn’t go to the dining room for her dinner, but gobbled a sandwich, washed down with a pot of tea, in her office. She didn’t mind much; she was off duty at five o’clock; she would cook herself a meal when she got home, go to bed early and read. Viewed from the peak hour of a busy day, the prospect was delightful.

She managed to get over to the Nurses’ Home for tea; the Sisters had a sitting room there, and it had long been the custom for them to foregather at four o’clock, that was if they could spare the time. There had been a break in the steady stream of patients coming into the Accident Room, and Araminta, leaving Mrs Pink—a trained nurse of wide experience—in charge, felt justified in taking her tea break.

There was quite a crowd in the sitting room, bunched round the electric fire while Sister Bates, by virtue of her seniority both in service and in years, poured out. Araminta squeezed in between a striking redhead of fragile appearance, who ruled Men’s Medical with an iron hand, and a small, mousey girl who looked as though she couldn’t say bo to a goose, but who nevertheless held down the exacting job of ENT Theatre Sister. They both said: ‘Hi—how’s work after the Cornish fleshpots?’

‘Foul,’ declared Araminta succinctly. ‘That trachie we sent you—how’s it going?’ she asked the mousey girl, and the three of them talked shop for a few minutes while they drank their tea and ate toast and the remains of someone’s birthday cake. ‘Going out this evening?’ asked Debby, the redhead.

Araminta shook her head. ‘Supper round the fire, bed and a book.’

‘And that will be the last time for weeks,’ observed Sister Bates, who had been eavesdropping quite shamelessly. ‘Who’s the current admirer?’

Araminta grinned up at her from her place on the floor. ‘Batesy dear, I haven’t got one…’

Sister Bates frowned with mock severity. ‘You’ve got dozens—well, all the unattached housemen for a start. I’ve never met such a girl!’ But her blue eyes twinkled as she spoke. Araminta was so very pretty and nice with it; she never lacked for invitations although everyone knew that she never angled for them, they just dropped into her lap and she accepted them, whether they were rather grand seats at the theatre or a quick egg and chips at the little café round the corner, and not even her worst enemy—and she had none, anyway—could accuse her of going out of her way to encourage any of the men who asked her out, and she made no bones about putting them in their place if she found it necessary. Sister Bates thought of her as an old-fashioned girl, an opinion which might have annoyed Araminta if she had known about it. She had a great many friends and liked them all, men and women alike. That she got on well with men was a fact which didn’t interest her greatly; one day she would meet a man she would love and, she hoped, marry, but until then she was just a pleasant girl to take out and remarkably unspoilt.

But for the next few evenings she stayed in her little flat, catching up on her letter writing, re-covering the cushions in the sitting room and painting the tiny kitchen. She made such a good job of this that she decided to paint the sitting room too, a task she began a few days later, for she had her two days off; ample time in which to finish the job. She came off duty full of enthusiasm for the idea, had a hurried meal, got into paint-smeared sweater and slacks, piled her bits and pieces of furniture into the centre of the room and started. She had just finished the door and was about to start on the wainscoting when someone banged the front door knocker and she put down her brush with a tut of impatience. It wasn’t late, barely seven o’clock, but already dark, and she had no idea who it might be—true, James Hickory had wanted to take her to the cinema, but she had refused him firmly, and any of the other Sisters would have called through the letterbox. She got to her unwilling feet and opened the door, sliding the chain across as she did so. The dark giant who had rescued them from the beach was standing on the steps outside and she stood staring at him, round-eyed, for a few moments before exclaiming: ‘Well, I never—however did you know that I live here?’

His eyes dropped to the chain and he smiled faintly. ‘Your aunt gave me your address.’

‘Aunt Martha? Why on earth should she do that?’

‘I asked her for it. I thought you might like to hear about Mary Rose.’

‘Oh, that’s why you came. Come in.’ Araminta slid back the chain and allowed him to enter. ‘I’m painting my sitting room, but do sit down for a minute—I’ll make some coffee.’ She led the way into the muddle. ‘There’s a chair if you don’t mind turning it right side up—I’ll go…’

He filled the little room, she began to edge past him, conscious that she was glad to see him even though she didn’t like him at all, and then came to a halt when he said: ‘Is that the kitchen through there? Suppose I make the coffee and you can go on painting. May I take off my coat?’

‘Yes, of course.’ She hoped she didn’t sound ungracious, but really, he had a nerve, though perhaps he only wanted to be kind. She took a quick look at his face and decided that he looked more like a robber baron than a do-gooder. She picked up the brush once more and got down on to her knees, feeling that she had rather lost her grip on the situation. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she called through the open door, and then as he showed himself in the open doorway, ‘Mind that paint, I’ve just done it.’

‘Van Sibbelt—Crispin,’ he told her, and disappeared to turn off the kettle. He was back again presently with their coffee mugs on a tray. He handed her one, offered the sugar and sat down on the wooden box she had been standing on to reach the top of the door.

‘About Mary Rose,’ he observed easily, ‘she’s doing very well, clumping round in a leg plaster.’ He saw her look of enquiry and added placidly: ‘I telephoned to find out.’

‘I’m glad she’s OK’ Araminta felt a little out of her depth. ‘It was very nice of you to let me know.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘You live in London?’

‘No.’

A not very satisfactory answer, but she tried again. ‘You’re not English, are you? Your name—isn’t it Dutch?’

‘Yes.’

She put down her mug with something of a thump. ‘Look, I’m not being curious—just making polite conversation. In fact,’ she added with some asperity, ‘I’ve every right to be curious, for I can’t think why you should go to the trouble of coming here. If my aunt gave you my address you could just have well sent a postcard about Mary Rose.’

He regarded her in silence, his face a little austere, then just as she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, he said: ‘I wanted to see you again.’

At the very last second she thought better of asking him why, but instead she asked him, very nicely, if he would go. ‘Such a pity that you should call at an awkward time, but you can see that I’m at sixes and sevens with this painting—you don’t mind, do you? Do finish your coffee first, though.’

He looked as though he was going to laugh, but instead he said gravely, ‘I see how busy you are. If you have a second brush I will do those bookshelves for you—half an hour’s work at the most—it would help you a good deal.’

She got to her feet, which was a mistake, because he stood up too, towering over her, making her feel very small and at a disadvantage. All the same, she said a little coldly: ‘It’s most kind of you to offer, but I can manage all the same, thanks.’

‘The brush-off,’ he murmured, and grinned disarmingly, so that instead of looking like a well-dressed man of forty or so, he was a boy enjoying a splendid joke with himself.

‘Men,’ thought Araminta, crossly, watching him put on his coat again. Here he was, walking in and out of her life just as the fancy took him. She wished him goodbye in an austere voice and closed the door firmly on his broad back.

She went on painting until very late; the book-shelves proved awkward to do and she had to stand on the box again. The second time she fell off she was unable to refrain from wishing that she had accepted Dr van Sibbelt’s kind offer.

She finished towards evening the next day and that left her with a whole day more in which to plant spring bulbs in the troughs and pots which lined the tiny paved area outside her front door. She lingered over the task, looking up and down the street from time to time—perhaps Doctor van Sibbelt was still in London, and despite his cool reception, would come again to see her. He didn’t; she went indoors, washed her hair, did her nails and watched a boring programme on TV before going to bed early.

She had been on duty barely an hour the next morning when they were all startled by an explosion, its repercussions rumbling on and on, so that even the solidly built Accident Room shook a little.

‘A bomb,’ said Araminta, busy at her desk, and left her papers to hurry into the department. It wasn’t the first time; they all knew what to do, they were ready by the time James Hickory reached them with the news that they would be receiving the casualties. Such patients as there were were moved to one end of the receiving area with a borrowed houseman to look after them. Araminta sent a student nurse to look after him and went to answer the telephone. There would be twenty odd casualties, said an urgent voice, mostly glass wounds, but there were still some people trapped.

She relayed the information to James, telephoned for another houseman and went to cast a trained eye over the preparations. There would be more nurses coming within a few minutes and probably Debby, who wasn’t on duty, but would return if she were near enough. Araminta took off her cuffs, rolled up her sleeves and went to meet the first ambulance, its sing-song wail reaching a crescendo as it stopped before the open doors.

There were two stretcher cases; the other two, both men, were walking, helped by the ambulance men. They were covered in dust and nasty little cuts from flying glass and wore the look of men who had been severely shocked. Araminta consigned them to Mrs Pink and turned her attention to the stretcher cases. They were both unconscious, badly cut about the head and face, and one of them had an arm in a rough sling. She set to work on them, with calm speed, following James’ careful instructions; they had barely dealt with them and sent them up to waiting theatre, before the second ambulance arrived.

After that, time didn’t matter. They kept steadily on, coping with the stream of patients, seeing that the very ill ones had priority, and Araminta had the added task of seeing that her team of nurses, now swollen by extra help sent from the wards, were deployed to their best advantage. It was fortunate that a number of the victims were only slightly injured, so that after having cuts stitched, bruises treated and a hot drink, they were able to be sent to their homes. But that still left a hard core of badly injured, and some of them she could see wouldn’t be fit to be moved for a little while yet; not only were they badly injured, they were filthy dirty, with hair full of glass splinters and torn clothes which had to be carefully cut away so that they might be examined for the minute but dangerous wounds made by metal splinters and slivers of glass and wood. She was cutting away the hair from a scalp wound when another ambulance arrived and within seconds the ambulance men were coming through the door with the stretcher between them, not waiting for the porters’ help. Araminta knew both the men well; solid, reliable, not easily put out, but they looked worried enough now. She handed her scissors to the student nurse who was helping her and hurried across the littered department, sweeping a trolley along with her.

‘I take it it’s urgent, George?’ She eyed the grey face above the blanket.

‘Just got ’im out, they ’ave, Sister—lorst a leg. There’ll be a copper along with details—’e’s in a bad way.’

She looked around her. Everyone was busy; a houseman was disappearing through a door carrying a child, the nurses were stretched to their limit, James and the house physician who had come to give a hand were bending over an elderly woman, who, not seriously hurt when she was admitted, had collapsed with a coronary. Someone would have to come. The ambulance men slid the stretcher on to the trolley and swung it into an empty bay and she lifted the blanket.

The patient, if he were to be saved, would need a blood transfusion before anything else. Araminta bade the ambulance men goodbye and picked up one of the small glass tubes lying ready on the dressing trolley; at least she could get a specimen of blood while she waited for a doctor. She was putting the cork back in when she was addressed from behind.

It was the senior consultant surgeon, Sir Donald Short.

‘Ah, Sister, you appear to need help.’ She had never been so thankful to hear his rather gruff voice. ‘Perhaps we could give a hand.’ He had come round the foot of the trolley and was already taking off his jacket. ‘I see you have taken some blood—good. Run along to the Path Lab and get it cross-matched—and look sharp about it.’ He lifted the blanket in his turn. ‘We must do what we can for this poor fellow.’

Araminta didn’t stop to speak. There was no need to detail the man’s injuries; she turned round to do as she had been told and found her way blocked by Sir Donald’s companion—Doctor van Sibbelt, no less. The interesting and strangely disturbing fact registered itself upon her busy mind to be dismissed immediately; there were other, more important matters on hand.

By the time she got back with the two vacoliters of blood, the two men were hard at work with artery forceps, tying off carefully as they went. Sir Donald barely glanced at her, and Doctor van Sibbelt didn’t look up at all.

‘Get that up, Sister,’ the consultant commanded. ‘Crispin, see if you can find a vein in that arm—we’ll run in the first liter as fast as we can and follow it with the second before we take him to theatre.’ He paused for only a moment. ‘Finished, Sister? Get hold of main theatre and tell them I want it ready in five minutes.’

He watched his companion slide the canulla into a limp vein. ‘Crispin, will you give the anaesthetic? It’ll relieve the pressure on the other theatres.’ He added sharply: ‘We need more blood, Sister.’

‘It’s on its way, sir,’ Araminta was unflurried, ‘and I’ll see that it goes to theatre.’

‘Good girl—let me have a pad here, then. Poor devil!’

Araminta took a blood pressure which only just registered. The face on the pillow was grey with shock; it could have belonged to an old man, although it was a mere lad lying there. She pitied him with all her warm heart but there was no time for pity; efficiency and gentleness and speed—above all, speed, came first. She could pity him later.

She sped away to telephone theatre, and saw as she went that the place was at last almost empty—there were still three or four patients waiting to be warded, and a handful of slightly injured people waiting to have stitches and anti-tetanus injections. She had a quick word with Mrs Pink and Staff Nurse Getty, then flew back to escort her patient to theatre. Sir Donald, Doctor van Sibbelt and their patient had already gone; she cleared up the mess in the bay and turned her attention to helping James. And after that there was the business of clearing up—they were quick at that, but it took time; everything had to be exactly as it was, ready for any kind of emergency once more.

The morning had gone. It was long past the nurses’ dinner time, she sent them in ones and twos for their belated meal, and when Staff got back, retired to her office, where old Betsy, the department maid, had taken a tray of coffee and sandwiches. She lingered now, to receive praise from Araminta for the useful part she had played in the morning’s work.

‘Cups o’tea,’ she declared contemptuously, ‘and collecting up the dirties—that ain’t much, Sister. Not when I seen you and the nurses covered in blood, mopping up and bandaging and giving them nasty jabs.’

She spoke with some relish, for although she was a dear old thing, devoted to Araminta, zealous in her cleaning operations round the department and with a heart of gold, she enjoyed any dramatic occasion.

‘Go on with you, Betsy,’ said Araminta. ‘You know as well as I do that hot tea is one of the quickest ways of helping someone who’s had a shock to feel normal again—why, if you hadn’t been there with your urn, we should have had twice as much work.’

She took a sip of coffee and bit into a sandwich, and Betsy, looking pleased, pushed the sugar bowl nearer. ‘That young man, ’im with the leg orf—is ’e going ter be OK?’

Araminta pushed her cap to the back of her head, allowing a good deal of her golden hair to escape untidily, she pushed that back too rather impatiently. ‘I hope so, Betsy.’

Her elderly handmaiden trotted to the door, where she paused to say: ‘Well, ’e ought ter get well with Sir Donald tackling ’im. And ’oo was that fine fellow with ’im?’

Araminta declared mendaciously that she didn’t know, for if she had said anything else Betsy would have stayed for ever, asking questions in her cockney voice; probably the selfsame questions to which Araminta herself would have liked to know the answers. She sighed and dragged a formidable pile of Casualty cards and notes towards her, and began, between bites and gulps, to enter the morning’s work into the Record Book. She had barely started when she was called away to cast an eye over an overdose which had been brought in and who Staff didn’t quite like the look of. The man was indeed in a sorry state—they worked on him under James’ patient directions and then coped with a sprained ankle, an old lady knocked down by a bus, a child scalded by a kettle of boiling water and a very old man found unconscious by the police, and he was followed by a baby who had swallowed a handful of plastic beads. There was a pause after that, long enough for them to stop for a welcome cup of tea while the two student nurses, back from tea, cleared up once more.

‘Quite a day!’ observed Araminta, ‘and I’ve got all this wretched writing to do before I can get off duty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time for those two to go, anyway—Nurse Carter’s on at six, isn’t she? and Male Nurse Pratt—he’s good; they both are. A pity Sylvia wasn’t here, but we should be all right now.’ She crossed her fingers hurriedly as she spoke. ‘Oh, lord, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She poured second cups. ‘Get yourself off on time, Dolly.’

‘What about you, Sister?’ Her faithful right hand looked worried.

‘Well, I must get this done before I go, and by the time I’m ready the Night people will be on; they’ve been promised for an hour earlier, you know—I should get away by seven o’clock at the latest.’ She added gloomily: ‘Let’s hope we’ll be slack for a day or two so that you can all get the off-duty you’re owed.’

Dolly got up and tidied the cups on to the tray and picked it up. ‘That would be nice, but I don’t suppose it’ll work that way, do you?’

Alone, Araminta buried herself in her papers, only lifting her head to bid good night to the nurses as they came off duty and thank them for their hard work. Mrs Pink had gone at four o’clock and Dolly went last of all, putting her head round the door to tell Araminta that the two evening nurses had reported for duty and that the Accident Room was blessedly free of patients for the moment.

‘Good,’ said Araminta absent-mindedly. ‘Night staff will be on soon now—I’ll just about be ready by then.’

She was finished by the time they came, but only just, for she had been interrupted once or twice. She gave her report quickly, changed out of uniform and went thankfully out of the hospital doors. There was still some evening left; she would get into a dressing gown and have her supper round the fire—a bath first, perhaps, so that she could tumble into bed as soon as she had eaten it… Her thoughts were interrupted by Doctor van Sibbelt’s quiet voice. ‘Quite a day,’ he commented. ‘You must be tired.’

Indeed she was; it was sheer weariness which made her snap: ‘Don’t you know better than to creep up on someone like that? I might have screamed!’

‘I’m sorry—you need your supper.’ He tucked a hand under her arm and began to walk her down the shabby street. ‘I’ll get it while you have a bath.’

If he had given her the chance she would have stopped in order to express her opinion of this suggestion, but as it was she did the best she could while he hurried her along. ‘I haven’t asked you to supper, Doctor. I’m far too tired to entertain anyone—even if I had wanted to do so, and I don’t.’

He gave a chuckle. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I hardly expect to be entertained, merely to see that you get a good supper. Let me have your key.’

Araminta handed it over, aware that she was putting up a poor fight, but he had the advantage of her. Her head was addled with weariness and the thought that she was on duty again at eight o’clock the next morning did nothing to help. She went past him into the tiny hall, to turn sharply when he didn’t follow her. Quite forgetful of her peevishness, she cried: ‘Oh, you’re not going away, are you?’ for suddenly the idea of getting her own supper and eating it by herself seemed intolerable.

His voice came reassuringly from the dark outside. ‘I’m here, fetching the food.’ He came in as he spoke, carrying a large paper bag from Harrods. ‘Run along now, there’s a good girl, while I open a few tins.’

She had the ridiculous feeling that she had known him all her life; that to allow him—a stranger, well, almost a stranger—to get the supper while she took a bath was a perfectly normal thing to do. She giggled tiredly as, nicely refreshed, she swathed herself in her dressing gown and tied back her hair. Aunt Martha would probably die of shock if she could see her now! Come to think of it, she was a little shocked herself. Something of it must have shown on her face as she went into the sitting room, for Doctor van Sibbelt, carefully opening a bottle of wine, gave her one swift look and said in the most matter-of-fact of voices: ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Do you often get a day like this one?’

She sat down in the little tub chair by the fire. ‘It’s never as bad as today, though we’re usually busy enough.’

‘Nicely organised, too,’ he commented. ‘That young chap should be all right—Sir Donald did a splendid job on him.’

‘You gave the anaesthetic…’

He put the wine down and started for the kitchen. ‘Yes. I’m going to bring in the soup.’

It was delicious—bisque of shrimps. Araminta supped it up, keeping conversation to a minimum, and when he whisked the bowls away and came back with two plates of lemon chicken and a great bowl of crisps, as well as a smaller one of artichoke salad, she sighed her deep pleasure.

‘I can’t think why you should be so kind,’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you a Cordon Bleu cook or something?’

He poured their wine. ‘My dear girl, I can’t boil an egg. I just went along to the food counters and pointed at this and that and then warmed them up on your stove.’

She crunched a handful of crisps. ‘Are you on holiday?’ she asked as casually as she knew how, and was thwarted when he said carelessly: ‘Shall we say combining business with pleasure?’ And he had no intention of telling her more than that. His next remark took her completely by surprise: ‘You don’t fit into the London scene, you know—you looked more at home among the cliffs of Cornwall.’

She remembered with some indignation how austere and unfriendly he had been then and decided not to answer him. He had, after all, given her an excellent supper, even though she hadn’t asked for it, and she couldn’t repay his kindness with rudeness.

‘You like your job?’ he wanted to know.

She nibbled a crisp. ‘Yes, very much, and I’m very lucky to have this flat.’ She spoke with faint challenge, and he smiled a little.

‘Er—I’m sure you are. I’ll fetch the coffee.’

She watched him go to the kitchen. He was quite something, even though she reminded herself that she didn’t care for that type—self-assured, too good-looking by far and with a nasty temper to boot. And he had this peculiar habit of turning up unexpectedly and for no reason at all—and why on earth should he have gone to the trouble of buying supper and cooking it for her? She wasn’t the only one who had been overworked that day. Presently, when they had had their coffee, she would find that out, but now she contented herself with: ‘Are you a physician?’

He put two lumps of sugar into her mug and four into his own. ‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t work here—in England?’ she persisted.

He sat back, crossed one long leg over the other and contemplated his shoes. ‘You’re very inquisitive,’ he observed mildly.

‘I am not,’ said Araminta hotly. ‘You invited yourself to supper, just like that, and—and you came the other evening, just as though we were lifelong friends, and you expect me to entertain you without knowing the first thing…you might be anyone!’

He put down his mug. ‘So I might, I hadn’t thought of that. I can assure you that I lead a more or less blameless life, that Sir Donald knows me very well indeed, and that I have no intention of harming you in any way.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I have always favoured big dark girls with black eyes…’

Araminta snorted. ‘I am not in the least interested in your tastes or habits,’ she assured him untruthfully. ‘And now would you mind very much if you go? You’ve been very kind, giving me this nice supper, and I’m most grateful,’ then she added with disarming honesty: ‘I don’t think I like you.’

He disconcerted her by throwing back his head and laughing so loudly that she cried urgently: ‘Oh, shush—do think of the neighbours!’ She fetched his coat and offered it to him. ‘Good night, and thank you again,’ she said politely and stood while he slung the coat round his shoulders, which made him seem more enormous than he already was. At the door she asked: ‘Why did you come?’

‘I wanted to see you again.’

‘You said that last time.’

He swooped suddenly and kissed her hard. ‘I daresay I shall say it next time, too,’ he assured her, and added blandly: ‘I would have washed up…’

He had gone, up the area steps and into the dark street, without saying goodnight or goodbye. Araminta stood where she was, staring out into the night, her pretty tired face the picture of astonishment. Presently she went inside and cleared away the remains of their supper and washed the dishes. She did it very carelessly, breaking a mug and two plates, while she urged her tired brain to reflect upon the evening. But she gave up very soon and went to bed; she really was too weary to think straight, the morning would give her more sense. The thought that she might see the doctor again sneaked into the back of her mind and wiped everything else out of it, although she told herself that she couldn’t bear him at any price—she would make that quite clear to him the next time they met.




CHAPTER THREE


A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP worked wonders. Araminta rose at her usual hour, got her breakfast, tidied her small home and walked briskly to St Katherine’s. It was a chilly, grey day and the streets looked drearier than usual, but she didn’t notice that. She was wondering, in the light of early morning, how on earth she had allowed herself to be conned into inviting Doctor van Sibbelt to supper. Thinking about it, she was pretty sure that she hadn’t. He had invited himself—and he had behaved very strangely; she had been kissed before, but somehow this time she had felt disturbed by it, and that was strange in itself, because she didn’t like him. She would take great care to treat him with polite aloofness when next they met.

She entered the Accident Room, carrying on a mythical conversation with him in which he came off very much the worse for wear, and was brought up short by the line of people already in the waiting area. Of course, they would be some of the victims of yesterday’s bomb, come for a check-up. A good number of them had been sent to their own doctors for after-care, but there had been several doubtful ones who had been asked to return. Doctor van Sibbelt’s handsome features faded at once and stayed that way until she went to her dinner, leaving Sylvia to cope with the few patients who were receiving attention.

Most of her friends were there, consuming their meal with the businesslike speed of those who never have the chance to linger over their food, but they managed to get a good deal of talking done at the same time. Araminta was plied with questions and the conditions of the various patients she had dispatched to the wards the day before were discussed at some length. They were consuming their stewed fruit and custard when someone asked: ‘Who was that man with Sir Donald? I saw them coming out of theatre. Didn’t you say Sir was with you, Araminta?’

Araminta, her mouth full, nodded.

‘And the man with him?’

She nodded again and managed: ‘He’s a doctor.’

‘He’s a smasher.’ It was the same girl who spoke, one of the junior sisters on Men’s Surgical, a pert, pretty girl whom nobody liked very much. ‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Yes,’ said Araminta, ‘I asked him if he was going to cut down and he said he’d have a try with a needle first.’

There was a little burst of laughter. ‘Do you mean to tell me that he didn’t ask you out?’ asked the pert girl suspiciously.

‘No,’ said Araminta, and added quenchingly: ‘It was hardly the time or the place, was it?’

Her questioner subsided and they got up from the table in twos and threes and went along to the sitting room in the Home for the last precious ten minutes, to drink their tea in peace before going back to their various jobs.

‘I can’t stand that girl!’ Pamela Carr exclaimed as she and Araminta walked through the maze of passages to the main wing of the hospital, ‘and just my wretched luck to be relieving on Men’s Surgical while Sister West’s on holiday—the creature seems to think that she knows the lot; its “Sister Carr, do this, Sister Carr, do that”.’ She sniffed. ‘She tints her hair.’

Araminta chuckled. ‘I thought she did. I didn’t like her either, but cheer up, Pam, think of her face when she discovers that you’ve been offered Sister West’s job when she retires after Christmas. The boot’ll be on the other foot then.’

Pam sighed. ‘It seems a long way off—ever so many things could happen…’

‘Such as what?’ Araminta pushed the Accident Room door open. ‘You could meet a millionaire who falls for you on sight and carries you off to some gorgeous mansion…’

Her companion laughed. ‘I’d like to see it happen! It sounds more like you.’

‘I’m not the type. ‘Bye for now.’

The afternoon dragged a little. The hospital had been taken off take-in for a couple of days, so that all the emergencies could go to neighbouring hospitals, leaving St Katherine’s time to get back into its stride. Araminta had the time now to sit at her desk and make out the off duty for the month ahead, write the nurses’ reports, harangue the laundry, the dispensary and the Admissions Office by telephone, and go on a careful inspection of her department. This was something she did regularly, for although she was on excellent terms with her staff, she allowed no slackness. She returned to her desk well satisfied; the place was pristine, she had had time to chat to each member of her staff, arranging for them to take the off duty they had missed, say a few words in the kitchen to Betsy, and go along to X-Ray to iron out one or two awkward situations which had cropped up. It was almost time for her to go to tea, but she decided against it; Dolly could go off duty an hour earlier instead. One of the student nurses had already gone, leaving herself and the junior nurse alone until Sylvia took over at five o’clock. Araminta went to find Dolly and then poked her head round the kitchen door once to ask Betsy to let her have a pot of tea when she had a minute to spare. Well satisfied that she had done her best to make everyone happy, she went along to the end bay where a junior houseman was painstakingly reducing a dislocated shoulder. He had done it very well, she noted, only now he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. She applied the bandage for him, her unassuming manner leading him to believe that he had allowed her to do it out of the kindness of his heart because she needed the practice.

The little corner shop was still open when she went off duty, so she bought a loaf and a tin of beans and a pound of apples and went home, where, over her simple meal, she found herself wishing that the Dutch doctor was there too, bad temper and all, offering her something tasty from Harrods.

It was several days later that she overheard Sir Donald telling James that Doctor van Sibbelt was back in his own country. It was a pity that they walked away just then and she was unable to hear any more. It was fortunate, though, that that very evening she had agreed to go to the cinema with James. They had time for a cup of coffee before the film started and she led the conversation carefully round to Doctor van Sibbelt, ‘What part of Holland does he come from?’ she wanted to know in an off-hand way.

‘No idea. I don’t really know what he does—something in medicine, of course. He comes over here quite a bit, so I hear. His English is pretty good, isn’t it?’

‘I—yes, I suppose so…’

James rambled on. ‘He’s rather a splendid-looking chap, I thought—made a great impression on the girls…’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Not bad, seeing that he’s reaching for forty.’ The way he said it made it sound like eighty, and Araminta said sharply: ‘That’s not even middle-aged,’ and then hurried on because James had given her a mildly enquiring look: ‘Ought we to be going? I’d hate to miss any of the film.’

And that was the last of Doctor van Sibbelt. Or so she told herself.

She went home the following weekend, driving herself in the Mini. It was a splendid morning, although there was a nip in the air which warned her that winter wasn’t so very far away. She left early, before the morning traffic piled up, so that she was out of London and on to the M4 while the roads were still fairly quiet. She drove fast, stopping briefly for coffee before turning off the motorway to go across country to Bridgewater. She was a good driver, but if she went through Bristol she would be held up for hours and she knew the quieter country roads very well. At Bridgewater she took the Minehead road and slowed down to enjoy the scenery, and Dunster, when she reached it, was delightfully quiet. She entered the little town on a sigh of pleasure, past the Luttrell Arms and the smalls shops lining the broad main street, with a glimpse of the castle at the end of it, and then past the church and into a narrow lane where the houses, although small, were well kept. At the end of the row, standing a little apart, was her home, just the same as all the others but with a small garden before it. Araminta pulled the Mini into the side of the road and jumped out, running up the path like a small girl to fling herself into Aunt Martha’s arms and then embrace her father. And there was Toby to hug too, an elderly nondescript cat who had walked in one day years ago and had been a close member of the household ever since. He sat on her lap, purring, while she drank the coffee her aunt insisted she needed before they had their lunch, and presently she went upstairs to her small, rather dark, room, with its shelves full of china ornaments and the bits and pieces she had collected since she was a very small girl, and its narrow bed with its faded eiderdown. She tidied herself slowly, savouring the quiet and the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Aunt Martha might look like a straightlaced dowager, but she was a dream of a cook.

It was after lunch, when they had washed up and were sitting round the fire, her aunt with her knitting, her father with his pipe and a massive book at his elbow and Araminta sitting between them with Toby in her lap once more, that the name of Doctor van Sibbelt cropped up. They had been talking about their holiday and it was Aunt Martha who remarked on his charm of manner as she went on to say: ‘And did he go to see you, child? I gave him your address; he seemed anxious to let you know about that little girl-Mary Rose.’




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