She looked uncertainly at the professor, looming there in the middle of the room. “Don’t let me keep you. You’ve been most kind and I am grateful.”

He stared back at her. “Has it struck you that the tone of our conversation has altered during the past few weeks? So polite, almost, if I might say so, friendly. We must do our best to correct that, mustn’t we? Our years of cut and thrust have become a habit, haven’t they?”

She kept her eyes on him. She didn’t think that he was serious, but one could never tell. She said cautiously, “If you say so, professor.”

She sidled to the door, ready to usher him out. “Ah, speed the parting guest,” observed the professor in what she always thought of as his nasty voice.

She returned kindly, “Oh, no—I was thinking of your date.”

He took the door handle from Julia, towering over her and leaving precious little room for the pair of them in the doorway. He said softly, “I hope that you dressed yourself to kill on my account, Julia,” and bent and kissed her. He was halfway down the first flight of stairs before she could get her breath, and then it was only a squeak.

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.

At the End of the Day
Betty Neels

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

UNDER AN EARLY morning September sky London was coming awake; the sun shone impartially on stately Regency houses, high rise flats and any number of parks. It shone too on St Anne’s Hospital, a sprawling red brick edifice cramped by the mean streets around it, although not all were mean, in some of them the early Victorian houses, tall and narrow, each with its railed off area and attic windows, had made a brave effort to overcome shabbiness and were let out in flats or rooms. Even the attics had been converted into what were grandly called studio flats with tiny kitchens and showers squeezed into corners under the rafters.

The windows of one such flat, half way down a terrace in a side street lined with dusty plane trees, were open wide now, allowing the sun to shine in. It shone on the woman sitting in front of a rather battered dressing table, allowing her to take excellent stock of her reflection in its mirror. It was a charming one, although its owner didn’t appear to like it overmuch. She had her hand up to her hair, tugging it this way and that, peering at it intently.

‘There are bound to be some,’ the woman said loudly and with impatience, ‘I dare say the light’s all wrong.’ She abandoned her search and scrutinised her face, looking for wrinkles. But there weren’t any of those either; her reflection frowned back at her, a lovely face with a creamy skin to go with her fiery hair and large green eyes. ‘Well, there ought to be,’ said the woman, ‘the first grey hairs and wrinkles show up at thirty,’ she added gloomily, ‘next year I’ll be thirty-one…’

She left the dressing table and crossed the room to drink the rest of a mug of tea on the table at the other side. She was a tall woman with generous curves, and despite her thirty years, looked a great deal younger. She finished the tea and began to dress and presently, in her dark blue sister’s uniform, sat down in front of the mirror again and did her face and brushed her thick bright hair into a chignon. She had wasted time looking for the wrinkles; and there was only time for another pot of tea and some toast before she went on duty. She made the divan bed along one wall while the kettle boiled and then sat down at the table to drink the brew and munch her toast, wasting no time. Ten minutes later, the breakfast things stacked tidily in the sink in the tiny kitchen she let herself out of her room and locked the door, then with her cape slung over one shoulder ran down the three flights of stairs to the front door. No one else was about yet in the quiet street but once at its end she turned into a wider thoroughfare, bustling with morning traffic and early morning workers. It was a shabby street, with tatty shops and run down houses, and it led straight past the hospital gates, a mere five minutes’ walk. All the same the woman had cut it fine and hurried across the courtyard and in through the imposing entrance, pausing in the enormous, gloomy hall to peer into the head porter’s little office.

‘Morning George, any letters?’

George, it was said jokingly, was as old as the hospital. He licked the pencil he was holding and on his newspaper made a cross by the name of the horse he intended to back later on that day before he answered. ‘Good morning, Sister Mitchell, nice post for you this morning, too. Got a birthday?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ She beamed at him and took the handful of cards and letters, longing to open them at once, but they would have to wait until she had taken the night nurses’ report. She made for the stairs, taking them two at a time since there was no one except George to see her.

There was though; standing at the top of the wide staircase was a very large man with wide shoulders and a distinguished air, much heightened by the elegance of his clothes. He had dark hair, greying at the temples, dark eyes with drooping lids, a formidable nose and a mouth which was firm to the point of grimness.

Sister Mitchell, not expecting anyone on the half landing, skidded to a brief halt. Her good morning was brisk and friendly; she had no time to dally, not that Professor van der Wagema ever dallied…

He glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘Late, Sister Mitchell?’ His voice was bland and had a nasty edge to it. ‘Don’t let me keep you from completing your gallop.’

‘Oh, I won’t, sir,’ she assured him cheerfully and raced up the right hand wing of the staircase, reflecting as she went that it was a great pity that he was such an irritable man; so good looking, at the top of his profession and possessed, so rumour had it, of far more wealth than he needed. That was all rumour had been able to discover about him though. His private life was a closed book to all but his closest colleagues at the hospital, and they weren’t likely to tell. ‘Why’s he here, anyway?’ she muttered. ‘Eight o’clock in the morning…’ She went through the swing doors of the Women’s Medical and crossed the landing to her office.

Three girls were waiting for her, her senior staff nurse, Pat Down, a quiet sensible girl with a pleasant face, and the two night nurses, one tall and fair with a pretty face and her junior, a small mouselike girl; all three looked flushed and harassed.

Sister Mitchell sat herself down at her desk. ‘Good morning. Have we had a case in during the night?’ She smiled at them. ‘You all look worn out and I passed Professor van der Wagema on the stairs.’

‘He was sent for at half-past six, Sister, I’m to tell you that he will be back later in the morning.’ The senior night nurse answered.

‘Splendid, shall we have the report then?’

The night nurse looked disappointed; in common with any number of the nurses at St Anne’s, she considered Professor van der Wagema the answer to any ambitious girl’s prayer, he might no longer be young like their numerous men friends, but he was infinitely more handsome even if he had a bad temper and wasn’t above reducing them to tears with his sarcasm during lectures. All the same, she began on the report obediently; Sister Mitchell in her own small way, could be just as unbending, besides everyone knew that she and the professor didn’t like each other.

‘Miss Thorpe,’ began the night nurse, ‘Raynaud’s disease…’

There were twenty-four patients, the report took quite a few minutes before the new admission could be mentioned; Mrs Collins, admitted in a coma of unknown origin at four o’clock. Examined by the medical officer on duty and by the medical registrar. Since she didn’t respond to treatment Professor van der Wagema was called, who diagnosed a suspected cerebral embolism. ‘Nothing’s back from the Path Lab yet.’ She added nursing details and Sister Mitchell asked: ‘Relatives? Anyone come in with her, Nurse?’

‘No, Sister. She lives in a room in Belsize Street and works in a factory in Limehouse; she didn’t go to work and someone went round to see why not. No one seemed to know anything about her, so they got a policeman to open the door and found her on the floor.’

Sister Mitchell nodded slowly. ‘Poor soul, let’s hope someone turns up. The police have the details?’ Her generous mouth curved in a smile. ‘Thanks, Nurse, off with you both then. You’re both on together tonight? Who’s with Mrs Collins, Pat?’

‘Nurse Wells, Sister, the other three are clearing breakfast and starting on the BP round.’

‘Then let’s go and take a look.’

Sister didn’t hurry down the ward; she never appeared to do so, but she always managed to be where she was wanted. She went calmly, wishing any of the patients that caught her eye a good morning, and slid behind the cubicle curtains. She wished Nurse Wells a pleasant good morning, asked a handful of pertinent questions and bent to look at Mrs Collins, a lady of middle years and extremely stout. She was still deeply unconscious and after a minute Sister turned away. ‘Let me know if you see anything, Nurse,’ she warned and went back to her office; the morning’s work would go on as usual; the student nurses would have to come to the office while she read the report to them and Pat kept an eye on the ward, she would have to get on to the Path Lab and get the results of the blood sugar and blood urea tests; it was far too soon to get the lumbar puncture results. There was the post too and her morning round…

The student nurses filed in, and she spent ten minutes going over the report with them and then allotting ward duties. That done, she was free to go back into the ward, armed with the day’s letters and start the routine she never varied. The patients counted on her slow progress from bed to bed, it gave them a chance to air their grievances, complain about sleepless nights, ask questions about their condition and enlist her help over knotty problems they couldn’t solve from their beds. She came to the last bed; Mrs Winter, a diabetic who had never quite grasped what was wrong with her and therefore spent a good deal of time in hospital being stabilised. ‘I bin awake since four o’clock, Sister,’ she said, avid for news of the new patient. ‘Proper poorly, isn’t she? All them doctors and nurses and the professor here, without his breakfast, I dare say, poor man.’

Julia Mitchell looked surprised. She had never thought of the professor in that light and certainly she had never pitied him, although now that she came to think about it, she was sorry for him although she wasn’t sure why.

She said now in a soothing voice: ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry, Mrs Winter, I expect he’s got a wife to look after him.’ A poor down-trodden creature, probably, never saying boo to a goose let alone to the professor. ‘Did you eat all your breakfast, Mrs Winter?’

‘The ‘am, Sister dear, but I couldn’t stomach the bread…’

‘Did you eat none of it, Mrs Winter?’ Julia asked calmly; whichever nurse had seen to the diabetic breakfasts would have to be spoken to.

‘No, ducks.’

‘Then I’m going to bring you two cream crackers and you’re going to eat every crumb. Will you do that?’

‘Anything to please yer, love,’ said Mrs Winter obligingly.

Julia went to the kitchen, found the crackers, put two on a plate and bore them to the ward. She hadn’t quite reached it when she heard the swing doors open and close behind her and turned her head to see who it was. Professor van der Wagema, unsmiling as usual—perhaps he hadn’t had his breakfast after all; she had no idea where he lived, but even if it had been next door to St Anne’s which she very much doubted, he wouldn’t have had time. She waved the plate of biscuits at him. ‘I’ll be right back, sir, Mrs Winter must have these now—she didn’t eat her bread.’

She disappeared through the ward door and when she returned found him standing in the middle of the landing, still frowning.

‘Mrs Collins is still unconscious, I’ve just had a quick look. The Path Lab are sending up the results within the next half hour. Do you want Doctor Reed?’

Doctor Reed was the registrar; a nice quiet little man who loved his work. He had a very large wife and any number of small children. The fact reminded her that she was feeling sorry for the professor.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ she offered, and she added persuasively, ‘and a biscuit?’

‘You are thinking “Feed the brute”,’ said the professor, surprisingly.

‘No—no, of course not. Only night nurse said you were here early this morning and you can’t have had much time for breakfast.’

He looked down his domineering nose at her. ‘I can see no reason for you to concern yourself about my meals, Sister Mitchell. If it is convenient to you, I should like to see Mrs Collins.’

She didn’t feel sorry for him any more. With her head high, she swept down the ward. Never again, she promised herself silently, would she offer him refreshment of any sort; of course the obligatory cup of coffee after his twice weekly rounds would have to be given to him, but that hardly counted. She slipped behind the curtains, nodded to Nurse Wells to go, and took up her position on the other side of the bed from the professor.

He bent over his patient, examining her with great care and presently Doctor Reed joined him. ‘Difficult to determine hemiplegia,’ muttered the professor, ‘but I’m pretty certain it’s a cerebral thrombosis.’ He straightened up and glanced at Sister Mitchell. ‘Have you any news of Mrs Collins’ family or friends, Sister?’

‘None,’ said Julia, ‘I’ve ‘phoned the police and they’ve drawn a blank so far.’

‘We must hope that they will have success before very long, it would be of considerable help to us. Now, as to treatment…’ The professor never hummed and haa’d, he knew what he wanted done and made his wishes known concisely; what was more, he didn’t like having to repeat his instructions, something Julia had discovered more than three years ago when she had taken over the ward. She had a good memory and was familiar with his ways; she listened carefully, said ‘Very well, sir,’ in the colourless voice she used on his ward rounds, and followed the two men out of the cubicle, beckoning to Nurse Wells to return as she did so.

She accompanied them, as custom dictated, to the ward doors and once through them wished the professor a brisk good morning, to be rewarded by a dark stare. ‘I should be glad of a cup of coffee, Sister.’

Julia gave him a limpid look. ‘Why, of course, professor,’ she spoke in the tones of a much-tried hostess, ‘do go into the office and I’ll see about it.’ She looked at Dr Reed and said warmly, ‘You too, Dick?’

He grinned at her and nodded and she sailed across the landing to the kitchen. Old Meg was there, brooding over the mid-morning drinks trolley. She had been at the hospital for almost all of her life and refused to move with the times; trade unions, strikes, who did what and when, had made no impression on her; she still considered herself an old-fashioned ward maid and took no notice of anyone who tried to get her to think otherwise. She looked up now and gave Julia a reluctant smile. ‘Sister there ain’t no cocoa—I’d like to know where it goes at night, that I would! Want yer coffee?’

‘Not me, Meg—Professor van der Wagema and Dr Reed do. If I get a tray ready will you boil some milk?’

‘For ‘im I will,’ declared Meg, ‘nice gent ‘e is’.

‘Dr Reed?’ Julia was putting cups and saucers on to a tray.

‘Oh, ‘im—’e’s all right, no—the professor, ‘e’s a bit of class, asks me about me corns…!’

Julia’s lovely eyes widened with astonishment. Meg’s corns were a constant source of annoyance to her but she had never complained to anyone but Julia about them. ‘Give me the push if I tells ’em,’ she explained, ‘though I don’t mind you knowing, Sister.’

Presumably she didn’t mind the professor knowing either. Perhaps, thought Julia with a soundless giggle, there was a charming side to him she hadn’t been privileged to discover. She picked up the tray and carried it to her office, where the professor was sitting at her desk, writing, and Dr Reed was perched on the radiator, looking out of the window. He got up and took the tray from her as she went in but the professor didn’t raise his head.

Julia smiled at Dr Reed and whisked herself out of the room again. ‘Rude man,’ she muttered as she closed the door.

There was a great deal to do in the ward; beds were being made, patients were being got up and arranged in chairs and once in them remembered books, spectacles and knitting which they’d left behind on their lockers which made the whole business long winded. Besides that, there were the really ill patients; Mrs Wolff with severe thyro-toxicosis, little Dolly Waters holding leukaemia at bay from week to week and young Mrs Thorpe with transverse myelitis. She was barely in her thirties with a devoted husband and two small children, and had paralysis from the waist down. Several months in a plaster cast had done no good at all, but now she was out of it and the professor was going to examine her again. He hadn’t pretended that he could cure her, but neither had he drawn a gloomy picture for her to worry about and he had promised that if there was anything to be done, he would do it. Julia, helping one of the student nurses to make her bed, reflected that tiresome though he might be, his patients trusted him.

She went back to her office presently; the nurses were going to their coffee two by two, and when they got back she and Pat would have theirs, until then, she would get on with her paper work.

The professor was still in her office, writing busily, he looked up as she went in, said coolly: ‘I am almost finished, Sister.’ Then went on writing. She didn’t go away but stood by the door, watching him. He looked tired; after all, he was no longer a young man and even his good looks couldn’t disguise the fact; she was still annoyed with him about his rejection of her offer of coffee and food, but a pang of something like pity shot through her, instantly doused by his cool: ‘Pray don’t stand there, Sister Mitchell, there must be something you can do and I shall be a few minutes still.’

‘Oh, there is plenty.’ She matched her coolness with his, although she was put out. ‘Only it’s all on my desk and you’re still sitting at it.’ She allowed a small pause before adding, ‘Sir’.

He said without looking up from his writing: ‘How long have we known each other, Sister?’

‘Us? Oh, three years or more on this ward—you lectured me when I was a student nurse but one could hardly say that you knew me, then.’

He glanced up and smiled briefly. ‘That makes me feel very old.’ And then to surprise her entirely: ‘How old are you, Sister Mitchell?’

She said indignantly: ‘That’s rather a rude question…’

‘Why?’

‘Well, wouldn’t you think it rude if I were to ask you that?’

‘Not in the least,’ his voice was bland. ‘I’m forty-one and looking forty-two in the face. I don’t imagine you are forty yet?’

She gasped with annoyance. ‘Of course I’m not, if you must know I’m thirty—today.’

‘Many happy returns of the day.’ He finished his writing and sat back to study her. ‘I must say that you don’t look your age.’

‘Thank you for nothing, Professor.’ Her green eyes flashed with temper. ‘I find this a very pointless conversation and I have a great deal of work to do…’

He got up slowly. ‘When are you and young Longman getting married?’

She blushed and hated herself for it. ‘I don’t know—there’s plenty of time…’

He sauntered to the door. ‘Oh, no there isn’t—once you are thirty, the years fly by.’ He opened the door. ‘I’ll be in to see Mrs Collins this afternoon. Good morning to you, Sister.’

Her ‘Good morning, sir,’ was snappish to say the least.

But she forgot him almost at once as she became immersed in her work; there were always forms to fill in, requests to write, the off duty to puzzle out; she worked steadily for half an hour or so; Pat was in the ward, keeping an eye on things and presently when the nurses had been to coffee, they would have theirs and sort out the day’s problems before the various housemen did their rounds. And the professor, of course; an even-tempered woman, despite the fieriness of her hair, and possessed of more than the usual amount of common sense, Julia found herself feeling sorry for him again. Of course, away from the hospital, he might be a devoted husband and father, a frequenter of night clubs, a keen theatregoer, a fervent sportsman, but it was impossible to know that. His private life was a closed book to her and she wasn’t interested in looking inside, only it was a pity that he found her so irritating. And yet she knew for a fact that he had told the Senior Medical Officer that she was the best sister he had ever had to deal with. It was probably her fault, she mused, for she answered him back far too often.

She sighed, reached for the ‘phone and dialled the laundry. As usual she needed more linen and as usual she was going to have to wheedle it out of them.

Pat came in presently and they drank their coffee and filled in the rest of the off duty. ‘My weekend,’ said Pat happily, ‘I shall go home.’ She poured more coffee. ‘Is Dr Longman off for your weekend?’

Julia shook her head. ‘No, he’s going to Bristol—he’s applied for the registrar’s position there, and this Saturday seems to be the only day they can interview him.’

‘Would you like my weekend?’ asked Pat instantly, ‘then you could go with him.’

‘That’s sweet of you Pat, but he’ll be better on his own, besides what would I do there? I’d be by myself most of the time. He’ll go on to his home and spend Sunday there, and I’ll go home on my weekend; we can sort things out after that.’

The niggling thought that Nigel could have invited her to go to his parents’ home and joined her there popped into her head to be instantly ignored as petty childishness. ‘Now, how can we fit Nurse Wells in for that extra half day we owe her?’

Pat was quick to take the hint and obediently pored over the off duty; Sister Mitchell was a dear even if strict on the ward, but she tended to keep herself to herself even though she had any number of friends.

The morning wore on, much too rapidly for Julia. Mrs Collins, though still unconscious, was showing signs of improvement, but there was no news from the police. Julia went to her midday dinner with the problem still unsolved, which made her somewhat distraite during that meal.

‘The professor being tiresome?’ asked Fiona Sedgewick, who had Women’s Surgical. ‘I never met such a man for casting a blight on anyone unlucky enough to be near him.’

‘I pity his wife,’ observed Mary Chapman, who had Children’s, ‘that’s if he can keep one long enough…’

‘Is he married?’

‘Shouldn’t think so, but what a waste, all those good looks and lolly and he has just got himself a new Rolls Royce.’

Someone giggled. ‘Perhaps that’s why he is so irritable—I mean, they cost a good deal, don’t they?’

Julia got up. ‘Well, whatever it is, he’d better cheer up before he comes this afternoon.’

The professor hadn’t exactly done that when he came on to the ward an hour or so later; he was, however, scrupulously polite, listening with grave attention to what Julia had to report and at the end of a lengthy examination of Mrs Collins, politely refusing her offer of tea, watching her from under heavy lids, and then thanking her just as politely so that she looked at him with surprised face. He returned the look with a bland stare of his own before, surrounded by the lesser fry of his profession, he left the ward.

‘Well,’ observed Julia to the pile of notes on her desk, ‘what’s come over him, in heaven’s name?’

She was off duty after tea and half an hour later was back at her flat. Nigel was off duty too and she had planned supper for them both; they would be able to talk at their ease. She thrust a macaroni cheese into her tiny oven and frowned as she did so. Nigel would want to talk about getting married and she felt a curious reluctance to listen to him. He had the future so tidily arranged that somehow the magic was missing. Not that she had the least idea of what magic she expected. They had been more or less engaged for a year or more; he was entirely suitable for a husband too, he would be kind and patient and considerate and they would have enough to live on… Her mother and father liked him and with reservations she got on well enough with his parents; perhaps she wanted too much. Certainly she had been put out when he had told her that he was going to Bristol and hadn’t suggested that she should go with him, they saw little enough of each other.

She mixed a salad, did her hair again and sat down to wait.

She heard his deliberate step on the stairs presently and went to open the door, suddenly anxious that the evening should be a success. He kissed her too quickly and said: ‘Sorry I’m a bit late—I got caught up on Children’s. God, I’ll be glad to get away from St Anne’s. Keep your fingers crossed for me, Julia, and pray that I’ll get that job at Bristol.’

She made a soothing rejoinder, poured him a beer and sat down opposite him. ‘Bad day?’ she asked.

‘Lord yes, you can say that again. Professor van der Wagema may be a brilliant physician but he’s a cold fish. Good with the patients, mind you and funnily enough, the children like him, but talk about a loner…’

‘Perhaps he is overworked,’ offered Julia idly.

‘Not him, he works for two and it makes no difference at all. Wonder what he is like away from St Anne’s. No one’s ever seen him. Crusty old devil.’ He grinned at her. ‘Something smells good?’

‘It’s ready, I’ll dish up.’

They spent a pleasant enough evening discussing rather vaguely, their future. ‘We ought to start looking for somewhere to live, if I get this job,’ said Nigel, ‘Somewhere close to the hospital of course, but we can go home for weekends when I’m free.’ He frowned thoughtfully, ‘A flat, I suppose, at least to start with, probably the hospital will have something for us.’

‘It would be nicer to live away from your work,’ said Julia.

She was a country girl, born and brought up in a small village a few miles from Salisbury and she had never taken to London or the city, and Bristol as far as she could make out, was going to be another London on a smaller scale.

‘We shouldn’t have much rent to pay. I’ll get settled in and you can give up this job here; the place will be furnished so we won’t have that bother.’

Julia stifled a sigh; furnishing her own home didn’t seem to her to be a bother, but perhaps it would only be for a few months, while they looked round for something better. A house with a garden… She allowed her thoughts to wander; the garden at home would be looking gorgeous, full of dahlias and chrysanths and the virginia creeper just turning—she would go home on her next weekend; Nigel would be working anyway.

‘What are you thinking about?’ asked Nigel.

‘A garden—the garden at home. It’ll be nice to see it.’

‘Oh, can’t you change your weekend to fit in with me?’

‘No—I’d already promised Pat Down. We’ll have to try to get things sorted out later on.’

He didn’t seem to mind overmuch; Julia found that provoking.

She took care to climb the stairs soberly the next morning but there was no professor to sneer at her, he came not half an hour later, though. She had taken the report, given the student nurses the gist of it and was sitting at her desk, looking without much pleasure at the view of chimney pots and tired looking trees, all she could see by sitting sideways and craning her neck. She was remembering Nigel’s sedate plans for their future and his even more sedate kiss when he left soon after supper.

There must be something wrong with her, she thought a little desperately, not to appreciate a good kind man such as Nigel and of course she loved him…

‘Well, well,’ observed the professor nastily from the half open door. ‘Nothing better to do than sit and stare? The devil finds work for idle hands to do.’

Julia’s splendid bosom swelled with indignation. ‘Well, really…whatever will you say next?’

‘Good morning might be appropriate!’

She glared up at him; his eyes looked black they were so dark and to make matters worse he was amused.

She rose from her chair with as much dignity as she could muster. ‘Good morning, Professor,’ she said coldly. ‘You wish to see Mrs Collins? She is still unconscious, but there are signs…’ She gave him chapter and verse and at his nod, led the way into the ward, asking Pat in a low voice to get Dr Reed and sending the nurse with Mrs Collins away—a very new student nurse, who stared at the professor as though he were Prince Charming and sidled away reluctantly.

‘Is that girl competent?’ rasped the professor.

Julia shot him an affronted look. ‘Nurse has been training for six months, so of course she is by no means competent, but she is sensible and understands exactly what she has to do. She has the makings of a good nurse.’ She drew an annoyed breath, ‘Sir’.

She could have saved her breath for he didn’t appear to be listening.

Dr Reed joined them then and they went through the slow precise tests and examination. The professor was studying the chart and Julia was straightening the bed clothes when she said quietly, ‘Mrs Collins’ eyelids are moving.’

So they began all over again. The woman was still unconscious but this time her pupils reacted to the professor’s torch. He straightened his vast person and stood looking down at her. ‘Now we are getting somewhere. Reed, let’s have a further lot of tests.’ He looked across at Julia and smiled and she blinked at its charm.

He was back again later in the morning to do his biweekly round, once more coldly polite. He didn’t smile once and after the round, in her office, he was bitingly sarcastic about a mislaid page of notes. They weren’t in the least important, for the patient was going home in the morning and they had probably got put in the file in the wrong order. It annoyed Julia but it hardly merited his caustic remarks about carelessness. She accompanied him to the ward doors and went back to her office and found the page almost at once. She put it neatly in to its place and said crossly, ‘Tiresome little man…’

‘Tiresome I may be,’ said the professor from somewhere behind her, ‘but you could hardly call me little.’

She swung round to face him, but before she could say anything, he added mildly, ‘I believe that I left my pen here.’

Julia took a surging breath, clenched her teeth on the heated remark she was about to make and handed him the pen. He took it from her with a brief thank you, advised her coldly not to allow her feelings to get the better of her, and went away again. ‘I swear I’ll throw something at you next time we meet,’ said Julia. Her habitual calm common sense had quite deserted her, it was a good thing that Pat went for her weekend after tea, for it meant that Julia was on duty until the night staff came on duty, and she had no time to indulge in any feelings.

Nigel was going by train to Bristol but because he was getting a lift by car from a friend who lived in Yeovil, he had chosen to take a train from Waterloo in the morning, and Julia had given herself a morning off duty so that she might see him on his way. It was an off duty she loathed for it meant coming back on duty at half-past twelve and a long, long day stretching out before her. All the same she left the ward at ten o’clock, tore into her street clothes and met Nigel outside the hospital. There wasn’t much time, they took a taxi and got to the station with only a few minutes to spare.

The train was full and Nigel, a sensible man, didn’t waste his time on unnecessarily protracted goodbyes; he gave her a quick kiss, with one eye prudently on the empty seats which were left, and then got into the train. There hadn’t been time to say much, thought Julia, smiling the fatuous smile people always smile at railway stations, really it had been a bit silly of her to come… She went close to the window where Nigel had been lucky enough to get a seat and called, ‘Good luck; I’m sure everything will be fine.’ She didn’t go on, for Nigel was frowning a little; he disliked the showing of feelings in public, so she retreated a few paces and stood well back and since she couldn’t glue her eyes to Nigel all the time, looked around her. No more than twenty yards away Professor van der Wagema was standing, a hand on the shoulder of a boy of ten or eleven, standing beside him. As she looked, he gave the boy a gentle shove, said something to him, and watched him get on to the train. The boy was in school uniform and there were other boys too. Julia looked from him to the professor and encountered a bland stare which sent the colour to her cheeks and her eyes back to Nigel. The train began to move and she made rather a thing of waving to Nigel who wasn’t taking any notice.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE WALKED AWAY from the professor as she waved, and stood watching the train out of sight; hopefully he would be gone when she turned round and started back down the platform.

Nothing of the kind; he was coming towards her and since she was at the end of the platform by now there was nowhere else to go, she had to walk back.

His ‘Good morning, Julia,’ took her completely by surprise; he had never called her anything other than Sister or Sister Mitchell. She said, ‘Good morning,’ in a rather faint voice and went on walking and he turned and walked with her, for all the world, she thought indignantly, as though he was sure of his welcome.

‘Why didn’t you go with Longman?’ he wanted to know.

She suppressed a strong wish to tell him to mind his own business.

‘He’s got an interview in Bristol for a registrar’s post. Of course, you know that already…’

‘Of course. I asked why you hadn’t gone with him.’

She had the ridiculous urge to tell him that Nigel hadn’t asked her to. ‘Well, I would have been on my own for most of the weekend…’ And that’s a silly thing to say she thought—she could expect some cutting remark about interviews only taking a couple of hours. But he didn’t say anything like that. ‘I’ve just seen my son off to school, will you have a cup of coffee with me?’

She stopped to look at him. ‘Well, it’s very kind of you—I’m on duty at one o’clock though.’

‘It’s just half-past ten,’ he assured her, grave-faced, ‘I’ve my car here, we can go somewhere quieter for ten minutes or so.’

‘Very well,’ said Julia, feeling her way; any minute he might change back into the coldly polite man she worked for, but he didn’t, he commented upon the splendid weather, the horror of large railway stations, the difficulty of parking and all she had to do was to murmur suitably.

She had seen his car before, of course, but only from her office window or sliding silently past her in the fore-court. This’ll be something to tell the girls, she thought as she got into the dark blue Rolls, only they’ll never believe me.

The professor drove through the streaming traffic with a monumental calm which aroused her admiration. She was an indifferent driver herself, driving the rather elderly Rover through the country lanes around her home, although she much preferred her bike or even her two feet. Ever since the time she had rammed the butcher’s van on a tricky corner, her nerve had suffered. Driving through London must be a nightmare; she said so now.

‘Indeed,’ agreed the professor politely, ‘but one gets used to it—one has to.’ They were driving down Gower Street and she wondered where they were going and wasn’t left long in doubt—the British Museum Coffee Shop. He parked by a vacant meter and ushered her through the book shop and the shop behind that which sold reproductions and into the restaurant itself. The two shops were quite full but the restaurant wasn’t. He pulled out a chair for her at a table for two and went to fetch their coffee. ‘Anything to eat?’ he asked over his shoulder.

She shook her head; she found him difficult to talk to, after years of being on her guard against his testy manner and cold politeness she had seldom been at a loss to answer him then, now she found herself tongue-tied. Common sense came to her aid as he sat down opposite her; she was used to difficult situations on the ward, dealing with awkward patients and visitors, wheedling new housemen to take her advice, listening patiently to the woes of a student nurse whose love life wasn’t working out. Did the professor have a love life, she wondered?

They passed each other the sugar and sipped their coffee. The professor sat at his ease, content to be silent, possibly waiting for her to take her share in the conversation. ‘How old is your son?’ she asked.

‘Eleven. I usually drive him back to school but I have several engagements this weekend. Martha had no time this morning to take him to the station and I could cancel a meeting I was to attend far more easily than she could leave the house.’

Martha, mused Julia, a suitable name for the wife of a man such as he, she would be mouselike with wispy hair and no dress sense and always do exactly what he wanted. Poor soul…probably there were several more children at home. Her imagination, which was vivid, conjured up a pitiful picture of a poor hard working Martha trying to please the professor. A hopeless task. She would have to talk about something else before she got too indignant.

‘You have a Dutch name,’ she observed and was halted by his silky reply.

‘But of course—I am a Dutchman.’ He sat back in his chair, looking at her. ‘And you, Julia, are very very English.’

‘Well, of course I am. What makes you say that?’

‘It would take too long to tell you. Dick Reed seems much happier about Mrs Collins.’

The sudden turn in conversation made her blink. All the same, she managed composedly. ‘Yes, he is! There’s still no news about her family though.’

‘We shall have to have patience.’

She drank the rest of her coffee and began to put on her gloves ‘The coffee was nice,’ she told him sedately, ‘thank you, Professor. You won’t mind if I leave you here.’

‘Yes, I do mind. I’ll drive you back to St Anne’s. I shall be going past the hospital in any case.’

There was no point in arguing, she got into the car again and he drove the short distance to the wide gates and leant across to open the door for her. He hadn’t spoken once since they had left the coffee shop. She thanked him quickly and got out on to the pavement, adding a brief goodbye.

His dark eyes rested on her for a moment. ‘It has passed an aimless hour,’ he said blandly and drove away. Julia, standing and watching the big car thrust its way smoothly through the traffic, very nearly stamped a foot. ‘An aimless hour, indeed,’ she muttered furiously, ‘I just happened to be handy, did I to while away a bit of time before he tools off to wherever he’s going? And why didn’t he go home and drink his coffee with the pitiful Martha?’ She was so busy thinking about it that she quite forgot Nigel. It was over their midday dinner that Fiona wanted to know at what time he was to have his interview; Julia found herself blushing with guilt because she hadn’t given it a thought. ‘Oh—two o’clock, I think,’ she said hastily, and nodded her head when Fiona observed that of course he would be ringing her later on that day. Nigel hadn’t said anything of the sort. But why should he? He had had a lot on his mind and she forgave him for forgetting. Very likely he would ‘phone from his parents’ house. The thought cheered her up as she went on duty.

There was plenty of work, medical wards might not be as dramatic as the surgical ones, but they were just as busy, more so, for there were treatments going on all the time and three medicine rounds a day. She missed Pat although she had a part-time staff nurse until five o’clock and a second staff nurse to come on until the night staff came on duty at eight o’clock. She was tired when she got off duty, but satisfied: Mrs Collins was definitely coming out of her coma and once she was fit to understand and speak a little, they would be able to find out who she was. It was going to be a long job, but well worth it; the nasal feeding, the bed bathing, the constant turning, the gentle physiotherapy. It was a good thing, thought Julia, that there weren’t many really ill patients in the ward, although as fast as one patient went home another took her place, and if she were a heart or chest case, then there would be several days of careful nursing on top of the constant routine.

The day which had been so fine had clouded over by the evening and it had begun to rain. There was a rumble of thunder too as she hurried back to her flat, with luck she would be indoors before she got soaked to the skin. She was going up the shabby steps to the front door when her eye caught a movement in the dusty patch of grass under the front window. She went down the steps again, oblivious of the rain, to see what it was. A kitten—a very small one—bedraggled and far too thin. She picked it up and it mewed soundlessly at her.

‘Lost are you?’ Julia tucked the animal under one arm and went up the stairs to her own small flat. It was no weather to go round knocking on doors asking if anyone had lost a kitten, indeed, she suspected that it had been dumped. She found a saucer, filled it with milk and watched the kitten drink. It was certainly half starved, its fur dirty and dull. She found an old woollen scarf and lined the lid of her work basket with it and put the little beast in it. It went to sleep at once leaving her free to get her supper.

It was while she was eating it that she decided to ‘phone Nigel and presently went down to the call box in the hall. She had to wait for a minute or so before anyone answered and it was his mother’s voice asking who was ringing.

‘Julia—I wondered if Nigel had got to you yet…’

‘Hours ago,’ said Mrs Longman, ‘he’s gone down to the pub with his father.’ She had a light voice which exactly suited her small slender person; when Julia was with her she felt like a carthorse. She said uncertainly: ‘I wondered—that is, did he get the job?’

‘Oh, my dear, yes. He did say something about ‘phoning you but by the time we had had tea, it must have slipped his mind.’

‘Well, that’s splendid news,’ Julia made her voice cheerful, ‘I can’t stay to talk now, have a nice weekend. Bye.’

She went back upstairs and washed her few dishes and since the kitten had woken up, gave him another saucer of warm milk and bread. ‘If no one wants you,’ she promised him, ‘I’ll have you. You’ll have to be alone quite a bit, but that’s better than sitting out in the rain, isn’t it?’

The evening stretched emptily before her, she turned on the TV and watched a programme without seeing any of it, her thoughts busy.

Next weekend she would go home and take the kitten in a basket; old Gyp her father’s labrador and her mother’s two cats would do him no harm and he might be glad of their company. She washed her hair and had a shower and sat down again in her dressing gown, the kitten on her knee. She gave it one of her fingers to nibble and allowed her thoughts to wander and was surprised to discover after a few minutes that she wasn’t thinking about Nigel at all but the professor—home with his wife, she hoped, he might even have taken her out for the evening—dinner somewhere rather grand and dancing afterwards. One didn’t expect someone with a name like Martha to dance well, but probably she was quite super at it. There would be a mother’s help or an au pair to look after the other children, of course, although surely with a Rolls Royce, the professor would be able to afford a Norland Nanny? She frowned; he wasn’t all that young, the boy he had seen off to school that morning could have been the youngest child, the others would be teenagers…

She got up and put the kitten back on the scarf. It was asleep again but she addressed it none the less; it was nice to have something to talk to. ‘I’m getting soft in the head,’ she observed, ‘sitting here doing nothing and thinking a load of nonsense. I shall go to bed.’

Which she did, to be joined presently by the kitten, who climbed laboriously on to the duvet and settled up against her.

She was up earlier than usual the next morning, so that she had time for a more leisurely breakfast before attending to the kitten’s wants and going on duty. The storm had left the streets fresh and revived the dusty shrubs and trees along the street. Being a Sunday, there was no one to be seen, even the main street, usually bustling with traffic by half-past seven, was deserted. Julia made her way up to the ward to be met by the night staff nurse with the news that Professor van der Wagema was on the ward.

‘In that case, I’ll just see what he wants,’ said Julia. Dick Reed had a weekend and perhaps there had been an admission during the night. She hung up her cape and asked the staff nurse.

‘No, Sister—it’s Mrs Collins—Peter Miller ‘phoned the professor and he came in. Peter came to see her about six o’clock because I asked him to. She opened her eyes and grunted.’

‘Good work, Staff. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She went down the ward, wishing her patients good morning as she went, and slipped behind Mrs Collins’ curtains. The professor, in slacks and a sports shirt and not looking in the least like a professor, was sitting on the end of the bed, writing Mrs Collins’ notes. He looked human as he sat there, so that Julia said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ with a good deal more warmth than normal. ‘Is there anything you want?’ she added.

He raised his eyes from his notes and she was struck by their cold darkness. ‘Thank you, no, Sister. Only to be left in peace. If I need anything or anyone, I will say so.’

There was absolutely no answer to that, although she could think of several remarks she longed to make. With a surge of annoyance she went back down the ward. Had he really called her Julia and given her coffee and driven her around in his beautiful Rolls? She must have dreamt the lot.

She took the report and sent the night nurses off duty and went back into the ward to check on the breakfasts. There would be a part time staff nurse on duty at nine o’clock and she had Nurse Wells, who was sensible anyway, as well as two student nurses. Leaving Nurse Wells in the ward she gave a quick report and sent them back to start on the morning’s chores before running through the report once more with Nurse Wells. It being Sunday there was less paperwork; no laundry to argue with, no Path Lab to make appointments with. She tidied her desk and went into the ward to help with the beds and presently, the treatments. It was almost an hour before the professor came down the ward. Julia, in the middle of an argument with an elderly heart patient who could see no good reason for getting out of her bed, was interrupted by his: ‘A word with you, if you please, Sister.’

She beckoned the staff nurse to take her place and walked with him to her office. Inside he waved her to her chair at the desk and sat down himself on the radiator. ‘Coffee?’ he enquired.

Julia, about to sit, got up again and crossed over to the kitchen where luckily Meg had the coffee ready. She bore the tray back with, her set it on the desk and sat herself down again, and since the professor had nothing to say she poured it out and handed him a cup.

‘I’ve had no breakfast,’ he observed, and as she remained silent, ‘Not that it is any concern of yours, Sister.’

‘None at all, sir. You wished to tell me something?’

His dark eyes gleamed beneath their lids. ‘Yes. But there is another matter. Mrs Collins roused sufficiently to tell me something of herself. I have the details here, they may not be accurate; it has taken me all of two hours to get them—she still has periods of unconsciousness. I’d be glad if you will get on to the police and do everything necessary. I shall want an accurate report of her periods of consciousness. Anything out of the normal run of things I wish to know at once. You have my ‘phone number.’

Julia sipped her coffee. ‘Yes, I have. Four hourly TPR, and blood pressure?’

‘Yes.’ He passed his cup and she refilled it. He asked abruptly: ‘You have heard from Longman?’

She hadn’t expected that and she was betrayed into saying no, before she said yes. At his raised eyebrows she added lamely, ‘I ‘phoned last night. He’s got the post.’

‘Yes. He seemed pleased…’

‘He ‘phoned you?’ she asked in surprise.

‘No—I happened to be with Doctor Lamborne when he rang him.’

He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘I suppose we shall be losing you very shortly.’

Her green eyes glinted. ‘You will find Staff Nurse Down will make an excellent sister.’

‘I shall look forward to that,’ he told her blandly as he went.

She had no time for anything but the ward for the rest of the day; the police came and so, after lunch, did the visitors and treatments and medicines had to be fitted in despite these interruptions. She went off duty late but satisfied; the police had unearthed a niece of Mrs Collins who would come the next day. She had sounded pleasant enough on the ‘phone and seemed concerned enough about her aunt. And Mrs Collins had gone steadily ahead. Julia shaking the dust of twenty-four patients from her feet went thankfully back to her flat, where the kitten, looking more like a kitten now, greeted her with pleasure, ate supper and curled up again on its scarf, while Julia showered and got into a cotton dress and cooked her own supper. Tomorrow evening she and Nigel would go out for a meal but just now she was content to spend a quiet evening and if she had half hoped that he would ring her she ignored the thought. He would be back sometime that evening, but he had warned her that it might be in the early hours of the morning. She read the Sunday papers, and paused every now and then to mull over the memory which nagged like a sore tooth; the professor was looking forward to someone else in her place, he couldn’t wait for her to go. She felt unreasonably hurt about that. Thank heaven that Nigel had got the job; they could have a quiet wedding soon, he would need only a couple of months to settle in and even if they had to find a flat outside the hospital, it shouldn’t take all that long; anything would do for a start, they would only be renting it and they could move if it didn’t suit them. She sat weaving plans for the future and presently, accompanied by the kitten, went to bed.

It was the professor’s round in the morning. She greeted him in a cool, wooden voice, agreed that Mrs Collins’ troubles seemed to be almost over, discussed Mrs Winter’s unfortunate habit of ignoring her diet, filled in a number of X-Ray forms and Path Lab requests and finally ushered her party out of the ward, where the lesser fry went about their business and the professor and Dick Reed went into her office where they continued their discussions and drank several cups of coffee while Julia sat between them, passing the biscuit tin to and fro and making notes obediently when told to do so. When finally they got to their feet the professor said: ‘Go on ahead will you, Dick?’ He glanced at his watch, ‘Sister Sedgewick will be expecting us—I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’

Julia was standing behind her desk, wondering what was coming next. She searched swiftly in her mind to discover what could have gone wrong for it must surely be that. The professor had been remotely civil and no more throughout the round and probably he was harbouring some petty grievance…

‘Yesterday,’ he told her smoothly, ‘I told you that I looked forward to seeing someone in your place; to dismiss any misunderstandings on that point, I should point out that it would not be for the reason which I feel sure springs instantly to your mind.’ He looked down his magnificent nose at her. ‘Women are illogical.’ He opened the door but turned to look at her, gaping at him, as he left. ‘Seen young Longman?’ he wanted to know.

She hadn’t, he hadn’t ‘phoned either and she had had no time to find out if he was back in the hospital. She said coldly. ‘No, I haven’t. Neither of us have much leisure…’

‘Sarcasm does not become you, Julia.’

When he had gone, she sat down at her desk again and stared down at the list of things, neatly tabled by Pat, that needed attention. Presently she picked up the ‘phone and began her daily battle with the laundry, but her heart wasn’t in it, there was too much on her mind.

She saw Nigel briefly on the way back from her dinner. He was so obviously delighted with himself that she hadn’t the heart to ask him why he hadn’t ‘phoned her. ‘Exactly what I want,’ he told her enthusiastically, his pleasant open face beaming. He plunged into details and when he at length paused she asked: ‘And is there a flat going with the job?’

‘Flat? Oh yes, there’s a house nearby with three flats—quite nice, I believe.’

‘Didn’t you go and have a look at it?’

‘No, love—the whole interview and so on took much longer than I had expected and I wanted to get home.’

‘Yes, of course. I rang your mother.’

‘She told me. I meant to give you a ring, but my father was keen to go down to the pub and talk about things…’

All quite reasonable thought Julia, so why was she feeling cross? ‘You’re off this evening?’

He nodded. ‘We’ll go out, shall we, and celebrate?’

She smiled widely at him. ‘Lovely. Seven o’clock by the porter’s lodge?’

She had talked too long, she hurried back to the ward, happy again.

She got off duty punctually because Pat, bless her, was never late on duty. She fed the kitten, showered and poked around in her wardrobe for something to wear. There was a green thing she hadn’t worn for quite a while, a straight sheath which showed off her figure to perfection, and highlighted her hair. She didn’t look too bad, she conceded and remembered to put on a pair of only moderately high heels. Nigel and she were exactly the same height but if she wore the high heels she preferred she topped him by an inch or so and he didn’t like it. She had plenty of time, she sat down for a little while, the kitten on her lap. ‘I must get you a basket tomorrow,’ she told him, ‘and give you a name.’ She thought for a minute, ‘I found you in this street, didn’t I? So you’ll be Wellington.’

She kissed his small furry head, picked up her purse and with her loose coat over her shoulders, went back to the hospital. Nigel was there and, most annoyingly, so was Professor van der Wagema, talking to him.

They paused in their talk to wish her a good evening, remark upon the delightful night, and then resume their conversation. Julia, standing between them, with Nigel’s hand on her shoulder, listened with half an ear. Nigel admired the professor and although they rarely had much to do with each other they seemed to have found a great deal to talk about. She was enlightened about this presently: ‘Professor van der Wagema knows my new chief very well,’ Nigel told her. ‘They were up at Cambridge together.’

‘How interesting.’ Julia, wanting her dinner, just managed not to look at the big clock on the wall in front of her, while the professor, listening with grave attention to what Nigel was saying, studied her charming person from under heavy lids.

When the conversation had broken up and Nigel and Julia went on their way, Nigel enthused about the professor while they drove through the busy streets to the small restaurant in Old Bailey which they invariably patronised. It was fairly near to the hospital for one thing and the food was French and fairly cheap and since they had been eating there for a year or more, they were given a corner table where they could talk in peace. Nigel was still extolling the professor’s brilliance as they sat down. ‘Pity you two don’t get on,’ he observed cheerfully, ‘although he has a great opinion of you as a nurse. Told me the ward wouldn’t be the same without you.’

‘Well,’ said Julia reasonably, ‘he’ll just have to get used to that, won’t he? Pat will step into my shoes when I leave.’

She broke off to study the menu; since this was by way of being a celebration she chose rather lavishly and sipped the iced Dubonnet she had asked for. ‘You always have sherry,’ commented Nigel.

‘I want something different this evening. After all, we’re celebrating, aren’t we?’

He beamed at her. ‘Rather. I start at the beginning of November, that gives them time to get another man to replace me. We could get married next summer.’

‘Next summer?’ The surprise in her voice made him look up. ‘But that’s months away. Why can’t we have a quiet wedding this autumn—it’s almost October already Nigel. Why do we have to wait?’

He smiled and took her hand on the table. ‘Look, darling, it’s good sense to wait a bit; I can save up a little and so can you and I can work my way in before you come—I’ll know a few people by then and you won’t be lonely.’

‘But I won’t be lonely with you,’ she protested.

‘I’ll be working hard all day, most days,’ he pointed out patiently. ‘Mother thought it a very good idea. I can go home for my weekends when I get them so I shan’t get bored.’

‘And me?’ asked Julia, forgetting her grammar in the urgency to make him see sense. ‘What about me?’

‘Well you can come down to Mother’s—you’ll be due some leave again soon, won’t you?’

It wasn’t at all what she’d planned; it seemed to her that their future was being taken out of their hands and arranged by his mother, but it was no good rushing her fences, she would have to think of something…

‘I dare say that would be a good idea,’ she said quietly and was rewarded by his contented smile.

They didn’t talk any more about their future that evening; Nigel still had a lot to tell her about his new job, it took up the whole of dinner, and he was still explaining the layout of the hospital in Bristol when he stopped the car outside her little flat.

‘Coming up for coffee?’ asked Julia, and added, ‘I’ve got a kitten, he’s called Wellington.’

‘You’ll have to find him a home when you come down to Bristol,’ said Nigel. ‘They don’t allow cats or dogs.’

The resentment which had been smouldering just below the surface all the evening gave her eyes an emerald glint. ‘Oh, indeed? In that case we’ll have to find somewhere else to live. I’ll not give him away.’

Nigel laughed tolerantly. ‘You’ll change your mind, darling—you can hardly turn your back on a flat with all mod cons for the sake of a cat.’

‘No?’ She put her head through the window and he kissed her. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, Nigel. See you around. I’m going home this weekend.’

He hadn’t said he would come in for coffee and just at that moment she didn’t particularly want him to. She was being silly about Wellington, but he could at least have sympathised and tried to think of a way out. The kitten came to meet her as she opened her door and she picked him up and wandered restlessly round her room while he arranged himself round her neck, purring into her ear. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him, ‘I’ll not part with you.’

In bed later, common sense came to her rescue; she had been edgy all the evening, they had got off to a bad start, from her point of view at least, with the professor making an unwelcome third at their meeting, and Nigel’s mother and her tiresome plans… No, it went back further than that; she had been put out because Nigel had gone off to Bristol on his own when she could so easily have gone with him if only he’d asked her in time. It’ll be all right tomorrow, she promised herself and slept on the thought.

She didn’t see Nigel at all during the next day; he would be operating for most of the day and she was kept busy with a couple of admissions and lengthy sessions with Mrs Collins’ niece, who, although kind hearted and sensible, quite obviously didn’t want the bother of arranging her aunt’s future.

‘It won’t be for some time yet,’ Julia pointed out reasonably, ‘Mrs Collins isn’t fit to move and won’t be for several weeks. We don’t expect you to make a home for her, the social worker attached to the hospital is willing to find out about some sort of accommodation for her, not too far from you, if possible. What we really want to get straight is if you could deal with her possessions and pay up her landlady and so on? Social Security will help you financially…’

It was a relief to have things settled at last; she told Dick Reed when he came on the ward later and went with him to see the two new patients. Chest cases both of them. He spent some time examining them, wrote up their notes, expressed the opinion that they would do well enough until the professor’s round on Thursday, and then went away again.

Julia, who loved her work, decided that evening that she needed a holiday, she was getting stale and vaguely discontented; not like her at all. There had been tentative plans for her to go to Portugal with Fiona and Mary, sometime in October, but she didn’t think that was what she wanted. Home would be the best place—a week or ten days pottering round with her mother, riding in the mornings, going to the rather staid dinner parties their elderly friends gave from time to time and spending days with friends of her own age who she so seldom saw nowadays. She thought about it all the next day, discussed it with Fiona and Mary and quite made up her mind. It only remained for her to tell Nigel and she could do that when they next spent an evening together; if he could manage it, he could spend a weekend…

Her plans buoyed her up all the next day and even the wet early morning dreariness of Thursday morning couldn’t depress her. She prepared for the professor’s round with more than usual briskness and greeted him cheerfully. His response, as usual, was coolly polite but she hardly noticed that. The round went well even if it was rather protracted and presently he and Dick Reed drank their coffee while they discussed their patient’s conditions, adding instructions to those Julia already had, handing her endless signed forms for her to fill in. They had just finished when Dick Reed was called away to an admission in Casualty. The professor made no move from the radiator where he was sitting. ‘Let me know if you want me, Dick,’ he advised and when the door had closed behind his Registrar: ‘You look tired, Julia, you need a holiday.’

She looked up from the notes she was tidying on the desk. ‘Well, I’m going to have one,’ she told him with satisfaction. ‘I’m going home for ten days in a couple of weeks’ time.’

‘And where is home?’ The question was so idly put that she answered without thought. ‘Near Salisbury—along the Chalke Valley—it’s a small village. Stratford Bissett…’

‘A delightful name. Your father lives there?’

‘Yes, he’s a retired schoolmaster, at least not quite retired, he takes boys in their holidays for cramming and visits two prep schools each week.’ She suddenly realised that she was giving away a whole lot of information to someone who couldn’t be in the least interested, and came to an abrupt halt.

Her companion didn’t seem to notice, he went on, almost lazily. ‘You have brothers and sisters?’

She reflected that they had known each other for more than three—almost four—years and never once had he evinced any interest in her as a person. She said ‘Yes,’ and that was all.

He couldn’t have been all that interested; he got up after a few moments, reminded her that he would be taking a teaching round the next afternoon and went away.

He was at his most remote when he arrived on the ward the following day accompanied by half a dozen students. And two can play at that game, she decided, though the students, all anxious to be at their best and nervous, must regard her as a martinet of the most horrifying kind. All the same, she managed to help them out when the professor wasn’t looking, with nods and winks to put them on the right track. At the end of the round the professor was kind enough to observe that they had done quite well, even allowing for Sister Mitchell’s well meant hints.

She had reddened delightfully at that, but had said nothing.

She had bought a basket for Wellington and in order to save time had packed an overnight bag on Friday morning before she went on duty, with any luck she would be able to get an evening train to Salisbury. If she ‘phoned home just before she left her father would meet her there. She went through the day happily enough, now that she knew she would be free in a few hours. She had seen Nigel at dinner time, just for a few minutes and suggested that he might get a weekend while she was on holiday and drive himself down to her home and he had seemed delighted with the idea. They had made a date for Monday evening when they would both be off duty, and she had returned to the afternoon’s work in a glow of contentment.

It had taken no time at all to hurry round to the flat once she was off duty, change into a jersey two-piece, cram Wellington into his basket and with her overnight bag in her other hand, take a taxi to Waterloo. It was still early evening and quite warm and the train was only half full. She sat with Wellington’s basket beside her, and allowed her thoughts to dwell on the future. It seemed rosy enough although there were one or two small pinpricks, silly ones really—her future mother-in-law loomed a little too large but she was the first to admit that probably she was making a mountain out of a molehill. She still could not see why she and Nigel shouldn’t get married before Christmas, perhaps if he spent a couple of days with her while she was on holiday she would be able to persuade him. Then there was the vexed question of her birthday. It had undoubtedly slipped Nigel’s mind, he had had a lot to think about just then, all the same, she had been hurt, still was… One day soon, she told herself bracingly, she would tell him about it and they would laugh together.

The train drew into Salisbury and she collected her bag and with Wellington’s basket in her hand, got out of the carriage. She saw her father at once, tall and thin and a little stooping and her heart gave a happy leap; for some reason she was glad to be well away from St Anne’s and her own problems, which already seemed remote and unimportant. She gave a small yelp of delight and hurried towards him.

CHAPTER THREE

MR MITCHELL embraced his daughter warmly, took her bag and led her outside to where the car, an elderly Rover stood. ‘Your mother’s at home,’ he told her, ‘dishing up the fatted calf. It seems a long time since you were home, my dear.’

‘Four weeks, Father—Nigel had a weekend when I did and we went to his home, if you remember. I’m going to have ten days’ holiday in a couple of weeks, and he’ll come home for his weekend if you and Mother don’t mind.’

They had got into the car and her father was fiddling with his seat belt. ‘You know we love to have you. Madge ‘phoned to say she’d come over for the day and bring Harry with her.’

‘Oh, good, I haven’t seen him for ages. Has he any teeth yet?’

They exchanged small items of news as they drove out of the city and took the road to Stratford Bissett and the road along the Chalke Valley. It was almost dark by now and the car’s headlights shone on the hedges on either side of the road, presently they revealed a handful of cottages as they passed through a small village. Half a mile along the road Mr Mitchell turned the car in through an open gateway and stopped before his front door. The house was in darkness now, but Julia knew every inch of it; stone and flint with a low tiled roof and lattice windows and tall twisted chimneys and a solid door with a wide porch with seats on either side worn smooth by generations of use. She got out of the car and ran inside, down the flagstoned hall to the kitchen. Her mother was at the table, putting the finishing touches to supper and she looked up and smiled as Julia went in.

‘Darling, how lovely to see you. Is that the kitten your father was telling me about? He’ll be hungry, poor little scrap. We’ll shut the doors and he can have his supper with Gyp and Muffin and Maud. Take your jacket off, dear, supper’s just ready.’

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