He pulled her close and kissed her soundly before she realized what he was going to do….

While she was still staring up at him, he let her go and asked in a perfectly normal voice, “Will you have tea or coffee?”

She drew a steadying breath. “Coffee, please,” she said, and took the chair beside his because he was holding it for her. It would help the situation a great deal if someone else came down to breakfast, but on the other hand she wondered what he would say next if they were alone for a little longer.

He handed her a coffee. “Bacon? Eggs? Kippers, perhaps—or a boiled egg?”

How could he talk about kippers when only a moment ago he had been kissing her as though he really enjoyed it? “Bacon and eggs,” said Eloise; if he could eat a hearty breakfast and do a little kissing on the side, so could she.

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.

Pineapple Girl
Betty Neels

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 WARD was in twilight, the patients settling down for the night, those recently operated upon already sedated and made as comfortable as possible, while those ladies who were once more on their legs were putting in the last hair rollers, cleaning their teeth, and drinking the final dregs of the cocoa or Horlick’s which the junior night nurse had been handing round. There were curtains round the bed by the door, though, and everyone was careful not to look in that direction. Mrs Peake, who had been in the ward for weeks now, was about to leave it. She had been quiet and uncomplaining and grateful for even the smallest service, and as Miss Crow, a convalescent appendix, remarked: ‘It did seem ‘ard to ‘ave ter die all quiet-like.’ Her listeners had nodded in agreement and one of them had whispered: ‘Yer so right, dearie, but at least she’s got our nice Staff with ’er.’

There was another round of whispered agreement. Eloise Bennett was liked by all her patients; she somehow managed to make a long night shorter, and the coming of morning something pleasant, even for those due for theatre that day. And she was a good nurse, too, seeing to uncomfortable pillows before the bed’s occupant had time to complain, whisking sheets smooth, knowing when to be firm and when to sympathise, and over and above these things, she knew her work well—all the complications of drips and pumps, ventilators and tubes held no fears for her; sudden emergencies were dealt with with a calm born of experience and common sense, so that although she had only been qualified for a little more than a year, she had already been singled out by authority to be thrust into Sister’s blue the moment a vacancy occurred.

She came from behind the curtains now, a tall girl, with a splendid figure and a wealth of nut-brown hair piled under her nurse’s cap, and a face which could be considered plain but for a pair of large hazel eyes, richly fringed, for her nose was too short and her mouth far too wide and her brows, although nicely arched, were dark and thick. She smiled as she encountered the gaze of the little group of women still out of their beds, said in a pleasant voice: ‘Ladies, you’re missing your beauty sleep,’ and went past them to start her evening round at the top of the ward.

The first three beds offered no hindrance to her progress; operation cases of that afternoon, they were already settled for the night and sleeping, so she merely checked their conditions, studied their charts and moved on down the ward. Old Mrs James was in the next bed, elderly and crotchety and impatient of the major surgery she had undergone a few days previously; Eloise stayed with her for a few minutes, listened to her small grievances, promised sleeping pills very shortly and went on to the next bed.

The ward was almost full, only one empty bed at the end of the row stood ready to receive any emergency which might arrive at a moment’s notice. It would have to be moved presently, thought Eloise as she sped past it, for if anyone came in during the night the whole ward would be awakened by the trundling of the trolley down its length. She sighed a little, for the day staff could have done it easily without disturbing anyone at all…

The first bed on the other side of the ward still had its overhead light on, its occupant sitting up against her pillows, reading. The new patient, admitted that day for operation in the morning and according to the day nurses, as tiresome a woman as one could wish not to meet. Eloise stopped by the bed, said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Fellows,’ in her nice quiet voice and pointed out that bed lights had been due out ten minutes earlier. ‘I’m going to give you something to make you sleep,’ she promised. ‘You’ve had a drink, haven’t you? Nurse will bring you a cup of tea early in the morning and get you ready for theatre.’

Mrs Fellows was aggressively blonde, extremely fat and far from sweet-tempered. ‘And who are you?’ she wanted to know, belligerently. ‘I shan’t sleep a wink, no one knows how I suffer with my poor nerves—the least sound and I wake. I need the greatest care and attention—the very thought of my operation makes me feel faint!’

Eloise considered privately that fainting was the last thing that Mrs Fellows was likely to do; shout, scream, wake everyone up—yes, very probably; anything to focus attention on her plump person.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she advised, ‘there’s no need, you know, because you’ll know absolutely nothing about it…’

Mrs Fellows shot her a look of dislike. ‘Easy to talk,’ she sneered, ‘a great hulking girl like you, as hard as nails and never a day’s illness. You’re all alike,’ she added vaguely.

‘I expect we seem like that to you,’ conceded Eloise, ‘but we’re not really.’ She stretched up and turned off the bed light. ‘I’ll be back presently with those pills.’ She smiled kindly at the tiresome woman and turned to the occupant of the next bed, Mrs White, a small, wiry woman who was going home the next day and who greeted her with a smile. ‘I’ll miss yer, dearie,’ she said softly. ‘It’ll be nice to get ‘ome, but I’ll miss yer… ’Ere, this is from me old man and me. Yer been an angel and we wants yer ter ‘ave it.’

And Mrs White, with a swift movement worthy of a magician, heaved at something under the blankets and produced a pineapple.

‘Oh!’ said Eloise, startled, and then: ‘Mrs White, what a simply lovely present—thank you, and your husband. I’ve—I’ve never had such a delightful surprise.’ She clasped the fruit to her person and bent to kiss the donor. She was going to look a little strange finishing the round hugging it to her aproned bosom, but to do anything else would hurt Mrs White’s feelings. She tucked it under one arm, where it got dreadfully in the way, until she was back at her desk once more, where she put it in a prominent position, mindful of her patient’s watchful eye.

It stayed there for the rest of the night, while Eloise, with her junior trotting beside her, dealt with all the small emergencies which cropped up. She dealt with the inevitable admission too, a young girl who had got involved in a fight between her boyfriend and some other young man; she had been punched and knocked around and both hands had been cut where she had tried to take the knife away from one of them. She was still shocked when she was admitted; Eloise dealt with her gently, sedated her under the eye of the house surgeon on duty, and went back to her routine chores; they had to be fitted in however many times she was interrupted. And the girl was quiet, which was more than could be said for the two men admitted with her. Lucy Page, the staff nurse on Men’s Surgical, had a good deal to say about them when she got down to her meal.

‘A nasty pair,’ she informed Eloise. ‘I’ve got them in the two-bedded ward opposite the office—they’re laid low at the moment and there’s a member of the force with them, thank heaven, but I don’t envy the day staff. How’s yours?’

Eloise told her, gobbling rice pudding, her mind already hours ahead, working out how she could best catch up with the night’s work before the morning was upon her. ‘Someone gave me a pineapple,’ she informed the table at large, and added apologetically: ‘I would have brought it down with me, but I thought it would have been nice to take home…’

There was a chorus of assent; everyone there knew that Eloise lived in a poky little flat behind the Imperial War Museum—true, it was on the fringe of a quite respectable middle-class district, but with, as it were, an undesirable neighbourhood breathing down its neck. It had been all that her mother could afford after her father had died, and now, several years later, they both knew that she had made a mistake, giving up their pretty little house in the Somerset village and coming to live in an alien London. At the time it had seemed a good idea; Eloise had just started her training as a nurse, and if she lived with her mother there would be more money to eke out Mrs Bennett’s tiny pension, and if her mother had stayed in Eddlescombe, then Eloise would have been hard put to it to find the fare home, even for an occasional visit.

Accordingly, when her sister-in-law had suggested that she might be able to find them a flat near St Goth’s, Mrs Bennett had been delighted. Surprised too; her elder brother’s wife and now widow had never liked them overmuch; she had paid an occasional visit, turning up her long nose at the smallness of the village house, sneering at the small country pleasures they enjoyed, wondering, out loud and in a penetrating voice, how they could exist without central heating, colour TV and the amenities of town life. But after Mr Bennett’s funeral she had stayed on for a few days, full of suggestions as to their future. And at the time they had been grateful, for it had seemed a way out of their difficulties, but now, sadly, with the wisdom of hindsight they knew that they had made a mistake.

Mrs Bennett had never settled in London and although they lived more comfortably now that Eloise was trained and had more money, it was still hard to make ends meet. Besides, her aunt, now that her first enthusiastic efforts had palled and she had seen them settled in their new home, had rather washed her hands of them, not that Mrs Bennett would have accepted any help from her. A small, rather timid woman, sheltered all her married life by her husband and then by his daughter, she had nonetheless a good deal of pride which made it unthinkable to rely on any form of charity, especially from her sister-in-law, so she lived uncomplainingly in the hideous block of flats, her treasured furniture around her, and looked upon with good-humoured tolerance and casual affection by her neighbours, while she, for her part, was ever ready to babysit, read aloud to the bedbound and offer a ready hand when it was needed.

Eloise hated it too, but the hate hadn’t soured her. She had done well during her training, been the gold medallist for her year and was well on the way to a Sister’s post—Junior Night Sister first, the stepping off point for promotion, and then the chance of a ward of her own—and when that happened, and it wouldn’t be all that long to wait, she had made up her mind to find a home for them both, in or near Eddlescombe. She would be earning enough to do that, and although she would hate living in the hospital, she would be able to go home fairly often and at least have the satisfaction of knowing that her mother was happy.

She was thinking about it as she went off duty in the morning after a tiring night, culminating in Mrs Fellows’ shocking behaviour when she had wakened at six o’clock. Little Mrs Peake had died in the early hours of the morning, as gently and quietly as she had lived, and Eloise and her nurse had done what they had to do in a sad silence, for there had been no one to mourn the dear soul; as far as anyone knew she had no family and very few friends. They made up the bed with silent speed and went back to their endless little jobs until the first of the operation cases woke, to be instantly made comfortable for the day, sat up, given a drink, and where necessary, another injection. They had all the poorly ones settled by the time the rest of the ward roused itself and the mobile patients began their self-appointed task of handing round the early tea.

It was in the middle of this cheerful bustle that Mrs Fellows had made herself heard; she refused in no uncertain manner to drink her tea, take a bath and put on her theatre gown; she had refused loudly, rudely and at great length, so that Eloise, called from the re-packing of dressings, changing of drips and filling in charts, was hard put to keep her patience and temper—something Mrs Fellows’ neighbours didn’t do. She was told to belt up, shut up and invited to buzz off, their advice given in the pungent, forceful language of the cockney, with strong recommendations to mind what she said to Staff. ‘For yer don’t know yer luck,’ declared one old lady, still without her teeth but none the less a force to be reckoned with. ‘She’s a h’angel, she is, an’ yer jist wait till ternight, yer won’t ‘arf be glad she’s ‘ere ter look after yer.’

The chorus of agreement was uttered in so menacing a tone that Eloise had intervened, begging everyone in a calm voice to hush a little: ‘Don’t forget the ladies at the other end,’ she reminded her belligerent supporters, ‘they’re not feeling too bright and most of them have just had injections.’

She had pulled the curtains round Mrs Fellows’ bed then, while that lady muttered abuse at her. It would have been nice, she thought tiredly, if she could have muttered back at her; the night had been a heavy one and she was dog-tired, and going off duty presently, with the prospect of a lot more of Mrs Fellows when she came on again that night, did nothing to cheer her. She had sent her junior nurse on ahead while she went back to say a final farewell to Mrs White, and then, with her bag, bulging with the knitting she hadn’t had a chance to do, and the pineapple clasped under one arm, she had set off for the canteen, a vast, dreary place in the basement.

Women’s Surgical was on the second floor and nurses were supposed to use the stairs; in any case both lifts were in use. Eloise started off running down the stone steps, late and tired and a little cross. She had reached the ground floor and had begun to traverse the back lobby in order to reach the last, narrow flight of stairs, when she saw Sir Arthur Newman, the senior consultant on the surgical side, standing directly below the staircase she was tearing down, looking the other way, talking to a tall man with very broad shoulders, facing her. The man was good-looking—very, noted her tired eye, with fair hair and commanding features—and he was staring at her.

And no wonder, she thought peevishly; her hair was coming loose from its bun and her cape was hanging from one shoulder; all the same, he didn’t have to look at her as though she were surrounded by winking lights or something. She frowned and lifted her chin because he had begun to smile a little, and that was a great pity, because she took a step which wasn’t there and fell flat on her face. The knitting cushioned her fall, but the pineapple bounded ahead and landed with a squashy thump on the man’s shoe, denting itself nastily.

The shoe’s wearer kicked it gently to one side, surveyed his large, well-shod foot and bent to pick her up. The pair of them hauled her to her feet rather as though she had been a sack of coals, dusted her down with kindly hands and while Sir Arthur handed her her knitting, his companion bent to pick up the crushed fruit.

‘So sorry,’ said Eloise breathlessly, ‘very clumsy of me…’ Her eye fell on the pineapple and her face dropped. ‘Oh, it’s spoilt!’ She lifted a worried face to his. ‘And I did so want to…’ She paused; this stranger wouldn’t be in the least interested in her intentions regarding her gift. ‘I hope it didn’t hurt your foot,’ she said politely.

‘I have large feet,’ he had a slow, pleasantly deep voice, ‘and there’s no harm done—only to this.’ He handed over the battered thing. ‘A present?’ he inquired gently.

‘Well, yes—you know, someone going home…so kind…thank you both very much…breakfast…I’m late…’ She smiled at them both, happily forgetful of her deplorable appearance, and nipped across the lobby and down the stairs, to be greeted by her friends wanting to know why she was so late and had someone dragged her through a hedge backwards.

She sat down with her plate of porridge and showered it with sugar. ‘Well, I got off late, and then I fell down in the back lobby and Sir Arthur was there and picked me up.’ For some reason she didn’t want to tell them about the man who had been with him. ‘I’ve ruined my pineapple, though.’

‘Put it in the fridge,’ someone suggested. ‘Perhaps it’ll harden up—you’ve got nights off after tonight, haven’t you?’

Eloise fetched scrambled eggs on toast and began to devour them. ‘And three weeks’ holiday only two weeks away.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Stay at home—I expect we’ll go out, exhibitions and things,’ she observed vaguely; London at the beginning of October wasn’t really the place for a holiday. Now, Eddlescombe would be lovely; bonfires in the gardens and falling leaves and long walks under an autumn sky… She pushed aside the rest of her breakfast, no longer hungry, and got herself another cup of tea. ‘Does anyone want any stamps?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to go to the post office on the way home.’

She went home by bike, on an ancient machine which creaked and groaned through the morning traffic and brought her finally to the block of flats where she and her mother lived. The building looked bleaker than usual as she wheeled it to the basement shelter and chained it up for the day before walking up two flights of stairs to the second floor, the pineapple, very much the worse for wear, secure on top of the knitting in her bag. It looked a bit second-hand by now, but at least most of it would be edible.

Second-hand or not, Mrs Bennett was delighted with it, making light of the damage. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she declared happily. ‘We’ll have it at supper.’ Her still pretty face creased into a ready smile, while her eyes, hazel like her daughter’s, noted the tired white face.

‘A bad night, love? Well, only two more nights before you get nights off—what shall we do with them? There’s that exhibition of pottery—oh, and your aunt wants to come and see us…’

Eloise had cast off her outdoor uniform and was putting on the kettle. ‘Oh, Mother, must she? She only comes when she wants something.’

‘Yes, I know, darling, but this time she’s bringing Deborah Pringle with her—remember I knew her years ago and we were always great friends—still are in a way, for we write regularly even though she doesn’t live in England. I should like to see her again.’

She went back into the kitchen and made the tea and they went into the sitting room, small and rather crowded with the furniture they had brought with them from Somerset; all the same, it was a pretty room with a few flowers and some small pieces of silver on the sideboard. The pair of them sat down by the window and drank their tea and presently Eloise went off to have her bath and go to bed. Really, night duty was no life at all, she thought sleepily as she brushed her hair; here it was almost eleven o’clock and she would have to be up soon after five so that she could eat her supper in peace before going back on duty—there was no time to read or talk. ‘Poor Mother,’ she muttered, ‘it’s even worse for her.’

She went to say goodnight to her parent, busy in the kitchen, and then retired to take her night’s rest in her topsy-turvy world. It had been a horrid night, she reflected gloomily as she curled up in bed. At least, not quite horrid, for there had been that nice man… She fell asleep thinking about him.

Her mother called her, as she always did, with a cup of tea and sat on the end of the bed while she drank it. ‘You’ve not slept very much, have you?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, once the children get out of school…’ Eloise tried to sound cheerful because she knew that her mother worried about her wakefulness, and her mother nodded and went on:

‘That pineapple, dear—was there something special about it?’

‘Just a pineapple, Mother.’

‘Yes, I know that—but a special delivery man called after lunch with a Fortnum and Mason basket, I opened it because all the man said was “name of Bennett”, the way they always do—and it’s crammed with fruit: three pineapples and grapes and those enormous pears and apples…there’s a note.’

She handed an envelope to her daughter and didn’t say a word while Eloise opened it and read the brief note inside: ‘Allow me to offer compensation for the damage done by my foot this morning.’ The signature was unintelligible and it was addressed to the Pineapple Girl.

‘Well!’ said Eloise, and then: ‘He must be nuts.’

‘Who, dear?’ Mrs Bennett’s voice was casual, masking her seething curiosity.

‘Well, there was this man…’ Eloise related the morning’s happening without trimmings. ‘And my hair was coming down—I looked a perfect fright—you know…’ She paused. ‘Mother, have I ever reminded you of a pineapple?’

Her mother took the question seriously. ‘No, dear. You’re not a beauty, but you’re not knobbly—your hair grows very prettily too, not out of the top of your head.’

‘How did he know where I lived?’

‘He only had to ask, presumably. Porters, or someone,’ said Mrs Bennett vaguely. ‘If he was talking to Sir Arthur Newman he must have been respectable, so of course they would have told him.’

Eloise looked at her mother with loving amusement. ‘Yes, well…’ She finished her tea and went along to the sitting room where the basket was displayed on the table. It was indeed a splendid sight, Eloise walked all round it, eyeing its contents. ‘I can’t thank him,’ she observed at length. ‘I haven’t a clue who he is, have I? I could ask, I suppose, but I don’t think I want to—I mean if—if he’d wanted to see me again he would have put an address or said so.’ She glanced at her mother and said seriously: ‘He was a very handsome man, he’d hardly lower his sights to me, you know. I expect he just felt sorry.’

She sighed; usually she didn’t waste time pining for a beautiful face, but just for a moment she wanted most desperately to be absolutely eye-catching. ‘Oh, well,’ she said at length, and then: ‘We’ve got enough fruit to open a shop, isn’t it marvellous?’

It seemed only fair to take Mrs White’s gift back on duty that evening, to be shared among her friends at their midnight dinner; it made a nice change from the creamed rice and jellied fruit which were on the menu night after night. But Eloise didn’t get any herself; she got down late to her meal because Mrs Fellows had made the early part of the night hideous with her loud moans and complaints. She had been sedated early because the day staff had been hindered in their evening’s work by her constant demands for this, that and the other thing, but that had worn off by ten o’clock, and although Eloise got the house surgeon on duty to come and look at her and write her up for further sedation, he had told her to wait until midnight before giving it.

‘She’s not in pain,’ he declared, ‘just determined to make life hell for everyone else—let’s see, supposing we give her…’ He wrote busily. ‘That should keep her quiet until morning and you can repeat it at six o’clock if she’s still rampaging.’ He thrust the chart at Eloise. ‘It was only an EUA, after all…not even surgery.’

Cycling home in the morning, Eloise reflected that the night had been awful—thank heaven there was only one more to go before her nights off.

And that night was so madly busy that she had no time for her own thoughts at all; with operation cases to settle, two severe accident cases to admit, an emergency case for the theatre at two o’clock in the morning, and Mrs Fellows, due home in the morning, but still complaining loudly, adding her quota to the night’s bedlam. Eloise, too tired to know whether she was coming or going, ate her breakfast in a trance, got herself home and fell into her bed after a quick cup of tea and a hot bath.

She had six nights off due to her and it was on the third of these that Mrs Bennett’s visitors came. Her sister-in-law arrived first; a tall, commanding woman with a penetrating voice and cold good looks, she pecked at their cheeks, told them that they both looked tired, chose a chair with deliberation and loosened the expensive furs she was wearing. Watching her aunt, Eloise found herself wondering how she had come to marry her father’s elder brother in the first place, although perhaps it wasn’t so strange, as he had been successful; making money as easily as a good cook makes pastry, quite unlike her own father, content to work in his book shop, specializing in rare books and engravings. That he had loved herself and her mother she had no doubt, but books were his real love and he had lived largely in a world of his own far removed from the more mundane life around him. Which had probably accounted for the fact that when he died very suddenly from a coronary, it was discovered that his insurances had lapsed for a number of years and that he had mortgaged the shop and house in order to find the money to buy the rare books he had coveted. As a consequence he had left his wife and daughter very ill provided for and although neither of them had blamed him in the slightest for this, his sister-in-law had never ceased, on every possible occasion, to mention his improvidence.

The lady made just such a remark now, once she had settled herself, and went on in her bossy way: ‘You need a change, both of you, and I have the solution.’

She held up a beringed hand to stop any questioning, although neither of her listeners had had any intention of speaking; they had long ago decided that the only way to treat their overbearing relation was to give every appearance of attention and then go their own way, but the lady went on, just as though she had received a gratifying murmur of admiration: ‘But I shall say no more until Deborah Pringle arrives.’ She frowned and glanced at her watch. ‘She should be here now.’

As though Mrs Pringle had been given her cue, the doorbell rang and Eloise went to answer it. She had met Mrs Pringle a number of times and liked her; she was a small bustling creature with a kindly nature which never sought to boss others around and Eloise had often wondered how she had come to be a friend of her aunt’s. She came in now, exclaiming cheerfully, ‘I’m a little late, but the taxi couldn’t find you and I’m hopeless at telling people how to get to places.’ She gave Eloise a kiss and added warmly: ‘Your lovely hair—how I do envy you, my dear. How’s your mother?’

Eloise said dryly: ‘Aunt says she needs a holiday…’

‘And I daresay she does but she’s not one to waste time pining for something—not if I know her, and I should do after all these years.’ She smiled widely and whispered: ‘What’s the betting that I’m wearing the wrong kind of hat?’

She was greeted with pleasure by Mrs Bennett and more austerely by that lady’s sister-in-law, who, sure enough, told her at once: ‘That’s not the hat for you, Deborah—far too young…’

‘But I feel young.’ Mrs Pringle sat down between her two friends and looked at them in turn, rather like a referee might look at two boxers before a fight. She said cheerfully: ‘Well, Mary, it’s delightful to see you again—a pity I don’t come to England more often and when I do, it’s almost impossible to get away; Cor likes me to be with him all the time.’

‘He’s not with you this time?’ asked Mrs Bennett.

‘He went back last week—simply had to…’ And when her friend cast her an inquiring look: ‘I wasn’t allowed to travel; I came over here for an operation, nothing vital, but I have to stay for a check-up before I go home.’ She changed the conversation then, and it wasn’t until Eloise had fetched the tea and they had finished the sandwiches and home made cake that she reverted to herself.

‘I’ve a favour to ask,’ she began a shade diffidently. ‘You see, I met Maggie a short while ago,’ she paused to smile at that forbidding lady, ‘and I mentioned that I was going back home in a short time and wanted to take a nurse with me, just for a little while, you know, and so she telephoned you, Mary, meaning to ask if Eloise was free, and you told her that she had a holiday in a couple of weeks. Now that would be simply splendid if only she would agree to come with me.’ She flashed a smile at Eloise. ‘Nothing much to do, just a small dressing and my temperature and so on, and I promise her that she shall have plenty of time to do what she likes.’

Eloise found her astonished voice. ‘How kind of you to think of me,’ she exclaimed, ‘but you see I can’t leave Mother alone…’

‘Ah,’ Mrs Pringle beamed in mild triumph, ‘it just so happens in the most extraordinary way imaginable that I met Mrs Plunkett last week—remember her at Eddlescombe? Well, she was asking about you, Mary, and said how much she would like to see you again and if only you were on your own she would love to have you to stay—you know she has only that dear little cottage with two bedrooms?’ She paused and looked around her. Mrs Bennett was staring at her with rapt attention, Eloise’s nice, ordinary face betrayed her suspicion that the whole thing was a put up job and her aunt looked vaguely irritated as she always did when someone else was doing the talking.

‘I know it sounds too good to be true,’ declared Mrs Pringle with a glance at Eloise, ‘but that’s exactly what happened, and I thought how marvellous it would be if Eloise were to come with me and you, Mary, could go and stay with Beryl Plunkett. What do you say?’

Eloise darted a quick look at the longing on her mother’s face. ‘I think it’s a super idea, Mrs Pringle; I’d love to look after you, and if Mother’s with Mrs Plunkett I should be quite happy about going. What do you think, Mother?’

Mrs Bennett smiled widely at no one in particular. ‘Well, darling, it does sound delightful, but you’re sure you…you’ll have a lovely time… Eddlescombe will be heavenly at this time of year…’

Mrs Pringle smiled too. ‘Then that’s settled. Eloise, when does your holiday start? I planned to go down to say goodbye to Beryl. You could drive down with me, Mary, and I’ll come back and collect Eloise on the following day.’

Mrs Bennett looked overwhelmed. ‘You’re really going down to Eddlescombe? It would be lovely to drive down with you—if Eloise could manage for a couple of days?’

‘Easily, darling.’ Eloise smiled at her mother. She hadn’t seen that look on her face for a long time; even if she hadn’t wanted to go with Mrs Pringle, she would have declared her delight at the prospect—and she did want to go, not only because it would give her mother the chance of a holiday; it would be fun to go somewhere different. Which reminded her. ‘You know, I’m not at all sure where you live,’ she told Mrs Pringle.

‘Holland, my dear. We’ve lived all over the world, you know, but now Cor is permanently based there, and he being a Dutchman finds that very satisfactory—so do I; we live in Groningen, in the north and within easy reach of the city. There’s a car if you care to drive it, and the country around us is delightful—quiet but not isolated. Cor is away a good deal, but he’s always home at weekends and we have friends—I think you might like it.’ She caught the questioning look in Eloise’s eye and added: ‘I’ll tell you about myself later; one’s little illnesses are always so boring for other people.’

She turned back to Mrs Bennett. ‘That’s settled, then, and how very pleased I am. Shall I collect you in—two weeks, is it? We’ll fix the exact day later—and Eloise will be free the day after you go to Eddlescombe, won’t she? Nothing could be better.’ She gathered up her gloves and handbag. ‘I really must fly—can I give you a lift, Maggie?’

She so obviously expected her offer to be accepted that Eloise’s aunt got to her feet quite quickly and with unusual meekness, and it was during their rather protracted farewells that Mrs Pringle said quietly to Eloise: ‘You’re back on duty in two days, aren’t you? Could you manage to meet me one morning before you come home?’

There was no time to ask questions. Eloise said yes and named a day and time and wondered what she was going to be told, for obviously Mrs Pringle was going to tell her something; something which she didn’t care to discuss with everyone; something to do with her op. Eloise reviewed her surgery and decided that it was probably a good deal more serious than Mrs Pringle had implied.

It was; sitting in the visitors’ room in the Nurses’ Home after breakfast a few mornings later, her visit disclosed quite simply that she had inoperable cancer; that there was little more to be done and that she and her husband had decided that she should return to Groningen and live out the rest of her life among her friends and in the home she loved. ‘I have a simply splendid doctor,’ she told Eloise cheerfully. ‘It was he who sent me to Sir Arthur Newman in the first place—you’ve worked for him, haven’t you, dear? I was in a nursing home, of course, though I should have been just as happy in hospital, but Cor insisted, bless him…’ She smiled. ‘So now you know—or did you guess?’

‘Almost—I thought it might be more serious than you wanted us to think, and when you mentioned a dressing…’

‘And you really don’t mind coming? It’s silly of me, I know, but I have to get used to the idea and I thought if I had someone I knew with me, just for a little while, then I can face it. They tell me I can expect six months, perhaps a little longer.’

Eloise got out of her chair and went to kneel by her visitor. ‘You’re brave, Mrs Pringle, and I’ll do all I can to help you. Your husband must be very upset.’

‘Poor dear, he is. Do you believe in miracles, Eloise?’

‘Yes, and I think most nurses and doctors do; you see, now and then there is a miracle, and who knows, it might be yours.’

Her visitor smiled crookedly. ‘Bless you for saying that! I believe we’re going to get on very well together.’ She got to her feet. ‘Not a word to your mother, mind—no one knows, only you and Cor and Sir Arthur, and of course my own doctor.’

‘Dutch?’ asked Eloise.

‘From Groningen.’ Mrs Pringle looked vaguely speculative for a moment. ‘I expect you’ll get on well with each other; he’s a mild sort of man. Now I’m going for you have to go home and go to bed. Will you tell your mother that I’ll write to her within the next day or so? And I’ll let you know at what time I’ll call for you.’ She leaned up and kissed Eloise’s cheek. ‘You’re a dear girl.’

Eloise cycled home thoughtfully, only half her mind on the traffic. Mrs Pringle was indeed a brave woman, and the idea of leaving her alone again after a couple of weeks went against the grain. She frowned over the problem until she was brought back to the present by a bus driver alongside her, waiting at the traffic lights, asking her from his cab if she had taken root. He said it nicely, for she was in uniform, but it recalled her to her whereabouts. She made haste home after that and spent the next hour or so listening to her mother’s delighted comments on her forthcoming holiday. ‘I am looking forward to it,’ declared Mrs Bennett for the hundredth time, ‘and I only hope you’ll enjoy yourself too, darling.’

Eloise gave her mother a hug. ‘I shall enjoy every minute of it,’ she assured her, reflecting that to do anything else wouldn’t help Mrs Pringle at all. ‘And now I’m off to bed, darling—I had a beastly night.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE FORTNIGHT went very quickly. The ward was busy for one thing, and for another, both Eloise and her mother had something to plan for. Refuting that wise but cautious saying about rainy days, Eloise took her mother shopping and persuaded her parent to invest in a good tweed suit, pointing out with rather muddled good sense that the garment in question would probably be twice the price by the time they could afford to buy it. Mrs Bennett, thus spurred on, found a dear little hat to go with it, had her good shoes re-soled and then turned her attention to her daughter. Eloise dressed well, considering she did so on a minuscule amount of money, but as her mother pointed out, Mrs Pringle very likely lived in some style, and she had to admit that her winter coat, although well cut and nicely fitting, was now about to see its third winter—moreover, she was heartily sick of it; something would have to be done to liven it up. This they achieved at a reasonable outlay by the purchase of an angora cap, scarf and gloves in a warm shade of honey which helped the dark brown of the coat considerably.

Eloise found a dress too of almost the same shade; one of dozens similar in Marks and Spencer, but as she pointed out, the chance of anyone in Holland knowing that was remote. It was simply cut, with long sleeves and a wide belt to define her small waist, and if the occasion warranted she would dress it up with a neck scarf or some beads. Sweaters she already had, and skirts and an elderly velvet dress the colour of a mole, bought in their more affluent days; no longer high fashion, but it would, at a pinch, pass muster. The two ladies went home, packed their cases and professed themselves well pleased with their purchases.

It had been arranged that Mrs Bennett should be fetched by Mrs Pringle’s car—a hired one, and as she confided to Eloise, it would be a treat in itself just to be driven all the way to Somerset. ‘Though Deborah always drove herself,’ she remarked, ‘and when I asked her why she had a chauffeur she said something about it being not like the old days and there was too much traffic. I must say I was quite surprised.’ Which Eloise wasn’t.

Her mother gone, Eloise combated loneliness with a great deal of housework, slept soundly and went on duty for the last time before her holiday. The tiresome Mrs Fellows had long since gone, but the ward was full and some of the patients were ill; she went off duty tired out and with the good-natured wishes of her friends ringing in her ears she cycled home, thankful that she had nothing to do but go to bed. She got up early, finished her packing, cooked herself an early supper, washed her hair and after touring the little flat to make sure that everything was in apple pie order, went back to bed again; she would have to be up in good time in the morning, as she was to be fetched at eight o’clock.

She woke to a bright day, the chilliness of autumn masked by brilliant sunshine. The winter coat was going to be a little heavy, but worn without a hat it would have to do. She took extra care with her pretty hair, made up her face carefully, collected her passport and purse, went through her handbag once more, and sat down to wait.

Mrs Pringle was on time; Eloise saw the car from the window, gave a final look round and went downstairs. She felt excited now and happier than she had been for a long time, although she knew that the happiness would be dimmed before long—Mrs Pringle had put a brave face on things, but there were going to be days when she wouldn’t feel so good, when Eloise would have to coax and encourage and somehow rekindle the spark of hope every patient had tucked away inside them. And there was always the possibility, however remote, that Mrs Pringle might make a recovery—it could happen, no one knew why, and it didn’t happen often, but it was something to bear in mind and work for.

Her patient was in the back of the car; if she were secretly worried about herself, no trace of it showed on her face. She told the driver to stow the luggage in the boot, invited Eloise to get in beside her and exclaimed happily: ‘I’m so thrilled at the idea of going home! I’ve been thinking of some of the things we might do together, but first I must tell you about your mother. I left her looking ten years younger and so happy—she sent her love and said you were to enjoy yourself. Such a dear creature and not changed at all, which is more than I can say for your aunt—how lucky she is to have you, Eloise. I always wanted a daughter. Of course it’s lovely having Pieter, but he doesn’t live at home.’ She sighed. ‘We always said that we would have six children.’

‘Mother wanted a large family…’

‘Yes. Ah, well, perhaps when you marry you’ll make up for it and have a pack of them—that will please her, though it’s not fashionable.’

‘Pooh,’ declared Eloise, ‘who cares about fashion?’ and just for a moment she saw herself, surrounded by several quite beautiful children, with a pleasant house in the background and an enormous garden, and somewhere close by, but regrettably vague, a husband. She might have elaborated on his appearance, only her companion was speaking again.

‘Well be met at Schiphol—Cor will be there with the car—this one is hired; as you know. It won’t take long to drive home from there—it’s less than a hundred and fifty miles. The village where we live is called Scharmerbloem—it’s small, but then you like the country, don’t you, dear? Just a few houses and a church. Groningen is only ten miles away, though.’

‘And your doctor—does he live in Groningen?’

‘Well, he has his consulting rooms there and beds in the hospital, but he lives quite close by us, by the side of a charming lake called Schildermeer. The village is called Oostersum—it’s as small as ours.’ She paused, ‘We do depend on our cars, of course, as although the main road isn’t too far away, it’s a good walk, though once you’re there the bus service is good.’

They were threading their way through the London traffic towards the airport and Mrs Pringle glanced out of the window rather wistfully so that Eloise said quickly: ‘Of course you’ll be coming back in a month or so for a check-up, won’t you? Sir Arthur would want that.’

‘Yes, although he did suggest that he might come and see me—he’s an old friend of our doctor and it would give him an excuse to visit him.’

‘What a good idea! I expect your doctor knows everything there is to know about you, Mrs Pringle?’

‘Yes, dear, and I’ve great faith in him; he’s quiet and solid and sure of himself.’

Eloise decided silently that probably he was big-headed; quite likely he wouldn’t take kindly to giving instructions to a foreign nurse. It was to be hoped that his English was adequate. She reflected uneasily that she had better get herself a dictionary and learn a few vital words of the Dutch language. In a way it was a pity that she wouldn’t be wearing uniform; a nurse never seemed a nurse unless she was in an apron and cap. As though her companion had read her thoughts, Mrs Pringle observed. ‘I’ve got some white dresses for you, dear—you don’t mind? There’s that dressing, and just in case I should have to stay in bed…’

‘How thoughtful of you, Mrs Pringle. I’ll wear uniform all the time if you want me to.’

Her companion was shocked. ‘Good heavens, no, dear—you’re on holiday, at least, more or less—besides, I don’t want any of my friends to know about me. I shall say that you’re the daughter of an old friend come to spend a couple of weeks with us—will that do?’

‘Very well, I should think.’ Eloise looked out of the window. ‘We’re almost there; I’m quite excited, I’ve not been in a plane before.’

Mrs Pringle was looking at herself in a pocket mirror. ‘I hate them,’ she said, ‘but they’re quick. The driver will see to our luggage and if I give you the tickets do you think you could cope?’

It was all a little strange but straightforward enough; Eloise coped and presently found herself sitting beside Mrs Pringle, watching the runway under the plane slide away at an alarming speed. She wasn’t sure if she liked it, so she looked away and didn’t look again until they had left the ground beneath them.

It was similar to travelling in a bus, she discovered, and once over her initial uneasiness, she peered down through the gaps in the cloud and saw that they were already over the water. It seemed no time at all before her companion pointed out the Dutch coast, flat and very tidy, far below them, the sea frothing endlessly at its unending sands.

Mijnheer Pringle was waiting for them and at first sight Eloise was disappointed; she hadn’t met him before, but his wife had always spoken of him with such warmth that Eloise had formed a picture of a commanding man, handsome and self-assured. And here he was, short, middle-aged and a little stout, with a round cheerful face from which the hair was receding, and not in the least good-looking. Nor was he commanding, although the porter seemed to treat him with respect. He embraced his wife carefully as though she were something precious and porcelain and then turned to Eloise, to shake her hand with a surprisingly hard grip and bid her welcome in fluent English. ‘The car’s here,’ he said, and took his wife’s arm. ‘Shall we go straight home or would you like to stop somewhere for coffee?’ He looked anxious. ‘Should you rest for an hour or two, Debby? We could go to an hotel.’

Mrs Pringle gave him a loving look. ‘I never felt better, Cor.’ She glanced at Eloise. ‘We had a very quiet flight, didn’t we, dear? and I’d love to go home…’

Mijnheer Pringle drove well, his wife beside him and Eloise in the back of the car. He kept up a steady flow of conversation, pointing out anything which he thought might be of interest to her and making little jokes. He was as brave as his wife, and she liked him. When he asked: ‘Do you not wonder why I, a Dutchman, should have so English a name?’ she said, surprised: ‘Well, I never thought about it—but of course it is English, isn’t it? I’ve always said Mrs Pringle, but that’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s Mevrouw. But you’re Dutch, Mijnheer Pringle, so why…?’

‘My grandfather came here when he was a young man and married a Dutchwoman, and my father was of course born here and married a Dutchwoman in his turn, so that I am truly Dutch although I have married an Englishwoman—amusing, is it not?’ He added: ‘And my good fortune.’

Eloise saw him glance sideways at his wife and smile; it must be marvellous to be loved like that; the kind of love which would surmount illness and worse. Perhaps somewhere in the world there was someone like Mijnheer Pringle waiting for her. It would be nice if he were tall and handsome, but that didn’t matter very much; it was being loved that mattered. She thought briefly of the very few young men who had shown any interest in her, and even that had been casual. She wasn’t eye-catching and she hadn’t been any good at pretending to love someone when she didn’t; they had found her amusing but shy and old-fashioned, and mostly treated her in a brotherly fashion, before long telling her all about some wonderful girl they had met and asking her advice. It had been a little lowering.

They stopped in Zwolle and had lunch. They were about halfway, Mijnheer Pringle told her, and would be able to travel fast on the motorway for almost the whole journey. ‘Although the last few kilometres are along narrow dyke roads—real country, pasture land mostly; with plenty of big farms although the villages are small.’

‘It sounds lovely,’ said Eloise, and meant it, for she was a simple girl with simple tastes; she had disliked London even while admitting its charm and she had done her best to overcome that dislike because as far as she could see she would have to stay there for the rest of her working days if she wanted a good job in a good hospital. She observed suddenly, thinking her thoughts aloud, ‘A lot of English nurses work over here, don’t they?’

‘Indeed they do.’ Mijnheer Pringle was scrutinising the bill with such intensity that she had the uncomfortable feeling that he might not have enough money to pay it. ‘Perhaps you like the idea, Eloise?’ he asked her kindly, counting out notes with care.

‘Well, it might be fun, but there’s my mother—she really wants to go back to Eddlescombe, you know.’

Mevrouw Pringle gathered up her handbag and gloves. ‘Well, things do happen,’ she remarked vaguely. ‘I’m ready whenever you are.’

It was still afternoon when they reached Groningen and Eloise looked round her eagerly, craning her neck to see everything at once and quite failing to do so; she was left with a delightful hotchpotch of tall, narrow houses, canals, bridges, a great many cyclists and even more people hurrying to and fro, darting into the streets and disappearing round tantalising corners.

‘You shall come whenever you wish,’ Mevrouw Pringle promised. ‘I don’t care for towns much—I like to sit about at home, being lazy.’ She spoke so convincingly that Eloise almost believed her.

Mijnheer Pringle had been quite right about the roads. They were narrow, made of brick, and wandered through the wide landscape, perched as it were upon the numerous dykes. And the villages were indeed small, each a neat handful of houses encircling a church, a caf and a shop, and lying around and beyond the villages she could see the farms, large and solid with great barns at their backs, their fields dotted with black and white cows. Looking around her, she began to wonder just where the Pringles’ house might be, and had her answer almost immediately when they passed through a village much like the rest and then turned between high gateposts into a short drive bisecting the grounds of a house. It looked a little like a farmhouse, only there was no barn built on to its back, although there were plenty of outbuildings to one side of it. Its front door was plain and solid with an ornate wrought iron transom above it and the windows were old-fashioned and sashed, two each side of the door and five in the row above. There were flower beds, well laid out, and shrubs and trees carefully sited; it looked peaceful and homely and exactly what Eloise had hoped for. When Mevrouw Pringle said eagerly: ‘Here we are—I do hope you’ll like it here, Eloise,’ she replied that yes, she would, quite sincerely.

Inside was like outside; the rooms lofty and light, furnished with large comfortable chairs and solid tables and cupboards. The carpets were thick underfoot and the curtains were equally thick velvet, fringed and draped, not quite to Eloise’s own taste but nonetheless very pleasing. But she had very little time to examine her surroundings; her patient was tired now and made no demur when her husband suggested that perhaps an hour’s rest would be just the thing. They all went upstairs, Mijnheer Pringle explaining as they went that Juffrouw Blot, the housekeeper, would be along with a tray of tea just as soon as his wife was on her bed. ‘We guessed that you would be tired, my dear, and you can have a good gossip with her later on, when you’re rested.’

Alone with Mevrouw Pringle, Eloise quietly took charge, changed the dressing deftly, took off her patient’s dress and tucked her under her quilt.

‘Your room, Eloise,’ protested Mevrouw Pringle. ‘There’s been no time to show you…here’s Juffrouw Blot with my tea, she can take you…and ask Cor for anything.’

Eloise made soothing little sounds while she tidied the room, was introduced to the housekeeper, a stoutly built middle-aged woman who smiled and nodded and talked to her for all the world as though she could understand every word, and then followed her obediently across the wide landing to the room which was to be hers.

It was a pleasant apartment, lofty like all the other rooms in the house, and comfortably furnished with good taste if without much imagination. Eloise unpacked her bag, tidied her hair and did her face, peeped in at Mrs Pringle to make sure that she really was asleep and went downstairs.

Mijnheer Pringle was lying in wait for her. ‘She’s all right?’ he asked anxiously. ‘Such a long journey, but she would insist…it is good of you to come…’ He looked away for a moment. ‘Her doctor will be coming this evening—our friend too. He will talk to you and explain…’

‘Explain what, Mijnheer Pringle?’ She knew the answer already, though.

‘Well—Debby has had this operation, you will have been told about that, of course. What you weren’t told is that she is going to die very soon—weeks, perhaps less. She doesn’t know that; they told her six months or more, got her on her feet and allowed her home because that was what she wanted…’ He sighed, one of the saddest sounds Eloise had heard for a long time. ‘She’s to do exactly what she wants,’ he went on, ‘because nothing can make any difference now. I hope that if she needs you and your holiday is finished, there will be some way of keeping you here. She has taken a fancy to you, you know—she has always been fond of your mother.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m determined that she shall be as happy as possible for these last few weeks.’

Eloise swallowed the lump in her own throat. ‘Of course, and if she wants me to stay, I think it could be arranged; you would have to contact the hospital, of course—her doctor could help there. And if there’s anything I can do to help, will you let me know?’

He nodded. ‘Thank you. Shall we go and have tea? It’s been taken into the sitting room.’

There was no milk with the tea, drunk from small cups which held only a few mouthfuls. Eloise, dying of thirst, was debating whether to ask for a third cup and run the risk of being considered greedy when Juffrouw Blot opened the door, said something to Mijnheer Pringle and flattened herself to allow a visitor to enter the room. The man who had sent her the basket of fruit; her firm little chin dropped and her eyes rounded in surprise—a surprise which he didn’t appear to share, for his: ‘Ah, the pineapple girl,’ was casual to say the least as he crossed the room to shake Mijnheer Pringle’s hand.

‘You know each other?’ queried that gentleman.

‘No,’ said his visitor cheerfully. ‘That is to say, no one has introduced us, although we have met.’

Mijnheer Pringle looked puzzled, but he was a stickler for good manners. ‘Eloise, this is Doctor van Zeilst, our very good friend. Timon, this is Miss Eloise Bennett who has kindly consented to spend her holidays with Deborah.’

‘I know.’ The doctor grinned at her. ‘News travels fast in hospitals, doesn’t it?’

‘Apparently.’ She looked at him coldly, quite put out because he had shown no pleasure at meeting her again. ‘I believe I have to thank you for your gift of fruit.’

‘Healthy stuff, fruit.’ He nodded carelessly and turned to Mijnheer Pringle. ‘How is Deborah?’ and then: ‘No, I’d better ask Nurse that.’

He looked across the room, smiling faintly, but for all that she sensed that she was now the nurse giving a report to the doctor. She complied with commendable conciseness, adding: ‘I know little about Mevrouw Pringle’s stay at the nursing home, only what she has told me herself—I’ve had no instructions…’ Her voice held faint reproach.

He must have heard it, for he said blandly: ‘Done deliberately. Sir Arthur felt that in this case, the fewer people who knew the truth, the better. However, I’ll go into the whole thing with you presently.’

He smiled nicely at her and with a word of apology began to talk to Mijnheer Pringle in their own language. After a few minutes she was a little taken aback to hear him observe: ‘You don’t have to look like that, we’re not discussing you.’

She lifted her chin. ‘I didn’t for one moment imagine that you were.’

‘Splendid, touchy females stir up the worst in me.’ He was smiling again. ‘Shall we have our little talk now? It seems a good opportunity; Mijnheer Pringle has some work to do.’

When they were alone he sat down opposite her. ‘You know Mevrouw Pringle well?’

‘No, not really—she’s my mother’s friend—oh, for a very long time. She used to visit us when we lived in Eddlescombe, but I’ve not met Mijnheer Pringle before.’ She added soberly: ‘It’s very sad.’

He answered her just as soberly. ‘Yes, it is, but it would be a good deal sadder if Mevrouw Pringle were to linger on for months in discomfort and perhaps pain, and later spend the last inevitable weeks in hospital. I think sometimes the longing to be in one’s home is worse than the pain. Her husband and I are only thankful that this won’t be necessary in her case.’ He crossed his long legs, contemplating his beautifully polished shoes. ‘I’ll outline the case for you.’

Which he did, clearly and concisely in his quite perfect English, pausing now and then to allow her to ask questions. ‘So there you have it,’ he concluded. ‘The haemoglobin is going down fast and nothing we can give her will check it now; her spleen, her liver…’ he shrugged his great shoulders. ‘The opiate we’re giving her is strong, you will have noticed that; don’t hesitate to let me know if it doesn’t give enough cover. I shall come each day and you can telephone me at any time.’

‘Do you live close by?’ asked Eloise, and went delicately pink because it sounded as though she were being curious.

‘I can be with you in ten minutes.’

He could have told her a little more than that, surely, but he didn’t, merely went on to discuss the various small nursing duties she would be called upon to undertake. ‘And you will remember that no one—and that means no one, is to know about Mevrouw Pringle’s condition.’ It sounded like an order.

‘I am not a gossip,’ she assured him coolly, ‘and you seem to forget that I’m a nurse.’

She was quite outraged by his easy: ‘Yes, I find I do, frequently.’ But before she could frame a suitable reply to this, he went on: ‘Will you be lonely here? It is very quiet—there are plenty of friends around but no bright lights and most of the young men are bespoke.’

There was no end to his rudeness. ‘I can manage very well without bright lights,’ she told him crossly, ‘and I’m not accustomed to being surrounded by young men, so I shall hardly notice their absence, shall I?’

He laughed softly. ‘I say, you have got a sharp tongue, dear girl. Might one venture to suggest that if you took the edge off it the young men might be more prone to surround you?’

She said flatly: ‘Young men like pretty girls.’

‘Young men, yes.’

Absurdly she flared up. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m only suitable for a middle-aged widower with a string of children…?’ She stopped because he was laughing at her, and anyway the conversation had got completely out of hand.

His next question surprised her. ‘What did you do before you trained as a nurse?’

‘I helped my father—he had a bookshop, he sold rare books and engravings.’

‘Straight from books to patients—no fun, then. How old are you?’

She had answered him before she had had time to think that it was no business of his. ‘Twenty-three.’

He nodded his head thoughtfully. ‘Just right,’ he observed, and taking no notice of her puzzled look, went on in a practical voice: ‘Now this is what we will do. Mevrouw Pringle is to do exactly what she wishes—shopping trips, visits to friends…do you drive, by the way?’

‘Well, Father had a little van, and I used to drive that, but I haven’t driven much since we moved to London.’

‘You have your licence with you? Good; it will be best if you go everywhere with her and if you’re driving she’ll not suspect.’

Eloise said helplessly, not liking the idea: ‘But it’s years—besides, it’s on the other side of the road…’

The doctor got to his feet, unfolding his enormous frame slowly, until he seemed to tower over her. ‘We’ll have ten minutes in my car now,’ he told her. ‘I’ll soon see if you can cope.’

She found herself being led outside to where a dark grey Rolls-Royce convertible stood before the front door. She stopped short when she saw it. ‘Is that yours?’ she wanted to know urgently, ‘because if it is I can’t possibly drive it.’

He didn’t even bother to answer her, but opened the door and stood there holding it until she got in, then he settled himself beside her and said: ‘Off we go.’

She went; there was nothing else to do anyway, pride forbade her from getting out again. She fumbled for a few minutes, not understanding the gears, terrified of accelerating too hard and shooting through the bushes on either side of them, turning on the lights—even blowing the horn. To none of these errors did he respond, merely sitting quietly looking ahead of him while she wobbled down to the gate, to turn obediently when he uttered a laconic: ‘Left.’ But on the road her terror gradually subsided; true, she was driving a Rolls and if she damaged it heaven only knew what its owner would do to her, even though the whole thing had been his idea. She gripped the wheel firmly; she would show him, after all, even if the van had been small and old, she had driven well. After a few kilometres along the quiet road she even began to enjoy herself.

‘Very nice,’ said the doctor, ‘and perfectly safe. One doesn’t expect to find a girl driving with such cool. On the rare occasions—the very rare occasions, when I have been persuaded to let a girl take the wheel, she has invariably flung her hands into the air and squawked like a frightened hen after the first few yards.’ His sidelong glance took in the pinkness of her cheeks. ‘Mevrouw Pringle has a Citroën, easy to drive and quite small. You’ll be all right. Now stop, and we’ll go back. I’ve several more calls to make.’

He didn’t talk as he drove back, fast, relaxed and very sure of himself, and Eloise, in a splendid muddle of vexation at his manner towards her and pride at her prowess, didn’t speak either.

At the house he opened the door for her and ushered her into the hall, saying quietly: ‘If I know Deborah Pringle, she will be in the sitting room…’ And he was right; she was, smiling from a white face while she greeted them, assuring him that she was rested and had never felt better and was already planning some amusements for Eloise. ‘And Timon,’ she begged, ‘don’t dare suggest examining me today.’

He laughed gently and took her hand. ‘It’s delightful to see you again, Deborah, and I’ve no intention of spoiling your homecoming—besides, I’ve two more patients to see on my way home and then evening surgery. How about tomorrow? In the morning before you get up—ten o’clock. Nothing much, you know, just a check-up.’

He said goodbye and wandered to the door. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He gave Eloise a casual nod as he went.

‘Such a dear man,’ murmured Mevrouw Pringle. ‘You’d never think he was a doctor, would you? So relaxed—I always feel he should be sitting by a canal, fishing.’

‘Perhaps he does when he’s got the time,’ suggested Eloise.

‘He’s too much in demand, and not only as a doctor. He’s something of a catch, my dear, only no one’s caught him yet, although there are one or two girls…’ She paused, leaving Eloise to conjure up pictures of any number of raving beauties doing their best to snap up the prize. The idea made her feel a little low-spirited and she told herself it was because not being a beauty herself, she couldn’t have the fun of competing with them, rather the reverse; she could see that their relationship was going to be strictly businesslike, excepting of course when he chose to find her amusing.

‘I daresay he feels very flattered,’ she remarked airily, and went on to suggest that her patient might like to have an early night, and how about supper in bed. She was glad she had suggested it, because Mijnheer Pringle threw her a grateful look and added his voice to hers, and she spent the next hour making Mevrouw Pringle comfortable for the night and then went downstairs again to sit and read in the drawing room while Mijnheer Pringle went to have a chat with his wife; he took a bottle of sherry and some glasses with him and Eloise applauded his action.

Presently he came downstairs again and they dined in the rather severe dining room on the other side of the hall, while her host kept the conversation to trivialities, concealing his true feelings with a flow of small talk which lasted until she felt she could excuse herself and go up to bed. She went to see Mevrouw Pringle on the way, to give her her tablets and warn her that she was to ring for her if she needed anything during the night, and an hour later, when she crept back to take another look, it was to find her patient sleeping quietly, so that she could go to her own bed with a quiet mind. It had been a long, eventful day, and surprising too. She had never expected to meet the doctor again, although she admitted to herself that she hadn’t really forgotten him, only tucked him away in the back of her mind. It was a pity that he had no interest in her whatever, but then why should he? Especially if he could take his pick of all those girls her patient had hinted at.

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