Her family had to come first

To keep her small family together, Isobel Barrington managed to make ends meet—just!—by doing private nursing jobs. Her mother had only a small pension and her younger brother had to be educated somehow.

Isobel really shouldn’t have had time to fall in love with Dr. Thomas Winters—but she did anyway. Unfortunately, he wasn’t likely to be interested in her when the lovely Ella Stokes was around, so Isobel ought to try to forget him. Easier said than done!

“Oh, the poor dear, is she bad? And just as she was doing so nicely, too…”

Dr. Thomas Winters looked stern and angry and his eyes were like granite. Isobel thought it very likely that he had come against his will because Nanny had insisted. She said kindly, in her gentle voice, “I’m indeed sorry to hear about Nanny, but I can’t come with you.You know I go where the agency sends me and I just came back from a case. I’m sure if you phone them they’ll have a nurse free.”

He gave her a thin smile.“My dear Isobel, you underestimate me. I have already arranged with the agency that you’ll return with me this evening.”

Her eyes grew round. “The arrogance of it!” she declared. “I may refuse a case, you know, Dr. Winters, and I’m doing just that.”

“You won’t do that.” His voice was quiet.“You’re a kind and gentle girl. I’m sorry if I’ve made you angry, but Nanny is ill, and I did not bring her all this way to see her slip through my fingers.”

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

Never Say Goodbye
Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER ONE

THE HOUSE, one of a row of similar Regency houses in an exclusive area of London, gave no hint from its sober exterior as to the magnificence of its entrance hall, with its imposing ceiling and rich carpet, nor even more to the equally imposing room, the door to which an impassive manservant was holding open. Isobel Barrington walked past him and, obedient to his request that she should take a seat, took one, waiting until he had closed the door soundlessly behind him before getting up again and beginning a slow prowl round the room. It was a very elegant room, with watered silk panelled walls, a marble fireplace and some intimidating armchairs of the French school, covered in tapestry. The rest of the furniture was Chippendale with nothing cosy about it, although she had to admit that it was charming. Not her kind of room, she decided with her usual good sense; it would do very well for people as elegant as itself; the kind who thought of Fortnum and Mason as their local grocer and understood every word of an Italian opera when they went to one.

She began to circle the room, looking at the profusion of portraits on its walls; gentlemen with unyielding faces in wigs and a variety of uniforms, all sharing the same handsome features; ladies, surprisingly enough, with scarcely a pretty face between them, although they were all sweet as to expression. Isobel, studying a young woman in an elaborate Edwardian dress, concluded that the men of the family had good looks enough and could afford to marry plain wives. ‘Probably they were heiresses,’ she told herself, and sat down again.

She might not match the room for elegance, but she shared a lack of good looks with the various ladies hanging on its walls. She was on the small side, with a neat figure and nice legs and a face which missed prettiness by reason of too wide a mouth and too thin a nose, although her skin was as clear as a child’s and her blue eyes held a delightful twinkle upon occasion. She was dressed in a plain blue dress and looked as fresh and neat as anyone could wish. She put her purse on the small table beside her and relaxed against the chair’s high back. When the door opened she sat up and then got to her feet with a calm air of assurance.

‘Miss Barrington?’ The man who spoke could have been any one of the gentlemen hanging on the walls; he had exactly the same good looks and forbidding expression, although his greying hair was cropped short and his clothes, exquisitely tailored, were very much in the modern fashion.

Isobel met his dark, impersonal stare with a steady look. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And you are Dr Winter?’

He crossed the room and stopped before her, a very tall, largely built man in his thirties. He didn’t answer her but observed coldly: ‘The Agency assured me that they were sending a sensible, experienced nurse with a placid disposition.’

She eyed him with a gentle tolerance which made him frown. She said kindly: ‘I’m a sensible woman and I have eight years’ experience of nursing and I am of a placid disposition, if by that you mean that I don’t take exception to rudeness or get uptight if things go a little wrong…’ She added: ‘May I sit down?’

The frown became thunderous. ‘I beg your pardon, Nurse, please do take a chair…’ He didn’t sit himself, but began to wander about the room. Presently he said: ‘You’re not at all the kind of nurse I intended to take with me. Have you travelled?’

‘No, but I’ve nursed in a variety of situations, some of them rather out of the ordinary way of things.’

‘You’re too young.’ He stopped marching around the room and looked at her.

‘I’m twenty-five—a sensible age, I should have thought.’

‘Women at any age are not always sensible,’ he observed bitterly.

Isobel studied him carefully. An ill-tempered man, she judged, but probably just and fair-minded with it, in all probability he was a kind husband and father. She said calmly: ‘Then it really doesn’t matter what age I am, does it?’

He smiled, and his face was transformed so that she could see that he could be quite charming if he wished. ‘All the same—’ he began and then stopped as the door opened and the manservant came in, murmured quietly and went away again.

‘You must excuse me for a moment, Miss—er—Barrington. I shan’t be more than a few minutes.’

She was left to contemplate the portraits of his ancestors on the walls, although she didn’t pay much attention to them; she had too much to think about. It was a severe blow if he didn’t give her the job…she needed it badly enough. When she had left hospital to take up agency nursing, she hadn’t had her heart in it: she had loved her work as Male Surgical Ward Sister and her bedsitting room in the nurses’ home and going home for her weekends off. However, when her only, younger brother Bobby had been given the chance of going to a public school and her mother had confided to her that there wasn’t enough money to send him, she had given up her post, put her name down at a nursing agency and by dint of working without breaks between cases had earned enough to get Bobby started.

She didn’t really enjoy it. It was a lonely life and she had far less free time; on the other hand, she could earn almost twice as much money and she had no need to pay for her food and room. And she wouldn’t have to do it for ever. Bobby was a bright boy, he was almost certain to get a place in one of the universities in four or five years’ time and then she would go back to hospital life once more. She should have liked to marry, of course, but she had no illusions about her looks, and although she could sew and cook and keep house she had never got to know a man well enough for him to appreciate these qualities. It was a regret that she kept well hidden, and it had helped to have a sense of humour and a placid nature as well as a strong determination to make the best of things.

She braced herself now for Dr Winter’s refusal of her services, and when he came back into the room looking like a thundercloud, she gave an inward resigned sigh and turned a calm face to him.

‘That was the nursing agency,’ he said shortly. ‘They wanted to know if I was satisfied with you for the job I had in mind, and when I said I’d expected someone older and more experienced they regretted that there was positively no one else on their books.’ He cast her an exasperated look. ‘I intend to leave England in two days’ time, and there’s no opportunity of finding someone else in forty-eight hours…I shall have to take you.’

‘You won’t regret it,’ she assured him briskly. ‘Perhaps you would tell me exactly what kind of case I’m to nurse.’

‘An old lady crippled with arthritis. My old nurse, in fact.’

The idea of this self-assured giant of a man having a nanny, even being a small boy, struck Isobel as being faintly ludicrous, but the look that he bent upon her precluded even the faintest of smiles. He sat down at last in one of the Chippendale chairs, which creaked under his weight. ‘She married a Pole and has lived in Gdansk since then. Her husband died last year and I’ve been trying since then to get a permit for her to return to England. I’ve now succeeded and intend to bring her back with me. You will understand that I shall require a nurse to accompany me; she’s unable to do much for herself.’

‘And when do we get back to England?’ Isobel asked.

‘I shall want your services only until such time as a suitable companion for her can be found.’ He crossed one long leg over the other and the chair creaked again. ‘We fly to Stockholm where we stay the night at a friend’s flat and take the boat the following day to Gdansk, we shall probably be a couple of days there and return to Stockholm and from there fly back to England. A week should suffice.’

‘Why are we not to fly straight to Gdansk? And straight back here again?’

‘Mrs Olbinski is a sick woman; it’s absolutely necessary that she should travel as easily as possible; we shall return by boat to Stockholm and spend at least a day there so that she can rest before we fly back here. And we spend a day in Stockholm so that the final arrangements for her can be made.’

He got up and wandered to the window and stood staring out. ‘You have a passport?’

‘No, but I can get one at the Post Office.’

He nodded. ‘Well, this seems the best arrangement in the circumstances; not exactly as I would have wished, but I have no alternative, it seems.’

‘You put it very clearly, Dr Winter,’ said Isobel. Her pleasant voice was a little tart. ‘Do you want to make the arrangements for the journey now, or notify the agency?’

‘I’ll contact the agency tomorrow.’ He glanced at the watch on his wrist. ‘I have an appointment shortly and can spare no more time. You will get your instructions, Miss—er—Barrington.’

She got to her feet. ‘Very well, Dr Winter—and the name is Barrington, there’s no er in front of it.’ She gave him a vague smile and met his cold stare and walked to the door. ‘You would like me to wear uniform, I expect?’ And when he didn’t answer, she said in patient explanation: ‘It might help if you had any kind of difficulties with the authorities…’

‘You’re more astute than I’d thought, Miss Barrington.’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s exactly what I would wish you to do.’

He reached the door slightly ahead of her and opened it. ‘Perhaps you would confine your luggage to one case? I’ll fill in details during the flight.’

The manservant was hovering in the splendid hall. ‘Oh, good,’ said Isobel cheerfully. ‘One wants to know something about a case before taking it on. Goodbye, Dr Winter.’ She smiled kindly at him and made an exit as neat and unremarkable as herself.

She took a bus, a slow-moving journey of half an hour or more, back to her home—a small terraced house on the better side of Clapham Common. It looked exactly like the houses on either side of it, but in the narrow hall there was a difference. In place of the usual hallstand and telephone table there was a delicate wall table with rather a nice gilded mirror above it, and the small sitting room into which she hurried was furnished with what their neighbours referred to disparagingly as old bits and pieces, but which were, in fact, the remnants of furniture saved from the sale of her old home some ten years earlier. She never went into the little house without nostalgia for the comfortable village house she had been born and brought up in, but she never mentioned this; her mother, she felt sure, felt even worse about it than she did.

Her mother was sitting at the table, sewing, a small woman with brown hair a good deal darker than her daughter’s, the same blue eyes and a pretty face. She looked up as Isobel went in and asked: ‘Well, darling, did you get the job?’

Isobel took off her shoes and curled up in a chair opposite her mother. ‘Yes, but it’s only for a week or two, though. Dr Winter isn’t too keen on me, but there wasn’t anyone else. I’m to go to Poland with him to fetch back his old nanny.’

Her mother looked faintly alarmed. ‘Poland? But isn’t that…’ she paused, ‘well, eastern Europe?’

‘He’s got a permit for her to come to England to live. Her husband died last year and she’s crippled with arthritis, that’s why I’m to go with him; she’ll need help with dressing and so on, I expect.’

‘And this Dr Winter?’

‘Very large and tall, unfriendly—to me at any rate, but then he expected someone older and impressive, I think. He’s got a lovely house. I’m to be told all the details at the agency tomorrow and be ready to travel in two days—in uniform.’

Her mother got up. ‘I’ll get the tea. Is he elderly?’

Isobel thought. ‘Well, no; he’s a bit grey at the sides, but he’s not bald or anything like that. I suppose he’s getting on for forty.’

‘Married?’ asked her mother carelessly as she went to the door.

‘I haven’t an idea, but I should think so—I mean, I shouldn’t think he would want to live in a great house like that on his own, would you?’

She followed her mother into the little kitchen and put on the kettle, and while it boiled went into the minute garden beyond. It was really no more than a patch of grass and a flower bed or two but it was full of colour and well kept. There was a tabby cat lying between the tulips and forget-me-nots. Isobel said: ‘Hullo, Blossom,’ and bent to inspect the small rose bushes she cherished when she was home. They were nicely in bud and she raised her voice to say to her mother, ‘They’ll be almost out by the time I get back. It’s June next week.’

She spent her evening making a list of the things she would need to take with her; not many, and she hesitated over packing a light jacket and skirt. Dr Winter had said uniform, but surely if they were to stay in Stockholm for a day, she need not wear uniform, nor for that matter on the flight there. Perhaps the agency would be able to tell her.

The clerk at the agency was annoyingly vague, offering no opinion at all but supposing it didn’t matter and handing Isobel a large envelope with the remark that she would probably find all she wanted to know inside it. Isobel annoyed the lady very much by sitting down and reading the contents through, for, as she pointed out in her sensible way, it would be silly to get all the way home and discover that some vital piece of information was missing.

There was nothing missing; her ticket, instructions on how to reach Heathrow and the hour at which she was to arrive and where she was to go when she got there, a reminder that she must bring a Visitor’s Passport with her, a generous sum of money to pay for her expenses and a brief note, typed and signed T. Winter, telling her that she had no need to wear uniform until they left Stockholm. Isobel replaced everything in the envelope, wished the impatient lady behind the desk a pleasant day and went off to the Post Office for her passport. She had to have photos for it, of course. She went to the little box in a corner of the Post Office and had three instant photos taken; they were moderately like her, but they hardly did her pleasant features justice—besides, she looked surprised and her eyes were half shut. But since the clerk at the counter didn’t take exception to them, she supposed they would do. Her mother, naturally enough, found them terrible; to her Isobel’s unassuming face was beautiful.

She left home in plenty of time, carrying a small suitcase and a shoulder bag which held everything she might need for the journey. After deliberation she had worn a coffee-coloured pleated skirt, with its matching loose jacket and a thin cotton top in shrimp pink, and in her case she had packed a second top and a Liberty print blouse, and because she had been told at the agency that the Scandinavian countries could be cool even in May and June, she had packed a thick hooded cardigan she had bought with her Christmas money at Marks and Spencer.

She took the underground to Heathrow and then found her way to departure number two entrance and went to stand, as she had been told to, on the right side of the entrance. She was ten minutes early and she stood, not fidgeting at all, watching the taxis drawing up and their passengers getting out. She hadn’t been there above five minutes when she was startled to hear Dr Winter’s deep voice behind her.

‘Good morning, Miss Barrington. We will see to the luggage first, if you will come with me.’

Her good morning was composed, a porter took her case and she went across to the weigh-in counter for their luggage to be taken care of, handed her ticket to the doctor and waited until the business had been completed, studying him while she did so.

He was undoubtedly a very good-looking man, and the kind of man, she fancied, who expected to get what he wanted with the least possible fuss. He looked in a better temper, she was relieved to see; it made him look a good deal younger and the tweed suit he was wearing, while just as elegantly cut as the formal grey one he had worn at her interview, had the effect of making him seem more approachable.

‘Well, we’ll go upstairs and have coffee while we wait for our flight.’ He spoke pleasantly and Isobel didn’t feel the need to answer, only climbed the stairs beside him, waited a few moments while he bought a handful of papers and magazines and went on up another flight of steps to the coffee lounge, where he sat her down, fetched their coffee and then handed her the Daily Telegraph and unfolded The Times for himself.

Isobel, who had slept badly and had a sketchy breakfast, drank her coffee, thankfully, sat back in her chair, folded the newspaper neatly and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep at once and the doctor, glancing up presently, blinked. He was by no means a conceited man, but he couldn’t remember, offhand, any woman ever going to sleep in his company. He overlooked the fact that he had made no attempt to entertain her.

Isobel, while no beauty, looked charming when she slept, her mouth had opened very slightly and her lashes, golden-brown and very long, lay on her cheeks, making her look a good deal younger than her twenty-five years. Dr Winter frowned slightly and coughed. Isobel’s eyes flew open and she sat up briskly. ‘Time for us to go?’ she enquired.

‘No—no. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was surprised…’

She gave him her kind smile. ‘Because I went to sleep. I’m sure girls don’t go to sleep when they’re with you.’ To make herself quite clear, she added: ‘Nurses when you’re lecturing them, you know. I expect you’re married.’

His look was meant to freeze her bones, only she wasn’t that kind of a girl. She returned his stare with twinkling eyes. ‘You expect wrongly, Miss Barrington.’ He looked down his patrician nose. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I were to address you as Nurse.’

‘Yes, Dr Winter.’ The twinkle was so disconcerting that he looked away still frowning.

She had time to do the crossword puzzle before their flight was announced, leaving him to return to his reading.

She had a window seat on board and she was surprised to find that they were travelling first class, but pleased too, usually if she had to travel to a case, she was expected to use the cheapest way of getting there. She fastened her seat-belt and peered out of the window: it wasn’t until they were airborne that she sat back in her seat.

‘You’ve flown before?’ asked Dr Winter. He didn’t sound interested just polite, so she said that yes, once or twice, before turning her attention to the stewardess, who was explaining what they should all do in an emergency. And after that there was coffee and then lunch; and a very good one too, with a glass of white wine and coffee again. Isobel made a good meal, answered the doctor’s occasional remarks politely and studied the booklet about Sweden offered for her perusal. A pity she wouldn’t see more of the country, she thought, but she was lucky to have even a day in Stockholm; reading the tourist guide, there appeared to be a great deal to see.

There was someone waiting for them at the airport—a thickset man, very fair with level blue eyes and a calm face, leaning against a big Saab. He and Dr Winter greeted each other like old friends and when the doctor introduced Isobel, he took her hand in his large one and grinned at her. ‘Janssen—Carl Janssen. It is a pleasure. We will go at once to my house and you will meet my wife Christina.’

He opened the car door and ushered her inside while Dr Winter got into the front seat. Isobel, who despite her placid nature had become a little chilled by his indifferent manner, felt more cheerful; Mr Janssen’s friendly greeting had warmed her nicely. She made herself comfortable and watched the scenery.

It was beautiful. They were already approaching the city, which at first glance looked modern, but in the distance she could see a glimpse of water and there were a great many trees and parks. They slowed down as they neared the heart of the city and the streets became narrow and cobbled.

‘This is Gamla Stan—the old town,’ said Mr Janssen over one shoulder. ‘We live here. It is quite the most beautiful part of Stockholm.’

He crossed a square: ‘Look quickly—there is the old Royal Palace and Storkyrkan, our oldest church—you must pay it a visit.’

He swept the car into a labyrinth of narrow streets before she had had more than a glimpse, to stop and then turn into a narrow arched way between old houses. It opened on to a rectangular space filled with small gardens and ringed by old houses with a steeple roof and small windows and wrought iron balconies.

‘This,’ said Carl Janssen in a tone of deep satisfaction, ‘is where we live.’

He opened the car door with a flourish and Isobel got out and looked around her. No one looking around them would have known that they were in the middle of a busy city. There was no one to be seen, although curtains blew at open windows and somewhere there was a baby crying and music. Between the high roofs she could see the thin steeple of a church and here and there in the gardens were lilacs, late blooming, and birds twittering in them.

‘Heaven!’ said Isobel.

Which earned her a pleased look from her host. ‘Almost,’ he agreed. ‘But come in and meet Christina.’

He led the way between the little gardens to a small door and opened it. There was a steep staircase inside and Isobel, urged on by a friendly voice from above, climbed it. The girl at the top was about her own age, a big, fair-haired girl who took her hand as she reached the top and exclaimed: ‘You are the nurse? Yes, my name is Christina.’

‘Isobel.’

‘That is pretty. Come in. Thomas, how wonderful to see you again!’

She flung her arms around the doctor’s neck and kissed him warmly, and Isobel, standing back a little, thought how different he looked when he smiled like that. A pity he didn’t do it more often. And discovering that his name was Thomas made him seem different.

Not that he was. He gave her a look which clearly was meant to keep her at a distance, said formally: ‘Mr and Mrs Janssen are old friends of mine, Miss Barrington,’ and stood aside politely so that she might walk into the narrow hallway.

It led to a roomy square hall from which doors led, presumably to the rest of the flat. Christina opened one of them and said gaily: ‘Come in and sit, and we will have tea and then you shall see your rooms. Yours is the usual one, Thomas, and we have put Isobel in the corner room because from there she sees the garden below.’

She bustled round the large, comfortably furnished room, offering chairs, begging Isobel to take off her jacket, promising her that she should see the baby just as soon as he was awake. ‘He is called Thomas, after this Thomas,’ she laughed at Dr Winter, ‘and we think that he is quite perfect!’

She went through another door to the kitchen and Carl started to talk about their trip. ‘You have all the necessary papers?’ he wanted to know. ‘Without these there might be delays.’ He smiled at Isobel. ‘It is most sensible that you take Isobel with you, a good nurse may be most useful, especially as Mrs Olbinski is crippled.’ He turned to Isobel. ‘You are not nervous?’

‘No, not at all—you mean because it’s Poland? The Poles are friendly—they like us, though, don’t they?’

‘They are a most friendly people, and full of life.’ He got up to help his wife with the tea tray and the talk centred upon Carl’s work and where they intended to go for their summer holiday. ‘We have a boat,’ he told Isobel, ‘and we sail a great deal on Lake Malaren and the Baltic. The islands offshore are beautiful and extend for miles—one can get lost among them.’

‘You take little Thomas with you?’

‘Of course. He is nine months old and a most easy baby.’

‘You’ll still be here when we get back?’ Dr Winter asked casually.

‘We go in three days’ time, and if you are not back, but of course you will be, we will leave the key with our neighbours in the flat below. But you have ample time, even allowing for a day or so delay for one reason or another.’ He looked at Dr Winter. ‘She is well, your old nanny?’

‘I telephoned last week—I’ll ring again later if I may. She was very much looking forward to seeing us. And to coming home.’

‘Well, you will stay as long as you wish to here,’ declared Christina. ‘Isobel, I will show you your room and when you have unpacked, come back here and we will talk some more.’

The room was charming, simply furnished, even a little austere, but there were flowers on a little table under the window and the gardens below with the old houses encircling them reminded Isobel of Hans Andersen’s Fairy Tales. She looked at the plain pinewood bed with its checked duvet cover, and knew she was going to sleep soundly. It was a pity Dr Winter wasn’t more friendly, but that was something which couldn’t be helped. She had a shower, changed into a fresh blouse, did her face and hair and went back to the sitting room.

They ate in a tiny alcove off the sitting room after the baby had been fed and bathed and put to bed. The meal was typically Swedish, with a great dish of sprats, potatoes, onions and cream, which Carl translated as Janssen’s Delight. This was followed by pancakes with jam, a great pot of coffee and Aquavit for the men.

The girls cleared the table, but once that was done, Isobel was amazed to see Dr Winter follow his friend into the splendidly equipped kitchen and shut the door.

‘Thomas washes the dishes very well,’ said Christina, and Isobel found herself faced with yet another aspect of the doctor which she hadn’t even guessed at. Washing up, indeed! She wondered if the dignified manservant in London was aware of that and what he would have said.

She went to bed early, guessing that the other three might have things to talk about in which she had no part, and it wasn’t until breakfast on the following morning that she learnt that Dr Winter had been unable to make his call; he had been told politely enough that there was no reply to the number he wanted. He was arguing the advantages of getting seats on the next flight to Gdansk when Carl said: ‘Exactly what would be expected of you, Thomas. Keep to your plan and take the boat this evening,’ and Dr Winter had stared at him for a long minute and then agreed.

‘So that’s settled,’ said Christina. ‘Thomas, you will take Isobel to see something of Stockholm, and when you come back I shall have made you the best smörgasbörd table you ever tasted.’

So presently Isobel found herself going under the archway, back into the narrow cobbled streets with Dr Winter beside her. He had raised no objection to accompanying her, neither had he shown any great enthusiasm.

‘Do you want to go to the shops?’ he asked her as they edged past a parked van and paused outside a small antique shop.

‘No, thank you. I should like to see St George and the Dragon in the Storkyrkan, and the Riddarholmskyrkan, and then take a look at the lake. There won’t be time to go inside the palace, but if it wouldn’t bore you too much I should enjoy just walking through some of the older streets.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Then we’d better begin with St George,’ was all he said.

He proved to be a good guide, for of course he had been before and knew the names of the various buildings and how to get from one place to the next without getting lost. And he waited patiently while she pottered round the churches, bought a few postcards with the money he offered before she realised that she would need to borrow some, and stood gazing at the lake. It was a bright morning, but cool, and she was glad of her jacket as she stood, trying to imagine what it must be like in the depths of winter.

‘Have you been here in the winter?’ she wanted to know.

‘Oh, yes, several times. It’s delightful. One needs to be able to ski and skate, of course.’ He took it for granted that she could do neither of these things, and she saw no reason to correct him.

They had coffee at a small, crowded restaurant in one of the narrow paved streets, and she made no demur when he suggested that they should make their way back to the Janssens’ flat. As they turned in under the arch once more, Dr Winter observed: ‘One needs several days at least in order to see the best of Stockholm; there are some splendid museums if you’re interested.’

‘Well, yes, I am—and there’s Millesgarden…all those statues—they’re famous, aren’t they? But I knew we couldn’t have got there this morning.’ She added hastily for fear he should take umbrage: ‘Thank you very much for taking me round. I’ve enjoyed it enormously, it was most kind of you.’

They were standing outside the Janssens’ door and it was very quiet and peaceful. He said harshly: ‘No, it wasn’t in the least kind, Miss Barrington. It never entered my head to take you sightseeing; I did it because Christina took it for granted that I would.’

Isobel opened the door. ‘Well, I know that,’ she said matter-of-factly.

After the smörgasbörd—a table weighted down with hot and cold dishes—the men went off together, leaving the girls to clear away, then put little Thomas into his pram and take him for a walk. They went through the narrow streets once more and came out by the water, finding plenty to talk about, although never once was Dr Winter mentioned.

The boat left in the early evening and after tea Isobel packed her case once more, said goodbye reluctantly enough, cheered by the thought that she would be back within the week, and went down to Carl’s car.

The drive wasn’t a long one, and once at the quay Isobel waited quietly while the two went off to see about their tickets, reappearing with a porter, and Carl then shook hands and dropped a friendly kiss on her cheek.

‘We look forward to seeing you very soon, Isobel,’ he told her. ‘Even little Thomas will miss you.’

But not big Thomas, standing there, looking as impatient as good manners would allow.

The boat was large and comfortable. She had a splendid cabin with a small shower room and set about unpacking her uniform and hanging it up ready for their arrival in the morning. Dr Winter had handed her over to a stewardess with the suggestion that she should meet him in the restaurant once the ship had sailed—that meant an hour’s time. She was ready long before then, and filled in the time reading the various leaflets she had collected about Gdansk and its harbour, Gdynia. They didn’t tell her a great deal, but she studied them carefully. Once they were there, probably Dr Winter would have his hands full seeing to Mrs Olbinski’s possessions and getting her to the ship, so she studied the map of those towns carefully too—one never knew.

He was waiting for her when she reached the restaurant, greeted her with the cool politeness she found so unnerving, and gave her a drink, and they dined presently—Swedish food, she was glad to discover; kott bullarand then fried boned herring and, once more, pancakes with jam. She didn’t linger over their coffee and he didn’t try and persuade her to stay. She wished him a cheerful goodnight and went back to her cabin, aware that he had been expecting her to ask any number of questions about the next day. In truth she had longed to do so, but had held her tongue. His opinion of her was already so low that she had no intention of making it lower. Let him tell her anything it was necessary for her to know. She fell asleep at once, rather pleased with herself.

CHAPTER TWO

ISOBEL WAS up early. She had slept well and now she was ready for her breakfast, but Dr Winter had suggested that they should meet in the restaurant at half past seven, and it was still only half past six. She rang, a shade apprehensively, for tea, then showered and dressed in her uniform and went on deck. They were close to land, she saw with a rising excitement, rather flat and wooded land with houses here and there. It was a pearly, still morning and chilly, and somehow London and home seemed a long way off. Isobel buttoned her navy gaberdine coat and wished she had put on her rather ugly nurse’s blue felt hat. There wasn’t any one else on deck and she started to walk along its length, to be confronted by Dr Winter coming out of a door.

His ‘good morning’ was polite and distant, and she was surprised when he fell into step beside her. ‘I should perhaps mention,’ he began casually, ‘that there will probably be a delay in Mrs Olbinski’s return. Carl told me there had been some trouble…’ He didn’t say what kind of trouble and Isobel didn’t ask. She was surprised when he added: ‘Are you a nervous person, Miss Barrington?’

She turned to face him. ‘If you mean do I have hysterics and screaming fits if things go wrong, no. But if a situation got out of hand, I would probably behave like most women and scream for help.’

He said seriously: ‘I must ask you not to do that; a calm, serene front is important.’

She started walking again. ‘Is there something you should have told me before we left England?’ she asked in a voice which she managed to keep calm.

‘Certainly not, Miss Barrington. I must remind you merely that each country has its own laws. Mrs Olbinski’s husband was unfortunately a dissident, so naturally they may be somewhat more strict…’

She stopped again and eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You have got all the permits?’ she asked.

‘Of course. I’m only saying that because of her circumstances there may be some delay.’ He frowned. ‘We might as well go and have our breakfast.’

‘Oh, good—I’m hungry. But before we go, where exactly are we now?’

‘Coming into Gdynia, which is the port of Gdansk. Mrs Olbinski lives in the old town of Gdansk and you’ll have a chance to see it.’

Isobel scanned the nearing coastline. ‘Oh, good—Poland isn’t a place I’m likely to come to again. Do they speak English?’

‘A great many do, but I doubt if you’ll have time to go sightseeing.’

She felt snubbed. Did he really think she would disappear the moment they landed, intent on enjoying herself? Her splendid appetite had had the edge taken off it.

Going through Customs took a good deal of time; she had to admire Dr Winter’s calm patience in the face of the courteous questioning that went on at some length. When finally they were free to go, one of the officials apologised for the delay with the utmost politeness and the doctor waived the apologies with an equal politeness. As they got into the taxi he said: ‘Sorry about that; understandably I had to give my reasons for our visit and they had to be checked.’

He told the driver where to go. ‘There’s nothing much to see here, but you’ll find Gdansk interesting, I believe.’

They drove through a dock area which might have been anywhere in the world and presently came to Gdansk, where the taxi stopped before an enormous gateway, its centre arch opening into a wide paved street.

‘This is where we walk,’ observed Dr Winter, and got out.

He wasted no time in giving more than a glance at the enormous edifice before them but took her arm and walked her briskly through the archway and into the street beyond. It was a splendid sight, lined with Renaissance houses, many of them with small shops at street level. Isobel, going along a great deal faster than she wished, did her best to look everywhere at once and as they reached a square at the end of the street asked in a voice which demanded an answer. ‘Is that the Town Hall we’ve just passed? And is that the Golden House I read about? And this fountain in the centre…?’

The doctor didn’t pause in his walk. ‘Miss Barrington, may I remind you that you’re here for one purpose only; sightseeing is quite another matter.’

‘If this is sightseeing then I’m a Dutchman,’ declared Isobel roundly, ‘and I only asked you a question!’

He looked at her, trotting along beside him, very sober in her uniform, and said harshly: ‘If you remember, Miss Barrington, I said at the time of your interview that you weren’t suitable.’

Unanswerable. They were going through another enormous gate with water beyond and warehouses on the opposite bank. But Dr Winter turned left, making his way along the busy street bordering the water, left again into a narrow street lined with lovely old houses. Half way down he stopped before an arched door and rang one of the many bells on the wall. To Isobel’s surprise he turned to look at her. ‘The city was in ruins after the last war. The Poles rebuilt it, brick by brick, many of them original, the rest so skilfully done that it’s hard to detect the one from the other.’ He then turned his back on her as the door opened, revealing a short narrow hall and a staircase beyond. ‘Third floor,’ he told her over his shoulder, and began to mount.

Isobel followed perforce, liking her surroundings very much; the wooden stairway, the small circular landings, the two solid wooden doors on each of these. On the third floor one of the doors was open. The doctor went in without hesitation, and Isobel, a little breathless, followed him.

The door opened on to a tiny vestibule with two doors and they stood open too. The doctor unhesitatingly went through the left-hand one, with Isobel so close on his heels that she almost overbalanced when he halted abruptly.

The room was small, nicely furnished and far too warm. The table in the centre of the room was polished to a high gloss and so were the chairs. The wooden floor shone with polish too and the curtains at the windows, although limp with age, were spotless. Isobel registered vaguely that the room looked bare before turning her attention to the old lady sitting in a chair whose tapestry was threadbare with age. She was a very small lady with bright bootbutton eyes, white hair strained back into a knob, and wearing a black dress covered by a cotton pinafore.

She said in a surprisingly strong voice, ‘Mr Thomas…’ She glanced at the small carved wooden clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Punctual, I see. You always were as a little boy.’ Her eyes darted to Isobel. ‘And who is this?’

Dr Winter bent and kissed and hugged her gently. ‘Hullo, Nanny. Nice to see you again. This is Nurse Barrington, I brought her along to give you a hand.’

Mrs Olbinski pushed her specs up her nose and stared at Isobel through them. ‘H’m—rather small. Come here, young lady, so I can see you properly.’

Isobel did as she was asked. Old people said strange things sometimes, just as though one wasn’t there, listening, but she didn’t mind; probably she would do the same one day. ‘How do you do?’ she asked politely.

‘Almost plain,’ commented the old lady to no one in particular, ‘but nice eyes and a nice smile too!’ She bristled suddenly. ‘Not that I need a nurse; I’m quite able to get around on my own…’

‘Well, of course you are.’ Isobel had never heard the doctor speak in such a soft, coaxing voice. ‘I asked her to come for purely selfish reasons; there’ll be people to see and so on, and I didn’t want the worry of leaving you while I dealt with them.’

He had struck the right note. Nanny nodded in agreement. ‘When do we leave?’ she asked.

‘By this evening’s ferry, my dear. Have you packed?’

‘There are still one or two things, Mr Thomas. I daresay this young lady will help me?’

‘Of course, Mrs Olbinski—and my name is Isobel.’

‘Now that’s a good name, and one I’ve always liked. You can go into the kitchen and make the coffee, while I hear all the news.’

Isobel was in the minute kitchen, stealthily opening cupboards, looking for things, when she heard several pairs of feet coming up the stairs. The door wasn’t quite shut, and she had no hesitation in going and standing as close to it as she could get. She didn’t dare look round the door’s edge, but she judged the feet to be either policemen or soldiers because of the hefty boots.

Soldiers. A rather nice voice, speaking excellent English, pointing out with regret that a final paper which was needed by Mrs Olbinski had not yet arrived. It was therefore necessary that she should stay until it did.

‘And when will that be?’ The doctor’s voice sounded friendly, unhurried and not in the least put out.

‘Tomorrow—the day following that at the latest. We deeply regret any inconvenience.’

‘I quite understand that it is unavoidable and not of your making.’ There was a short silence. ‘I will get rooms for myself and the nurse I have brought with me at the Orbis Monopol. Mrs Olbinski will prefer to stay here, I expect.’

There was the faintest question in his voice.

‘Of course, she will be perfectly all right, Dr Winter. As soon as the papers come, I will let you know so that you may complete your plans.’

The goodbyes sounded friendly enough—and why not? Isobel reasoned. The Poles and the English liked each other; whoever it was who had just gone had had a delightful voice… She wasn’t quite quick enough at getting away from the door; she found the doctor’s austere good looks within inches of her head. ‘Next time you eavesdrop, young lady, control your breathing—you sounded like an overwrought female from an early Victorian novel.’ He looked round the kitchen. ‘Isn’t the coffee ready yet?’

‘No, it’s not, and I wish someone would explain…’

‘But there’s nothing to explain. As you must know, anyone leaving the country must have their papers in order; Nanny’s are not quite completed, that is all. You should be delighted; we shall have a day for sightseeing.’

She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Would you like me to stay here with Mrs Olbinski?’

He smiled for the first time, so nicely that she found herself almost liking him. ‘That’s very thoughtful of you, but there’s no need. You shall enjoy the comfort of the best hotel here and tomorrow we’ll take Nanny sightseeing; I daresay she’ll be glad to say goodbye to as many places as possible; she hasn’t had the opportunity, you see.’

The kettle boiled and Isobel poured the water into the enamel coffee pot she had found in one of the cupboards, set it on the tray with the cups and saucers off the shelf above the stove, and handed the doctor the tray. She smiled very faintly at the look of surprise as he took it. She didn’t think he was a selfish man, merely one who had never had to fend for himself. Too clever, no doubt, with his splendid nose buried in books or people’s insides while others ministered to his mundane wants.

Mrs Olbinski was sitting in her chair, looking impatient. ‘You took a long time,’ she observed tartly. ‘I have always been under the impression that nurses are able to do everything anywhere at any time.’ She sniffed: ‘Not that I believe it for one moment.’

‘Well, no, I shouldn’t think you would, because that’s a load of nonsense,’ said Isobel forthrightly. ‘I suppose we’re trained to do some things others might not be able to do, but that’s all—besides, this is a foreign land to me and your kitchen isn’t quite the same.’ She added hastily: ‘Though it’s charming and very cosy.’

Mrs Olbinski accepted her coffee and took a sip. ‘The coffee isn’t bad,’ she conceded, ‘and you seem a sensible young woman. Where did Mr Thomas find you?’

Isobel didn’t look at the doctor, looming on the other side of the little dark table. ‘Dr Winter asked an agency to send him a nurse,’ she explained in a colourless voice. ‘It was me or no one.’

Dr Winter made an impatient movement and she waited for him to say something, but he didn’t, so she went on: ‘It might make your journey a little easier if I give you a hand from time to time, just while Dr Winter sees to papers and passports and things…’

‘You don’t look very strong. Why do you keep saying Dr Winter in that fashion?’

Isobel sighed and went red as Dr Winter said repressively: ‘Miss Barrington and I…’ he stopped and began again. ‘We’ve only recently met, Nanny.’

Nanny made a sound which sounded like Faugh! and then Phish! ‘Well, I shall call her Isobel; it’s a pretty name even if she isn’t a pretty girl. And you can do the same, Mr Thomas, because you must be old enough to be her father. I’ll have some more coffee.’

She took no notice of the doctor’s remote annoyance but sat back comfortably in her chair. ‘If we’re to be here for another day, perhaps you’d take me to Oliwa; there’ll be organ recitals in the afternoons now that it’s summer, and I should dearly love to hear one before I go.’

Her old voice crumbled and the doctor said quickly: ‘What a splendid idea, Nanny. I’ll rent a car and we’ll drive over there tomorrow—how about a quick look at Sopot as well?’

‘Oh, I’d love that above all things—we used to go there in the summer…’ She launched into a recital of her life while her husband had been alive, until Dr Winter interrupted her gently: ‘Well, you shall see as much as possible, but in the meantime I think you might let Nurse… Isobel finish your packing, don’t you?’ He got up. ‘Suppose I leave you for an hour while I see about a car and our rooms at the hotel?’

He stooped and picked her up out of her chair and carried her through the second door into a small bedroom. He paused on the threshold—and no wonder; there wasn’t an inch of space, there were boxes, bundles and an old trunk taking up every available corner. Isobel cleared a pile of books off a chair, remarking comfortably: ‘If you’ll tell me what has to be done, I’ll do it, Mrs Olbinski.’

‘A sensible girl,’ observed that lady succinctly. ‘All this must go with me.’

Dr Winter was edging round the room looking at its contents. He said with gentle firmness: ‘I’m afraid that you won’t be allowed to take more than the clothing you’re wearing and your most treasured possessions. No money, of course. Small stuff which will go into a suitase, or a well tied cardboard box.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ll be back presently.’

Isobel took off her coat and hat. ‘Men!’ declared Mrs Olbinski pettishly. ‘They’re all alike, so quick to tell us of the unpleasant tasks they want done, and just as quick to go away until they’re completed.’ She darted a look at Isobel. ‘But Mr Thomas is a good man, make no mistake, my dear—too clever, of course, with his head in his books and always working, never finding the time to get himself a wife and children.’

Isobel murmured politely, her mind occupied solely with the problem of how to pack a quart into a pint bottle—something, a great many things, would have to be discarded.

‘What will you wear to travel in?’ she asked. A question which led to a long discussion as to the merits of a shabby winter coat or an equally shabby raincoat. They settled on the coat, a weary felt hat to go with it, a dark dress, gloves and shoes, and Isobel hung them thankfully in the corner cupboard. Underclothes were quickly dealt with, largely because there were not many; and that left mounds of small bits and pieces, all of which Mrs Olbinski declared were vital to her future life in England. Isobel didn’t say much, merely sorted family photos, a few trinkets, and a handful of small ornaments from the old scarves, ribbons, bits of lace and books. These she packed before going in search of something in which to put a few, at least, of the books.

She found a shopping basket in the kitchen and then patiently brought over Mrs Olbinski’s remaining treasures so that she could decide which must be left behind. This took time too, but at last it was done, and Isobel suggested tentatively that there might be someone her companion knew who might be glad to have the remainder of the books and vases and clothes.

The old lady brightened. ‘Go and knock on the door below, Isobel—there’s a pleasant woman living there; she might be glad of these things since I’m not to be allowed to keep them.’ She added crossly: ‘Why doesn’t Mr Thomas come back? He’s doing nothing to help.’

Too true, thought Isobel, wrestling with the lady downstairs’ valiant attempts to speak English. Signs and smiles and a few urgent tugs to an elderly arm did the trick at last; they went back upstairs together and Isobel left Mrs Olbinski to explain to her friend, who was so pleased with the arrangement that Isobel felt near to tears; how poor they must be, she thought, to be so glad with what were no more than clothes fit for the jumble. When she could get a word in edgeways she suggested that once Mrs Olbinski had gone, the lady might like to come back and collect the bedclothes and what food there was left. And that wasn’t much—she had had a look. She had just ushered the delighted lady back to her own flat, deposited her new possessions in the sitting-room and wished her goodbye when the street door below opened. It could be anyone, it could be Dr Winter; she didn’t wait to find out, but skipped upstairs once more to her charge.

It was Dr Winter, calm and unhurried and far too elegant for his surroundings. ‘There you are,’ declared Isobel, quite forgetting her place. ‘Just nicely back when all the work is done!’

He chose to misunderstand her. ‘Oh, splendid. I have rooms at the hotel and there’s a car at the end of the street. I’m taking you out to lunch, Nanny, and since we have time on our hands, we’ll take a short drive this afternoon.’

‘I can’t go like this!’ The old lady was querulous; getting tired.

‘If you wait a few minutes, I’ll help Mrs Olbinski to put on her things,’ suggested Isobel, and when he had gone, fetched the clothes from the cupboard and set about helping the old lady, wondering how she had managed in the lonely months since her husband’s death, with her poor twisted hands and frail bent body. It took a little time, but the doctor made no comment when she called to him that they were ready. He picked up the old lady, reminded Isobel to lock the door behind them, and went down the narrow stairs. Once on the pavement they each took an arm, and made a slow painful progress to the car where the doctor set Mrs Olbinski in the seat beside his and bade Isobel get in the back. It was a small car and he looked out of place driving it.

The hotel was large and once Mrs Olbinski was comfortably settled with the doctor, Isobel was shown to her room, large and well furnished and with a shower room next door. She unpacked her case, did her face and hair and went downstairs again. It was, of course, a pity they couldn’t return to Stockholm at once, but on the other hand it would be a golden opportunity to get even a glimpse of Gdansk. She looked forward to their promised outing with all the pleasure of a child.

They lunched presently in a stylish restaurant, half empty, for as the waiter told them, the summer season had barely started. The meal was wholly Polish—hot beet soup, crayfish, pork knuckle with horseradish sauce, followed by ices. Isobel enjoyed it all, and so, she noticed, did Mrs Olbinski.

They set off once lunch was finished, with the old lady quite excited now. They were to go to Sopot, a seaside resort only a few miles away and which she had known very well in earlier days. ‘We went each year for our holiday here; there was a small hotel, quite near the Grand Orbis Hotel, and we would watch the people staying there in the evening, going in and out in their evening dress,’ she sighed. ‘Such a beautiful place!’

Very beautiful agreed Isobel, but almost deserted. They drove slowly about its streets; there were few people about and the shop windows looked almost empty, and at length they turned towards the sea and parked the car in a long avenue of trees. The sense of solitude was enhanced by the wide beach, quite deserted too, and the chilly grey of the Baltic beyond. ‘We’ll walk nearer so you can have a better view. Nanny will be all right and we can see her easily enough.’

There was a narrow concrete bridge crossing the sands, reached by a spiral staircase. It was a minute’s walk away and Isobel ran up it ahead of the doctor to stand and admire the coast line stretching away on either side of her. ‘This must be lovely on a warm summer’s day,’ she said, ‘and with lots of people here.’ She started to walk beside him towards the stairs at its other end. ‘Where are all the people?’ she wanted to know.

‘The country is under martial law,’ he reminded her. ‘There’s little money for holidays, and still less for food; I daresay tourists from other countries will come here when it’s high summer.’

‘It’s very sad—your nanny must find it sad too.’

‘She has her happy memories. We’ll find somewhere for tea and then drive along the coast. In Poland the main meal in a normal household is eaten about four o’clock, but we should be able to get tea or coffee and then have dinner at the hotel before taking Nanny back. You’ll be good enough to help her to bed and leave everything at hand.’

They were walking back to the car across the path built on the sand.

‘Wouldn’t you like me to sleep there tonight?’ asked Isobel. ‘I’ll be quite comfortable…’

‘There’s no need for that. You’ll go to her after breakfast—I’ll drive you there before going to check her papers—they may arrive by then.’

‘Suppose they don’t?’

‘Then we’ll spend another day here.’

They had coffee in a small café in the town and the owner pulled up a chair, delighted to air his English. He was a middle-aged man, with dark eyes and full of wry humour. They stayed quite a while, so that their drive along the coast wasn’t as lengthy as Isobel had hoped, all the same she listened to Mrs Olbinski’s titbits of information about the country around them and looked at houses and churches and old castles with all the zeal of a tourist.

They had dinner very soon after they got back to the hotel—soup again, grilled beef and dumplings and an ice. Dr Winter drank vodka, which Isobel prudently refused, although she did drink the beer he offered her. Nanny had vodka too, that and the good food and unexpected treat of a drive that afternoon had rendered her nicely sleepy. They took her back to her flat and the doctor waited while Isobel helped her to bed, tidying up afterwards and leaving coffee ready for the morning.

‘You’re a good girl,’ declared Mrs Olbinski, when she went to say goodnight. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-five, Mrs Olbinski.’

Nanny gave a chuckle. ‘I shall be eighty in six weeks’ time,’ she declared. ‘I’ll have a proper birthday too with a cake and presents.’

Isobel and Dr Winter went back to the hotel in silence, only when they had gained the foyer did he bid her goodnight. ‘Breakfast at half past eight, Nurse,’ he reminded her, ‘and afterwards we’ll go immediately to Mrs Olbinski’s flat.’

She didn’t ask questions; there was no point, since she was sure that he wouldn’t answer them. She went up to her room, had a shower, washed her hair and went to bed.

She woke early to a grey morning and the sound of early traffic in the street below. It was barely seven o’clock, a whole one and a half hours before she could go to breakfast, and she was wide awake and longing for a cup of tea. She went to peer out of the window and then on impulse, got dressed; there was still more than an hour to breakfast, she would explore a little, it would pass the time, and she had little hope of that meal being earlier if the doctor had said half past eight, then that was the time at which they would breakfast—not a minute sooner, not a minute later; she knew him well enough to know that. He would be a strict father, she mused, brushing her mousey hair, but kind and gentle. And why should I suppose that? she enquired of her neat reflection, he’s never been either of those things to me. She pulled a childish face in the mirror, put on her coat and hat and left the room, locking the door carefully behind her.

There was a woman cleaning the corridor and a porter behind the reception desk in the foyer. Both of them replied to her good morning and the porter gave her a questioning look so that she said: ‘I’m going for a short walk,’ and smiled at him as she reached the big swing door.

Before she could open it, Dr Winter came in from outside, took her by the elbow and marched her back to the foyer.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’ he asked in a voice so harsh and so unlike his usual bland coolness that all Isobel could do was gape at him.

Presently she managed: ‘Only going for a walk.’

‘Going for a walk,’ he mimicked mockingly. ‘Of course you can speak Polish, know your way around Gdansk and have your passport with you, not to mention enough money for a taxi back if you should get lost.’

She said reasonably: ‘I was only going a little way—close to the hotel, and you have no need to be so nasty about it, Dr Winter.’

She peered up into his angry face and saw that it was grey with fatigue and needed a shave. ‘And where have you been?’ she asked with disconcerting candour. ‘You’re cross and tired and you haven’t shaved… Out all night?’ She kept her pleasant voice low. ‘At Mrs Olbinski’s flat? She’s ill?’

He shook his head. ‘No, your eyes are too sharp, Nurse, and it’s just my confounded luck to meet you…’

‘There was a curfew.’ She raised troubled eyes to meet his dark ones.

‘Lifted half an hour since. I didn’t like the idea of leaving Nanny alone.’ And at her look: ‘Oh, you were safe enough, the porter knew where I was; he’s a friend of hers anyway, he promised to keep an eye on you.’

He didn’t look angry any more, only faintly amused and impatient.

‘And now, if you’ve finished your questioning, I’ll have a shower and shave and join you for breakfast.’ He caught her arm again. ‘You’ll oblige me by staying in your room until I come for you, and I’d like your promise on that.’

‘I never heard such nonsense!’ said Isobel impatiently. ‘You’ve just said the curfew is over.’

‘Your promise,’ he insisted in a voice she didn’t much like the sound of.

‘Oh, very well.’ She went with him up the stairs and when he took her key and opened her door, went past him without a word, only at the last minute she whizzed round and held out her hand.

Dr Winter put the key into it. He said softly: ‘You are, after all, my responsibility until we’re back in England.’

They breakfasted in a comfortable silence, broken only by polite requests to pass the salt, the toast or whatever. Dr Winter’s face had lost its greyness; he was freshly shaved, impeccably dressed and very calm. Isobel, taking a quick peep, asked when she should go to Mrs Olbinski.

‘We’ll go together,’ he told her, ‘and while you’re helping her to dress I’ll go and see if her papers are in order. If so we can leave on the evening boat.’

Isobel had just coaxed Mrs Olbinski into the last of her garments when he returned to say that there would be no papers until the following morning. ‘So we may as well spend the day sightseeing,’ he finished. ‘Where would you like to go, Nanny?’

‘Oliwa,’ she said at once, ‘to listen to the organ recital—it’s at twelve noon, I believe.’

They had coffee first in the hotel coffee room and then got into the car and drove the few miles to Oliwa. The Cathedral was magnificent—twelfth century, with Renaissance Baroque and Rococo added from time to time. The doctor parked the car and they began the slow progress to its entrance with Mrs Olbinski in the middle, insisting that she would rather die than be carried. The interior was splendid, with a high vaulted roof, painted with stars and hung with the Polish flag and with old-fashioned pews, already well filled. They found seats near the back, and presently the recital started with a disembodied voice explaining in English what music would be played and the history of the Cathedral, ending with the advice to turn round and look at the organ at the back of the Cathedral when the organist broke into particularly loud music. Isobel, with Mrs Olbinski’s old hand in hers, only half listened. This was the real Poland, she thought, here in church, with the flag hanging on either side of the chancel and the quiet people sitting in the pews around her. The organ began then and she sat for half an hour, as still as a mouse, listening until the organist suddenly broke into a tremendous volume of sound. It was Dr Winter who leaned across Mrs Olbinski and touched her arm. ‘Look behind you,’ he said softly.

The organ, a massive eighteenth-century instrument, had come alive. The figures carved on it, angels with harps, trumpets, violins and flutes, were moving with the music, playing their instruments. The doctor’s hand was still on her arm; she clutched it tightly and only when the music finally faded did she let it go, dropping it like a hot coal when she realised she had been clinging to it. ‘So sorry,’ she whispered, very pink, and was hardly reassured by his inscrutable face.

They went back to Gdansk for lunch, eating it at the Pod Wieza restaurant, and when they had finished, the doctor left them there, saying he would be back presently.

He was back within half an hour, during which time Isobel and Mrs Olbinski had had several cups of coffee and a good gossip. ‘We can leave this evening,’ he told them. He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll go back to the hotel and get our things and pay the bill, then go to your place, Nanny. From there we can go down to the quay.’

Mrs Olbinski tried not to show her excitement but her old hands shook. ‘You’re sure, Mr Thomas? Everything’s in order?’

‘Yes, Nanny, we’ll have you home in a couple of days now.’ He smiled at her gently and took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes for her. Oh, dear, thought Isobel; he is so nice when he’s not being absolutely abominable!

Nice he might be to Nanny, but he allowed none of his finer feelings to show where Isobel was concerned. In businesslike tones he told her what had to be done, and she was kept busy, once they reached the old lady’s rooms, parcelling up the things, which were to go to her neighbour, making tea for the three of them, and packing a small bag with essentials for the journey for both herself and Mrs Olbinski.

After tea the doctor took back the hired car, found a taxi and started on the slow business of loading Nanny and her few possessions into it. The old lady was fretful from excitement and tiredness by now and hindered every move. It was with a sigh of relief that Isobel saw the ferry at last, and even then she wasn’t completely happy until they were actually stepping off the gangway on to the ship. Nanny was in tears again. She had, after all, lived in Poland for a long time and was leaving a life she had loved until the more recent years. Isobel coaxed her down to their cabin, got her undressed and into one of the bunks, and rang the bell for the stewardess. A large cheerful Swedish woman came at once; listening sympathetically she promised a light supper within the hour. Isobel unpacked the few things they needed for the night, talked Mrs Olbinski into a quiet frame of mind and when the supper came, sat down. Dr Winter hadn’t said anything about her own meal and she wasn’t sure if she wasn’t supposed to have it in the cabin too. She was trying to decide what to do next when he knocked on the door and came in.

He enquired after Nanny’s wellbeing and assured her that the stewardess would come the moment she was rung for, and invited Isobel with cold courtesy to join him at dinner. ‘We’ll go now and have a drink,’ he concluded without giving her a chance to say anything.

So she followed him to the deck above, drank the sherry he invited her to have and sat down to dinner. He had little to say for himself, and she was glad of that; such a lot had happened in the last two days, she wanted to think about them.

However, over coffee he said suddenly: ‘I think we may have to stay a couple of days in Stockholm,’ and at her look of delight, added dryly: ‘Not for sightseeing. Nanny is worn out and I’m not happy about continuing our journey until she has had a good rest.’

Isobel blushed. ‘Yes, of course—she’s been marvellous. It must have been pretty nerve-racking for her. I’ll keep her in bed and get her to rest as much as possible.’ She added: ‘She won’t like it.’

He passed his cup for more coffee. ‘That’s your business, Nurse. At least she likes you and will probably do as you ask.’

She said cheerfully: ‘Let’s hope so, I’ll do my best, Dr Winter.’ She put her cup down. ‘Thank you for my dinner—I’m going back to the cabin now. I’ll see that Mrs Olbinski is ready by the time we get to Stockholm—she can have her breakfast early and that will give us plenty of time.’

‘You’ll breakfast here?’

She said matter-of-factly: ‘No, thanks, I’ll have coffee and something when Mrs Olbinski does. Where are we to meet you in the morning?’

‘I’ll come for you.’ He got up as she prepared to leave. ‘Goodnight, Nurse.’

She gave him a friendly nod. ‘Goodnight, Dr Winter.’

He didn’t sit down again, but stood watching her neat figure as she threaded her way past the tables. If she had turned round she would have been surprised indeed to see that he was smiling.

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