Читать книгу The Edge of Winter - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

ST KATHERINE’S was one of the older hospitals, maintaining its proud reputation despite its out-of-date wards, its endless corridors and numerous, quite unnecessary flights of stairs.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

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

‘No men?’

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

‘Did you go sailing, then?’

‘No—yes—well, I did, just once.’

‘Was it fun?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No.’

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

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was the senior consultant surgeon, Sir Donald Short.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You gave the anaesthetic…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I wanted to see you again.’

‘You said that last time.’

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

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