Читать книгу Never Say Goodbye - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

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.