Roses Have Thorns. Бетти Нилс

hospital manager if she agrees. She may refuse…’

      His mother got to her feet. ‘I’m being a nuisance, my dear. I’ll get a taxi and leave you to finish whatever it was that you were doing.’

      ‘I’ll drive you home and come back after dinner. You will want to phone Father.’

      He smiled at her very kindly and she wondered if he smiled at his patients like that. She suspected that he allowed no one but his family and close friends to see anything of his warmth and kindness; he was thirty-six now, she reflected, and it was ten years since the girl he had intended to marry had thrown him over for a South American millionaire. Ever since then he had allowed no one and nothing to get beneath his smooth, cold politeness. Mevrouw Nauta, sending up a silent prayer that someday soon a girl with enough love and determination would penetrate that chilly civility, followed her only son out of the room.

      * * *

      IT WAS RAINING the next morning as Sarah bade Charles goodbye and ran down the stairs. It would be a busy day, she remembered, for Mrs Drew had arranged to have a day off so that she could take her small son to the dentist. She hung up her dripping raincoat, smoothed her damp mass of hair and sat down at her desk, ready to welcome the first patient.

      It was Mr Clew’s morning and his patients, legs in plaster, arms in slings, quite a few on crutches, came pouring in. His clinic wasn’t over until lunchtime, when Mrs Pearce took herself off to the canteen, leaving Sarah to get ready for the afternoon. Post-Natal and toddlers, and likely to go on long after five o’clock. She ticked off names, arranged old notes where they could be got at a moment’s notice and wondered what the canteen had to offer in the way of a hot meal. For reasons of economy her breakfast was frugal, and now her insides were rumbling.

      The door, thrust open impatiently by Professor Nauta, made her look up. Her heart sank, remembering that she had been impertinent on the previous day and he was probably going to tick her off—or worse, threaten her with dismissal. She sat up a little straighter in her chair and wished him a calm good morning.

      ‘Have you had your lunch?’ he wanted to know, not wasting time on niceties.

      ‘No, sir.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘In ten minutes.’ She folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to speak.

      ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to have lunch with me?’ And, at her look of absolute surprise, ‘I wish to have a talk with you. I am a busy man and can spare little time and you, I imagine, have your work to do. I will be outside the main entrance in fifteen minutes’ time.’

      He had turned on his heel and gone through the doors before she had managed to close her astonished mouth and give utterance.

      The idea that he was suffering from overwork and unaware of what he was doing crossed her mind, to be instantly denied—he wasn’t that kind of man. There was no doubt in her mind that he had meant exactly what he had said. And where would they go for a meal? Surely not to the hospital canteen, that hotbed of gossip? She wasn’t dressed for the type of restaurant he probably frequented, and, besides, why should he waste money on her? She gave up worrying about that and worried about why he wanted to see her, instead.

      When Mrs Pearce came back from her own lunch, Sarah tidied herself, got into her raincoat and took herself off to the main entrance. Mrs Pearce hadn’t been very punctual and it was several minutes past the fifteen he had told her. Perhaps he wouldn’t be there… He was, sitting in his dove-grey Rolls-Royce, beating a tattoo on the steering-wheel.

      It surprised her when he got out and went round the car to open the door for her, but she said nothing; only when she was sitting beside him she reminded him, ‘I have three-quarters of an hour for lunch, Professor.’

      ‘I am aware of that.’ He drove out of the hospital forecourt into the busy East End and turned the car south towards the river. Just past the Monument he turned into a narrow street and stopped before a corner pub.

      At her look he said smoothly, ‘Perfectly respectable, Miss Fletcher; I come here frequently for lunch.’

      He ushered her out of the car and in through the doors to a snug bar, almost empty of customers although from the other side of the passage Sarah could hear cheerful voices and the thud of darts on the dartboard.

      She was urged to a corner table and asked what she would like to drink. Something to keep up the courage she felt sure she was going to need presently? Or tonic water and a clear head? She chose the latter.

      ‘The beef sandwiches are excellent,’ suggested the Professor, sounding almost friendly, and he gave the order, at the same time glancing at his watch. ‘I shall not beat about the bush,’ he told her and she nodded; she would have been surprised if he had.

      ‘Do you have any holidays due to you?’

      There seemed no point in asking him to explain at the moment. ‘Yes, two weeks.’

      ‘Good. Have you a family, Miss Fletcher? Parents, sisters, brothers?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Then if you have no plans for your holiday would you consider going over to Holland and acting as companion to my grandmother? Ninety years old and extremely tetchy; she is also dying.’ He broke off as the sandwiches were put on the table with her tonic water and his beer. ‘I should perhaps tell you that my mother took an instant liking to you and feels that you are exactly the right person to be with my grandmother.’

      Sarah eyed him cautiously. ‘We barely spoke,’ she pointed out calmly. ‘It sounds a lot of double Dutch to me.’ She stopped and went red. ‘I am sorry, I quite forgot that you are Dutch.’

      He inclined his head gravely and gave her a cool look down his commanding nose. ‘Let us not concern ourselves with my feelings,’ he begged. ‘Be good enough to consider what I have said; we shall, of course, pay all expenses and a suitable fee, and all arrangements will be made for you. It would be convenient if you could travel within the week.’

      ‘I doubt if I could get my holidays at such short notice.’

      ‘That can also be arranged, Miss Fletcher.’

      She bit into a sandwich. He was right, the beef was excellent. A sudden thought struck her as she took another bite. ‘Oh, but I can’t—I can’t leave Charles.’

      The Professor drank some beer. ‘Charles? Your, er, young man?’

      ‘I haven’t got one,’ she said flatly. ‘Charles is my cat, and there is no one to look after him.’

      He offered the sandwiches. ‘I am on the committee of an animal sanctuary just across the river in Greenwich. Charles would be happy and well cared for there, and I will undertake to take him there and return him to you when you get back.’

      She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘You are going to a great deal of trouble, Professor Nauta.’

      His eyes were cold steel. ‘I am fond of my grandmother, Miss Fletcher.’

      She finished her sandwich, drank the rest of her tonic water and sat back in the comfortable, shabby chair. She had nothing to lose, she reflected; it would make a delightful change from the drab respectability in which she lived, and he had said that Charles would be cared for. The fee would be welcome, too: shoes, a new dress for her meagre wardrobe, and perhaps, on a Bank Holiday, a day-trip to the sea. She heard herself say, ‘Very well, Professor Nauta, if you will arrange everything and see that Charles is quite safe, I’ll do it.’

      She felt no last-minute regret, and as for the Professor, he showed no sign of satisfaction, merely nodded briefly and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Fletcher. I will make the arrangements and keep you informed. Have you a passport?’

      She shook her head.

      ‘Then go to the post office and get a visitor’s passport—it will be sufficient for your stay in Holland.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We should be getting back.’

      At the hospital he got out and opened her door. He said stiffly,