Roses for Christmas. Бетти Нилс

question: ‘Is she pretty?’

      The dark eyes looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yes, ethereal—very small, slim, fair hair, blue eyes—she dresses with exquisite taste.’

      Eleanor didn’t look at him. She tucked Mrs Trot up in her old blanket and got to her feet, feeling, for some reason, a much bigger girl than she actually was and most regrettably shabby and untidy. Not that it mattered, she told herself crossly; if people came calling without warning they could take her as they found her. She said haughtily: ‘Tea will be ready, I expect,’ and went down the ladder with the expertise of long practice. She waited politely for him at the bottom and then walked beside him out of the stable and across the cobbled yard towards the house. She walked well, her head well up and with a complete lack of self-consciousness, for she was a graceful girl despite her splendid proportions and tall, although now her head barely reached her companion’s shoulder.

      ‘It hasn’t changed,’ her companion observed, looking around him. ‘I’m glad my father came just once again before he died; he loved this place. It was a kind of annual pilgrimage with him, wasn’t it?’

      Eleanor glanced up briefly. ‘Yes—we were all sorry when he died, we all knew him so well, and coming every year as he did…’ She paused and then went on: ‘You never came, and now after all these years you have. Why?’

      They had stopped in the open back porch and he answered her casually: ‘Oh, one reason and another, you know.’ He was eyeing her in a leisurely fashion which she found annoying. ‘Do you always dress like this?’

      She tossed back her mane of hair. ‘You haven’t changed at all,’ she told him tartly. ‘You’re just as hateful as you were as a boy.’

      He smiled. ‘You have a long memory.’ His dark eyes snapped with amusement. ‘But then so have I, Eleanor.’

      She led the way down the flagstoned passage and opened a door, while vivid memory came flooding back—all those years ago, when he had picked her up and held her gently while she howled and sobbed into his shoulder and even while she had hated him then, just for those few minutes she had felt secure and content and very happy despite the fact that moments earlier she had been kicking his shins—she had lost her balance and fallen over and he had laughed, but gently, and picked her up…it was silly to remember such a trivial episode from her childhood.

      The sitting room they entered wasn’t large, but its heterogeneous mixture of unassuming antiques and comfortable, shabby armchairs, handmade rugs and bookshelves rendered it pleasant enough. It had two occupants: Eleanor’s mother, a small, pretty woman, very neatly dressed, and her father, a good deal older than his wife, with thick white hair and bright blue eyes in a rugged face. He was in elderly grey tweeds and only his dog collar proclaimed his profession.

      ‘There you are,’ exclaimed Mrs MacFarlane. ‘So you found each other.’ She beamed at them both. ‘Isn’t it nice to meet again after all these years? Fulk, come and sit here by me and tell me all your news,’ and when he had done so: ‘Did you recognise Eleanor? She was such a little girl when you last saw her.’

      Eleanor was handing plates and teacups and saucers. ‘Of course he didn’t recognise me, Mother,’ she explained in a brisk no-nonsense voice. ‘I was only five then, and that’s twenty years ago.’

      ‘A nice plump little thing you were, too,’ said her father fondly, and smiled at their guest, who remarked blandly: ‘Little girls so often are,’ and Eleanor, although she wasn’t looking at him, knew that he was secretly laughing. It was perhaps fortunate that at that moment Henry joined them, to sit himself down as close to him as possible.

      ‘Are you going to stay here?’ he enquired eagerly. ‘I mean, for a day or two? And must I call you Doctor van Hensum, and will you…?’

      ‘Call me Fulk, Henry, and yes, your mother has very kindly asked me to stay for a short visit.’

      ‘Oh, good—you can come fishing with us, Eleanor and me, you know, and there’s an apple tree she climbs, I daresay she’ll let you climb it too if you like.’

      ‘Eat your bread and butter, Henry,’ said Eleanor in the same brisk voice. ‘I’m sure Doctor van Hensum doesn’t climb trees at his age, and probably he’s not in the least interested in fishing.’ She cast the doctor a smouldering glance. ‘He may want to rest…’

      She caught the quick gleam in his eyes although his voice was meek enough. ‘As to that, I’m only thirty-six, you know, and reasonably active.’

      ‘Of course you are,’ declared Mrs MacFarlane comfortably, and passed him the cake. ‘I can remember you fishing, too—and climbing trees—Eleanor used to shriek at you because you wouldn’t let her climb trees too.’ She laughed at the memory and her daughter ground her splendid teeth. ‘So long ago,’ sighed her mother, ‘and I remember it all so vividly.’

      And that was the trouble, Eleanor told herself, although why the memory was so vivid was a mystery beyond her.

      ‘And now,’ interpolated her father, ‘you are a famous physician; of course your dear father was a brilliant man—you were bound to follow in his footsteps, and your mother was a clever woman too, and an uncommonly pretty one. I’m afraid that we none of us can hold a candle to your splendid career, although Eleanor has done very well for herself, you know; in her own small sphere she has specialized in medicine and is very highly thought of at her hospital, so I’m told.’ He added with a touch of pride: ‘She’s a Ward Sister—one of the youngest there.’

      ‘I can hardly believe it,’ observed Fulk, and only she realized that he was referring to her careless appearance; no one, seeing her at that moment would have believed that she was one and the same person as the immaculately uniformed, highly professional young woman who ruled her ward so precisely. A pity he can’t see me on duty, she thought peevishly, and said aloud: ‘Donald—he’s younger than I—is at Aberdeen and doing very well. He’s going in for surgery.’

      She encountered the doctor’s gaze again and fidgeted under it. ‘He was in his pram when you were here.’

      He said smoothly: ‘Ah, yes, I remember. Father always kept me up to date with any news about you; there’s Mary—she’s married, isn’t she?—and Margaret?’

      ‘Here she is now,’ said Mrs MacFarlane, ‘back from school—and don’t forget James, he’s still at boarding school.’ She cast a fond look at her last-born, gobbling cake. ‘Henry’s only home because he’s had chickenpox.’

      There was a small stir as Margaret came in. She was already pretty and at twelve years old bade fair to outshine Eleanor later on. She embraced her mother, declaring she was famished, assured Eleanor that she would need help with her homework and went to kiss her father. She saw the doctor then and said instantly: ‘Is that your car in the lane? It’s absolutely wizard!’

      Her father’s voice was mildly rebuking. ‘This is Fulk van Hensum, Margaret, he used to come and stay with us a long time ago—you remember his father? He is to stay with us for a day or so.’

      She shook hands, smiling widely. ‘Oh, yes—I remember your father and I know about you too.’ She eyed him with some curiosity. ‘You’re very large, aren’t you?’

      He smiled slowly. ‘I suppose I am. Yes, that’s my car outside—it’s a Panther de Ville.’

      It was Henry who answered him. ‘I say, is it really? May I look at it after tea? There are only a few built, aren’t there—it’s rather like an XJ12, isn’t it? With a Jag engine…’

      The big man gave him a kindly look. ‘A motorcar enthusiast?’ he wanted to know, and when Henry nodded, ‘We’ll go over it presently if you would like that—it has some rather nice points…’ He smiled at the little boy and then addressed Eleanor with unexpected suddenness. ‘When do you go back to Edinburgh?’

      She looked up from filling second cups. ‘In a few days, Friday.’

      ‘Good,