Roses for Christmas. Бетти Нилс

      Fulk answered him good-naturedly, ‘She’s in the south of France.’

      ‘Why aren’t you with her?’

      The doctor smiled. ‘We seem to have started something, don’t we? You see, Henry, Imogen doesn’t like this part of Scotland.’

      ‘Why not?’ Eleanor beat her brother by a short head with the question.

      ‘She considers it rather remote.’

      Eleanor nodded understandingly. ‘Well, it is—no shops for sixty miles, no theatres, almost no cinemas and they’re miles away too, and high tea instead of dinner in the hotels.’

      Fulk turned his head to look at her. ‘Exactly so,’ he agreed. ‘And do you feel like that about it, too, Eleanor?’

      She said with instant indignation: ‘No, I do not—I love it; I like peace and quiet and nothing in sight but the mountains and the sea and a cottage or two—anyone who feels differently must be very stupid…’ She opened her eyes wide and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon—I didn’t mean your Imogen.’

      ‘Still the same hasty tongue,’ Fulk said mockingly, ‘and she isn’t my Imogen yet.’

      It was fortunate that Henry created a welcome diversion at that moment; wanting to climb a tree or two before teatime, so that the rest of the afternoon was spent doing just that. Fulk, Eleanor discovered, climbed trees very well.

      They played cards again until supper time and after their meal, when the two gentlemen retired to the pastor’s study, Eleanor declared that she was tired and would go to bed, but once in her room she made no effort to undress but sat on her bed making up her mind what she would wear the next day—Fulk had only seen her in slacks and a sweater with her hair hanging anyhow. She would surprise him.

      It was a pity, but he didn’t seem in the least surprised. She went down to breakfast looking much as usual, but before lunchtime she changed into a well cut tweed suit of a pleasing russet colour, put on her brogue shoes, made up her pretty face with care, did her hair in a neat, smooth coil on the top of her head, and joined the family at the table. And he didn’t say a word, glancing up at her as she entered the room and then looking away again with the careless speed of someone who had seen the same thing a dozen times before. Her excellent appetite was completely destroyed.

      It served her right, she told herself severely, for allowing herself to think about him too much; she had no reason to do so, he was of no importance in her life and after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. She made light conversation all the way to Tomintoul, a village high in the Highlands, where they stopped for tea. It was a small place, but the hotel overlooked the square and there was plenty to comment upon, something for which she was thankful, for she was becoming somewhat weary of providing almost all the conversation. Indeed, when they were on their way once more and after another hour of commenting upon the scenery, she observed tartly: ‘I’m sure you will understand if I don’t talk any more; I can’t think of anything else to say, and even if I could, I feel I should save it for this evening, otherwise we shall sit at dinner like an old married couple.’

      His shoulders shook. ‘My dear girl, I had no idea… I was enjoying just sitting here and listening to you rambling on—you have a pretty voice, you know.’ He paused. ‘Imogen doesn’t talk much when we drive together; it makes a nice change. But I promise you we won’t sit like an old married couple; however old we become, we shall never take each other for granted.’

      She allowed this remark to pass without comment, for she wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘You were going to tell me about Imogen,’ she prompted, and was disappointed when he said abruptly: ‘I’ve changed my mind—tell me about Henry instead. What a delightful child he is, but not, I fancy, over-strong.’

      The subject of Henry lasted until they reached Edinburgh, where he drove her to the North British Hotel in Princes Street, and after Eleanor had tidied herself, gave her a memorable dinner, managing to convey, without actually saying so, that she was not only a pleasant companion but someone whom he had wanted to take out to dinner all his life. It made her glow very nicely, and the glow was kept at its best by the hock which he offered her. They sat for a long time over their meal and when he at last took her to the hospital it was almost midnight.

      She got out of the car at the Nurses’ Home entrance and he got out with her and walked to the door to open it. She wished him goodbye quietly, thanked him for a delightful evening and was quite taken by surprise when he pulled her to him, kissed her hard and then, without another word, popped her through the door and closed it behind her. She stood in the dimly lit hall, trying to sort out her feelings. She supposed that they were outraged, but this was tempered by the thought that she wasn’t going to see him again. She told herself firmly that it didn’t matter in the least, trying to drown the persistent little voice in the back of her head telling her that even if she didn’t like him—and she had told herself enough times that she didn’t—it mattered quite a bit. She went slowly up to her room, warning herself that just because he had given her a good dinner and been an amusing companion there was no reason to allow her thoughts to dwell upon him.

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE MORNING WAS dark and dreary and suited Eleanor’s mood very well as she got into her uniform and, looking the very epitome of neatness and calm efficiency, went down to breakfast, a meal eaten in a hurry by reason of the amount of conversation crammed in by herself and friends while they drank tea and bolted toast and marmalade.

      She climbed the stairs to Women’s Medical, trying to get used to being back on the ward once more, while her pretty nose registered the fact that the patients had had fish for breakfast and that someone had been too lavish with the floor polish—the two smells didn’t go well together. Someone, too, would have to repair the window ledge outside the ward door, and it was obvious that no one had bothered to water the dreadful potted plant which lived on it. Eleanor pushed the swing doors open and went straight to her little office, where Staff Nurse Jill Pitts would be waiting with the two night nurses.

      The report took longer than usual; it always did on her first day back, even if she had been away for a short time; new patients, new treatments, Path Lab reports, news of old patients—it was all of fifteen minutes before she sent the night nurses to their breakfast, left Jill to see that the nurses were starting on their various jobs, and set off on her round. She spent some time with her first three patients, for they were elderly and ill, and for some weeks now they had all been battling to keep them alive; she assured herself that they were holding their own and passed on to the fourth bed; Mrs McFinn, a large, comfortable lady with a beaming smile and a regrettable shortness of breath due to asthma, a condition which didn’t prevent her wheezing out a little chat with Eleanor, and her neighbour, puffing and panting her way through emphysema with unending courage and good humour, wanted to chat too. She indulged them both; they were such dears, but so for that matter were almost all the patients in the ward.

      She spent a few minutes with each of them in turn, summing up their condition while she lent a friendly ear and a smile; only as she reached the top of the ward did she allow a small sigh to escape her. Miss Tremble, next in line, was a cross the entire staff, medical and nursing, bore with fortitude, even if a good deal of grumbling went on about her in private. She was a thin, acidulated woman in her sixties, a diabetic which it seemed impossible to stabilize however the doctors tried. Painstakingly dieted and injected until the required balance had been reached, she would be sent home, only to be borne back in again sooner or later in yet another diabetic coma, a condition which she never ceased to blame upon the hospital staff. She had been in again for two weeks now, and on the one occasion during that period when it had been considered safe to send her home again to her downtrodden sister, she had gone into a coma again as she was actually on the point of departure, and it was all very well for Sir Arthur Minch, the consultant physician in charge of her case, to carry on about it; as Eleanor had pointed out to him in a reasonable manner, one simply didn’t turn one’s back on hyperglycaemia, even when it was about to leave the ward; she had put the patient back to bed again and allowed the great man to natter on about