Roses for Christmas. Бетти Нилс

that she didn’t speak for a moment. ‘Well, what does she do and where does she live and where will you live when you’re married, and is she very pretty?’ She added wistfully: ‘You said she was small…’

      ‘Half your size and very, very pretty—you forgot to ask how old she is, by the way. Twenty-six, and she doesn’t do anything—at least, she doesn’t have a job. She doesn’t need to work, you see. But she fills her days very nicely with tennis and swimming and riding and driving—and she dances beautifully. She lives in den Haag and I live near Groningen, about a hundred and fifty miles apart—an easy run on the motorway.’

      ‘But that’s an awful long way to go each weekend,’ observed Eleanor.

      ‘Every weekend? Oh, not as often as that, my dear. Besides, Imogen stays with friends a good deal—I did tell you that she’s in the south of France now and later on she will be going to Switzerland for the winter sports.’ His voice was very level. ‘We decided when we became engaged that we would make no claims on each other’s time and leisure.’

      ‘Oh,’ said Eleanor blankly, ‘how very strange. I don’t think I’d like that at all.’

      ‘If you were engaged to me? But you’re not.’ He smiled thinly. ‘A fine state of affairs that would be! You would probably expect me to sit in your pocket and we should quarrel without pause.’

      ‘Probably.’ Her voice was colourless. ‘I think I’d better go back to the ward, if you don’t mind…’ She was interrupted by the cheerful booming voice of Doctor Blake, Sir Arthur’s right-hand man, who clapped a hand on her shoulder, greeted her with the easy friendliness of a long-standing acquaintance and asked: ‘May I sit down? It’s Doctor van Hensum, isn’t it? I’ve just been with Sir Arthur and he mentioned that you might be here still—I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

      ‘I’m just on my way back to the ward,’ said Eleanor, and wished she wasn’t. ‘I’m a bit late already.’ She smiled a general sort of smile and got to her feet. ‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said quickly and hardly looking at Fulk. He had got to his feet too, and his ‘Goodbye, Eleanor,’ was very quiet.

      She had no time to think about him after that, for Miss Tremble had seen fit to go into a coma and it took most of the afternoon to get her out of it again. Eleanor missed her tea and the pleasant half hour of gossip she usually enjoyed with the other Sisters and went off duty a little late, to change rapidly and catch a bus to the other side of the city where an aunt, elderly, crotchety but nevertheless one of the family, would be waiting to give her supper. It had become a custom for Eleanor to visit her on her return from any holidays so that she might supply her with any titbits of news, and although it was sometimes a little tiresome, the old lady had got to depend upon her visits. She spent a dull evening, answering questions and listening to her companion’s various ailments, and when she at last escaped and returned to the hospital, she was too tired to do more than climb into bed as quickly as possible.

      It was two more days before she discovered, quite by chance, that Fulk had gone back to Holland only a few hours after they had shared their meal together in the Blue Bird Café, and for some reason the news annoyed her; she had been wondering about him, it was true, but somehow she had taken it for granted that he would come and say goodbye before he left, although there was no reason why he should have done so, but one would have thought, she told herself peevishly, that after making such a thing about taking her to lunch, he could at least have mentioned that he was on the point of leaving; he hadn’t even said goodbye. She paused in her reflections: he had, even though he hadn’t told her he was leaving; probably thinking it was none of her business, anyway—nor was it.

      She glared at her nice face in the silly little mirror on the office wall and went back to her work once more, and while she chatted with her patients and listened to their complaints and worries, she decided that Fulk wasn’t worth thinking about, quite forgetting that she had told herself that already. She would most probably not see him again; she could forget him, and the beautiful Imogen with him. She finished her round and went back down the ward, the very picture of calm efficiency, and went into her office, where she sat at her desk, staring at the papers she was supposed to be dealing with while she speculated about Imogen; it was strange that although she had never met the girl and was never likely to, she should have such strong feelings of dislike for her.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE DAYS SLID BY, October became November and the bright weather showed no sign of giving way to the sleet and gales of early winter. The ward filled up; acute bronchitis, pneumonia, flu in a variety of forms, followed each other with an almost monotonous regularity. Eleanor, brimming over with good health and vitality herself, had her kind heart wrung by every fresh case. They got well again, of course, at least the vast majority did, what with antibiotics and skilled nursing and Sir Arthur and his assistants keeping a constant eye upon them all, but Eleanor, wrapping some elderly lady in a shabby winter coat, preparatory to her going home, wished with all her heart that they might stay in the ward, eating the plain wholesome food they never cooked for themselves, enjoying the warmth and the company of other elderly ladies; instead of which, going home so often meant nothing more than a chilly, lonely bed-sitter.

      They weren’t all elderly, though. There was the teenager, who should have been pretty and lively and nicely curved, but who had succumbed to the craze for slimming and had been so unwise about it that now she was a victim of anorexia nervosa; the very sight of food had become repugnant to her, and although she was nothing but skin and bone, she still wanted to become even slimmer. Eleanor had a hard time with her, but it was rewarding after a week or two to know that she had won and once again her patient could be persuaded to eat. And the diabetics, of course, nothing as dramatic as Miss Tremble, but short-stay patients who came in to be stabilized, and lastly, the heart patients; the dramatic coronaries who came in with such urgency and needed so much care, and the less spectacular forms of heart disease, who nonetheless received just as much attention. Eleanor didn’t grudge her time or her energy on her patients; off-duty didn’t matter, and when Jill remonstrated with her she said carelessly that she could give herself a few extra days later on, when the ward was slack.

      And towards the end of November things did calm down a bit, and Eleanor, a little tired despite her denials, decided that she might have a long weekend at home. She left the hospital after lunch on Friday and took the long train journey to Lairg and then the bus to Tongue, warmly wrapped against the weather in her tweed coat and little fur hat her mother had given her for the previous Christmas, and armed with a good book, and because it was a long journey, she took a thermos of tea and some sandwiches as well. All the same, despite these precautions, she was tired and hungry by the time she reached the manse, but her welcome was warm and the supper her mother had waiting was warm and filling as well. She ate and talked at the same time and then went up to bed. It was heavenly to be home again; the peace and quiet of it were a delight after the busy hospital life. She curled up in her narrow little bed and went instantly to sleep.

      She was up early, though, ready to help with the breakfast and see Margaret and Henry off to school, and then go and visit Mrs Trot and her fast-growing family. ‘We’ll have to find homes for them,’ she declared as she helped with the washing up.

      ‘Yes, dear.’ Mrs MacFarlane emptied her bowl and dried her hands. ‘We have—for two of them, and we thought we’d keep one—company for Mrs Trot, she’s such a good mother—that leaves one.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ Eleanor was stacking plates on the old-fashioned wooden dresser. ‘What’s all this about Henry going climbing?’

      ‘His class is going this afternoon, up to that cairn—you know the one? It’s about two miles away, isn’t it? Mr MacDow is going with them, of course, and it’s splendid weather with a good forecast. He’s promised that they’ll explore those caves nearby.’

      ‘The whole class? That’ll be a dozen or more, I don’t envy him.’

      Mrs MacFarlane laughed. ‘He’s very competent, you know, and a first-class climber—the boys adore him.’ She looked a little anxious. ‘Do you suppose that Henry shouldn’t