Pineapple Girl. Бетти Нилс

and live out the rest of her life among her friends and in the home she loved. ‘I have a simply splendid doctor,’ she told Eloise cheerfully. ‘It was he who sent me to Sir Arthur Newman in the first place—you’ve worked for him, haven’t you, dear? I was in a nursing home, of course, though I should have been just as happy in hospital, but Cor insisted, bless him…’ She smiled. ‘So now you know—or did you guess?’

      ‘Almost—I thought it might be more serious than you wanted us to think, and when you mentioned a dressing…’

      ‘And you really don’t mind coming? It’s silly of me, I know, but I have to get used to the idea and I thought if I had someone I knew with me, just for a little while, then I can face it. They tell me I can expect six months, perhaps a little longer.’

      Eloise got out of her chair and went to kneel by her visitor. ‘You’re brave, Mrs Pringle, and I’ll do all I can to help you. Your husband must be very upset.’

      ‘Poor dear, he is. Do you believe in miracles, Eloise?’

      ‘Yes, and I think most nurses and doctors do; you see, now and then there is a miracle, and who knows, it might be yours.’

      Her visitor smiled crookedly. ‘Bless you for saying that! I believe we’re going to get on very well together.’ She got to her feet. ‘Not a word to your mother, mind—no one knows, only you and Cor and Sir Arthur, and of course my own doctor.’

      ‘Dutch?’ asked Eloise.

      ‘From Groningen.’ Mrs Pringle looked vaguely speculative for a moment. ‘I expect you’ll get on well with each other; he’s a mild sort of man. Now I’m going for you have to go home and go to bed. Will you tell your mother that I’ll write to her within the next day or so? And I’ll let you know at what time I’ll call for you.’ She leaned up and kissed Eloise’s cheek. ‘You’re a dear girl.’

      Eloise cycled home thoughtfully, only half her mind on the traffic. Mrs Pringle was indeed a brave woman, and the idea of leaving her alone again after a couple of weeks went against the grain. She frowned over the problem until she was brought back to the present by a bus driver alongside her, waiting at the traffic lights, asking her from his cab if she had taken root. He said it nicely, for she was in uniform, but it recalled her to her whereabouts. She made haste home after that and spent the next hour or so listening to her mother’s delighted comments on her forthcoming holiday. ‘I am looking forward to it,’ declared Mrs Bennett for the hundredth time, ‘and I only hope you’ll enjoy yourself too, darling.’

      Eloise gave her mother a hug. ‘I shall enjoy every minute of it,’ she assured her, reflecting that to do anything else wouldn’t help Mrs Pringle at all. ‘And now I’m off to bed, darling—I had a beastly night.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      THE FORTNIGHT went very quickly. The ward was busy for one thing, and for another, both Eloise and her mother had something to plan for. Refuting that wise but cautious saying about rainy days, Eloise took her mother shopping and persuaded her parent to invest in a good tweed suit, pointing out with rather muddled good sense that the garment in question would probably be twice the price by the time they could afford to buy it. Mrs Bennett, thus spurred on, found a dear little hat to go with it, had her good shoes re-soled and then turned her attention to her daughter. Eloise dressed well, considering she did so on a minuscule amount of money, but as her mother pointed out, Mrs Pringle very likely lived in some style, and she had to admit that her winter coat, although well cut and nicely fitting, was now about to see its third winter—moreover, she was heartily sick of it; something would have to be done to liven it up. This they achieved at a reasonable outlay by the purchase of an angora cap, scarf and gloves in a warm shade of honey which helped the dark brown of the coat considerably.

      Eloise found a dress too of almost the same shade; one of dozens similar in Marks and Spencer, but as she pointed out, the chance of anyone in Holland knowing that was remote. It was simply cut, with long sleeves and a wide belt to define her small waist, and if the occasion warranted she would dress it up with a neck scarf or some beads. Sweaters she already had, and skirts and an elderly velvet dress the colour of a mole, bought in their more affluent days; no longer high fashion, but it would, at a pinch, pass muster. The two ladies went home, packed their cases and professed themselves well pleased with their purchases.

      It had been arranged that Mrs Bennett should be fetched by Mrs Pringle’s car—a hired one, and as she confided to Eloise, it would be a treat in itself just to be driven all the way to Somerset. ‘Though Deborah always drove herself,’ she remarked, ‘and when I asked her why she had a chauffeur she said something about it being not like the old days and there was too much traffic. I must say I was quite surprised.’ Which Eloise wasn’t.

      Her mother gone, Eloise combated loneliness with a great deal of housework, slept soundly and went on duty for the last time before her holiday. The tiresome Mrs Fellows had long since gone, but the ward was full and some of the patients were ill; she went off duty tired out and with the good-natured wishes of her friends ringing in her ears she cycled home, thankful that she had nothing to do but go to bed. She got up early, finished her packing, cooked herself an early supper, washed her hair and after touring the little flat to make sure that everything was in apple pie order, went back to bed again; she would have to be up in good time in the morning, as she was to be fetched at eight o’clock.

      She woke to a bright day, the chilliness of autumn masked by brilliant sunshine. The winter coat was going to be a little heavy, but worn without a hat it would have to do. She took extra care with her pretty hair, made up her face carefully, collected her passport and purse, went through her handbag once more, and sat down to wait.

      Mrs Pringle was on time; Eloise saw the car from the window, gave a final look round and went downstairs. She felt excited now and happier than she had been for a long time, although she knew that the happiness would be dimmed before long—Mrs Pringle had put a brave face on things, but there were going to be days when she wouldn’t feel so good, when Eloise would have to coax and encourage and somehow rekindle the spark of hope every patient had tucked away inside them. And there was always the possibility, however remote, that Mrs Pringle might make a recovery—it could happen, no one knew why, and it didn’t happen often, but it was something to bear in mind and work for.

      Her patient was in the back of the car; if she were secretly worried about herself, no trace of it showed on her face. She told the driver to stow the luggage in the boot, invited Eloise to get in beside her and exclaimed happily: ‘I’m so thrilled at the idea of going home! I’ve been thinking of some of the things we might do together, but first I must tell you about your mother. I left her looking ten years younger and so happy—she sent her love and said you were to enjoy yourself. Such a dear creature and not changed at all, which is more than I can say for your aunt—how lucky she is to have you, Eloise. I always wanted a daughter. Of course it’s lovely having Pieter, but he doesn’t live at home.’ She sighed. ‘We always said that we would have six children.’

      ‘Mother wanted a large family…’

      ‘Yes. Ah, well, perhaps when you marry you’ll make up for it and have a pack of them—that will please her, though it’s not fashionable.’

      ‘Pooh,’ declared Eloise, ‘who cares about fashion?’ and just for a moment she saw herself, surrounded by several quite beautiful children, with a pleasant house in the background and an enormous garden, and somewhere close by, but regrettably vague, a husband. She might have elaborated on his appearance, only her companion was speaking again.

      ‘Well be met at Schiphol—Cor will be there with the car—this one is hired; as you know. It won’t take long to drive home from there—it’s less than a hundred and fifty miles. The village where we live is called Scharmerbloem—it’s small, but then you like the country, don’t you, dear? Just a few houses and a church. Groningen is only ten miles away, though.’

      ‘And your doctor—does he live in Groningen?’

      ‘Well, he has his consulting rooms there and beds in the hospital, but he lives quite