The Edge of Winter. Бетти Нилс

when next they met.

      She entered the Accident Room, carrying on a mythical conversation with him in which he came off very much the worse for wear, and was brought up short by the line of people already in the waiting area. Of course, they would be some of the victims of yesterday’s bomb, come for a check-up. A good number of them had been sent to their own doctors for after-care, but there had been several doubtful ones who had been asked to return. Doctor van Sibbelt’s handsome features faded at once and stayed that way until she went to her dinner, leaving Sylvia to cope with the few patients who were receiving attention.

      Most of her friends were there, consuming their meal with the businesslike speed of those who never have the chance to linger over their food, but they managed to get a good deal of talking done at the same time. Araminta was plied with questions and the conditions of the various patients she had dispatched to the wards the day before were discussed at some length. They were consuming their stewed fruit and custard when someone asked: ‘Who was that man with Sir Donald? I saw them coming out of theatre. Didn’t you say Sir was with you, Araminta?’

      Araminta, her mouth full, nodded.

      ‘And the man with him?’

      She nodded again and managed: ‘He’s a doctor.’

      ‘He’s a smasher.’ It was the same girl who spoke, one of the junior sisters on Men’s Surgical, a pert, pretty girl whom nobody liked very much. ‘Did you speak to him?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Araminta, ‘I asked him if he was going to cut down and he said he’d have a try with a needle first.’

      There was a little burst of laughter. ‘Do you mean to tell me that he didn’t ask you out?’ asked the pert girl suspiciously.

      ‘No,’ said Araminta, and added quenchingly: ‘It was hardly the time or the place, was it?’

      Her questioner subsided and they got up from the table in twos and threes and went along to the sitting room in the Home for the last precious ten minutes, to drink their tea in peace before going back to their various jobs.

      ‘I can’t stand that girl!’ Pamela Carr exclaimed as she and Araminta walked through the maze of passages to the main wing of the hospital, ‘and just my wretched luck to be relieving on Men’s Surgical while Sister West’s on holiday—the creature seems to think that she knows the lot; its “Sister Carr, do this, Sister Carr, do that”.’ She sniffed. ‘She tints her hair.’

      Araminta chuckled. ‘I thought she did. I didn’t like her either, but cheer up, Pam, think of her face when she discovers that you’ve been offered Sister West’s job when she retires after Christmas. The boot’ll be on the other foot then.’

      Pam sighed. ‘It seems a long way off—ever so many things could happen…’

      ‘Such as what?’ Araminta pushed the Accident Room door open. ‘You could meet a millionaire who falls for you on sight and carries you off to some gorgeous mansion…’

      Her companion laughed. ‘I’d like to see it happen! It sounds more like you.’

      ‘I’m not the type. ‘Bye for now.’

      The afternoon dragged a little. The hospital had been taken off take-in for a couple of days, so that all the emergencies could go to neighbouring hospitals, leaving St Katherine’s time to get back into its stride. Araminta had the time now to sit at her desk and make out the off duty for the month ahead, write the nurses’ reports, harangue the laundry, the dispensary and the Admissions Office by telephone, and go on a careful inspection of her department. This was something she did regularly, for although she was on excellent terms with her staff, she allowed no slackness. She returned to her desk well satisfied; the place was pristine, she had had time to chat to each member of her staff, arranging for them to take the off duty they had missed, say a few words in the kitchen to Betsy, and go along to X-Ray to iron out one or two awkward situations which had cropped up. It was almost time for her to go to tea, but she decided against it; Dolly could go off duty an hour earlier instead. One of the student nurses had already gone, leaving herself and the junior nurse alone until Sylvia took over at five o’clock. Araminta went to find Dolly and then poked her head round the kitchen door once to ask Betsy to let her have a pot of tea when she had a minute to spare. Well satisfied that she had done her best to make everyone happy, she went along to the end bay where a junior houseman was painstakingly reducing a dislocated shoulder. He had done it very well, she noted, only now he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. She applied the bandage for him, her unassuming manner leading him to believe that he had allowed her to do it out of the kindness of his heart because she needed the practice.

      The little corner shop was still open when she went off duty, so she bought a loaf and a tin of beans and a pound of apples and went home, where, over her simple meal, she found herself wishing that the Dutch doctor was there too, bad temper and all, offering her something tasty from Harrods.

      It was several days later that she overheard Sir Donald telling James that Doctor van Sibbelt was back in his own country. It was a pity that they walked away just then and she was unable to hear any more. It was fortunate, though, that that very evening she had agreed to go to the cinema with James. They had time for a cup of coffee before the film started and she led the conversation carefully round to Doctor van Sibbelt, ‘What part of Holland does he come from?’ she wanted to know in an off-hand way.

      ‘No idea. I don’t really know what he does—something in medicine, of course. He comes over here quite a bit, so I hear. His English is pretty good, isn’t it?’

      ‘I—yes, I suppose so…’

      James rambled on. ‘He’s rather a splendid-looking chap, I thought—made a great impression on the girls…’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Not bad, seeing that he’s reaching for forty.’ The way he said it made it sound like eighty, and Araminta said sharply: ‘That’s not even middle-aged,’ and then hurried on because James had given her a mildly enquiring look: ‘Ought we to be going? I’d hate to miss any of the film.’

      And that was the last of Doctor van Sibbelt. Or so she told herself.

      She went home the following weekend, driving herself in the Mini. It was a splendid morning, although there was a nip in the air which warned her that winter wasn’t so very far away. She left early, before the morning traffic piled up, so that she was out of London and on to the M4 while the roads were still fairly quiet. She drove fast, stopping briefly for coffee before turning off the motorway to go across country to Bridgewater. She was a good driver, but if she went through Bristol she would be held up for hours and she knew the quieter country roads very well. At Bridgewater she took the Minehead road and slowed down to enjoy the scenery, and Dunster, when she reached it, was delightfully quiet. She entered the little town on a sigh of pleasure, past the Luttrell Arms and the smalls shops lining the broad main street, with a glimpse of the castle at the end of it, and then past the church and into a narrow lane where the houses, although small, were well kept. At the end of the row, standing a little apart, was her home, just the same as all the others but with a small garden before it. Araminta pulled the Mini into the side of the road and jumped out, running up the path like a small girl to fling herself into Aunt Martha’s arms and then embrace her father. And there was Toby to hug too, an elderly nondescript cat who had walked in one day years ago and had been a close member of the household ever since. He sat on her lap, purring, while she drank the coffee her aunt insisted she needed before they had their lunch, and presently she went upstairs to her small, rather dark, room, with its shelves full of china ornaments and the bits and pieces she had collected since she was a very small girl, and its narrow bed with its faded eiderdown. She tidied herself slowly, savouring the quiet and the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Aunt Martha might look like a straightlaced dowager, but she was a dream of a cook.

      It was after lunch, when they had washed up and were sitting round the fire, her aunt with her knitting, her father with his pipe and a massive book at his elbow and Araminta sitting between them with Toby in her lap once more, that the name of Doctor van Sibbelt cropped up. They had been talking about their holiday and it was Aunt