A Winter Love Story. Betty Neels

great-uncle knows that.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen, driving along the narrow roads which would take him from the village of Little Planting to the M3 and thence to London, allowed his thoughts to wander. He and the Colonel had talked about many things, none of which had anything to do with his condition. The Colonel had made it clear that he intended to die in his own bed, and, while conceding that Mr Tait-Bullen was undoubtedly a splendid surgeon and cardiologist, he wished to have no truck with surgery, which he considered, at his time of life, to be quite worthless.

      Mr Tait-Bullen had made no effort to change his mind for him. True, he could have prolonged his patient’s life and allowed him to live for a period at least in moderate health, but he considered that if he had overridden the Colonel’s wishes, the old man would have died of frustration at having his wishes ignored. They had parted good friends, and on the mutual understanding that if and when Mr Tait-Bullen had a few hours of leisure he would pay another visit as a friend.

      Something he intended to do, for he wanted to see Claudia again.

      He went straight to the hospital when he reached London; he had an afternoon clinic which lasted longer than usual. He had no lunch, merely swallowed a cup of tea between patients. It was with a sigh of relief that he stopped the car outside his front door in a small tree-lined street tucked away behind Harley Street, where he had his consulting rooms.

      It was a narrow Regency house in a row of similar houses, three storeys high with bow windows and a beautiful front door with a handsome pediment, reached by three steps bordered by delicate iron railings. He let himself in quietly and was met in the hall by a middle-aged man with a craggy face and a fringe of hair. He looked like a dignified church warden, and ran Mr Tait-Bullen’s house to perfection. He greeted him now with a touch of severity.

      ‘There’s that Miss Thompson on the phone, reminding you that she expects to see you this evening. I told her that you were still at the hospital and there was no knowing when you’d be home.’ Cork lowered his eyes deferentially. ‘I trust I did right, sir.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen was looking through the post on the hall table. ‘You did exactly right, Cork. I don’t know what I would do without you.’ He glanced up. ‘Did I say I would take her somewhere this evening? It has quite slipped my mind.’

      Cork drew a deep breath through pinched nostrils. In anyone less dignified it would have been a sniff. ‘You were invited to attend the new play. The opening night, I believe.’

      ‘Did I say I’d go? I can’t remember writing it down in my diary.’

      ‘You prevaricated, sir. Said if you were free you’d be glad to accept.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen picked up his case and opened his study door. ‘I’m not free, Cork, and I’m famished!’

      ‘Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes, sir. The young lady’s phone number is on your desk.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen sat down at his desk and picked up the receiver. Honor Thompson’s rather shrill voice, sounding peevish, answered.

      ‘And about time, too. Why are you never at home? It’s so late; I’ll go on to the theatre and meet you there. The Pickerings are picking me up in ten minutes.’

      Mr Tait-Bullen said smoothly, ‘Honor, I’m so sorry, but there is absolutely no chance of me getting away until late this evening. I did tell you that I might not be free; will you make my excuses to the Pickerings?’

      They talked for a few minutes, until she said, ‘Oh, well, you’re not much use as an escort, are you, Thomas?’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I might as well give you up.’

      ‘There must be any number of men queueing up to take you out. I’m not reliable, Honor.’

      ‘You’ll end up a crusty old bachelor, Thomas, unless you take time off to fall in love.’

      ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

      ‘Well, let me know when you’ve made up your mind.’ She rang off, and he put the phone down and forgot all about her. He had a teaching round the next morning and he needed to prepare a few notes for that.

      He ate the dinner Cork set before him and went back to his study to work. He was going to his bed when he had a sudden memory of Claudia, her fiery hair in a mess, enveloped in that old jacket and a sack. He found himself smiling, thinking of her.

      The first few days of November, with their frosty mornings and chilly pale skies, had turned dull and damp, and as they faded towards winter Great-Uncle William faded with them. But although he was physically weaker there was nothing weak about his mental state. He was as peppery as he always had been, defying anyone to show sympathy towards him, demanding that Claudia should read The Times to him each morning, never mind that he dozed off every now and then.

      His faithful housekeeper’s endless efforts to prepare tasty morsels for his meals met with no success at all. And no amount of coaxing would persuade him to allow a nurse to attend to his wants. Between them, Claudia, her mother and Tombs did as much as he would allow them to. Dr Willis, inured to his patient’s caustic tongue, came daily, but it was less than a week after Mr Tait-Bullen’s visit when Great-Uncle William, glaring at him from his bed, observed in an echo of his former commanding tones, ‘I shall die within the next day or so. Tell Tait-Bullen to come and see me.’

      ‘He’s a busy man…’

      ‘I know that; I’m not a fool.’ The Colonel looked suddenly exhausted. ‘He said that he would come.’ He turned his head to look at Claudia, standing at the window, lingering after she had brought Dr Willis upstairs.

      ‘You—Claudia, go and telephone him. Now, girl!’

      She glanced at Dr Willis, and at his nod went down to the hall and dialled Mr Tait-Bullen’s number. Cork’s dignified voice regretted that Mr Tait-Bullen was not at home.

      ‘It’s urgent. Do you know where I can get him?’ She added, so as to make things clear, ‘I’m not a friend or anything. My great-uncle is a patient of Mr Tait-Bullen’s and he wants to see him. He’s very ill.’

      ‘In that case, miss, I will give you the number of his consulting rooms.’

      She thanked him and dialled again, and this time Mrs Truelove, Mr Tait-Bullen’s receptionist, answered.

      ‘Colonel Ramsay? You are his niece? Mr Tait-Bullen has mentioned him. He’s with a patient at the moment. Ring off, my dear; I’ll call you the moment he’s free.’

      Claudia waited, wondering if Mr Tait-Bullen would have time to visit Great-Uncle William or even to phone him. She supposed that he was a very busy man; he could hardly be blamed if he hadn’t the time to leave London and his patients to obey the whim of an old man who had refused his services. Then the phone rang, and she picked it up.

      ‘Yes,’ said a voice in her ear. ‘Tait-Bullen speaking.’

      This was no time for polite chit-chat. ‘Great-Uncle William wants to see you. He says he’s going to die in a day or two. He told me to phone you, so I am, because he asked me to, but you don’t have to.’

      She wasn’t sure if she had made herself clear, but apparently she had. Mr Tait-Bullen disentangled the muddle with a twitching lip and answered her with exactly the right amount of impersonal friendliness.

      ‘It is very possible that your great-uncle is quite right. I’m free this evening; I will be with you at about seven o’clock.’

      He heard her relieved sigh.

      ‘Thank you very much. I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed your work.’

      ‘I’m glad you phoned me.’

      She could hear the faint impatience in his voice. ‘Goodbye, then.’ She rang off smartly, and then wondered if she’d been rather too abrupt.

      He arrived punctually, unfussed and unhurried. No one looking at his immaculate person would have guessed that he