The Fifth Day of Christmas. Betty Neels

well. Fortunately she was a good cook; at one o’clock she was able to call them into a solid meal of soup, followed by bacon omelettes with jacket potatoes done in the Aga, and a baked rice pudding to follow, and when she would have apologised for the plainness of the fare they looked at her with astonishment, declaring that it was one of the best meals they had eaten for a very long time.

      It was after this warming meal that Julia found herself with the doctor while he went over Mary’s tests and wrote up the insulin. Mary had responded very well to the penicillin; her chest condition had already improved, although she was sorry enough for herself, but she was too listless to complain about her diet, and for once there seemed no danger of her going into another coma. Julia had given her another penicillin injection at noon and rather to her surprise, her patient had made very little fuss about it and had even laughed a little at the doctor’s jokes when he came to see her. Julia stood by him while he wrote up the insulin chart for the rest of the day and as he was putting his pen away, said,

      ‘I—we are very grateful to you, doctor. Mary’s better, isn’t she?’

      ‘Yes.’ He gave her a thoughtful glance. ‘Are you in a hurry to be gone?’

      ‘If you mean do I have a job to go to, no. I left St Clare’s three days ago—I came here with Mary to oblige her parents—they’re abroad, and Matron…’

      ‘You’re going on holiday?’ He put the question so gently that she answered him without hesitation.

      ‘No, I’m going home to my brother’s—his wife—that is, he thinks it would be nice if I stayed with them for a bit and…’ She stopped, for she really had no intention of telling him anything about herself. ‘Oh, well,’ she finished airily, ‘it’s all arranged,’ and if she had expected him to press for more of an answer than that she was disappointed, for all he said was, ‘We’ve dug out the car and ambulance. If it doesn’t snow any more today Bert and Willy might get away in the morning.’

      Julia was examining what he had written with unnecessary interest.

      ‘Did you mean what you said?’ she asked, not looking at him, ‘I mean about staying? Don’t you have to get home?’

      ‘I can’t very well leave my patient, can I?’ he wanted to know with an air of reasonableness which she found infuriating. ‘I can’t deny it’s most inconvenient, but then we’re all being inconvenienced, aren’t we?’ He gave her a sideways look. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’

      Julia gave him a surprised look and then said sensibly, ‘Yes, but I can’t—I haven’t any boots and I can’t leave Mary.’

      ‘We’ll get the old retainer to fit you out, and Bert and Willy can mount guard over Mary for an hour. You’ve got to get some fresh air some time.’

      She was given no more chance to protest but caught firmly by the arm and walked back to the kitchen, where Bert and Willy immediately agreed to look after their patient and the old man, winkled out of some cosy haunt of his own, produced rubber boots which more or less fitted and a great hooded cape which reached her ankles and had obviously been cut to fit someone of majestic proportions. The doctor fastened the hood under her chin with a large safety pin Bert obligingly produced, got into his own outdoor clothes and opened the back door.

      They made their way through the snow and, presently, out of the gate at the back of the garden. It led on to moorland, which, in the right kind of weather, must have contained magnificent views. Now only the nearest of the foot-hills could be seen. The Cheviots, she knew, were close but shrouded in the still lingering mist into which the trees ahead of them marched, to disappear into its gloom. ‘Do we know where we’re going?’ Julia asked with interest.

      ‘Vaguely. We’re quite safe as long as it doesn’t snow, and I don’t think it will.’ He took her arm to help her along and at the touch of his hand she felt a little glow of warmth deep inside her.

      ‘It’s only three weeks to Christmas,’ she observed, trying to ignore the glow. She would be with her brother and his family and his friend James would come over for Christmas dinner. She frowned at the thought and the doctor said, ‘And you’re not looking forward to it.’ It was a statement, not a question.

      ‘Well, no, not very. I’ve spent my last few Christmases in hospital and it was rather fun…’

      ‘But that’s not the reason.’

      He was far too perceptive. Julia stood still and looked around her. ‘How quiet it is,’ she almost whispered. She looked up at the lowering sky too and her hood fell back. The doctor undid the safety pin and pulled it back over her black hair, then fastened the pin again and before she could turn her head away, bent down and kissed her.

      ‘Only a seasonal greeting,’ he explained gravely, and Julia striving to behave as she felt a sophisticated young woman should, said a little breathlessly, ‘Yes—well, should we be going back?’

      He took no notice of this remark but tucked her hand in his and continued walking through the snow, while she, hampered by the boots which were a little on the large side, plodded beside him.

      ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he invited, and for a moment she was tempted to do just that—to tell him how she disliked the idea of going back to Stoke-cum-Muchelney, because she was afraid that she would never get away again, only if she married James. She looked sideways at the man beside her, comparing him with James, who came off very second best. James was already getting thin on top, while her companion had plenty of hair on his handsome head, of a pleasing fairness and elegantly cut; James hadn’t a square chin and his mouth was small and a little thick in the lip. The doctor had a firm, well-shaped mouth and his voice was pleasant too, deep and unhurried, and he didn’t say H’m each time he spoke. The thought that Doctor van den Werff would make the splendid husband of her vague dreams crossed her mind, to be dismissed immediately. He was a complete stranger—well, almost complete; she knew nothing about him, and, she told herself firmly, she didn’t intend to. In a couple of days’ time, when the nurse arrived and he could contact the doctor, he would go, and so would she, both to their respective worlds.

      ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she replied with a cool politeness which wasn’t lost on him, for he said instantly, ‘Ah, yes—not my business, eh?’

      He let go of her arm and stopped to scoop some snow into his gloved hand, looking at her and laughing as he did so, and she, guessing that the snowball was meant for her, made haste to dodge it, a difficult task with the boots hampering her every step. It would have been silly not to have defended herself, which she did with some success, for he was a large target and although quick on his feet, not quick enough. She tossed the snow at him with all the pleasure of a small child, laughing and shouting and momentarily forgetful of her prosaic future. Presently, still laughing and panting from their exercise, they turned back to the house.

      The rest of the day seemed a little dull after that. Julia, her hair tidied once more and crowned with its nurse’s cap, returned to her patient, her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes belying the extreme neatness of her person, a fact which Bert and Willy duly remarked upon when she saw them. They had been discussing her, she sensed, as she entered the room, and they made no attempt to hide the fact from her, for Bert said at once,

      ‘We were wondering, Willy and me, if we ought ter go—it don’t seem right, leaving you alone. Yer don’t mind staying—just with the doc, I mean?’

      Julia smiled very nicely at him. ‘No,’ she said gently, ‘I don’t mind, Bert. In fact I shall feel quite safe.’

      “E seems a nice sort of fellow,’ said Willy, ‘even though ‘e is a foreigner.’ He got up and went to the door. ‘If yer’re quite happy about it, Nurse?’

      She answered him seriously. ‘If I weren’t, Willy, I should have asked you both to stay. What time do you expect to leave in the morning?’ She frowned. ‘I must write to Sister…’

      ‘Eight o’clock or thereabouts. We’ll go back the way we came, though the Carlisle road isn’t all that far,