Last April Fair. Betty Neels

quite quickly. It struck her then that he was the kind of man who didn’t need to love like that; he was a calm, even-tempered man and too much love would choke him. When he only smiled and offered her more coffee she didn’t say any more, for what was the use?

      Philip didn’t allow her refusal to make any difference between them. He spent the rest of the day with her, treating her with the same good-natured affection that he had always shown her. He went back to London that day after tea, saying all the right things to her mother and father and reminding Phyllida cheerfully that they would be going to the Annual Dance at the hospital together two days after her return: ‘Though I’ll see you before then,’ he had assured her.

      She watched him go with mixed feelings; real regret that she didn’t love him and a faint touch of temper because he seemed so unmoved about her refusal—or was he so sure that she would give in? The thought made her even more peevish.

      The moment he was out of sight her mother remarked: ‘Well, dear, are you going to marry him? I’m sure he must have asked you.’

      Phyllida hadn’t meant to say anything about it—not just yet anyway, but she perceived now that her mother would go on gently asking questions until she got an answer.

      ‘Yes, he did, and I said no.’

      ‘Oh, good.’ Mrs Cresswell took no notice of her daughter’s surprised look. ‘He’s a very nice man, darling, but not your sort.’

      ‘What is my sort, Mother?’ Phyllida didn’t feel peevish any more.

      Her mother washed a tea-cup with care; it was old and treasured like most of the china she insisted on using every day. ‘Well, he doesn’t have to be handsome, but eye-catching, if you know what I mean, the sort of man who would take command in a sticky situation and know just what to do—and not let you have your own way unless he thought it was good for you.’

      ‘A bigheaded tyrant,’ suggested Phyllida.

      ‘No, dear, just a man who would never take you for granted; take great care of you without you ever knowing it, and know exactly what he intended doing with his life—and yours, of course.’

      ‘A paragon. Mother, I never knew you were romantic—does Father know?’

      ‘He married me,’ observed her parent placidly. ‘What will you do about Philip? I mean, you can’t help but see him often, can you?’

      Phyllida had piled the tea things on to a tray, on her way to putting them away in the carved corner cupboard in the sitting room. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ she said slowly. ‘It would be sense to leave, I suppose.’

      ‘Well, think about it, darling.’ Her mother spoke briskly. ‘It could be done easily enough.’

      Phyllida gave her a faintly mocking look. ‘Mother, you have no idea…’

      ‘No, dear, but things can always be done, however awkward, if only one applies oneself to them.’

      Nothing more was said after that. Phyllida went back to London two days later, reluctant to give up a job she liked and go through all the fuss and bother of finding another one—and outside London, she supposed gloomily.

      She didn’t see Philip until the evening of the dance; indeed, she had taken care to keep out of his way, going to great lengths to avoid their usual meeting places, keeping one eye on the ward door in case he should come to see a patient referred for surgery.

      But she had to see him again eventually. They met in the entrance hall, shortly after the dance had started, he very correct in his black tie, she prettier than ever in a pearly grey chiffon dress and silver slippers.

      Her hullo was a trifle awkward, but Philip didn’t seem to notice. He took her arm, asked her where she’d been during the last two days and suggested that they went into the big lecture hall, decorated for the occasion, and danced. It wasn’t until they had circled the place at least twice that he asked: ‘Had second thoughts, Phylly?’

      ‘About what?’ And then, despising herself for the remark: ‘No, I haven’t, Philip, and I’m not going to— truly I’m not.’

      He laughed down at her. ‘No? Shall we wait and see? We meet most days, don’t we, so it won’t be a case of “Out of sight, out of mind”—you’re very used to me being there, aren’t you?’

      She met his eyes. ‘Yes. You mean you’ll wear me away like water on a stone.’

      ‘Nicely put, although I wouldn’t describe you as stony. You’ll change your mind.’

      Perhaps it was because he looked so smug and sure of himself that she resolved then and there to look for another job. She didn’t say anything though, but danced the night away, mostly with Philip but with all the other men she knew as well. She enjoyed herself too; tomorrow was time enough to think things out.

      She hadn’t got much further by the following evening when she came off duty. It had been a busy day with several of her patients not doing as well as she had hoped, so that she felt too depressed to do more than take off her cap and put her feet up on the sofa in the Sisters’ sitting room. She closed her eyes the better to think and then opened them again as the door opened and Meg Dawson, Surgical Ward Sister and one of her closest friends, came in. ‘There’s a phone call for you, Phylly—your mum.’

      Phyllida had taken her shoes off as well. She padded down the passage to the phone box at its end and picked up the receiver. Her mother’s voice, very youthful still, sounded very clear. ‘Phylly? Father wants to talk to you.’

      Phyllida was surprised; she and her father got on splendidly, but he was a busy man, not given to telephone conversations unless they concerned a patient. She said cautiously: ‘Yes?’

      Doctor Cresswell didn’t waste time. ‘You mentioned leaving, Phylly—if you do, there’s a job going in about three weeks’ time.’

      A sign from heaven, thought Phyllida childishly. ‘I could leave then—I’ve still another week’s leave due, so I’d have to work three weeks notice…’She knew that her father was nodding his head even though he didn’t speak. ‘What sort of job?’

      ‘A patient of mine until I referred her to Sir Keith Maltby—I attend her parents too. A girl of eighteen with erythroblastic leukaemia—I wasn’t called in until she had been ill for some time, sent her straight to Sir Keith who got her into hospital; she was there two months, had several courses of cytotoxic drugs and has improved considerably, gained weight, taken an interest in life. Her mother came to see me today, says Gaby has set her heart on going to somewhere sunny—they want to take her on a short cruise—Madeira and the Canaries, but they want a skilled nurse to keep an eye on her and recognise the signs and symptoms if she should have a relapse. All expenses paid, and fare of course, and a decent salary—about three weeks, they think. Of course you realise that Gaby hasn’t very long to live. Sir Keith agrees with me that she should be allowed to do what she wants within reason—her parents are wealthy, fortunately. It would get you away, my dear, if that’s what you want.’ And when Phyllida didn’t answer: ‘I could arrange for you to see these people—the name’s de Wolff—they’ve booked for a cruise leaving on April the sixth, that’s not quite four weeks away.’

      Phyllida heard herself say that yes, she would like to meet the de Wolffs and that provided they liked her, she would be prepared to take the job. ‘I’ve a couple of days off, but not till the end of the week, that would be too late to give in my notice—look, Father, I’m off at five o’clock tomorrow and on at one o’clock the next day. I’ll drive down in the evening, see them in the morning and drive straight back—I can just do it provided they’ll make an appointment early in the morning.’

      ‘Splendid, my dear. I’ll see to it and ring you back.’

      So she found herself the next day rushing off duty, racing into her outdoor things and driving as fast as traffic permitted out of London. The appointment was for half past nine on the following morning and to save time she was to go to the