Книга - A Girl in a Million

A Girl in a Million
Betty Neels


Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. A dynamic consultant… and a student nurse? “I’m not aware that I am restricted in my actions by anyone or anything.” Arrogant, rich and devastatingly attractive, Marius van Houben was the sort of man who was used to getting his own way.He certainly wasn’t prepared for Caroline’s plainspoken, commonsense approach. After all, as a student nurse, both qualities were an asset…if only Marius thought the same!







A dynamic consultant…and a student nurse?

“I’m not aware that I am restricted in my actions by anyone or anything.” Arrogant, rich and devastatingly attractive, Marius van Houben was the sort of man who was used to getting his own way.

He certainly wasn’t prepared for Caroline’s plainspoken, commonsense approach. After all, as a student nurse, both qualities were an asset…if only Marius thought the same!


It had been a perfect day!

As though Caroline had voiced the thought out loud, Mr. van Houben said, “I should have liked to take you out to dinner, but I have several appointments this evening.”

“You have given me more than enough of your time.” Her gray eyes, with their incredible lashes, stared up into his face. “I’m most grateful.”

“Good night, Caroline.”

“Goodbye, Mr. van Houben.”

It really was goodbye this time. He drove away, and Caroline went into the house, wanting to be alone. She had discovered something, and she was trembling with the discovery. She had just said goodbye to the man she loved.




About the Author


Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality, and her spirit and genuine talent live on in all her stories.


A Girl in a Million







Betty Neels













Contents

Chapter One (#uf3b367ce-dc63-549f-8310-f1d1979eadb9)

Chapter Two (#ue15c3c1f-327e-57f8-999f-db0b20c52719)

Chapter Three (#uc65303b4-b91d-5f6d-bb0a-109a87d726d0)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

THE thin spring sunshine had little warmth and the pale blue sky looked cold, but together they turned the row of old gabled houses into a charming picture. They faced a narrow canal, tree-lined, the water dark, the arched bridge at its end leading to a street busy with traffic.

The girl walking along the narrow pavement paused to look about her and then, studying the street plan she was carrying, hitched the small package she held under one arm and crossed the narrow street to stand under the budding trees and study the houses opposite.

They were impressive, two and three storeys high with small windows in their various gables, heavy front doors with fanlights above them and with a double flight of steps leading to the door. Some of them had numbers on their walls; one or two had a coat-of-arms carved in stone above the fanlight.

Satisfied, she crossed the street again and mounted the steps of a tall house with high wide windows on each side of its door and an impressive gable, and thumped at the heavy knocker.

The man who opened the door was old, very thin and very upright with a fringe of white hair and pale blue eyes. He was dressed neatly in a black alpaca jacket and striped trousers and he addressed her in civil tones but, unfortunately, in Dutch.

She held out the packet she had been carrying. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand Dutch. This is for Mr van Houben, from Corinna.’

The elderly face slowly wrinkled into a smile. ‘I will see that he receives it, miss. Do you wish to give your name?’

‘No—no, thank you. Corinna asked me to deliver it here since I was coming to Amsterdam.’ She smiled nicely. ‘How very well you speak English.’

He gave a grave inclination of the head. ‘Thank you, miss.’

‘Well, goodbye.’ She smiled again and went down the steps. She ran down on to the bottom one as a dark blue Bentley drew up. She turned her head to look at it, took a step which wasn’t there, and fell in an untidy heap on to the pavement.

She wasn’t hurt, she assured herself, and then said so to the enormous man crouching beside her. ‘So silly of me,’ she added politely.

He took no notice of that. ‘Arms and legs all right?’ he asked, and it seemed perfectly natural that his English should be as good as her own. ‘You have a graze on your arm—any pains anywhere?’

When she said no, he heaved her gently to her feet, dusted her down and urged her back up the steps.

‘I’ve just been there,’ she told him. ‘There’s no need to bother anyone—I’m quite all right…!’

He had bright blue eyes in a handsome face dominated by a powerful nose. He studied her now, standing on the step by the door. ‘You need a wash and your hair could do with a comb.’ His voice was impersonal but kind.

The colour came into her face, made pale by the shock of falling. A pretty girl, she reflected bitterly, could get away with that, but she couldn’t, she hadn’t the looks—a small tip-tilted nose, a wide, generous mouth and a great deal of light brown hair didn’t amount to much, although her eyes were beautiful; grey, thickly fringed. She held her tongue and allowed herself to be ushered back up the steps and into the house.

The hall was impressive and so typical of the Dutch Interior paintings she had been at pains to study at the Rijksmuseum that for a moment she wondered if this house was a museum too. Apparently not. She listened without understanding while there was an exchange of Dutch over her head and the elderly man went away, to return in a moment with a middle-aged woman with a formidable bosom and a kind face who clucked over her in a kindly fashion and led her away to the back of the hall and into a cloakroom secreted behind the dark panelling, the very antithesis of the hall: comfort—no, luxury with its elegant fittings, thickly carpeted floor and mirrored walls and a shelf full of just about everything needed to improve one’s appearance. The girl washed her face and hands and the quite nasty graze on her arm and, since there was no help for it, took the pins out of her hair and combed it with one of the ivory combs on the shelf, and pinned it neatly again. A little lipstick and powder would have been nice, but she didn’t like to use any of these, arranged so beguilingly on the shelf.

She looked awful, she decided, and went back into the hall, to the stout woman who led her into a room on the other side of the splendid staircase.

There was another unintelligible exchange of Dutch before she was asked to sit down.

‘I’ll take a look at that graze,’ said her host, and, having done so, went and rummaged in a black bag on the enormous desk under the window, to return with gauze and strapping and a tube of something.

‘A soothing ointment,’ he explained, and added, ‘Keep it covered for a couple of days.’ When he had finished he asked, ‘You know Corinna?! Fram tells me that the parcel you were kind enough to bring is from her.’

The graze felt much better but she was aware of several sore spots on other parts of her person. ‘Yes, I know her…’

‘You are a nurse too?’

‘I’m not trained yet. Corinna has almost finished, but we’ve been working on the same ward.’

‘Will you tell her that I’m delighted to have the book?’ He had gone to sit behind his desk. ‘I had better introduce myself—Marius van Houben.’

She said gravely, ‘How do you do? I’m Caroline Frisby. Thank you for your kindness and you saw to my graze quite expertly; lots of people have no idea what to do even for the simplest cut.’

‘One does one’s best,’ murmured her host. ‘May I offer you a cup of coffee?’

She got to her feet. ‘No, thank you, I must get back: there’s a tour of the city this afternoon and I should like to go on it.’

He went to open the door and Fram was waiting in the hall. She shook hands, thanked the butler for opening the door, and went carefully down the steps and walked briskly away, very aware of the tender spots on her small, too thin person.

It was quite a long way back to the hotel, but she had plenty of time. Aunt Meg had intended to do some shopping and had arranged to meet her at noon, when the hotel would provide them with coffee and sandwiches. It was a small hotel squashed into a narrow street near the Amstel River, very clean, the bedrooms small but the beds comfortable, serving a breakfast of rolls and cheese and jam and coffee each morning, coffee and sandwiches again if needed at midday and a substantial meal at night to its guests, who were for the most part quiet middle-aged couples with not much money to spend, content to roam the streets of the city, explore the museums and churches and gaze into shop windows. Caroline had come with her aunt because that lady hadn’t liked the idea of going alone although she was determined to explore Amsterdam, a city she had always wished to visit. Caroline, with two weeks’ holiday due, had willingly agreed to go with her; Aunt Meg had given her a home when her parents had died within a few weeks of each other of a particularly virulent flu. Not only had she done that, she had made her welcome, treated her as a daughter, strained her resources to have her educated and, when Caroline had decided that she would like to be a nurse, had encouraged her to leave the small house at Basing, a small village to the east of Basingstoke, and enrol at one of the London teaching hospitals. She had been there almost eighteen months now, and although she still missed the quiet life of the village it wasn’t too far for her to go back there twice a month.

Her aunt was waiting for her, a comfortable matronly figure, sensibly clad in various shades of brown.

‘Well?’ she wanted to know. ‘Did you find the house?’

‘Yes, Aunt. It was one of those patrician town houses beside one of the small canals branching off from the Herengracht.’

‘Who answered the door?’

‘I suppose he was a butler. He was very polite and he spoke English.’ She paused. ‘I fell down the steps as I left. The cousin of Corinna’s who was to have the package picked me up and put something on a graze…’

‘Did you like him?’ Aunt Meg never beat about the bush.

‘Well, he seemed very nice—kind, you know, and lovely manners. I felt a fool.’

‘One always does. Never mind, dear, you’re not likely to meet him again. Let us go and eat our sandwiches; I’m looking forward to this tour.’

The coach, with its guide, took them around the city: the Oude Kerk, the Nieuwe Kerk, the Koninklijk Paleis, a bewildering succession of museums, Anne Frankhuis and, finally, the Rijksmuseum. Caroline, a sensible girl, aware that she might never get the chance to see Amsterdam again, listened and looked and stored away a multitude of odd sights and sounds to think about later, and in between whiles she thought about Corinna’s cousin. He had looked like a man of leisure and he lived in a splendid house; probably he did nothing much—sat on a few committees perhaps, lent his name to boards of directors. She didn’t know Corinna well enough to ask. It was only by chance that Corinna had got to hear that she was going to Amsterdam and had asked her to take the package and deliver it. ‘It’s only books,’ she had said, ‘but they cost the earth to post and they might get lost…’

There was a trip to Alkmaar on the following day but her Aunt Meg hadn’t had her fill of Amsterdam yet. She spent the day wandering up and down the narrow lanes and streets and Caroline, nothing loath, went with her. They got lost several times but that, as her aunt pointed out, was half the fun. It was a pity that their wanderings took them nowhere near the Herengracht; Caroline, keeping her eyes open for a dark blue Bentley, saw no sign of it.

It was a good thing, she told herself firmly, that they would be going back home on the following day.

Their return home was made on a drab and chilly day, a remnant of winter. From the coach windows Holland looked flat and dull and very wet, but England looked dull too, even if not as flat, as they sped Londonwards from the ferry. Caroline had two more days’ holiday before she had to return to hospital, so once they reached Victoria and wished their fellow passengers goodbye she and Aunt Meg were able to take themselves off to catch the next train to Basingstoke and from there get a taxi for the two miles to Basing.

Aunt Meg had shopped prudently in Amsterdam, with forethought, and while Caroline lit the fire in the sitting-room and carried their cases upstairs to the two small bedrooms her aunt opened a Dutch can of soup, warmed rolls in the oven and made a pot of tea.

Tea made, they ate at the kitchen table since it was already evening and the journey had been tiring. ‘Not that the coach wasn’t comfortable,’ observed Aunt Meg, ‘and everyone in it very pleasant, but it’s not the same as going on your own, is it?’ She smiled across the table at Caroline. ‘We could have done with that Bentley car you were telling me about—now that’s the way to travel.’

Caroline, spooning the thick Dutch soup, agreed. The memory of Marius van Houben was still vivid; it was also a waste of time. ‘We’ll unpack in the morning,’ she told her aunt. ‘There’ll be time to get the washing and ironing done before I go back.’

She was up early to make tea, load the washing machine and then go into the garden to take a look around her. Another week or so and it would be April; her aunt’s flower-beds were bursting with green shoots and the rhubarb was coming along nicely under its bucket. It was a bit early to go across the street and collect Theobald, Aunt Meg’s cat who had been boarded out while they were abroad, so she contented herself with poking around the seedlings in the tiny greenhouse before going back indoors and setting the table for their breakfast.

The meal over, she filled the washing-line at the end of the garden and went across to Mrs Parkin’s for Theobald. The sun had come out now, and the village, so peaceful and quiet despite its nearness to Basingstoke, looked delightful. She paused to admire the small houses and cottages around her before thumping on Mrs Parkin’s door knocker.

Theobald, an elderly tabby with a torn ear and handsome whiskers, was pleased to see her. ‘Good as gold,’ avowed Mrs Parkin. ‘Got ’is wits about ’im, ’e ’as. ’As you ’ad a nice time in foreign parts?’

‘Lovely, thank you, Mrs Parkin. Aunt Meg will be over to see you presently and she will tell you all about it.’

Caroline bore the cat back to his own home, pegged out the rest of the washing and, with her aunt having a chat over the coffee-cups with Mrs Parkin, took herself off to the village stores. There were several customers there, all of whom she knew, and all of whom wanted to know if the holiday had been a success.

‘Historically a most interesting city,’ observed the vicar’s wife, who prided herself on being cultured. ‘Of course you visited all the museums and art galleries?’

‘Well, as many as we could cram in,’ said Caroline, ‘and we walked around, just looking, you know—some of the houses are very beautiful…’

‘Now, you can’t beat an Italian villa,’ chimed in Miss Coates, who lived alone in a large house at the end of the village and went to Italy each spring, and enlarged upon the subject until she had been served with half a pound of butter, a tin of sardines, and half a dozen stamps from the Post Office end of the shop.

When she had gone Mrs Reece, who owned the shop said, ‘Now she’s gone, do tell us, Caroline, did you meet anyone nice?’

Everyone there knew that she meant a young man. ‘Well, no, the other people on the trip were middle-aged couples, and two schoolteachers…’

‘You must have met a lot of people—in the street, I mean,’ persisted Mrs Reece, who had a fondness for Caroline and would have liked to see her married.

‘I did meet one person—I had to deliver a parcel…’ Caroline related her visit to the magnificent house by the canal and her tumble. ‘I felt a fool,’ she ended, ‘and I ruined a pair of tights.’

‘Was he very handsome?’ asked Mrs Reece.

‘Oh, yes, very—and tall and big.’

‘“Ships that pass in the night”,’ the vicar’s wife quoted, ‘One so often meets a person one would wish to know better if one had the opportunity.’ She handed Mrs Reece a list of groceries, ‘I remember when we were in Vienna…’

Caroline was the last customer. ‘Well, dearie, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, though it’s a shame that there weren’t any young folk around.’

Never mind the young folk, reflected Caroline, inspecting the cheeses, Mr Marius van Houben would do very nicely.

That day and the next went all too quickly. She took a late afternoon bus to Basingstoke and got on the train, hanging out of the window until the last minute, waving to Aunt Meg. She would be back again in two weeks’ time for her days off but at the moment she derived little comfort from that. She hated going back and yet once she was there, in the hospital, busy on the ward, she was happy.

The nurses’ home, a grim appendage to the hospital, looked bleak from the outside, but inside it was cheerful enough, and although the rooms were decidedly small they were nicely furnished and there were three sitting-rooms, one for the sisters, one for trained staff and one for the student nurses. Caroline poked her nose round the door of the last mentioned and was greeted by several girls lounging around reading and drinking tea.

They begged her to put her case down and tell them all about her holiday while she drank a mug of tea, unpacked the cake her aunt had made for her and handed it round.

‘Meet any nice men?’ asked one of the girls, Janey, a pretty fair-haired girl.

‘No—at least, I did meet one, I’m not sure if he was nice…’

She had everyone’s attention. ‘Do tell…’

She told and when she had finished Janey exclaimed. ‘You could have fainted or burst into tears, you know—captured his attention.’ She sighed. ‘Really, Caro—for a woman of twenty-four you’re hopeless at catching the male eye!’

‘I didn’t feel faint, and you know how hideous I look if I cry.’

There was a protesting chorus telling her that she hadn’t needed to feel faint; just to look pale and helpless would have done very well.

Caroline said meekly that she would know what to do next time, with the secret thought that being pale and helpless would cut no ice with a man like Mr van Houben. His eyes, compellingly blue though they were, were razor-sharp.

She went on duty the next morning, back to Women’s Surgical, chock-a-block since it was take-in week, with beds down the centre of the ward and several disgruntled ladies forced to sleep in Women’s Medical where they had beds empty.

‘It’s a funny state of affairs,’ observed Staff Nurse James, deftly shortening a tube and putting on a fresh dressing while Caroline handed things and made cheerful remarks to the nervous patient. ‘Here’s us bursting at the seams, and two whole wards closed because there’s no money to keep them open. There, that’s done, Mrs Crisp, and I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable now. Clear away, will you, Nurse, and then go and get your coffee?’

Corinna was in the canteen and as Caroline went in she called her over to the table where she was sitting. ‘Did you find the house?’ she wanted to know. ‘I hope it wasn’t too much of a nuisance for you? I’m very grateful—the book was far too precious to send by post—a first edition. Thanks awfully. Did you have a good time?’

‘Yes, delightful, thank you.’ Corinna, she thought, was very like her cousin; her eyes were bright blue too, although her nose was a delicate beak, which rather added to her good looks. If she had known Corinna better she might have told her that she had met her cousin; as it was, she went and got her coffee and sat down at another table with several of her friends.

She was tired by the time she went off duty at six o’clock; there had been two emergency admissions who had gone to Theatre during the day and one of the student nurses had gone off sick during the afternoon, which meant that two of them were doing the work of three.

Caroline kicked off her shoes, made a cheerful telephone call to Aunt Meg and curled up with a book in the sitting-room. Exercise in the fresh air was essential to a nurse’s well being, Sister Tutor had been telling decades of students that, but Caroline decided that her day had provided enough exercise, and anyway the air, laden with fumes from the never-ending traffic of the East End of London, wasn’t fresh. The book, she decided after ten minutes’ reading, was dull, so she closed it and allowed her thoughts to wander.

The holiday in Amsterdam had been a success; Aunt Meg had had a long-cherished dream fulfilled and they had seen as much as possible of the city. It would have been nice to go inside some of the magnificent houses they had inspected so avidly from the streets. It was a pity she hadn’t had the wit to do as Janey suggested; if she had fainted, or appeared to faint, she would have had to spend much more time inside Mr van Houben’s house and had a chance to look around. As it was she had barely glimpsed the hall before the brief session in his study while he dealt with the grazes. She would know better next time—only there wouldn’t be a next time. She and her aunt had saved for some time for their holiday; there wouldn’t be one next year, and if there was enough money for the year following that Aunt Meg would want to go somewhere else. When holidays were few and far between one couldn’t afford to go to the same place twice, not if one wanted to see as much of foreign parts as possible.

Impatient with herself for feeling discontented, she went away to wash her hair and by the time it was dry and fastened neatly once more it was time for supper. Afterwards, everyone lucky enough to be off duty crowded into the sitting-room to drink tea, talk shop and compare notes about their boyfriends. There was the usual hospital gossip too: who was going out with which house doctor, Mr Wilkins’ nasty fit of temper in Theatre that afternoon, Casualty Sister’s unjust treatment of one of their number who had had the misfortune to drop a pile full of sterile dishes… By the time she got to bed she had forgotten her discontent. Life, she thought sleepily, was really quite fun, and somewhere, some time, she would meet the man she would marry. He had until now been a nebulous figure, vague as to feature and voice, but now he bore a striking resemblance to Mr van Houben. ‘Which really won’t do at all,’ muttered Caroline as she closed her eyes.

Life was by no means fun the next day. Mr Wilkins’ morning round was far from smooth; he had come on to the ward in a bad temper to start with, which rendered the already nervous students even more nervous so that they were either struck dumb or gave all the wrong answers; moreover, several of the ladies lying in their beds dozing peacefully deeply resented being wakened so that he might examine them. Sister Cowie, who prided herself upon the perfection of her ward, pursed her lips and said very little; later several people would get the sharp edge of her tongue. Certainly her nurses would be held to blame for allowing the patients to drop off when Mr Wilkins’ round was imminent. Those who could kept prudently out of sight, but Staff Nurse and Corinna, following in Sister’s footsteps bearing charts, X-ray forms and all the impedimenta needed to keep Mr Wilkins happy, were very aware of her displeasure. Staff would get the blame, of course, which she would pass on to everyone else.

Two more patients and the round would be finished and Mr Wilkins and his registrar would drink coffee with Sister. He was approaching the last bed when he was nudged aside, his foot trodden on and urged to wait a moment. Caroline, bearing a bowl, reached the patient in the nick of time. An arm around the heaving shoulders, the bowl nicely in position, and sitting on the bed because it was easier, Caroline turned a cheerful face to Mr Wilkins. ‘So sorry if I hurt your foot, sir, but Mrs Clarke is always sick without warning—so awkward and horrid for her.’

Mr Wilkins gobbled wordlessly; he was a pompous man, short and stout and middle-aged. He was a splendid surgeon and the students held him in awe, something he rather enjoyed, and here was a dab of a girl actually pushing him aside, telling him to wait. The fact that if he hadn’t waited the consequences would have been unpleasant to himself cut no ice. He opened his mouth to administer a dignified rebuke, but Caroline spoke first. ‘There—Mrs Clarke is better now.’ She mopped the lady’s pallid brow and picked up the bowl. ‘I do hope,’ she added in a motherly voice, ‘that your foot isn’t painful, sir.’

She slipped away and Sister, Staff and Corinna, who had been holding their breath, let it out with a sigh of relief. Mr Wilkins looked around him but the various faces looking back at him seemed solemn. ‘We will now examine Mrs Clarke,’ he told them and embarked on a rather lengthy dissertation concerning that lady’s insides, very much to her discomfort.

Drinking his coffee presently, Mr Wilkins voiced his disapproval of Caroline’s conduct. ‘I have neither the time nor the inclination to speak to this nurse,’ he observed, ‘I rely upon you, Sister, to deal with her as you think fit. I intend to speak to the senior nursing officer, of course. I cannot have my authority undermined.’

Sister, a strict disciplinarian but always fair, spoke up. ‘Nurse acted with foresight, sir. If she hadn’t reached Mrs Clarke with the bowl you would have been—er…’ She paused delicately.

‘She pushed me,’ said Mr Wilkins crossly, ‘and trod on my foot, and then had the impudence to hope that she hadn’t hurt me.’

His registrar said quite quietly, ‘It was either that or vomit all over your suit, sir. I agree with Sister—Nurse acted promptly in the best interests of both you and your patient.’ He added, ‘It would be most unjust to blame her for what she obviously saw as her duty.’

Mr Wilkins had gone red. ‘Since I am to be outnumbered I shall overlook the matter, but rest assured that I shall make it my business to keep a strict eye on the girl. What is her name?’

‘Nurse Frisby. She has just entered her second year. She is a promising student.’

Mr Wilkins said, ‘Pish,’ and went away, his registrar, poker-faced, with him. He didn’t like his chief overmuch, and he was glad that Caroline had escaped his bad temper. He grinned at the thought of the medical students recounting the episode to their fellows. Most of them had suffered at some time from Mr Wilkins’ ill humour and would relish a good laugh at his expense.

All the same, something would have to be done about it, Sister decided, and took herself off to the office to see her superior.

Two days later, before Mr Wilkins’ next ward round, Caroline was transferred to the children’s ward.

It was a happy choice made by her two superiors. The paediatric unit was housed at the back of the hospital, a modern wing built on to the ponderous Victorian main hospital. It was presided over by an elderly woman, Sister Crump, reputedly as mad as a hatter but none the less a miracle-worker when it came to getting her little patients well again and, what was more important, keeping them happy in the process.

After the strict regime of Women’s Surgical, Caroline found it very much to her liking. Here there were no orderly rows of cots; they were wheeled here, there and everywhere according to Sister Crump’s mood, and down the centre of the long ward there were low tables cluttered up with toys, teddy bears and picture books and the children who were well enough were allowed to scamper around within reason. On first sight it appeared to be a madhouse, but there was order too, and if a nurse couldn’t fit into Sister Crump’s way of working she was moved to another ward, for she demanded meticulous care of the children in her charge. Dressings were done, little patients got ready for Theatre, temperatures taken, medicines given to the strains of cheerful music. Since the children, unless they were very ill, shouted and screamed a good deal, the nurses had to lift their voices above the din. There was discipline too: the children addressed all the nurses as Nurse—Christian names, according to Sister Crump, carried no authority with them, and authority, gentle though it might be, was needed at all times.

Sister Crump had liked Caroline at once; nothing to look at, as she observed to Staff Nurse Neville later, but from all accounts she had acted with commendable promptness on the surgical ward even if she had upset Mr Wilkins’ sense of importance. ‘A fuss about nothing,’ she declared, and sailed into the ward, to clap her hands and tell the children to shout more softly. At the same time she observed that Caroline was sitting on the edge of a small bed, holding a little wriggling girl on her lap while a senior nurse dressed the wound, beautifully stitched, on the small arm.

There were side-wards leading from the main wards where the very ill children lay. It was quiet here, the rooms with glass walls, equipped with all the paraphernalia necessary for urgent treatment and nurses constantly going from one child to the other. In a few days, Staff Nurse had told Caroline, when she had got to know the ward thoroughly, she would take her turn too with the other nurses, looking after one or two children, giving them the specialised treatment they had been ordered. Caroline looked at the array of monitoring screens, tubes and drips and hoped that she would know what to do. Of course, Sister Tutor had explained it all, but applying theory to practice demanded the keeping of one’s wits about one.

She got on well with the other nurses—they were all her senior but she was a little older than most student nurses and made no effort to call attention to herself; besides, she was willing to help out on occasion and made no demands about having days off to suit herself and not the ward. By the end of the week she had been accepted by both nurses and children alike; moreover, Sister Crump had taken care to introduce her to the various housemen who visited the ward, cheerful young men who were quite willing to waste ten minutes playing with the children, eyeing the nurses and coaxing mugs of coffee out of Sister Crump. And when the consultant paediatrician came to do his round she wasn’t exactly introduced, although she was pointed out to him as being the new nurse on the ward. He stared at her, gave her a nod and took no more notice of her; indeed, it would have surprised her very much if he had. He was a youngish man with a long, thin face which lit up when he was with the children. One of the other student nurses, standing discreetly in the background while he went from one small patient to the other, whispered that he had three small children of his own and had married a nurse from the hospital. ‘The children love him,’ she added, ‘and he and old Crumpie get on like a house on fire.’

Certainly the round had none of the formality of a grown-ups’ ward. Mr Spence sat on the cots and small beds, carrying, from time to time, a grizzling infant over a shoulder while he discussed something with his registrar and the housemen. Caroline went home for her next days off happier than she had been for some time, although she had to admit to herself that if only she could banish Mr van Houben from her mind she would be completely happy; he was taking up too much of her thoughts, which was absurd; she had exchanged only a few words with him and none of those exciting enough to engage his attention, and besides, she had made a fool of herself falling down his steps. If he ever thought of her at all, which she doubted, it would be with an amused laugh.

When she went back on duty after her days off it was to be told by Sister Crump that they were short-handed, what with days off and one of the third-year students off sick and a badly injured child brought in late the evening before. ‘Ran away from his nanny, climbed a wall and fell on to a concrete path. Head injuries and in a coma. Mr Spence doesn’t want to operate until he improves; unfortunately he has broken ribs and a punctured lung, makes giving an anaesthetic very tricky. He’s being specialled, Nurse, which means that for long periods you may be alone in the main ward. Can you manage that?’

‘I’ll do my best, Sister. There’s no one very ill there, is there? It’s a question of keeping them happy and potting them and feeding them…’

‘Just so. You’ll have another nurse with you whenever it’s possible and I don’t believe that you’re a girl to panic. Now, we will go through the charts—there are one or two children you must keep an eye on…’

It wasn’t until the afternoon that Caroline was left alone, and it would only be for an hour or so while the other nurse took two children down to the X-ray department. The children had had their after-dinner nap and she had got those who were allowed out of their cots and beds and organised them into manageable groups around the little tables. They were for the most part good; only Bertie, four years old, was a handful. He had been admitted ten days previously, having fallen off a swing in the play-pit below the high-rise flats where his mother lived, twelve storeys high. He hadn’t been found for some time and had been taken, concussed and bruised, to the hospital. Sister Crump had spoken severely to his mother about the risk of letting a very small boy play so far out of her sight and she had promised to go to the social worker and get him taken to a pre-school playgroup. In the meanwhile he was enjoying himself enormously, doing everything he shouldn’t.

He hadn’t settled down with the other children who were up. Caroline, distributing sheets of paper and coloured pencils, saw him making for the ward doors at the other end and darted after him, to catch him into her arms—just as the doors opened and Mr van Houben walked in.

Caroline, clasping a struggling Bertie to her person, stared up at him, her face alight with surprise and delight. Quite forgetful of where she was, and for that matter who she was, she said happily, ‘Oh, hello!’


CHAPTER TWO

CAROLINE saw at once that he wasn’t going to remember her. She hoped that he hadn’t heard her little burst of speech and asked in her most professional voice, ‘Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?’

He looked at her then, but it was impossible to tell if he had recognised her. His handsome face was bland and unsmiling. ‘I’m looking for Mr Spence.’

‘He’s in one of the side-rooms. I think he may be busy. I’m afraid I can’t leave the children to tell him that you want to see him.’

She had wasted her breath for he was striding away down the ward and through the archway to the side-rooms. ‘Oh, my goodness, I shall get eaten alive,’ observed Caroline, a remark which sent Bertie off into a fit of the giggles.

The other nurse had come back presently and they were busy getting the children washed and potted and back into their cots and beds. Caroline was urging the recalcitrant Bertie into his bed when Mr Spence and Mr van Houben came through the ward, walking slowly, deep in talk and followed by Sister and the registrar and two of the housemen. Bertie’s loud, ‘Hey, Doc,’ brought them to a momentary pause, but only long enough to give them time to reply, and that in a rather absent-minded manner. Obviously they had grave matters on their learned minds.

It was Staff Nurse who told her later that the child in the side-room was to be operated on that evening. ‘That’s why Mr van Houben came—he’s a wizard with anaesthetics.’ Caroline, all ears, would have liked to have known more, but Staff was busy and presently she went off duty, to change into outdoor clothes and go with various friends to the local cinema.

The ward was its usual bustling, noisy self when she went on duty in the morning; she helped with the breakfasts and then with the rest of the day staff who could be spared, went to Sister’s office for the report.

It had been a good night in the main ward; duties were meted out in Sister Crump’s fashion, apparently haphazard but adding up to a sensible whole. ‘Little Marc in the side-room—he’ll be specialled of course—usual observations and I’m to be told at once if there’s anything you aren’t too happy about. Nurse Frisby, you will stay with him until you are relieved at noon. Either Staff Nurse or myself will be checking at regular intervals. The operation was successful—a craniotomy and decompression of the vault—but there is some diffuse neuronal damage and the added complication of a punctured lung. The child is gravely ill but we’ll pull him through. There is oedema and some haemorrhaging so be especially on the look out for coning.’ She added briskly, ‘Back to work, Nurses.’

Staff Nurse went with Caroline, who was relieved to see that there wasn’t anything complicated she couldn’t understand. The various scans, machines, tubes and charts she had already worked with on Women’s Surgical. It was a sharp eye and common sense that was needed, said Staff encouragingly. The child was in a deep coma; all Caroline had to do was to check pulse, breathing and temperature at the time stated on the chart, note any change and let her or Sister know at once. ‘Just keep your hand on the panic bell,’ she was advised, ‘and keep your head.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s time for observations, so I’ll leave you to get on with it.’ She cast an eye over the small boy in the bed, his head swathed in bandages, his person attached to various tubes. ‘Someone will bring you some coffee,’ she added kindly as she went.

Caroline did everything that was necessary, examined the little white face anxiously and took the chair by the bed. The nurse she had relieved had written ‘No change’ on the chart and with one eye on the child she read the notes on his board. Mr Spence had written a great deal and it took her some time to decipher his writing. Mr van Houben had written a whole lot too. It took her even longer to read, since his writing was so illegible that it could have been in Greek or Sanskrit.

She had just finished her second round of observations when Mr Spence and Mr van Houben came in. They both wished her good morning as she got to her feet and handed over the chart. As she did so, she realised something which she had known subconsciously when she had first studied the chart. Marc’s surname was van Houben. Mr van Houben’s son? If it were so, where was his mother? She had her answer quicker than she had expected.

‘Marc’s mother will be here shortly,’ said Mr van Houben. ‘She will stay only briefly—remain with Marc while she is here. She is likely to be upset.’ He smiled briefly from a grim face and turned to Mr Spence. ‘Would it be a good idea if…?’ He launched into technicalities and Caroline sat down again to keep watch. They thanked her as they went away. It invariably surprised her that the senior men were always civil—with the exception of Mr Wilkins—whereas some of the housemen tended to throw their weight around, wanting this and that and the other thing on the wards, leaving messes to be cleared up.

She was relieved at noon and there was no sign of Marc’s mother. She was sent to first dinner and over the cottage pie and spring cabbage she regaled her friends at the table with her morning’s work.

‘At least it gave your feet a rest,’ said someone.

‘Yes, but I was so afraid something awful might happen—he’s been unconscious ever since he hurt himself and the operation took hours.’

She bolted rhubarb and custard, drank a cup of tea far too hot and went back on the ward. It was time for the children to have their afternoon rest. Sister had gone to lunch, taking all but the nurse specialling Marc with her, leaving Staff and Caroline to the task of seeing to the children who were up and enticing them into their beds and then going around making comfortable those who were bedridden.

‘Marc’s mother came,’ said Staff. ‘Mr van Houben came with her, of course.’

Caroline said, ‘She must be terribly upset.’

‘She was—she’s expecting a baby in a week’s time. She came over from Holland. She’s beautiful—you know—fair hair and blue eyes and the most gorgeous clothes.’

Caroline didn’t want to hear about her—of course she would be beautiful, Mr van Houben wouldn’t have married a girl less than perfection. ‘Is Marc the only one? Other than the baby?’

She lifted out a small sleepy toddler while Staff put in a clean sheet.

‘Yes. Mr Spence seems to think that Marc will live but the thing is if he’s going to come out of this coma. He may have to operate again.’

‘Oh, the poor little boy.’ She kissed the top of the baby’s head; he had a cleft palate and a hare lip but Mr Spence would see to those in a day or two. She put him gently back into his cot and tucked him in.

Staff said, ‘You like kids, don’t you?’

Caroline was at the next cot, changing a nappy. ‘Yes.’

Staff was feeling chatty. ‘Sister says you’re a natural—I dare say you’ll end up with a ward full of children and make it your life’s work.’

‘Yes,’ said Caroline again. She did like children, but she would prefer to have her own; vague thoughts of a charming house in the country with dogs and cats and a donkey and, of course, children filled her mind. She would need a husband, of course. Mr van Houben’s rather frosty features swam before her eyes and she said, ‘Oh, dear, that won’t do at all,’ so that Staff looked at her and observed kindly,

‘Well, there’s always the chance that you’ll marry.’

She was to special little Marc each morning for the foreseeable future. Sister rambled on rather about his subconscious getting used to the same person by his bedside, so that the three of them shared the twenty-four hours between them. It was towards the end of her eight-hour stint that Mr van Houben came again, and this time with Marc’s mother.

Staff hadn’t exaggerated. Marc’s mother was lovely despite the fact that she was desperately worried and pale with anxiety. She stood by the little bed, staring down at the small face, and Mr van Houben put an arm round her shoulders.

Mr Spence came in then and the two men conferred quietly and Caroline said, ‘Sit down for a minute and hold his hand…’

His mother lifted unhappy blue eyes to hers. ‘He does not know?’

‘Well, we don’t know, do we?! I hold it all the time unless I’m doing things for him.’

His mother smiled then. ‘You’re very nice,’ she said, and they sat silently until the men had finished their talk, checked the charts and the three of them had gone away. Caroline sat down again and picked up the limp little paw and held it firmly. It was a way of communication—that was, if communication was possible.

Several days went by and each morning Mr van Houben and Marc’s mother came to see him until one morning Mr van Houben arrived early by himself. His, ‘Good morning, Nurse,’ was curt and he looked as if he had been up all night. If she had known him better she would have told him to go home to bed.

‘Well, Marc has a little sister.’ He stared down at the inert little figure in the bed and Caroline said, ‘Oh, you must be delighted. Congratulations, sir.’

He turned his head to look at her. He looked as though he was going to speak but he only smiled slightly, made sure that Marc’s condition was unchanged and went away. He came back with Mr Spence just as she had handed over to her relief, but since there was no reason for her to remain she went away to eat a late lunch in the empty canteen. The boiled cod and white sauce, boiled potatoes and carrots, edible in company and when freshly cooked, had rather lost their appeal. She ate the apple crumble which followed, coaxed a pot of tea from the impatient girl behind the counter and then went to her room and changed into outdoor things—she was off duty until five o’clock and a brisk walk would do her good. She took a bus to Victoria Park and marched along its paths, in no mood to admire the first of the spring flowers braving the chilly day. She had no idea why she was feeling so edgy; perhaps she was hungry or just a little homesick for Aunt Meg’s cosy little house—or was she just anxious about Marc, who was making no progress at all. Walking back presently to catch her bus back to the hospital, she admitted to herself that it wasn’t any of these things—it was Mr van Houben’s smile when she had congratulated him. It had been faintly mocking, slightly amused, as though she had made a bad joke. Sitting squashed between two stout women with bulging shopping bags, Caroline told herself to stop thinking about him, that there was no point in doing so, and when presently, as she was crossing the forecourt to the hospital entrance, he went past her, on his way to the consultant’s car park, she glared at him so ferociously that he paused and turned to look at her small person; even from the back she looked cross.

When she went back on duty it was to be told that it was intended to operate on Marc again. ‘Seven o’clock, Nurse,’ said Sister Crump. ‘You’ll probably have to stay on duty; Mr Spence wants two of you specialling for the first twelve hours. You’ll stay until a second nurse can come on around midnight. That’ll be Staff or myself.’

She nodded, her cap slightly askew. ‘You and Nurse Foster get Marc ready for Theatre—she’s off duty at six o’clock, and you’ll take him to Theatre. Understood?’ She smiled at Caroline. ‘Run along. We’ll have to fit in your supper somewhere, but at the moment I don’t know when.’

Marc would be wheeled to Theatre on his little bed; they did everything needed, checked the equipment, did their observations, and when Nurse Foster went off duty Caroline sat down to wait, holding Marc’s small hand in hers. She liked Theatre work, although she didn’t know much about it; she had done a short stint during her first year but it hadn’t been enough for her to learn much beyond the care of instruments, the filling of bowls and the conveying of nameless objects in kidney dishes to and from the path lab. She hoped now that she wouldn’t have to go into Theatre; she had grown attached to the silent small boy, away in some remote world of his own, and the thought of Mr Spence standing with scalpel at the ready made her feel a little sick.

Mr van Houben was in the anaesthetic room, somehow managing to look distinguished in his Theatre kit—a loose pale blue smock and trousers topped by a cap which would have done very nicely to have covered a steamed pudding. He was joined by Mr Spence and then by his registrar and all three men held a muttered conversation while Caroline stood patiently by the bed, admiring the back of Mr van Houben’s head, never mind the cap.

It was a disappointment to her that presently one of the staff nurses from Theatre took her place and she was dismissed with a laconic, ‘Thanks, Nurse.’

She went back to the ward and made up the bed and checked the equipment and was then sent to her supper. ‘They’ll send down one of the ITC nurses,’ Sister Crump told her, ‘but you’d better be there to fetch and carry.’

The day staff were going off duty when Caroline went back; the children were sleeping as Sister Crump did a round with the night nurses, and paused to speak to Caroline as she went. ‘I’ll be back presently,’ she told her.

It was after ten o’clock when Marc came back to his little room. Once he was again in his own bed, it was just a question of his being linked up with the apparatus around him and a careful check made as to his condition. Sister Crump had appeared silently to see things for herself and presently Mr Spence and Mr van Houben came in. The little room was full of people, and Caroline, feeling unnecessary, tucked herself away in a corner. Sister Crump caught her eye presently. ‘Go off duty, Nurse,’ she said briskly. ‘Come on at ten o’clock tomorrow.’

Caroline went, feeling anxious about little Marc and rather put out since her off duty had been changed—and she had agreed to go to the pictures on the following evening with Janey and several other of her friends.

She yawned her way into a bath and, despite her concern for the little boy, went to sleep at once.

Marc was still there when she went on duty in the morning; she had been half afraid that he wouldn’t have survived the night but there he lay, looking just as before, with Mr van Houben checking the tangle of tubes around the bed, calculating the drip and then taking a sample of blood from the small hand lying so still on the very white coverlet. He turned to look at Caroline as she went in. ‘Ask Sister Crump to come here, will you, Nurse? You’re taking over here?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She sped away to fetch Sister Crump and then con the charts with the nurse she was to relieve. He had looked at her, she thought sadly, as though he had never seen her before.

It was two days later, halfway through the morning, that Marc’s hand, lying in Caroline’s, curled gently over. For a moment she couldn’t believe it and then she wanted to shout for someone to come, press the panic bell, do a dance for joy… Her training took over; she sat quietly and waited and sure enough within a minute or so his hand turned again, a graceful languid movement as though it were returning to life. Which of course it was.

She did press the panic bell then. Sister Crump got there first.

‘He moved his hand in mine—twice,’ said Caroline.

‘The good Lord be thanked,’ said Sister Crump. The two other nurses had arrived. ‘One of you ring Mr Spence or his registrar—one or other is to come at once. The other nurse to go back to the ward.’

The nurses went and Caroline said softly, ‘Look, Sister.’

The small hand was moving again, curling round her thumb.

Mr Spence had just finished his list in Theatre and he still wore his Theatre kit as he came soft-footed to stand by the bed, followed by his registrar.

‘Give your report, Nurse,’ said Sister Crump.

Which Caroline did, trying to keep the quiver of excitement out of her voice. Put into a few sparse words it didn’t sound much, but as she spoke Marc lifted his arm very slightly as though he wanted to make himself more comfortable. ‘Eureka,’ said Mr Spence softly. ‘Someone get hold of Mr van Houben.’

He wasn’t in the hospital, although he had left a phone number where he could be reached. It was two or three hours later by the time he entered the room, looking calm and unflustered, giving no indication that he had been driving hell-for-leather down the M1 from Birmingham where he had gone to give his opinion concerning the anaesthetising of a patient with a collapsed lung and a tracheotomy into the bargain.

It was at that moment that Marc opened his eyes, blinked and closed them again.

‘Too soon to carry out any tests,’ said Mr Spence. ‘Another three or four hours—do you agree?’ When Mr van Houben nodded, he added, ‘We’ll be back around four o’clock, Sister.’ His eye lighted on Caroline, sitting like a small statue, not moving. ‘You are to stay with Marc, Nurse.’

Which made sense; she had seen the very first movements, and she was in a better position to gauge his progress or deterioration than anyone else coming fresh to the scene. All the same, she hoped that someone would bring her a cup of coffee before Mr Spence returned.

They did better than that. A tray of tea and sandwiches was brought and arranged where she could get at it without disturbing the child, and, besides, Sister Crump was in and out every hour or so. Marc hadn’t moved again; Caroline had charted his movements carefully, noting with delight that his temperature had come down a little. Certainly his pulse was steady.

She was stiff and cramped by the time the men came back. Mr Spence said, ‘Good—take over, Sister, will you?’ And watched while Caroline withdrew her hand, only to have it clutched again.

‘You’d better stay; we don’t want him disturbed in any way.’

A silly remark, thought Caroline, watching the gentle poking and prodding, the tickling of the small feet with a pin, the meticulous examination for pupil reaction, for Marc was disturbed, making small fretful movements and wriggling at the touch of a pin. But of course that was what they had hoped for: all the signs of a return to consciousness. The three men and Sister Crump bent over the bed and Caroline sat on a hard chair out of their way. She was happy about little Marc; it was the nicest thing which had happened to her for a long time. Mr van Houben must be over the moon, she reflected, although it was too early to tell if there would be lasting damage to little Marc; he had a long way to go still… Feeling selfish and uncaring, she longed for a cup of tea. At such dramatic moments cups of tea and feeling tired were not to be considered.

Little Marc had fallen asleep again—natural sleep now, not a coma—and the men were still discussing further treatment. It was Sister Crump, her eyes lighting upon Caroline’s small person in a corner, who exclaimed, ‘Go off duty, Nurse, I’m sorry you’re late. You’ve missed your tea—go to the canteen and see if they’ll boil you an egg or let you have your supper early. You missed your lunch?’

Caroline nodded and stood up. The men were writing now, absorbed in their problems. She whispered, ‘Good evening, Sister,’ and slipped out of the room and down the ward and out on to the landing beyond before anyone had a chance to say anything to her. Presumably the nurse to relieve her was already waiting; Sister Crump would be there to brief her. She made her way down to the canteen and found no one there, something she had half expected, for tea had been finished hours ago and first supper wasn’t until seven o’clock. All the same she went up to the counter in case there was someone beyond it in the serving-room.

‘No good your coming in here, Nurse. You know as well as I do that there’s nothing to be had between meals. Supper’s at the usual time; you’ll just have to wait.’

So calmly Caroline went away again, back up the stairs to the ground floor; she would make a pot of tea and take off her shoes and sit and drink it and then, tired though she was, get into a coat and go for a brisk walk. The streets round the hospital were shabby and houses down at heel, but it had been a grey April day and dusk cast a kindly mantle over them. She didn’t much care for a walk in such surroundings, but fresh air and exercise seemed more important than any other consideration.

She started along the corridor which ran at the back of the entrance hall and then stopped with a small gasp when she was tapped on the shoulder.

Mr van Houben, unhurried and as always, immaculate, was at her side. ‘When did you go on duty, Nurse?’

‘Ten o’clock, sir.’

‘You have had no off duty?’

‘I’m off now,’ she told him and added, ‘sir’ as she started off again.

‘Not so fast. Did I hear Sister Crump say that you have had no proper meal today?’

‘I have had sandwiches and coffee…’ She stopped to think—it seemed a long time ago.

‘Yes, yes—I said a meal.’

‘I shall go to supper presently.’

‘You deserve better than that. I’m hungry too; we’ll go and find somewhere to eat.’

‘We’ll what?’ She goggled at the sight of him, her mouth open like a surprised child. ‘But you can’t do that…’

‘Why not?’ he asked coolly. ‘I am not aware that I am restricted in my actions by anyone or anything.’

‘Well, no, of course you’re not. I mean, you don’t have to bother, do you? But it really wouldn’t do, you know. Important people like you don’t take junior nurses out to dinner.’

‘You are mistaken, we aren’t going to dinner. Go and put on a coat and some powder on your nose and we will go to the Bristling Dog down the street and eat sausages out of a basket.’

He didn’t wait for her reply. ‘And comb your hair,’ he advised her kindly as he gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the door to the nurses’ home. He added, ‘If you aren’t back here within ten minutes I shall come and find you.’

‘You can’t…’ He must be light-headed with hunger, she decided, or in a state of euphoria because Marc had shown the first tentative signs of recovery.

He said coldly, ‘Can I not?’ and gave her a steely look which sent her through the door and up the stairs to her room.

He had said ten minutes and he had undoubtedly meant what he had said. Caroline had never changed so fast in her life before. She raced out of her room and almost fell over Janey.

‘Hey—where are you off to?’ Janey made a grasp at her arm.

‘I can’t stop,’ said Caroline breathlessly, ‘he said in ten minutes…’

She raced down the stairs and Janey, five minutes later, told those of her friends who were in the sitting-room that Caroline had gone out with a man.

‘Good for her,’ said someone. ‘It’s time she had some fun.’

If Caroline had heard that remark she would have felt doubtful about the fun. Mr van Houben was waiting for her, looking remote, almost forbidding, and she very nearly turned tail and went back through the door. The prospect of a good supper was a powerful incentive, however, and she went to where he was standing and said quietly, ‘Well, here I am, Mr van Houben.’

He stood for a moment looking down at her. She had got into the first thing which had come to hand, a short jacket over a thin sweater and a pleated skirt, and, because ten minutes hadn’t been nearly long enough, her hair, though tidy, had been pinned back ruthlessly into a bun instead of its usual French pleat, and there had been even less time to spend on her face.

Mr van Houben laughed inwardly at his sudden decision to take this small unassuming person out for a meal. It had been triggered off by the sight of her sitting by little Marc; she had been the one who had first seen his faint stirrings and acted promptly, but no one had so much as spared her a smile and she had been sent off duty without so much as a thank-you. She must have longed to share their triumph and relief. He was a kind man; at least he could make up for that by giving her a meal.

He said with impersonal friendliness, ‘You hadn’t anything planned for this evening?’ As he ushered her through the doors and out into the forecourt.

She answered him in her sensible way, ‘No, nothing at all.’

He took her arm as they crossed the busy street. ‘No boyfriend to disappoint?’ He was sorry he had said that for, looking down at her in the light of a street lamp, he saw the look on her face and to make amends he added, ‘I should imagine that there is little time for serious friendships while you are training. Plenty of time for that once that’s done with! You might like to travel—there are quite a number of English nurses in our bigger hospitals in Holland.’

He eased the conversation into impersonal channels until they reached the Bristling Dog, where he urged her into the saloon bar, half filled already, mostly by elderly couples and a sprinkling of younger people, most of them eating as well as drinking, and several, Caroline noticed, from the hospital.

Mr van Houben sat her down at a small corner table and fetched the well-thumbed menu card from the bar. It held a surprising variety of food, but Mr van Houben had suggested sausages… ‘Sausages and chips, please,’ she told him, anxious to fall in with his own wishes.

‘Splendid,’ he said, and with unerring instinct, ‘and a pot of tea?’

He was rewarded with her smile. ‘That would be nice.’

The food came, hot and tasty, and with it a pot of tea and thick cups and saucers. Caroline poured out and handed him his cup. It was strong, and even with milk and sugar he found it unpalatable. All the same, he drank a second cup because it was obvious that Caroline expected him to. He was rewarded by her sweet smile and the observation given in matter-of-fact tones that a cup of tea was a splendid pick-me-up when tired.

Over the last of the chips he asked her what she thought of London. ‘You live here?’ he asked casually.

‘No, I live with my aunt at Basing—that’s near Basingstoke. I go home twice a month.’

‘The English countryside is very charming,’ he observed, and from then until they returned to the hospital they talked about it, and the weather, of course, a conversation which gave him no insight as to her likes and dislikes. She was a sensible girl with nice manners and a gentle way with her, and he was surprised to discover that he had rather enjoyed his evening with her. He bade her goodnight in the entrance hall and listened to her nicely put thanks and didn’t tell her that he would be returning to Holland in the morning. Marc’s father, recalled from a remote region of South America where he was building a bridge, would be installed with his wife and baby daughter by now, and Mr van Houben could return to his own work with a moderately easy mind.

He watched her go through the door at the back of the hall and made his way to the children’s wing where he found Mr Spence, his brother Bartus and Sister Crump, who quite often stayed on duty if she saw fit.

‘Very satisfactory,’ said Mr Spence. ‘We’re not out of the wood but there’s plenty of movement. You’ll be over again?’

Marius van Houben nodded. ‘In a few days, just a flying visit.’ He put a large hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘You’ll stay with Emmie until we know how things are? As soon as he’s fit, perhaps we could get him back home with a nurse but that’s early days yet…’

‘A good idea all the same,’ agreed Mr Spence. ‘Familiar surroundings may be the answer.’

‘I’m going along to Theatre to collect up my equipment, I’ll give you a lift back, Bartus—see you at the car presently.’ He bade Mr Spence goodnight with the remark that he would see him before he left the next day, and with a last look at his small nephew he went away. Sister Crump caught up with him as he reached the end of the ward. It was very quiet, the children slept and the night nurses were sitting in the middle of the ward at the night table, shadowy figures under the dark red lampshade.

‘I’m sorry you’re going,’ said Sister Crump in a whisper. ‘Marc wouldn’t have pulled through without your expertise.’

She wasn’t praising him, just stating a fact. ‘I don’t like to lose a patient.’

‘He has had splendid nursing care.’

‘Yes—they’re good girls.’ She frowned. ‘I hope that child had a meal—I should have made sure. She went off duty very late too.’

Mr van Houben smiled down at her worried face. ‘She had sausages and chips and a pot of the strongest tea I have ever been forced to drink.’

‘You? You were with her?’

‘We met in the entrance hall and I happened to be hungry too.’ He opened the door, ‘Goodnight, Sister.’

Sister Crump went back to Mr Spence. She was smiling widely but she rearranged her features into suitable severity as she joined him.

Caroline was pounced upon by Janey on her way to the bath. ‘Where have you been?’ demanded her friend. ‘And who with? And why were you in such a hurry?’

She had been joined by various of Caroline’s friends and one of them added, ‘Have you been out to dinner?’

‘No—just the Bristling Dog.’

There was a concerted gasp. ‘But nurses don’t go there. Whoever took you there and why didn’t you tell him?’

‘Well, I didn’t like to—I suppose he can go where he likes and if I was with him it wouldn’t matter.’

‘Who?’ They hissed at her from all sides.

‘Mr van Houben.’

One of her listeners was doing her six weeks in Theatre. ‘Him? That marvellous man who came specially to give the anaesthetic for Marc? Caroline, how did you do it? We’ve all had a go at him…’

‘He asked me if I was hungry and when I said yes, he said he was too.’

‘Oh, love,’ said Janey, ‘you were wearing that jacket you’ve had for ages, the one that doesn’t fit very well across the shoulders.’

‘He told me to be ready in ten minutes or he’d come and fetch me. I hadn’t time…’

Her friends groaned. ‘What did you eat?’

She told them. ‘And a pot of tea.’ She thought for a bit. ‘And we talked about little Marc and the weather and how flat Holland is…’

‘He won’t even remember you,’ groaned Janey. ‘Why didn’t you tell him that you would like to go out to a splendid meal at the Savoy or something? He might have taken the hint.’

‘I didn’t think of anything like that. I mean, I don’t really think that anyone would want to take me to the Savoy.’ Caroline was quite matter-of-fact about it. ‘Least of all someone like him.’ She hitched up her dressing-gown. ‘I’m on early.’

When she got back to her room there was a note waiting for her telling her to report for duty at ten o’clock instead of half-past seven. A nice surprise, and she switched off her alarm clock and went quite contentedly to sleep.

By the time she arrived on the ward in the morning, Mr van Houben had been to see Marc, bidden goodbye to Sister Crump and left the hospital. He had, for the moment, quite forgotten Caroline.


CHAPTER THREE

LITTLE Marc was restless; Caroline watched with some anxiety as Mr Spence examined him soon after she had taken over from the other nurse. ‘A good sign,’ he pronounced at length. ‘Keep an eye open, Nurse, and try and keep him with us—talk to him…’ He glanced at her. ‘You always held his hand, didn’t you? Quite right too…’

He went away and she was left alone with the little boy and her charts. Presently he began to fidget again, although he quietened when she began to talk to him and then sing. She chose, ‘Sing a song of sixpence’ and sang it in a rather small clear voice. She went through all the verses several times and was rewarded by his sudden reluctant smile and, even better, a fleeting look from his eyes. She had embarked on the song again when Sister Crump came in and he opened his eyes again.

Mr Spence, called by a delighted Sister Crump, rumbled his satisfaction. ‘Sing, did you?’ he asked Caroline. ‘Be good enough to sing again and let us see what happens.’

She went through the first verse of the rhyme again and Marc opened his eyes once more and this time said something which sounded very much like sixpence before dropping off into a refreshing sleep.

‘Well, well,’ said Mr Spence, ‘bar accidents, I do believe we’re out of the wood.’

She was preparing to hand over to the relieving nurse when Marc’s mother arrived, accompanied by a thick-set man with a good-looking, rugged face and Sister Crump. She was quite beautiful, only a little pale. She gave Caroline a quick smile and went to the bedside. ‘He is better?’ she asked softly.

‘Coming along nicely,’ said Sister Crump gruffly. ‘Responded to Nurse singing to him, spoke—only one word, but he spoke.’

The man had his arm round Marc’s mother and they stood together looking down at the sleeping boy. Then she asked, ‘You are the nurse who has been so watchful and kind; my brother-in-law tells me this.’

She had come to stand by Caroline, smiling a little.





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