Книга - A Christmas Wish

A Christmas Wish
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.Mistletoe magic!For Olivia Harding, the offer of employment at an exclusive private girls’ school had come as something of a godsend. With little experience, she hadn’t expected to find a job so easily, let alone one that still brought her into contact with her former boss, the eminent Dutch surgeon Haso van der Eisler.Of course, his frequent visits to the school had more to do with his goddaughter, Nel, than her own limited attractions. Nel was a lonely, fatherless girl, and that Haso should marry her glamorous mother seemed obvious to all but Olivia’s stubborn heart!









“Tell me, what do you intend to do, Olivia?” asked Mr. van der Eisler. “You must have some plans.”


“What is the use of plans? I have thought that I might study for something in my spare time,” she said.

“I do not wish to bring up the question of Rodney, but there must have been other men in your life, Olivia.”

“Oh, yes. I had a lot of friends, and I suppose if Father hadn’t died and left us awkwardly placed I might have married one of them. Although now I’m older I don’t think I should have liked that.”

“No, I don’t think you would. Wait for the right man, Olivia,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” she assured him.

It was when they were back in the car, she sitting silently beside him, that she realized that there was no need for her to wait for the right man. He was here already, sitting beside her.




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. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.




A Christmas Wish

Betty Neels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE




CHAPTER ONE


THE dim and dusty Records Office, tucked away in the depths of the hospital, was hardly a cheerful place in which to work, but the girl going back and forth between the long rows of shelves sounded cheerful enough, singing a medley of tunes as she sorted the folders into their right places with the ease of long practice.

She was a tall girl with a splendid shape, a beautiful face and a head of tawny hair which glowed under the neon lights, wearing a blouse and skirt and a cardigan which, although well-fitting, lacked any pretensions to high fashion.

Presently, her arms full, she went to the table against one of the whitewashed walls and laid them down, still singing—quite loudly since there was nobody there but herself, and she was far from the busy wards. ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning…’ she trilled, very slightly out of tune, and then stopped as the door was opened.

The door was a long way from the table; she had ample time to study the man coming towards her. He came unhurriedly, very tall and large in a beautifully tailored suit, fair hair already silver at the edges and a handsome face with heavy-lidded eyes. She hadn’t seen him before, but then she seldom if ever went up to the hospital. When he was near enough she said cheerfully, ‘Hello, do you want something?’

His good morning was uttered in a quiet voice. He laid a folder on the table. ‘Yes, I asked for Eliza Brown’s notes, not Elizabeth Brown’s.’

‘Oh, so sorry. I’ll get them.’ She picked up the discarded folder and went down one of the narrow passages between the shelves, found the folder, replaced the discarded one and went back to the table.

‘Here it is. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you…’

‘It was.’ His voice was dry, and she went a little pink. ‘Do you work here alone?’

‘Me? Oh, no. Debbie has got the day off to go to the dentist.’

‘And do you always sing as you work?’

‘Why not? It’s quiet down here, you know, and dim and dusty. If I didn’t sing I might start screaming.’

‘Then why not look for other employment?’ He was leaning against the wall, in no hurry to be gone.

She gave him a tolerant look. ‘We—that is, clerks and suchlike—are two a penny. Once we get a job we hang on to it…’

‘Until you marry?’ he suggested in his quiet voice.

‘Well, yes.’

He picked up the folder. ‘Thank you, Miss…?’

‘Harding.’ She smiled at him, for he seemed rather nice—a new member of the medical staff; a surgeon, since Mrs Eliza Brown was on the surgical landing. He nodded pleasantly and she watched him walk away; she wasn’t likely to see him again. A pity, she reflected, making a neat pile of her folders ready for someone to fetch them from Outpatients.

The nurse from Outpatients was in a bad temper. Sister, she confided, was in a mood and there was no pleasing her, and the waiting-room was stuffed to the ceiling. ‘And I’ve got a date this evening,’ she moaned. ‘At the rate we’re going we’ll be here all night, as well as all afternoon.’

‘Perhaps Sister will have a date too,’ comforted Miss Harding.

‘Her? She’s old—almost forty, I should think.’

The nurse flounced away, and was replaced almost at once by a tall, thin girl with a long face.

‘Hi, Olivia.’ She had a nice grin. ‘How’s trade? I want Lacey Cutter’s notes. They’re missing. I bet Debbie got our lot out yesterday—she may look like everyone’s dream of a fairy on the Christmas tree, but she’s not heart and soul in her job, is she?’

Olivia went across to the nearest shelf and began poking around. ‘She’s really rather a dear and so young… Here you are…’

‘Well, you sound like her granny. She must be all of nineteen or so.’

‘Twenty, and I’m twenty-seven—on the verge of twenty-eight.’

‘Time you settled down. How’s the boyfriend?’

‘Very well, thank you. We’ll have to wait for a bit, though.’

‘That’s rotten bad luck. I say, there’s a new man on Surgical—a consultant all the way from somewhere or other in Holland—come to reorganise Mrs Brown’s insides. It seems he’s perfected a way of doing something or other; our Mr Jenks asked him here so that he can pick up some ideas.’ She started for the door. ‘He’s nice.’

Olivia agreed silently. She didn’t allow her thoughts to dwell upon him, though. For one thing she had too much to do and for another she had plenty of things—personal things—to think about. Rodney, for instance. She and Rodney had been friends for years, long before her father had died and left her mother poor, so that they had had to leave their home in Dorset and come to London to live with her grandmother in the small flat on the fringe of Islington. That had been four years ago, and Olivia had found herself a job almost at once to augment the two older ladies’ income. It wasn’t very well paid but, beyond an expensive education, she had no training of any sort and it was well within her scope. Indeed, after a couple of months she had realised that it was work which held no future, and longed to have the chance to train for something which would enable her to use her brain, but that was impossible. Making ends meet, even with her wages added, was a constant worry to her mother, and she couldn’t add to that.

If her grandmother had been more amenable it might have been possible, but Mrs Fitzgibbon, having offered them a home, considered that she had done her duty and saw no reason to forgo her glass of sherry, her special tea from Fortnum and Mason, and her weekly visit to the hairdresser, with a taxi to take her there and back. She had sent away her daily cleaner too, saying that her daughter was quite capable of keeping the flat tidy, but graciously allowed a woman to come once a week to do the heavy housework.

It wasn’t an ideal situation, but Olivia could see no way out of it. Nor could she see any chance of marrying Rodney, a rising young man on the Stock Exchange, who had reiterated time and again that once he had got his flat exactly as he wanted it, and bought a new car, they would marry. Four years, thought Olivia, sitting at the table eating sandwiches and drinking pale and tepid tea from a flask, and there’s always something—and anyway, how can I marry him and leave Mother? She’ll be Granny’s slave.

The day’s work came to an end and she got into her raincoat, tied a scarf over her glorious hair, locked the door and took the key along to the porter’s lodge. She stood in the entrance for a moment, breathing in the chill of the evening, and made for the bus-stop.

It was an awkward journey to and from the hospital, and the buses at that time of day were packed. Olivia, her junoesque proportions squeezed between a stout matron carrying a bag full of things with sharp edges and a small, thin man with a sniff, allowed her thoughts to wander to the pleasanter aspects of life. New clothes—it was high time she had something different to wear when she went out with Rodney; a legacy from some unknown person; finding a treasure-trove in the tiny strip of garden behind her grandmother’s flat; being taken out to dinner and dancing at one of the best hotels—the Savoy for instance—suitably dressed, of course, to eat delicious food and dance the night away. She realised with something of a shock that it wasn’t Rodney’s face on her imaginary partner but that of the man who had asked why she sang while she worked. This won’t do, she told herself, and frowned so fiercely that the thin man recoiled.

The street where her grandmother had her flat was suited to that old-fashioned word ‘genteel’. The tiny front gardens were all alike—laurel bushes, a strip of grass and two steps leading to the front door behind which was another smaller door, leading to the flat above. All the windows had net curtains and, beyond distant good mornings and good evenings, no one who lived there spoke to anyone else.

Olivia hated it; she had spent the first year that they were there planning ways of leaving it, but her mother felt it to be her duty to stay with Granny since she had offered them a home and Olivia, a devoted daughter, found it impossible to leave her mother there though she disliked it, she suspected, just as much as she did.

She got out her key, unlocked the door, and went into the little hall, hung her outdoor things on the old-fashioned oak stand and went through to the sitting-room. Her mother looked up with a smile.

‘Hello, love. Have you had a busy day?’

Olivia bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Just nicely so,’ she said cheerfully, and crossed the small room to greet her grandmother. Mrs Fitzgibbon was sitting very upright in a Regency mahogany open armchair with a leather seat and wooden arms, by no means comfortable but the old lady had inherited it from her mother, who had acquired it from some vague relation who had been married to a baronet, a fact which seemed to ensure its comfort from Mrs Fitzgibbon’s point of view. She said severely now, ‘Really, Olivia, your hair is badly in need of a brush, and is that plastic bag you’re carrying really necessary? When I was a gel…’

Olivia interrupted her quickly. ‘I called in at Mr Patel’s as I got off the bus—he had some nice lettuces; you like a salad with your supper…’

She made a small comic face at her mother and went to her room—very small, just room for the narrow bed, the old-fashioned wardrobe and a small chest of drawers with an old-fashioned looking-glass on it. Rodney had phoned to say that he would come for her at around seven o’clock so she poked around, deciding what she would wear, and then, undecided, went to the kitchen to start the supper. Lamb chops, mashed potatoes and carrots. There were a couple of tomatoes in the fridge and a rather wizened apple. She contrived a small salad with the lettuce, laid the table in the poky dining-room beside the kitchen, and went to pour her grandmother’s sherry. She poured a glass for her mother too, ignoring her grandmother’s sharp look.

She went back to the kitchen and the phone rang. It was probably Rodney, to say that he would be earlier than they had arranged. She turned down the gas and went into the hall where the phone was. It was Rodney. His faintly pompous, ‘Hello, Olivia,’ sounded rather more so than usual, but it was one of the things she had decided didn’t matter.

Her own ‘hello’ was cheerful. ‘If you’re coming earlier than you said, I won’t be ready…’

‘Well, as a matter of fact, I can’t come, Olivia—something’s turned up and I can’t get away.’

‘Oh, bad luck. Let’s go out tomorrow instead.’

She felt faintly uneasy at his hesitancy. ‘It’s a long job,’ he said finally, ‘I may have to go away…’

She was instantly sympathetic. ‘Big business and very hush-hush?’ she wanted to know. ‘Well, if it’s going to give you a leg-up, I won’t crumble. You don’t know when you’re going?’

‘No, no, nothing’s settled yet. I’ll give you a ring. Can’t stay any longer now.’

She was disappointed but still cheerful. ‘Don’t get overworked…’ His goodbye interrupted her, and she put the phone down with the feeling that something was wrong. My imagination, she told herself, and went to stretch the supper to allow for another person and then tell her mother that she wouldn’t be going out after all.

Her grandmother, listening, observed tartly, ‘You can’t rely on the young men of today. Rodney’s eyes are too close together.’

Which was difficult to refute, for they were.

The week wore on. Debbie enlivened the days with her chatter, confiding with a good deal of giggling the carrying on of her various boyfriends, while Olivia patiently did most of the filing and hurriedly resorted Debbie’s careless efforts.

‘You ought to go out more often,’ declared Debbie as they drank their mid-morning coffee. ‘Never mind that Rodney of yours,’ she added with an unconscious lack of concern, ‘it would do him good. He ought to be taking you out somewhere every blessed moment he’s free. Give him a ring and say you want to go out this evening; there’s a smashing film on at the Odeon in Leicester Square.’

‘He’s not here. I mean he’s had to go away—something to do with his firm.’

‘Don’t you know where he is?’

‘No idea.’

‘Ring wherever he works and ask for his address. He’s not MI5 or anything hush-hush is he?’

‘No—something in the Stock Exchange.’

Olivia got up and went back to the shelves with a pile of folders just as the door opened.

Here he was again, as elegant as she remembered him and as calm. She left Debbie to ask him if she could help him.

‘Indeed you can. Once again I have here Mrs Elizabeth Brown’s notes, but it is Mrs Eliza Brown who is my patient.’

Debbie beamed at him. ‘Oh, sorry—that’s me. I make mistakes all the time—only Olivia puts them right and covers up for me. It’s a dull job, you know.’

‘I can appreciate that.’ He looked past her and wished Olivia a bland good morning. ‘Olivia,’ he added, and before she could answer that he said, ‘And you, young lady, what is your name?’

‘Debbie—what’s yours? You aren’t on the staff, are you? Have you come here to brush up your technique or something?’

‘Or something?’ He smiled a little. ‘And my name is van der Eisler.’

‘Foreign,’ said Debbie. ‘You wouldn’t know it except you’re on the large side. Got friends here?’

‘Er, yes, I have.’

Olivia, feverishly seeking Mrs Eliza Brown’s notes, clutched them thankfully and took them to him. He took them from her with a brief nod. ‘I mustn’t keep you from your work,’ he observed. He sounded as though he had already dismissed them from his thoughts.

As he closed the door behind him Debbie said, ‘Olivia, why did you hide? Isn’t he great? A pity you found the notes just as I was going to suggest that he might like me to show him round the town.’

Olivia said sharply, ‘You wouldn’t, Debbie—he might be someone fearfully important.’

‘Him? If he were, he wouldn’t come down to this hole, would he? He’d send a nurse. I think he rather liked me.’

‘Why not? You’re pretty and amusing, and you can look small and helpless at the drop of a hat…’

‘Yes, I know, but you’re not just pretty, Olivia, you’re beautiful. Even if you are—well, amply curved.’

Olivia laughed then. ‘Yes, I know, and as strong as a horse. Even if I were to faint there wouldn’t be anyone strong enough to pick me up off the floor.’

‘He could—strong enough to carry a grand piano upstairs without a single puff…’

‘I’m not a grand piano!’ laughed Olivia. ‘Look, we’d better get on, it’s almost time for our dinner-break.’

They went to the canteen in turn and Debbie, going first, came back with disquieting news. ‘You know that girl who works in the secretary’s office?’

‘Mary Gates,’ said Olivia. ‘What’s happened to her—got engaged?’

‘No, no. She told me something she’d overheard. There’s not enough money—they are planning to make redundancies—one’s going to have to do the work of two. Olivia, supposing it’s me who goes? Whatever shall I do? With Dad out of work, Mother’s part-time job barely pays the rent.’

Olivia said matter-of-factly, ‘Well, we don’t know anything yet, do we? They could have been talking about another hospital—and I don’t see how they could get rid of one of us.’

‘Well, I do. You’re too nice, Olivia. Do you suppose these people who sit around talking over super food and drink care a damn if they cut back on jobs, just as long as they can save some money for some pet scheme or other? We aren’t people to them, just stat-stat…’

‘Statistics,’ supplied Olivia. ‘Debbie, don’t worry. If—and I say it’s a big if—one of us is given the sack it will be me; they have to pay me more because I’m older. You’re not yet twenty-one so you earn less.’

Debbie looked relieved and then asked, ‘But what will you do?’

‘Oh, I can turn my hand to anything,’ said Olivia airily, and took herself off to the canteen. She shared a table with two clerks from Admissions, older than herself, competent, hard-working ladies both.

‘There’s a nasty rumour going round,’ one of them said to Olivia as she sat down. ‘They’re cutting down, starting with the domestics and then us.’

‘Is it just a rumour or for real?’

‘We’re to get letters tomorrow, warning us, and at the end of next week we shall get notes in our pay envelopes if we’re to be made redundant.’

Olivia pushed shepherd’s pie and two veg around the plate. Something would have to be done about Debbie. Her own wages would be missed at home, but they wouldn’t starve and they had a roof over their heads whereas Debbie’s family would be in sore straits. She ate prunes and custard, drank the strong tea, and went along to the secretary’s office.

He wasn’t there, but his PA was—a nice girl, who Olivia knew slightly. ‘I want you to help me,’ said Olivia in a no-nonsense voice.

She was listened to without interruption, then the PA said, ‘I’ll do my best—shall I say that you’ve got another job lined up? The hospital manager will be delighted; he’s going to be very unpopular.’

Olivia went back to her work, and spent the rest of the day doing her best to reassure Debbie.

It was pay-day in the morning and, sure enough, everyone had a letter in their pay-packet, setting out the need to retrench, cut costs and improve hospital services.

‘How will they do that if there aren’t enough of us to go round?’ demanded Debbie. ‘I shan’t dare tell my mum.’

‘Not until next week,’ cautioned Olivia. ‘You haven’t got the sack yet.’

The next week crawled to its end and Olivia opened her pay packet to find a note advising her that she had been given a week’s notice. Although she had been fairly sure that she would be the one to go, it was still a blow—mitigated to a certain extent by Debbie’s relief. ‘Though how I’ll manage on my own, I don’t know,’ she told Olivia. ‘I’m always filing things wrong.’

‘No, you aren’t. Besides, you’ll be extra careful now.’

‘What about you? Have you got a job to go to?’

‘Not yet, but we can manage quite well until I find something else. Look, Debbie, we’ve got next week—let’s check the shelves together so that everything is OK before I go.’

She hadn’t told her mother yet; that could wait until she had actually left. Thank heaven, she reflected, that it’s spring. We can economise on the heating if only we can get Grandmother to co-operate, and not go round the flat turning on lights that aren’t needed and switching on the electric fires and then forgetting them. It was, after all, her flat—something of which she reminded them constantly.

They worked like beavers during the next week, and although Olivia was glad that she need no longer work in the dreary underground room she was sorry to leave Debbie. She put a brave face on it, however, assured her that she had her eye on several likely jobs, collected her pay-packet for the last time and went home. The bus was as usual crowded, so she stood, not noticing her feet being trodden on, or the elderly lady with the sharp elbows which kept catching her in the ribs. She was regretting leaving without seeing that nice man who had been so friendly. Doubtless back in Holland by now, she thought, and forgotten all about us.

She waited until they had had their supper before she told her mother and grandmother that she had lost her job. Her mother was instantly sympathetic. ‘Of course you’ll find something else much nicer,’ she said, ‘and until you do we can manage quite well…’

Her grandmother wasn’t as easy to placate. ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she wanted to know. ‘You’re not really trained for anything, and quite right too. No gel should have to go out to work—not people of our background…’ Mrs Fitzgibbon, connected by marriage to the elderly baronet and his family who never took any notice of her, was inclined to give herself airs.

‘All the same,’ she went on, ‘of course you must find something else at once. I, for one, have no intention of living in penury; heaven knows I have sacrificed a great deal so that both of you should have a home and comfort.’ She stared at her granddaughter with beady eyes. ‘Well, Olivia, perhaps that young man of yours will marry you now.’

‘Perhaps he will,’ said Olivia brightly, thinking to herself that perhaps he wouldn’t—she hadn’t heard from him for almost three weeks—and anyway, the last time they had been out together he had told her that he had his eye on a new car. The nasty thought that perhaps the new car might receive priority over herself crossed her mind. Rodney had never been over-loving, and she had told herself that it was because they had known each other for some time and his feelings had become a trifle dulled. Perhaps it was a good thing that they hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks; he might look at her with new eyes and ask her to marry him. Something he had not as yet done, although there was a kind of unspoken understanding between them. Anyway, now was not the time to worry about that. A job was the first thing she must think about.

She had been given good references but it seemed that her skills as a filing-clerk weren’t much in demand. She went out each day, armed with the details of suitable jobs culled from the newspapers, and had no luck at all; she couldn’t use a word-processor; she had no idea how to work with a computer, and a cash register was a closed book as far as she was concerned. The week was almost up when Rodney phoned. He sounded—she thought for a word—excited, and she wondered why. Then he said, ‘I want to talk to you, Olivia, can we meet somewhere? You know how it is if I come and see you at your grandmother’s place…’

‘Where do you suggest? I’ve things to tell you too.’

‘Yes?’ He didn’t sound very interested. ‘Meet me at that French place in Essex Road this evening. Seven o’clock.’

He rang off before she could agree.

He had sounded different she reflected as she went to tell her mother that she would be out that evening. Mrs Fitzgibbon, reading the newspaper by the window, put it down. ‘And high time too,’ she observed. ‘Let us hope that he will propose.’ She picked up her paper again, ‘One less mouth to feed,’ she muttered nastily.

Perhaps you get like that when you’re old, thought Olivia, and gave her mother a cheerful wink. It was of no use getting annoyed, and she knew that her grandmother’s waspish tongue was far kinder to her mother, an only daughter who had married the wrong man—in her grandmother’s eyes at least—and it was because Olivia was more like her father than her mother that her grandmother disliked her. If she had been slender and graceful and gentle, like her mother, it might have been a different kettle of fish…

She dressed with care presently, anxious to look her best for Rodney. The jacket and skirt, even though they were four years old, were more or less dateless, as was the silk blouse which went with them. She didn’t look too bad, she conceded to herself, studying her person in her wardrobe mirror, only she wished that she were small and dainty. She pulled a face at her lovely reflection, gave her hair a final pat, and bade her mother goodbye.

‘Take a key,’ ordered her grandmother. ‘We don’t want to be wakened at all hours.’

Olivia said nothing. She couldn’t remember a single evening when Rodney hadn’t driven her back well before eleven o’clock.

Perhaps, she mused, sitting in an almost empty bus, she and Rodney had known each other for too long. Although surely when you were in love that wouldn’t matter? The thought that perhaps she wasn’t in love with him took her breath. Of course she was. She was very fond of him; she liked him, they had enjoyed cosy little dinners in out of the way restaurants and had gone to the theatre together and she had been to his flat. Only once, though. It was by the river in a new block of flats with astronomical rents, and appeared to her to be completely furnished, although Rodney had listed a whole lot of things which he still had to have. Only then, he had told her, would he contemplate settling down to married life.

It was a short walk from the bus-stop and she was punctual but he was already there, sitting at a table for two in the corner of the narrow room. He got up when he saw her and said ‘hello’ in a hearty way, not at all in his usual manner.

She sat down composedly and smiled at him. ‘Hello, Rodney. Was your trip successful?’

‘Trip? What…? Oh, yes, very. What would you like to drink?’

Why did she have the feeling that she was going to need something to bolster her up presently? ‘Gin and tonic,’ she told him. A drink she disliked but Debbie, who knew about these things, had assured her once that there was nothing like it to pull a girl together.

Rodney looked surprised. ‘That’s not like you, Olivia.’

She didn’t reply to that. ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing, and why do you want to talk, Rodney? It’s lovely to see you, but you sounded so—so urgent on the phone.’

He had no time to answer because the waiter handed them the menus and they both studied them. At least Olivia appeared to be studying hers, but actually she was wondering about Rodney. She asked for mushrooms in a garlic sauce and a Dover sole with a salad, and took a heartening sip of her drink. It was horrible but she saw what Debbie meant. She took another sip.

Their talk was trivial as they ate. Whatever it was Rodney had to tell her would doubtless be told over their coffee. He was an amusing companion, going from one topic to the next and never once mentioning his own work. Nor did he ask her about her own job or what she had been doing. She would tell him presently, she decided, and suppressed peevish surprise when he waved away the waiter with his trolley of desserts and ordered coffee. She was a girl with a healthy appetite and she had had her eye on the peach pavlova.

She poured the coffee and caught Rodney’s eye. ‘Well?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Out with it, my dear. Have you been made redundant—I…’

‘Olivia, we’ve known each other a long time—we’ve been good friends—you may even have expected us to marry. I find this very difficult to say…’

‘Well, have a go!’ she encouraged in a matter-of-fact voice which quite concealed her shock. ‘As you say, we’ve been friends for a long time.’

‘Perhaps you’ve guessed.’ Rodney was having difficulty in coming to the point.

‘Well, no, I can’t say I have.’

‘The truth is I haven’t been away—I wanted to tell you but it was too difficult. I’m in love. We’re going to be married very shortly…’

‘Before you get your new car?’ asked Olivia. Silly, but what else to say?

‘Yes, yes, of course. She’s worth a dozen new cars. She’s wonderful.’

She looked at him across the table. Her grandmother was quite right: his eyes were too close together.

She smiled her sweetest smile. ‘Why, Rodney, how could I possibly have thought such a thing? I’m thinking of getting married myself.’

‘You could have told me…’

She gave him a limpid look. He looked awkward and added, ‘What’s he like? Has he got a good job? When are you getting married?’

‘Handsome. He has a profession and we intend to marry quite soon. Enough about me, Rodney, tell me about the girl you’re going to marry. Is she pretty? Dark? Fair?’

‘Quite pretty. I suppose you’d call her fair. Her father’s chairman of several big companies.’

‘Now that is nice—a wife with money-bags.’

He looked astounded. ‘Olivia, how can you say such a thing? We’re old friends—I can’t believe my ears.’

‘Old friends can say what they like to each other, Rodney. If I stay here much longer I might say a great deal more, so I’ll go.’

He got to his feet as she stood up. ‘You can’t,’ he spluttered. ‘I’ll drive you back; it’s the least I can do.’

‘Don’t be a pompous ass,’ said Olivia pleasantly, and walked out of the bistro and started along the street to the bus-stop.

Sitting in the bus presently, she decided that her heart wasn’t broken. Her pride had a nasty dent in it, though, and she felt a sadness which would probably turn into self-pity unless she did something about it. Of course it happened to thousands of girls, and she had to admit that she had thought of him as part of her pleasant life before her father had died, hoping that somehow or other she could turn back the clock by marrying him. She had been fond of him, accepted him as more than a friend, and although she had been in and out of love several times she had never given her whole heart; she had supposed that she would do that when they married.

‘How silly can you get?’ muttered Olivia, and the severe-looking couple sitting in front of her turned round to stare.

‘I counted my chickens before they were hatched,’ she told them gravely, and since it was her stop got off the bus.

‘It must be the gin and tonic,’ she said to herself. ‘Or perhaps I’m in shock.’ She unlocked the front door and went in. ‘I’ll make a strong cup of tea.’

The sitting-room door was half open. ‘You’re home early, darling,’ said her mother. ‘Is Rodney with you?’

Olivia poked her head round the door. ‘I came home by bus. I’m going to make a cup of tea—would you like one?’ She glanced across the room to her grandmother. ‘And you, Granny?’

‘You have refused him,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly. ‘It is time you learnt on which side your bread is buttered, Olivia.’

‘You’re quite right, Granny, his eyes are too close together, and he’s going to marry the daughter of a chairman of several large companies.’

‘Do not be flippant, Olivia. What do you intend to do?’

‘Put the kettle on and have a cup of tea,’ said Olivia.

‘You’re not upset, darling?’ asked her mother anxiously. ‘We all thought he wanted to marry you.’

Olivia left the door and went to drop a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

‘I’m not a bit upset, love.’ She spoke with matter-of-fact cheerfulness because her mother did look upset. Unlike her daughter she was a small, frail little woman, who had been cherished all her married life and was still bewildered by the lack of it, despite Olivia’s care of her. ‘I’ll make the tea.’

She sat between the two of them presently, listening to her grandmother complaining about the lack of money, her lack of a job, and now her inability to get herself a husband. ‘You’re such a big girl,’ observed Mrs Fitzgibbon snappily.

Olivia, used to this kind of talk and not listening to it, drank her tea and presently took herself off, washing the tea things in the kitchen, laying her grandmother’s breakfast tray and their own breakfast, before she at last closed the door of her room.

Now, at last, she could cry her eyes out in peace.




CHAPTER TWO


DEBBIE looked up from the piles of folders on the table in the Records Office as the door opened and Mr van der Eisler came in. Her disconsolate face broke into a smile at the sight of him, although she asked with a touch of wariness, ‘Oh, hello—have I sent the wrong notes up again? I can’t get anything right, and now that Olivia’s not here to sort things out for me I seem to be in a muddle the whole time.’

He came unhurriedly to the table and glanced at the untidy piles on it. ‘I expect it will get easier once you have got used to being on your own. And I do want some notes, but there’s no hurry. Do you have to file these before you go home?’

She nodded. ‘It’s almost five o’clock and I daren’t leave them until the morning; there’ll be some bossy old sister coming down and wanting to know where this and that is. Interfering so-and-sos.’

‘Ten minutes’ work at the most,’ declared Mr van der Eisler. ‘I’ll sort them into alphabetical order, you file them.’

‘Cor—you mean you’ll give a hand? But no one ever does…’

He was already busy, and after a moment she did as he suggested.

‘I expect you miss Olivia,’ he observed presently.

‘You bet I do.’

‘Does she come to see you?’ His voice was casual.

‘No, worse luck. Doesn’t live near here. Her granny’s got a flat Islington way; she and her mum have to live with her since her dad died, left them badly off. Not that Olivia told me much—shut up like an oyster when it came to her private life.’ She laughed. ‘Not like me.’

He handed her another pile of folders. ‘You live near the hospital?’

‘Five minutes walk. Me dad’s out of work, Mum’s part-time at the supermarket. Was I scared that I’d get the sack? Olivia didn’t tell me, but the girl in the office said as how she had another job to go to. This wasn’t her cup of tea. Been to one of those la-di-da schools, I dare say. Always spoke posh, if you see what I mean.’

Mr van der Eisler agreed that he saw. ‘Not many jobs going in Islington, I should have thought.’

‘Not where her granny lives—one of those dull streets with rows of houses with net curtains. Had a soppy name too—Sylvester Crescent.’

Mr van der Eisler’s heavy lids drooped over the gleam in his eyes.

‘Very fanciful,’ he agreed. He handed over the last pile, waited while Debbie filed the folders away and came back to the table, made his request for the notes he needed, listened with a kind smile to her thanks and, with the folder under his arm, took himself off.

Debbie, bundling herself into her jacket, addressed the tidy shelves. ‘Now there’s a real gent for you. That was a nice chat too—no one knows how dull it is down here these days.’



Mr van der Eisler, discussing the next day’s list with the senior surgical registrar and the theatre sister, wrung from that lady a reluctant assent to begin operating at eight o’clock in the morning instead of an hour later, gave her a smile to set her elderly heart beating a good deal faster, and took his leave.

‘That man could wring blood from a stone,’ declared Sister. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I let him get away with it…’

The registrar laughed. ‘Go one with you, you know you’d agree to open theatre at six a.m. He’s a splendid man and a first-rate surgeon. He’s been here several weeks now, hasn’t he? Handed over several new techniques, shared his ideas with Mr Jenks—between them they’ve perfected them—look at Mrs Eliza Brown.’

‘He’ll be leaving soon, I suppose.’

‘Yes, and Mr Jenks is going back with him for a week or two.’ He turned to leave. ‘He’ll be back, I’ve no doubt—goes all over the place—got an international reputation already. Not bad for a man of thirty-six.’

He wandered away to look out of a window, in time to see Mr van der Eisler’s grey Bentley edge out of the hospital forecourt.

‘I wonder where he goes?’ he reflected aloud.



Mr van der Eisler was going to Islington to cast his eye over Sylvester Crescent. He found it eventually, tooling patiently up and down identical streets of identical houses, and drove its length until he came to Mr Patel’s shop, still open.

Mr van der Eisler, who never purchased food for his excellently run household, nevertheless purchased a tin of baked beans, and engaged Mr Patel in casual conversation. Naturally enough the talk led to observations about Islington and Sylvester Crescent in particular.

‘A quiet area,’ observed Mr van der Eisler. ‘Flats, I suppose, and elderly people.’

‘You are right, sir.’ Mr Patel, with no customers in the offing, was glad of a chat. ‘Many elderly ladies and gentlemen. It is not a street for the young—and an awkward journey to the day’s work. There is Miss Harding, who lives with her grandmother Mrs Fitzgibbon at number twenty-six, but I see her each morning now, and I think she must no longer work.’ He sighed. ‘Such a beautiful young lady too. It is dull here for the young.’

Mr van der Eisler murmured suitably, remarked that Mr Patel and his shop must be a boon and a blessing to the neighbourhood, professed himself pleased with his purchase, paid for it and got back into his car. Number twenty-six was in the middle of the row of houses and there was a chink of light showing between the heavy curtains pulled across the windows on the ground floor.

He drove back to the quiet, elegant street near Sloane Square and let himself into his ground-floor flat to be met in the hall by his housekeeper.

‘You’re late, sir. Your dinner’s ready and I’ll be so bold as to say that it won’t keep for more than five minutes.’

‘Excellent timing, Becky.’ He patted her plump shoulder and added, ‘Here’s something for you to amuse yourself with.’

He handed her the bag and she looked inside. ‘Mr Haso, whatever will you do next? Since when have you eaten baked beans?’ She gave him a suspicious glance. ‘What did you want to buy it for?’

‘Well, I needed to ask for some information and the best place was the local corner shop.’

Miss Rebecca Potts, elderly now, and long since retired as his nanny, was his devoted housekeeper whenever he was in London, and she knew better than to ask him why he wanted to know something. All the same, she gave him a sharp look. ‘I’ll dish up,’ she told him severely. ‘You’ve time for a drink.’

He picked up his bag and went down the hall to his study and sat down in the leather armchair drawn up to the fire. A drink in his hand, he sat quietly, busy with his thoughts, until Becky knocked on the door.

It was two days before he had the opportunity to return to Sylvester Crescent. He had no plan as to what he intended doing, only the vague idea of seeing Olivia going to or from the shops or, failing that, calling at her grandmother’s flat with some trumped-up story about Debbie. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, once he had met her again, he would be able to get her off his mind.

He saw her as he turned the car into Sylvester Crescent, coming towards him in her well-worn jacket and skirt, her bright hair a splash of colour in the sober street, a shopping basket over her arm. He slowed the car and stopped as she drew abreast of it.

The quick colour swept over her face when she saw him but she said composedly, ‘Why, good morning, Mr van der Eisler. Have you a patient to visit?’

Mr van der Eisler, an upright and godfearing man, could on occasion lie like a trooper when it was necessary, and he considered that this was necessary. ‘No, no, I have a few hours with nothing to do. I am looking for a suitable flat for a friend who will be coming to London for a few months.’

He got out of the car and stood beside her. ‘A most delightful surprise to meet you again. I was in the Records Office only the other day and Debbie was telling me how much she missed you. She tells me that you have another job—how fortunate…’

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ She caught his eye and something in his look made her add, ‘Well, no, I haven’t actually. I told her that because she was worried about getting the sack. Is she managing?’

‘Tolerably well.’ He smiled down at her, looking so kind that she had a sudden urge to tell him about her grandmother, whose nasty little digs about her not getting a job had done nothing to make her fruitless efforts easier to bear. Instead she said briskly, ‘It’s nice meeting you, but don’t let me keep you from your house-hunting.’

Mr van der Eisler, never a man to be deterred from his purpose, stood his ground. ‘As to that—’ he began, and was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Rodney, who had pulled in behind the Bentley and was grabbing Olivia by the arm.

‘Olivia—I had to come and see you…’

Olivia removed her arm. ‘Why?’ she asked coldly.

‘Oh, old friends and all that, you know. Wouldn’t like you to think badly of me—you did walk off in a huff…’ He glanced at Mr van der Eisler towering over him, a look of only the faintest interest upon his face. ‘I say,’ Rodney went on, ‘is this the lucky man?’ He shook hands, beaming. ‘Olivia said she was going to get married—described you to a T. Well, everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?’ He patted Olivia’s shoulder. ‘You don’t know what a relief it is to see you so happy. Can’t stop now. My regards to your mother. Bye, old girl.’

He flashed a smile at them both, got back into his car, and drove away without looking back.

Olivia looked at her feet and wished she could stop blushing, and Mr van der Eisler looked at the top of her head and admired her hair.

‘I can explain,’ said Olivia to her shoes. ‘It wasn’t you I described; I said he was very large and had a profession and a great deal of money.’ She added crossly, ‘Well, that’s what any girl would say, isn’t it?’

Mr van der Eisler, used to unravelling his patients’ meanderings, hit the nail on the head accurately. ‘Any girl worth her salt,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Did you actually intend to marry this—this fellow?’

‘Well, you see, I’ve known him for years, long before Father died and we had to move here, and somehow he seemed part of my life then and I didn’t want to give that up—do you see what I mean?’

She looked at him then. He looked just as a favourite uncle or cousin might have looked: a safe recipient of her woes, ready to give sound advice. She said breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t think why I’m boring you with all this. Please forgive me—he— Rodney was something of a shock.’

He took her basket from her. ‘Get in the car,’ he suggested mildly. ‘We will have a cup of coffee before you do your shopping.’

‘No, no, thank you. I can’t keep you standing around any longer. I must get the fish…’

As she was speaking she found herself being urged gently into the Bentley. ‘Tell me where we can get coffee—I passed some shops further back.’

‘There’s the Coffee-Pot, about five minutes’ walk away—so it’s close by. Aren’t I wasting your time?’ she asked uneasily.

‘Certainly not. In fact, while we are having it I shall pick your brains as to the best way of finding a flat.’

The café was in a side-street. He parked the car, opened her door for her, and followed her into the half-empty place. It was small, with half a dozen tables with pink formica tops, and the chairs looked fragile. Mr van der Eisler, a man of some seventeen stones in weight, sat down gingerly. He mistrusted the chairs and he mistrusted the coffee which, when it came, justified his doubts, but Olivia, happy to be doing something different in her otherwise rather dull days, drank hers with every appearance of enjoyment and, while she did, explained in a matter-of-fact way about living with Granny.

‘I dare say you are glad to have a brief holiday,’ he suggested, and handed her the plate of Rich Tea biscuits which had come with the coffee.

‘Well, no, not really. I mean, I do need a job as soon as possible, only I’m not trained for anything really useful…’ She went on in a bright voice, ‘Of course I shall find something soon, I’m sure.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ he agreed, and went on to talk of other things. He had had years of calming timid patients, so he set about putting Olivia at her ease before mentioning casually that he would be going back to Holland very shortly.

‘Oh—but will you come back here?’

‘Yes. I’m an honorary consultant at Jerome’s, so I’m frequently over here. I do have beds in several hospitals in Holland—I divide my time between the two.’ He drank the last of the coffee with relief. ‘Do you plan to stay with your grandmother for the foreseeable future?’

‘Until I can get a job where Mother and I can live together. Only I’m not sure what kind of job. There are lots of advertisements for housekeepers and minders, although I’m not sure what a minder is and I’m not good enough at housekeeping, although I could do domestic work…’

He studied the lovely face opposite him and shook his head. ‘I hardly think you’re suitable for that.’

Which dampened her spirits, although she didn’t let him see that. ‘I really have to go. It has been nice meeting you again and I do hope you find a nice flat for your friend.’

He paid the bill and they went outside, and she held out a hand as they stood on the pavement. ‘Goodbye, Mr van der Eisler. Please give Debbie my love if ever you should see her. Please don’t tell her that I haven’t got a job yet.’

She walked away quickly, wishing that she could spend the whole day with him; he had seemed like an old friend and she lacked friends.

By the time she reached the fishmonger’s the fillets of plaice that her grandmother had fancied for dinner that evening had been sold and she had to buy a whole large plaice and have it filleted, which cost a good deal more money. Olivia, her head rather too full of Mr van der Eisler, didn’t care.

Naturally enough, when she returned to the flat she was asked why she had spent half the morning doing a small amount of shopping. ‘Loitering around drinking coffee, I suppose,’ said Mrs Fitzgibbon accusingly.

‘I met someone I knew at the hospital; we had coffee together,’ said Olivia. She didn’t mention Rodney.



Mr van der Eisler drove himself back to his home, ate the lunch Becky had ready for him, and went to the hospital to take a ward-round. None of the students trailing him from one patient to the next had the least suspicion that one corner of his brilliant mind was grappling with the problem of Olivia while he posed courteous questions to each of them in turn.

Olivia had let fall the information that her grandmother had once lived in a small village in Wiltshire, and in that county was the school where his small goddaughter was a boarder, since her own grandmother lived near enough to it for her to visit frequently during term-time. In the holidays she went back to Holland to her widowed mother, who had sent her to an English school because her dead husband had wanted that. Might there be a possibility of Mrs Fitzgibbon and Nel’s grandmother being acquainted, or at least having mutual friends? It was worth a try…

‘Now,’ he said in his placid way, ‘which of you gentlemen will explain to me the exact reasons which make it necessary for me to operate upon Miss Forbes?’

He smiled down at the woman lying in bed and added, ‘And restoring her to normal good health once more?’ He sounded so confident that she smiled back at him.

It was several days before Mr van der Eisler was free to drive down to Wiltshire. His small goddaughter’s grandmother lived in a village some five or six miles from Bradford-on-Avon and on that particular morning there was more than a hint of spring in the air. The sky was blue—albeit rather pale, the sun shone—as yet without much warmth, and the countryside was tipped with green. Slowing down to turn off the road on to a narrow country lane leading to Earleigh Gilford, he told himself that he was wasting his time: Olivia had probably got herself a job by now and the chance of her grandmother knowing Lady Brennon was so remote as to be hopeless.

He had phoned ahead and they met as old friends, for both of them had been charged with the care of Nel during term-time. Lady Brennon was a youthful sixty, living in a charming little Georgian villa on the edge of the village, busy with her garden and her painting, her dogs and the various village committees on which she sat.

‘So nice to see you, Haso.’ She looked sad for a moment. ‘It seems a long time since Rob’s wedding and your coming here as his best man. I miss him still, you know. Thank heavens we have little Nel.’

They went into the house together and he asked, ‘Is she here for the weekend?’

‘Yes, she’ll be here on Saturday. There’s no chance of your staying until then?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’ll try and get down before the Easter holidays. In fact, I might be able to arrange things so I can drive her over to Holland.’

‘That would be splendid.’ Lady Brennon poured their coffee. ‘The child’s very fond of you. Rita phoned this week; she said that you had been to see her when you were in Holland. Was she happy?’

‘I believe so. She likes her work and she has her friends. She misses Nel, but she wants to carry out Rob’s wishes.’

‘Of course. Probably she will change her mind and come to live here later on.’

‘Perhaps.’ He put down his cup. ‘Lady Brennon, did you know a Mrs Fitzgibbon—oh, it would be some years ago? I believe she lived somewhere near Bradford-on-Avon.’ He dredged up the bits and pieces of information that Olivia had let drop. ‘I believe her daughter married a man called Harding—rather a grand wedding in Bath Abbey…’

‘Fitzgibbon? The name rings a bell. You know her? She is a friend of yours? Rather an elderly one…’

‘No. No. I have never met her.’

‘Then I can tell you that she was a most disagreeable woman—I remember her very well—bullied her daughter, a rather sweet little thing. Married against her wishes, I believe. I met her several times. The daughter had a little girl—the husband died, I believe, it was in the Telegraph a few years ago. Dear me, it must be almost thirty years since we met.’

She gave Haso an enquiring look. ‘May I know why you are interested in her?’

‘I have met her granddaughter—she was working at Jerome’s as a filing clerk, got made redundant and can’t find work. She and her mother live with Mrs Fitzgibbon and I gather are not happy there. Olivia has said very little about herself, and I am barely acquainted with her, but she got herself sacked so that the girl she worked with, who desperately needs the money, could keep her job, and I wondered if you knew of anything…’ He smiled then. ‘I have no personal interest in her; it is only that I feel that she deserves a better chance.’

‘Is she educated?’

‘Yes. Intelligent and well-mannered, speaks well, very level-headed, I should imagine. She is lacking in the essentials—typing, shorthand, computers—all that kind of thing. She had no need to work until her father died.’

‘Is she very young?’

‘I should guess her to be in her late twenties.’ He frowned. ‘I think she would make a good governess if they still have such people.’

‘Not to any extent, I’m afraid. She might get a post in a private school, with the smaller children perhaps, or even taking drama classes for the older girls. What do you want me to do, Haso?’

‘I’m presuming on your kindness, Lady Brennon. If you should hear of something which might suit Olivia, could you possibly find a reason to write to Mrs Fitzgibbon, mention the job, and say how you wished you knew of someone suitable to fill it? It is most unlikely, I know, but a kindly fate does occasionally step in. I don’t wish her to know that I have had anything to do with it.’

‘I will be most discreet. It would certainly be an ideal solution, and since it would appear to Mrs Fitzgibbon that it was through her good offices that Olivia should hear of the job she might present no difficulties. I’ll ask around, my dear. There are any number of schools around here, you know.’

They talked about other things then, and Olivia wasn’t mentioned again, and later, as he drove himself back to London, Mr van der Eisler’s thoughts were of the week ahead of him—Liverpool and then Birmingham, then back to Holland…

It was three weeks before he returned to his London home. It was late at night on the first day of his return before he had the leisure to sit down and read his post. A good deal of it he consigned to the wastepaper basket and then put the rest aside while he read the letter from Lady Brennon. She had telephoned him, she wrote, and Becky had told her that he was away so it seemed best to write. By the greatest good fortune, she went on, Nel had told her on her half-term holiday that Miss Tomkins, who it seemed was a Jill of all trades at the school, had left suddenly and there was no one to take her place. Lady Brennon had acted with speed, recommended Olivia to the headmistress on the strength of his recommendation, and written to Mrs Fitzgibbon, using the excuse that a friend of hers had seen Olivia’s mother when she was in London and that that had prompted Lady Brennon to write to her. A lie, of course, she had put in brackets. The letter continued:

‘The upshot is, Haso, that your protégée is at Nel’s school, working out the rest of the term, and if she proves satisfactory she is to be taken on on a termly basis and allowed to live in a small annexe of the school. Very poky, so Nel tells me, but there is room for her mother if she cares to go and live there. The salary is barely adequate but, as it has been pointed out, she has no qualifications. I hope this news will relieve you from further feelings of responsibility towards Olivia who, from Nel’s account, is well-liked and apparently happy. Do phone when you can spare the time, and tell me how Rita is. Still as pretty as ever, I’m sure, and such a delightful companion. I hope you found time to see something of her.’

He smiled as he put the letter down, aware that it was Lady Brennon’s dearest wish that he should marry Rita. What could be more suitable? They knew each other well, her husband had been his closest friend and he had a strong affection for Nel. It was all so suitable, and he supposed that it would be a sensible thing to do. His thoughts strayed to Olivia; when he went to school to collect Nel he would make a point of seeing her. He supposed his interest in her had been heightened by the injustice of her dismissal. Now that she was settled he could dismiss her from his mind, where she had been lurking for the past few weeks.



Lady Brennon’s letter had reached Mrs Fitzgibbon at an opportune moment; there had been another letter in the post that morning, for Olivia, regretting that the post of assistant in a West End florist’s had been filled. Olivia, listening to her grandmother’s diatribe on the inability of young women to find suitable employment, allowed most of it to flow over her head—she knew it by heart now. Instead she wondered about Mr van der Eisler. Back in Holland, she supposed, and best forgotten.

A silence from her grandmother made her look up. The old lady was reading the letter in her hand, and when she had finished it she re-read it. She spoke. ‘It is a good thing that I have a number of connections with those of a good background.’ She put the letter down. ‘This is a letter from an old friend who by some remote chance has written to me—you need not concern yourself as to the details.’ She waited for Olivia to say something but, since she had no intention of concerning herself, she went on writing a note for the milkman and remained silent. ‘There is a position at a girls’ school outside Bath—making yourself useful, as far as I can see. The current holder has had to leave for some family reason and the headmistress is anxious to find someone suitable at the earliest possible moment. She suggests that you telephone and make an appointment. The headmistress is coming to London—let me see—tomorrow.’

Olivia felt her grandmother’s beady eyes fixed on her. ‘Just what kind of a job is it, Granny?’

‘How should I know? You must bestir yourself and go and find out for yourself.’

‘After I have talked to Mother. She’ll be back presently, we can talk about it then.’

Mrs Harding thought it might be quite nice. ‘Of course I shall miss you, love, but you’ll have the school holidays.’

‘Yes, Mother. If it were possible, would you come and live there if I get the job—I dare say we could rent a small house nearby.’

‘Oh, darling, that would be lovely, to live in the country again.’ They were in the kitchen with the door shut but all the same she lowered her voice. ‘I’m sure Granny would like to have the flat to herself again. Do go and see this lady.’

So Olivia went, and since it was a fine day and quite warm she wore her jersey dress—like most of her clothes not the height of fashion but still elegant. She hoped the headmistress would like her, for although she didn’t like leaving her mother she would be able to send her money and they might even take a holiday together. Her grandmother, she felt sure, would be only too glad to be rid of them both.

The headmistress, Miss Cross, was middle-aged, plump and good-natured and, when Olivia explained that she had no experience of any sort other than filing documents, waved this aside. ‘Come and see how you get on,’ she suggested. ‘There are still several weeks of this term—almost a month. If you like the work and we like you, then I’ll employ you on a termly basis. You’ll live in, of course—there’s a small annexe you’ll have to yourself. I don’t know if you have a dependant? I’ve no objection to a mother or sister living with you. The salary is fair, I consider, and you get your meals while you’re on duty. You’re not married or anything like that?’

‘No, Miss Cross.’

‘Then you ought to be, a lovely creature like you! Start on Saturday. Let me know what time your train gets to Bath; I’ll have you met.’

Coincidence, good luck, fate—call it what you will, reflected Olivia, now something or someone had allowed her to fall on her feet. She had been at the school for two weeks and she was happy. She wasn’t sure just what she could call herself, for no two days were alike, but being a practical girl she took that in her stride. She plaited small heads of hair, inspected fingernails if Matron was busy, played rounders during the games hour, took prep with the older girls, drove Miss Cross into Bath whenever she needed to go, washed the same small heads of hair, comforted those who had grazed knees and in between these tasks filled in for anyone on the staff who happened to be absent for any reason. It was a good thing that she had been good at games at school, for she found herself on several occasions tearing up and down the hockey pitch blowing her whistle. She had enjoyed it too.

The annexe had been a pleasant surprise. It was small, certainly, but there was a living-room with an alcove used as a kitchen, a shower-room and, up the narrow staircase, two bedrooms just large enough to contain a bed, a chest of drawers and a chair. Whoever had had the place before her had been clever with orange boxes, disguising them as bedside tables, bookshelves and an extra seat with a cushion neatly nailed on to it.

If Miss Cross was to keep her on then there was no reason why her mother shouldn’t come and stay with her, even live with her. The school was in the country, but there was a good bus service into Bath from the village.

Olivia, on this particular Saturday morning, was rounding up the smallest of the girls ready for their weekly swimming lesson in the heated swimming-pool in the school’s basement. The sports mistress would be in charge but Olivia was expected to give a hand, something she enjoyed, for she was a good swimmer and teaching the sometimes unwilling learners was a challenge. She marched them through the school and down the stairs to the basement, saw them into their swimsuits, counted heads, and handed them over to Miss Ross, a small woman with a powerful voice, before going off to get into her own swimsuit.

While Miss Ross got on with the actual teaching Olivia patrolled the pool, swimming slowly, making sure that the children were under her watchful eye, encouraging the faint-hearted to get their feet off the bottom of the pool and applauding those who were splashing their way from one side to the other. Once they were all out of the water she wrapped herself in a robe and went round checking that each child had showered, finding mislaid garments and then collecting up the sopping wet swimsuits. Only when they were all once more dressed and handed over to Miss Ross could she shower and dress herself, before hurrying back to the school to the recreation room where she was expected to dispense hot cocoa and biscuits. It should have been her half-day but the junior housemistress had gone to a wedding, which meant that Olivia would have the charge of fifteen little girls until they were in bed and hopefully asleep. On Sunday it was her turn to shepherd the whole school, under the guidance of Miss Cross and two of the senior teachers, to the village church.

Getting ready for bed that night she owned to being tired but not unhappy. The pleasure of sitting in one’s own small home, drinking a last cup of tea before getting into bed, was by no means overrated. Perhaps she was a born old maid? She dismissed the idea. ‘I shall be quite honest,’ she told herself, since there was no one else to tell, ‘I should like to marry and have a kind and loving husband and a handful of children. Never mind if there isn’t enough money, just enough to live on comfortably, and keep a dog or two, and cats of course, and perhaps a donkey…’

She put down her mug and took herself upstairs to bed.

There was the opportunity to think quietly the next morning; the Reverend Bates’ sermons were long and soothing, a fitting background for her thoughts, and since they were simple and blameless she didn’t suppose that God would mind. The end of term was approaching, she reflected, and she would go back to Granny’s flat for almost three weeks. During that time she would have to see what her mother thought of coming to live with her, always providing Miss Cross decided to keep her. The letters from her mother had been cheerful; Olivia thought that without her her mother and grandmother lived fairly amicably together. All the same, it would be nice if her mother was to pay a visit.

She glanced down the row of childish faces under the school straw hats. Perhaps she had found her niche in life. She sighed and a small hand crept into her lap and caught at her fingers, and she made haste to smile down at the upturned little face. It was Nel, a nice child whose Granny lived not too far away. She had confided in Olivia one day that her daddy had died and Mummy lived in Holland, but she was here at school because her Daddy had wanted her to be educated in England. ‘I’m half-Dutch,’ she had said proudly, and instantly Mr van der Eisler’s handsome features had swum before Olivia’s eyes. She had wiped him out at once and suggested a game of Ludo.

With the end of term so near now there was an air of bustle and excitement at the school. Regular lessons gave way to exams, an expedition to the Roman Baths in Bath, while Miss Prosser, who taught history and geography, recited their history, and finally the school play, with its attendant rush and scurry behind the curtains, and then the last morning, with all the little girls—dressed, cases packed, forgotten articles sought for and found—waiting anxiously to be collected.

The first parents arrived soon after breakfast and after them a steady stream of cars. Olivia, finding stray children, tying shoelaces and straightening hats, remembered that she was to drive Miss Cross into Bath that afternoon. When she got back she would be able to pack her own things and by then she would know if she was to return…

Half the children had gone when Nel, standing beside her, gave a squeal of delight. ‘There’s Mummy and Uncle Haso.’ She gave Olivia a poke to make sure that she was listening. ‘We’re going to Holland…’

‘How nice,’ said Olivia, and allowed her lovely mouth to drop open. Mr van der Eisler, accompanied by an elegantly dressed woman with fair hair cut in a boyish crop, was coming towards her.

Her surprise was so absolute that she could think of nothing to say, but Mr van der Eisler, whose surprise wasn’t surprise at all but actually looked genuine, nodded in a friendly way. ‘Olivia—who would have expected to see you here?’

He suffered a hug from Nel and turned to his companion. ‘Rita, this is a young lady who worked at Jerome’s. Nel’s mother, Olivia—Mrs Brennon.’

‘How nice,’ said Mrs Brennon, which could have meant anything. She didn’t shake hands but kissed her daughter and said, ‘Shall we go, Haso? Lady Brennon will be expecting us…’ She smiled briefly at Olivia. ‘Goodbye. I do hope that Nel has been good.’

She didn’t wait for an answer but took Nel’s hand and went to the car.

Mr van der Eisler paused just long enough to ask if she was happy.

‘Oh, very, thank you.’ Just in case he hadn’t been listening, she added, ‘I have never been so happy.’

His, ‘Splendid,’ was uttered in a detached manner, as was his goodbye.




CHAPTER THREE


‘WELL, what did you expect?’ Olivia asked her face in the looking-glass in her bedroom. ‘I dare say he had a job to remember you—she was very attractive, and he’s fond of Nel.’

She started to pack in a half-hearted way, filling in time until Miss Cross was ready to go into Bath.

In Bath she was told to park the car and return in two hours’ time, which meant that she had the leisure to look at the shops and have a cup of tea. On the way back to the school Miss Cross, who had hardly spoken, said, ‘Come to my study before supper this evening, Olivia. You will be returning home tomorrow?’





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