Roses for Christmas

by Betty Neels

  Her voice was cool. ‘How very complimentary you are all of a sudden. You weren’t so polite yesterday.’

  He strolled over and held out his mug for more tea. ‘One sometimes says the wrong thing when one is taken by surprise.’

  She didn’t bother to think about that; she was pursuing her own train of thought. ‘I know I’m big,’ she said crossly, ‘but I don’t need to be reminded of it.’

  He looked momentarily surprised and there was a small spark of laughter in his eyes, but all he said was: ‘I won’t remind you again, I promise. Shall we cry truce and take the dog for a walk? After all, we shall probably not meet again for another twenty years or even longer than that.’

  She was aware of disappointment at the very thought. ‘All right, but I must just go up to Mother and Father with this tray.’

  He was waiting at the kitchen door when she got down again, and Punch was beside him. ‘I must take Mrs Trot’s breakfast over first,’ she warned him.

  They crossed the back yard together and rather to her surprise he took the bowl of milk she was carrying from her and mounted the ladder behind her while Punch, wary of Mrs Trot’s maternal claws, stayed prudently in the stable. The little cat received them with pleasure, accepted the milk and fish and allowed them to admire her kittens before they left, going down the short lane which separated the manse and the small church from the village. The huddle of houses and cottages was built precariously between the mountains at their back and the sea, tucked almost apologetically into a corner of the rock-encircled sandy bay. As they reached the beach they were met by a chilly wind from the north, dispelling any illusion that the blue sky and sunshine were an aftertaste of summer, so that they were forced to step out briskly, with Punch tearing down to the edge of the sea and then retreating from the cold waves.

  Eleanor was surprised to find that she was enjoying Fulk’s company; it was obvious, she told herself, that he had grown into an arrogant man, very sure of himself, probably selfish too, even though she had to admit to his charm. All the same, he was proving himself a delightful companion now, talking about everything under the sun in a friendly manner which held no arrogance at all, and when they got back to the house he surprised her still further by laying the breakfast table while she cooked for Margaret before she left for school. Half way through their activities, Henry came down, rather indignant that he had missed the treat of an early morning walk, but more than reconciled to his loss when Fulk offered to take him for a drive in the Panther. The pair of them went away directly after breakfast and weren’t seen again until a few minutes before lunch, when they appeared in the kitchen, on excellent terms with each other, and burdened with a large quantity of flowers for Mrs MacFarlane, whisky for the pastor and chocolates for Margaret. And for Eleanor there was a little pink quartz cat, a few inches high and most beautifully carved, sitting very straight and reserved, reminding her very much of Mrs Trot.

  ‘We had the greatest fun,’ Henry informed his waiting family, ‘and I had an ice cream. We went to the hotel in Tongue—one of those with nuts on top, and the Panther is just super. When I’m grown up I shall have one, too.’

  Eleanor, the little cat cradled in her hand, smiled at him lovingly. ‘And so you shall, my dear, but now you’re going straight up to the bathroom to wash your hands—dinner’s ready.’

  The rest of the day passed pleasantly enough, and if she had subconsciously hoped that Fulk would suggest another walk, she had no intention of admitting it to herself. As it was, he spent most of the afternoon with his host and after supper they all played cards until the children’s bedtime.

  She wakened at first light the next morning, to hear her brother’s excited whispering under her window, and when she got out of bed to have a look, it was to see him trotting along beside the doctor, laden with fishing paraphernalia—Punch was with them, too; all three of them looked very happy, even from the back.

  They came in late for breakfast with a splendid catch of fish, which provided the main topic of conversation throughout the meal, and when they had finished Mrs MacFarlane said brightly: ‘Well, my dears, fish for dinner, provided of course someone will clean it.’ A task which Fulk undertook without fuss before driving Mr MacFarlane into Durness to browse over an interesting collection of books an old friend had offered to sell him.

  So that Eleanor saw little of their guest until the late afternoon and even then Henry made a cheerful talkative third when they went over to visit Mrs Trot. It was while they were there, sitting on the floor eating apples, that Fulk asked her: ‘What time do you leave tomorrow, Eleanor?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to leave at all,’ she replied promptly. ‘The very thought of hospital nauseates me—I’d like to stay here for ever and ever…’ She sighed and went on briskly: ‘Well, any time after lunch, I suppose. Would two o’clock suit you?’

  ‘Admirably. It’s roughly two hundred and fifty miles, isn’t it? We should arrive in Edinburgh in good time for dinner—you don’t have to be in at any special time, do you?’

  ‘No—no, of course not, but there’s no need…really I didn’t expect…that is…’

  ‘There’s no need to get worked up,’ he assured her kindly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t wanted to.’ He sounded almost brotherly, which made her pleasure at this remark all the more remarkable, although it was quickly squashed when he went on to say blandly: ‘I’ve had no chance to talk to you about Imogen.’

  ‘Oh, well—yes, of course I shall be delighted to hear about her.’

  ‘Who’s Imogen?’ Henry enquired.

  ‘The lady Fulk is going to marry,’ his big sister told him woodenly.

  He looked at her with round eyes. ‘Then why didn’t she come too?’

  Fulk answered him good-naturedly, ‘She’s in the south of France.’

  ‘Why aren’t you with her?’

  The doctor smiled. ‘We seem to have started something, don’t we? You see, Henry, Imogen doesn’t like this part of Scotland.’

  ‘Why not?’ Eleanor beat her brother by a short head with the question.

  ‘She considers it rather remote.’

  Eleanor nodded understandingly. ‘Well, it is—no shops for sixty miles, no theatres, almost no cinemas and they’re miles away too, and high tea instead of dinner in the hotels.’

  Fulk turned his head to look at her. ‘Exactly so,’ he agreed. ‘And do you feel like that about it, too, Eleanor?’

  She said with instant indignation: ‘No, I do not—I love it; I like peace and quiet and nothing in sight but the mountains and the sea and a cottage or two—anyone who feels differently must be very stupid…’ She opened her eyes wide and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon—I didn’t mean your Imogen.’

  ‘Still the same hasty tongue,’ Fulk said mockingly, ‘and she isn’t my Imogen yet.’

  It was fortunate that Henry created a welcome diversion at that moment; wanting to climb a tree or two before teatime, so that the rest of the afternoon was spent doing just that. Fulk, Eleanor discovered, climbed trees very well.

  They played cards again until supper time and after their meal, when the two gentlemen retired to the pastor’s study, Eleanor declared that she was tired and would go to bed, but once in her room she made no effort to undress but sat on her bed making up her mind what she would wear the next day—Fulk had only seen her in slacks and a sweater with her hair hanging anyhow. She would surprise him.

  It was a pity, but he didn’t seem in the least surprised. She went down to breakfast looking much as usual, but before lunchtime she changed into a well cut tweed suit of a pleasing russet colour, put on her brogue shoes, made up her pretty face with care, did her hair in a neat, smooth coil on the top of her head, and joined the family at the table. And he didn’t say a word, glancing up at her as she entered the room and then looking away again with the careless speed of someone who had seen the same thing a dozen times before. Her excellent appetite was completely destroy
ed.

  It served her right, she told herself severely, for allowing herself to think about him too much; she had no reason to do so, he was of no importance in her life and after today she wasn’t likely to see him again. She made light conversation all the way to Tomintoul, a village high in the Highlands, where they stopped for tea. It was a small place, but the hotel overlooked the square and there was plenty to comment upon, something for which she was thankful, for she was becoming somewhat weary of providing almost all the conversation. Indeed, when they were on their way once more and after another hour of commenting upon the scenery, she observed tartly: ‘I’m sure you will understand if I don’t talk any more; I can’t think of anything else to say, and even if I could, I feel I should save it for this evening, otherwise we shall sit at dinner like an old married couple.’

  His shoulders shook. ‘My dear girl, I had no idea… I was enjoying just sitting here and listening to you rambling on—you have a pretty voice, you know.’ He paused. ‘Imogen doesn’t talk much when we drive together; it makes a nice change. But I promise you we won’t sit like an old married couple; however old we become, we shall never take each other for granted.’

  She allowed this remark to pass without comment, for she wasn’t sure what he meant. ‘You were going to tell me about Imogen,’ she prompted, and was disappointed when he said abruptly: ‘I’ve changed my mind—tell me about Henry instead. What a delightful child he is, but not, I fancy, over-strong.’

  The subject of Henry lasted until they reached Edinburgh, where he drove her to the North British Hotel in Princes Street, and after Eleanor had tidied herself, gave her a memorable dinner, managing to convey, without actually saying so, that she was not only a pleasant companion but someone whom he had wanted to take out to dinner all his life. It made her glow very nicely, and the glow was kept at its best by the hock which he offered her. They sat for a long time over their meal and when he at last took her to the hospital it was almost midnight.

  She got out of the car at the Nurses’ Home entrance and he got out with her and walked to the door to open it. She wished him goodbye quietly, thanked him for a delightful evening and was quite taken by surprise when he pulled her to him, kissed her hard and then, without another word, popped her through the door and closed it behind her. She stood in the dimly lit hall, trying to sort out her feelings. She supposed that they were outraged, but this was tempered by the thought that she wasn’t going to see him again. She told herself firmly that it didn’t matter in the least, trying to drown the persistent little voice in the back of her head telling her that even if she didn’t like him—and she had told herself enough times that she didn’t—it mattered quite a bit. She went slowly up to her room, warning herself that just because he had given her a good dinner and been an amusing companion there was no reason to allow her thoughts to dwell upon him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE MORNING WAS dark and dreary and suited Eleanor’s mood very well as she got into her uniform and, looking the very epitome of neatness and calm efficiency, went down to breakfast, a meal eaten in a hurry by reason of the amount of conversation crammed in by herself and friends while they drank tea and bolted toast and marmalade.

  She climbed the stairs to Women’s Medical, trying to get used to being back on the ward once more, while her pretty nose registered the fact that the patients had had fish for breakfast and that someone had been too lavish with the floor polish—the two smells didn’t go well together. Someone, too, would have to repair the window ledge outside the ward door, and it was obvious that no one had bothered to water the dreadful potted plant which lived on it. Eleanor pushed the swing doors open and went straight to her little office, where Staff Nurse Jill Pitts would be waiting with the two night nurses.

  The report took longer than usual; it always did on her first day back, even if she had been away for a short time; new patients, new treatments, Path Lab reports, news of old patients—it was all of fifteen minutes before she sent the night nurses to their breakfast, left Jill to see that the nurses were starting on their various jobs, and set off on her round. She spent some time with her first three patients, for they were elderly and ill, and for some weeks now they had all been battling to keep them alive; she assured herself that they were holding their own and passed on to the fourth bed; Mrs McFinn, a large, comfortable lady with a beaming smile and a regrettable shortness of breath due to asthma, a condition which didn’t prevent her wheezing out a little chat with Eleanor, and her neighbour, puffing and panting her way through emphysema with unending courage and good humour, wanted to chat too. She indulged them both; they were such dears, but so for that matter were almost all the patients in the ward.

  She spent a few minutes with each of them in turn, summing up their condition while she lent a friendly ear and a smile; only as she reached the top of the ward did she allow a small sigh to escape her. Miss Tremble, next in line, was a cross the entire staff, medical and nursing, bore with fortitude, even if a good deal of grumbling went on about her in private. She was a thin, acidulated woman in her sixties, a diabetic which it seemed impossible to stabilize however the doctors tried. Painstakingly dieted and injected until the required balance had been reached, she would be sent home, only to be borne back in again sooner or later in yet another diabetic coma, a condition which she never ceased to blame upon the hospital staff. She had been in again for two weeks now, and on the one occasion during that period when it had been considered safe to send her home again to her downtrodden sister, she had gone into a coma again as she was actually on the point of departure, and it was all very well for Sir Arthur Minch, the consultant physician in charge of her case, to carry on about it; as Eleanor had pointed out to him in a reasonable manner, one simply didn’t turn one’s back on hyperglycaemia, even when it was about to leave the ward; she had put the patient back to bed again and allowed the great man to natter on about wanting the bed for an urgent case. He had frowned and tutted and in the end had agreed with her; she had known that he would, anyway.

  She took up her position now at the side of Miss Tremble’s bed and prepared to listen to its occupant’s long list of complaints; she had heard them many times before, and would most likely hear them many more times in the future. She put on her listening face and thought about Fulk, wondering where he was and why he had come to Edinburgh. She would have liked to have asked him, only she had hesitated; he had a nasty caustic tongue, she remembered it vividly when he had stayed with them all those years ago, and she had no doubt that he still possessed it. She could only guess—he could of course be visiting friends, or perhaps he had come over to consult with a colleague; he might even have a patient… She frowned and Miss Tremble said irritably: ‘I’m glad to see that you are annoyed, Sister—it is disgraceful that I had to have Bovril on two successive evenings when my appetite needs tempting.’

  Eleanor made a soothing reply, extolled the virtues of the despised beverage, assured Miss Tremble that something different would be offered her for her supper that evening, and moved on to the next bed, but even when she had completed her round and was back in her office, immersed in forms, charts and the answering of the constantly ringing telephone she was still wondering about Fulk.

  But presently she gave herself a mental shake; she would never know anyway. Thinking about him was a complete waste of time, especially with Sir Arthur due to do his round at ten o’clock. She pushed the papers to one side with a touch of impatience; they would have to wait until she had checked the ward and made sure that everything was exactly as it should be for one of the major events in the ward’s week.

  She ran the ward well; the patients were ready with five minutes to spare and the nurses were going, two by two, to their coffee break. Eleanor, longing for a cup herself, but having to wait for it until Sir Arthur should be finished, was in the ward, with the faithful Jill beside her and Mrs MacDonnell, the part-time staff nurse, hovering discreetly with a student nurse close by to fetch and carry. She kn
ew Sir Arthur’s ways well by now; he would walk into the ward at ten o’clock precisely with his registrar, his house doctor and such students as had the honour of accompanying him that morning. Eleanor, with brothers of her own, felt a sisterly concern for the shy ones, whose wits invariably deserted them the moment they entered the ward, and she had formed the habit of stationing herself where she might prompt those rendered dumb by apprehension when their chief chose to fire a question at them. She had become something of an expert at mouthing clues helpful enough to start the hapless recipient of Sir Arthur’s attention on the path of a right answer. Perhaps one day she would be caught red-handed, but in the meantime she continued to pass on vital snippets to any number of grateful young gentlemen.

  The clock across the square had begun its sonorous rendering of the hour when the ward doors swung open just as usual and the senior Medical Consultant, his posse of attendants hard on his heels, came in—only it wasn’t quite as usual; Fulk van Hensum was walking beside him, not the Fulk of the last day or so, going fishing with Henry in an outsize sweater and rubber boots, or playing Canasta with the family after supper or goodnaturedly helping Margaret with her decimals. This was a side of him which she hadn’t seen before; he looked older for a start, and if anything, handsomer in a distinguished way, and his face wore the expression she had seen so often on a doctor’s face; calm and kind and totally unflappable—and a little remote. He was also impeccably turned out, his grey suit tailored to perfection, his tie an elegant under-statement. She advanced to meet them, very composed, acknowledging Sir Arthur’s stately greeting with just the right degree of warmth and turning a frosty eye on Fulk, who met it blandly with the faintest of smiles and an equally bland: ‘Good morning, Eleanor, how nice to be able to surprise you twice in only a few days.’

  She looked down her nose at him. ‘Good morning, Doctor van Hensum,’ she greeted him repressively, and didn’t smile. He might have told her; there had been no reason at all why he shouldn’t have done so. She almost choked when he went on coolly: ‘Yes, I could have told you, couldn’t I? But you never asked me.’