The Edge of Winter

Araminta pushed her cap to the back of her head, allowing a good deal of her golden hair to escape untidily, she pushed that back too rather impatiently. ‘I hope so, Betsy.’

Her elderly handmaiden trotted to the door, where she paused to say: ‘Well, ’e ought ter get well with Sir Donald tackling ’im. And ’oo was that fine fellow with ’im?’

Araminta declared mendaciously that she didn’t know, for if she had said anything else Betsy would have stayed for ever, asking questions in her cockney voice; probably the selfsame questions to which Araminta herself would have liked to know the answers. She sighed and dragged a formidable pile of Casualty cards and notes towards her, and began, between bites and gulps, to enter the morning’s work into the Record Book. She had barely started when she was called away to cast an eye over an overdose which had been brought in and who Staff didn’t quite like the look of. The man was indeed in a sorry state—they worked on him under James’ patient directions and then coped with a sprained ankle, an old lady knocked down by a bus, a child scalded by a kettle of boiling water and a very old man found unconscious by the police, and he was followed by a baby who had swallowed a handful of plastic beads. There was a pause after that, long enough for them to stop for a welcome cup of tea while the two student nurses, back from tea, cleared up once more.

‘Quite a day!’ observed Araminta, ‘and I’ve got all this wretched writing to do before I can get off duty.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s time for those two to go, anyway—Nurse Carter’s on at six, isn’t she? and Male Nurse Pratt—he’s good; they both are. A pity Sylvia wasn’t here, but we should be all right now.’ She crossed her fingers hurriedly as she spoke. ‘Oh, lord, I shouldn’t have said that.’ She poured second cups. ‘Get yourself off on time, Dolly.’

‘What about you, Sister?’ Her faithful right hand looked worried.

‘Well, I must get this done before I go, and by the time I’m ready the Night people will be on; they’ve been promised for an hour earlier, you know—I should get away by seven o’clock at the latest.’ She added gloomily: ‘Let’s hope we’ll be slack for a day or two so that you can all get the off-duty you’re owed.’

Dolly got up and tidied the cups on to the tray and picked it up. ‘That would be nice, but I don’t suppose it’ll work that way, do you?’

Alone, Araminta buried herself in her papers, only lifting her head to bid good night to the nurses as they came off duty and thank them for their hard work. Mrs Pink had gone at four o’clock and Dolly went last of all, putting her head round the door to tell Araminta that the two evening nurses had reported for duty and that the Accident Room was blessedly free of patients for the moment.

‘Good,’ said Araminta absent-mindedly. ‘Night staff will be on soon now—I’ll just about be ready by then.’

She was finished by the time they came, but only just, for she had been interrupted once or twice. She gave her report quickly, changed out of uniform and went thankfully out of the hospital doors. There was still some evening left; she would get into a dressing gown and have her supper round the fire—a bath first, perhaps, so that she could tumble into bed as soon as she had eaten it… Her thoughts were interrupted by Doctor van Sibbelt’s quiet voice. ‘Quite a day,’ he commented. ‘You must be tired.’

Indeed she was; it was sheer weariness which made her snap: ‘Don’t you know better than to creep up on someone like that? I might have screamed!’

‘I’m sorry—you need your supper.’ He tucked a hand under her arm and began to walk her down the shabby street. ‘I’ll get it while you have a bath.’

If he had given her the chance she would have stopped in order to express her opinion of this suggestion, but as it was she did the best she could while he hurried her along. ‘I haven’t asked you to supper, Doctor. I’m far too tired to entertain anyone—even if I had wanted to do so, and I don’t.’

He gave a chuckle. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I hardly expect to be entertained, merely to see that you get a good supper. Let me have your key.’

Araminta handed it over, aware that she was putting up a poor fight, but he had the advantage of her. Her head was addled with weariness and the thought that she was on duty again at eight o’clock the next morning did nothing to help. She went past him into the tiny hall, to turn sharply when he didn’t follow her. Quite forgetful of her peevishness, she cried: ‘Oh, you’re not going away, are you?’ for suddenly the idea of getting her own supper and eating it by herself seemed intolerable.

His voice came reassuringly from the dark outside. ‘I’m here, fetching the food.’ He came in as he spoke, carrying a large paper bag from Harrods. ‘Run along now, there’s a good girl, while I open a few tins.’

She had the ridiculous feeling that she had known him all her life; that to allow him—a stranger, well, almost a stranger—to get the supper while she took a bath was a perfectly normal thing to do. She giggled tiredly as, nicely refreshed, she swathed herself in her dressing gown and tied back her hair. Aunt Martha would probably die of shock if she could see her now! Come to think of it, she was a little shocked herself. Something of it must have shown on her face as she went into the sitting room, for Doctor van Sibbelt, carefully opening a bottle of wine, gave her one swift look and said in the most matter-of-fact of voices: ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Do you often get a day like this one?’

She sat down in the little tub chair by the fire. ‘It’s never as bad as today, though we’re usually busy enough.’

‘Nicely organised, too,’ he commented. ‘That young chap should be all right—Sir Donald did a splendid job on him.’

‘You gave the anaesthetic…’

He put the wine down and started for the kitchen. ‘Yes. I’m going to bring in the soup.’

It was delicious—bisque of shrimps. Araminta supped it up, keeping conversation to a minimum, and when he whisked the bowls away and came back with two plates of lemon chicken and a great bowl of crisps, as well as a smaller one of artichoke salad, she sighed her deep pleasure.

‘I can’t think why you should be so kind,’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you a Cordon Bleu cook or something?’

He poured their wine. ‘My dear girl, I can’t boil an egg. I just went along to the food counters and pointed at this and that and then warmed them up on your stove.’

She crunched a handful of crisps. ‘Are you on holiday?’ she asked as casually as she knew how, and was thwarted when he said carelessly: ‘Shall we say combining business with pleasure?’ And he had no intention of telling her more than that. His next remark took her completely by surprise: ‘You don’t fit into the London scene, you know—you looked more at home among the cliffs of Cornwall.’

She remembered with some indignation how austere and unfriendly he had been then and decided not to answer him. He had, after all, given her an excellent supper, even though she hadn’t asked for it, and she couldn’t repay his kindness with rudeness.

‘You like your job?’ he wanted to know.

She nibbled a crisp. ‘Yes, very much, and I’m very lucky to have this flat.’ She spoke with faint challenge, and he smiled a little.

‘Er—I’m sure you are. I’ll fetch the coffee.’

She watched him go to the kitchen. He was quite something, even though she reminded herself that she didn’t care for that type—self-assured, too good-looking by far and with a nasty temper to boot. And he had this peculiar habit of turning up unexpectedly and for no reason at all—and why on earth should he have gone to the trouble of buying supper and cooking it for her? She wasn’t the only one who had been overworked that day. Presently, when they had had their coffee, she would find that out, but now she contented herself with: ‘Are you a physician?’

He put two lumps of sugar into her mug and four into his own. ‘Yes.’

‘But you don’t work here—in England?’ she persisted.

He sat back, crossed one long leg over the other and contemplated his shoes. ‘You’re very inquisitive,’ he observed mildly.

‘I am not,’ said Araminta hotly. ‘You invited yourself to supper, just like that, and—and you came the other evening, just as though we were lifelong friends, and you expect me to entertain you without knowing the first thing…you might be anyone!’

He put down his mug. ‘So I might, I hadn’t thought of that. I can assure you that I lead a more or less blameless life, that Sir Donald knows me very well indeed, and that I have no intention of harming you in any way.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I have always favoured big dark girls with black eyes…’

Araminta snorted. ‘I am not in the least interested in your tastes or habits,’ she assured him untruthfully. ‘And now would you mind very much if you go? You’ve been very kind, giving me this nice supper, and I’m most grateful,’ then she added with disarming honesty: ‘I don’t think I like you.’

He disconcerted her by throwing back his head and laughing so loudly that she cried urgently: ‘Oh, shush—do think of the neighbours!’ She fetched his coat and offered it to him. ‘Good night, and thank you again,’ she said politely and stood while he slung the coat round his shoulders, which made him seem more enormous than he already was. At the door she asked: ‘Why did you come?’

‘I wanted to see you again.’

‘You said that last time.’

He swooped suddenly and kissed her hard. ‘I daresay I shall say it next time, too,’ he assured her, and added blandly: ‘I would have washed up…’

He had gone, up the area steps and into the dark street, without saying goodnight or goodbye. Araminta stood where she was, staring out into the night, her pretty tired face the picture of astonishment. Presently she went inside and cleared away the remains of their supper and washed the dishes. She did it very carelessly, breaking a mug and two plates, while she urged her tired brain to reflect upon the evening. But she gave up very soon and went to bed; she really was too weary to think straight, the morning would give her more sense. The thought that she might see the doctor again sneaked into the back of her mind and wiped everything else out of it, although she told herself that she couldn’t bear him at any price—she would make that quite clear to him the next time they met.

CHAPTER THREE

A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP worked wonders. Araminta rose at her usual hour, got her breakfast, tidied her small home and walked briskly to St Katherine’s. It was a chilly, grey day and the streets looked drearier than usual, but she didn’t notice that. She was wondering, in the light of early morning, how on earth she had allowed herself to be conned into inviting Doctor van Sibbelt to supper. Thinking about it, she was pretty sure that she hadn’t. He had invited himself—and he had behaved very strangely; she had been kissed before, but somehow this time she had felt disturbed by it, and that was strange in itself, because she didn’t like him. She would take great care to treat him with polite aloofness when next they met.

She entered the Accident Room, carrying on a mythical conversation with him in which he came off very much the worse for wear, and was brought up short by the line of people already in the waiting area. Of course, they would be some of the victims of yesterday’s bomb, come for a check-up. A good number of them had been sent to their own doctors for after-care, but there had been several doubtful ones who had been asked to return. Doctor van Sibbelt’s handsome features faded at once and stayed that way until she went to her dinner, leaving Sylvia to cope with the few patients who were receiving attention.

Most of her friends were there, consuming their meal with the businesslike speed of those who never have the chance to linger over their food, but they managed to get a good deal of talking done at the same time. Araminta was plied with questions and the conditions of the various patients she had dispatched to the wards the day before were discussed at some length. They were consuming their stewed fruit and custard when someone asked: ‘Who was that man with Sir Donald? I saw them coming out of theatre. Didn’t you say Sir was with you, Araminta?’

Araminta, her mouth full, nodded.

‘And the man with him?’

She nodded again and managed: ‘He’s a doctor.’

‘He’s a smasher.’ It was the same girl who spoke, one of the junior sisters on Men’s Surgical, a pert, pretty girl whom nobody liked very much. ‘Did you speak to him?’

‘Yes,’ said Araminta, ‘I asked him if he was going to cut down and he said he’d have a try with a needle first.’

There was a little burst of laughter. ‘Do you mean to tell me that he didn’t ask you out?’ asked the pert girl suspiciously.

‘No,’ said Araminta, and added quenchingly: ‘It was hardly the time or the place, was it?’

Her questioner subsided and they got up from the table in twos and threes and went along to the sitting room in the Home for the last precious ten minutes, to drink their tea in peace before going back to their various jobs.

‘I can’t stand that girl!’ Pamela Carr exclaimed as she and Araminta walked through the maze of passages to the main wing of the hospital, ‘and just my wretched luck to be relieving on Men’s Surgical while Sister West’s on holiday—the creature seems to think that she knows the lot; its “Sister Carr, do this, Sister Carr, do that”.’ She sniffed. ‘She tints her hair.’

Araminta chuckled. ‘I thought she did. I didn’t like her either, but cheer up, Pam, think of her face when she discovers that you’ve been offered Sister West’s job when she retires after Christmas. The boot’ll be on the other foot then.’

Pam sighed. ‘It seems a long way off—ever so many things could happen…’

‘Such as what?’ Araminta pushed the Accident Room door open. ‘You could meet a millionaire who falls for you on sight and carries you off to some gorgeous mansion…’

Her companion laughed. ‘I’d like to see it happen! It sounds more like you.’

‘I’m not the type. ‘Bye for now.’

The afternoon dragged a little. The hospital had been taken off take-in for a couple of days, so that all the emergencies could go to neighbouring hospitals, leaving St Katherine’s time to get back into its stride. Araminta had the time now to sit at her desk and make out the off duty for the month ahead, write the nurses’ reports, harangue the laundry, the dispensary and the Admissions Office by telephone, and go on a careful inspection of her department. This was something she did regularly, for although she was on excellent terms with her staff, she allowed no slackness. She returned to her desk well satisfied; the place was pristine, she had had time to chat to each member of her staff, arranging for them to take the off duty they had missed, say a few words in the kitchen to Betsy, and go along to X-Ray to iron out one or two awkward situations which had cropped up. It was almost time for her to go to tea, but she decided against it; Dolly could go off duty an hour earlier instead. One of the student nurses had already gone, leaving herself and the junior nurse alone until Sylvia took over at five o’clock. Araminta went to find Dolly and then poked her head round the kitchen door once to ask Betsy to let her have a pot of tea when she had a minute to spare. Well satisfied that she had done her best to make everyone happy, she went along to the end bay where a junior houseman was painstakingly reducing a dislocated shoulder. He had done it very well, she noted, only now he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do next. She applied the bandage for him, her unassuming manner leading him to believe that he had allowed her to do it out of the kindness of his heart because she needed the practice.

The little corner shop was still open when she went off duty, so she bought a loaf and a tin of beans and a pound of apples and went home, where, over her simple meal, she found herself wishing that the Dutch doctor was there too, bad temper and all, offering her something tasty from Harrods.

It was several days later that she overheard Sir Donald telling James that Doctor van Sibbelt was back in his own country. It was a pity that they walked away just then and she was unable to hear any more. It was fortunate, though, that that very evening she had agreed to go to the cinema with James. They had time for a cup of coffee before the film started and she led the conversation carefully round to Doctor van Sibbelt, ‘What part of Holland does he come from?’ she wanted to know in an off-hand way.

‘No idea. I don’t really know what he does—something in medicine, of course. He comes over here quite a bit, so I hear. His English is pretty good, isn’t it?’

‘I—yes, I suppose so…’

James rambled on. ‘He’s rather a splendid-looking chap, I thought—made a great impression on the girls…’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Not bad, seeing that he’s reaching for forty.’ The way he said it made it sound like eighty, and Araminta said sharply: ‘That’s not even middle-aged,’ and then hurried on because James had given her a mildly enquiring look: ‘Ought we to be going? I’d hate to miss any of the film.’

And that was the last of Doctor van Sibbelt. Or so she told herself.

She went home the following weekend, driving herself in the Mini. It was a splendid morning, although there was a nip in the air which warned her that winter wasn’t so very far away. She left early, before the morning traffic piled up, so that she was out of London and on to the M4 while the roads were still fairly quiet. She drove fast, stopping briefly for coffee before turning off the motorway to go across country to Bridgewater. She was a good driver, but if she went through Bristol she would be held up for hours and she knew the quieter country roads very well. At Bridgewater she took the Minehead road and slowed down to enjoy the scenery, and Dunster, when she reached it, was delightfully quiet. She entered the little town on a sigh of pleasure, past the Luttrell Arms and the smalls shops lining the broad main street, with a glimpse of the castle at the end of it, and then past the church and into a narrow lane where the houses, although small, were well kept. At the end of the row, standing a little apart, was her home, just the same as all the others but with a small garden before it. Araminta pulled the Mini into the side of the road and jumped out, running up the path like a small girl to fling herself into Aunt Martha’s arms and then embrace her father. And there was Toby to hug too, an elderly nondescript cat who had walked in one day years ago and had been a close member of the household ever since. He sat on her lap, purring, while she drank the coffee her aunt insisted she needed before they had their lunch, and presently she went upstairs to her small, rather dark, room, with its shelves full of china ornaments and the bits and pieces she had collected since she was a very small girl, and its narrow bed with its faded eiderdown. She tidied herself slowly, savouring the quiet and the delicious smells coming from the kitchen. Aunt Martha might look like a straightlaced dowager, but she was a dream of a cook.

It was after lunch, when they had washed up and were sitting round the fire, her aunt with her knitting, her father with his pipe and a massive book at his elbow and Araminta sitting between them with Toby in her lap once more, that the name of Doctor van Sibbelt cropped up. They had been talking about their holiday and it was Aunt Martha who remarked on his charm of manner as she went on to say: ‘And did he go to see you, child? I gave him your address; he seemed anxious to let you know about that little girl-Mary Rose.’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.