Arabella stopped, aware that her tongue, usually so tardy with its speech, was getting ahead of her thoughts.

But to good purpose, it seemed; the ice had gone, Gideon’s blue eyes were warm again. His voice was warm, too. “I’m sorry I was angry, Arabella, I’m not anymore. But why are you so anxious to pair me off with Hilary?” She remembered what Hilary had said.

“Well, Hilary told me…that is, you mustn’t mind her going out with Mr. Andrews—she doesn’t like him very much, only she promised him and she stood him up last week. Hilary didn’t mean you to quarrel about it…perhaps you could take her out tomorrow evening instead.” He was staring at her with an expressionless face.

“Tomorrow evening I shall be back in Doesburg.” His wide mouth curled into a smile. “Will you think of me there?”

She nodded a rather wispy head. “Oh, yes, of course I will.”

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.

The Magic of Living
Betty Neels

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 nursery of Little Dean House was no longer used as such, but its rather shabby comfort, coupled with the knowledge that Nanny Bliss would be sitting by its cheerful little fire in the old-fashioned grate, the very epitome of security, and when necessary, sympathy, made it a retreat to which every member of the Birch family went at one time or another.

The elder daughter of the family flung open its door now; she had hunted all over the garden for Arabella without success, only to remember after ten minutes’ futile poking and peering in the rather untidy, overgrown garden which surrounded the rambling house that she had heard her cousin say that she would help the twins finish their jigsaw puzzle during the afternoon, and that, she knew from experience, would be in the old nursery.

All three of them were on the floor, she perceived, as she shut the door behind her and crossed the room to where Edmund and Erica, with Arabella between them, were sprawling on their knees. The twins were ten years old; already showing signs of the family good looks, but their cousin bore no resemblance to her relations, for she had no looks worth mentioning; indeed, beside the golden prettiness of her older cousin, her unremarkable features and pale brown hair stood no chance at all; something which didn’t bother her overmuch; she had lived with her aunt and uncle since she had been orphaned at the age of five, and over the years had become accustomed to living in Hilary’s shade. They got on tolerably well together, and if the elder girl had the lion’s share of praise for her pretty face, her undoubtedly clever mind, and her charm of manner, Arabella hadn’t minded that either; at least not much. Hilary was the daughter of the house and as such expected—and got—everything she wanted. Arabella could quite see that she could hardly expect to receive the same attention for herself and she was grateful for the rather vague affection accorded her by her aunt and uncle—after all, they had given her a pleasant home, a good education and had treated her as one of the family—well, almost, and now that she was twenty-two and a trained children’s nurse and half way through her general training, it was only natural that her aunt should consider her capable of keeping an eye on the twins when they were home from school and she was herself on holiday or days off. It sometimes meant that she was the one to stay home if an expedition which didn’t include the twins was planned, for Nanny Bliss, although barely in her sixties, was still not quite recovered from the ’flu, with all its attendant after-effects, and as Aunt Maud pointed out sensibly enough, the twins needed someone firm as well as patient; able to join in their activities and curb them in their more hair-raising adventures.

It was a pleasant autumn afternoon, and Arabella had hoped to go over to the doctor’s house for tea and a game of tennis, but her aunt’s hints at lunch had been strong enough for her to scotch this idea. She had resigned herself to entertaining the twins, who, for some reason known only to their mother, had been told to remain indoors. Arabella knelt between them now, her chin on her hands, studying the puzzle and tolerably content. She had learned years ago not to be sorry for herself and she had common sense enough to realize that not everyone could expect everything they dreamed of from life. She liked her work, she had a number of friends and a strong affection for her uncle and aunt as well as a sense of loyalty. She looked up now as her cousin came to a halt in front of her, and the better to talk, dropped to her knees too.

She said in a wheedling voice: ‘Bella, I want to talk to you.’

Arabella fitted a particularly difficult piece into the puzzle. When Hilary called her Bella it meant that she wanted her to do something for her: partner some disappointed young man to the cinema or local dance because Hilary had something better to do—lend her something, or drive her somewhere, for Hilary couldn’t drive; she hated it and declared that she had men friends enough to drive her wherever she wished to go, only just sometimes they weren’t available, and then Arabella, who despite her unpretentious appearance, drove very well indeed, would be coaxed into getting out the car and taking her cousin to wherever it was she wanted to go. It could be a nuisance, but Arabella enjoyed driving and it had never entered her head to condemn her cousin for being selfish.

It wasn’t any of these things now, though. Hilary went on: ‘Let’s go over to the window,’ and ignoring the cries of protest from the two children, strolled to the other end of the room, calling a casual ‘Hi, Nanny,’ as she went. Arabella shook herself free from her cousins and joined her, waiting quietly to hear what Hilary had to say and thinking as she waited what a very pretty girl she was and how clever too. She was one of the Ward Sisters on the private wing at the same hospital at which Arabella was doing her training, and was popular with patients and doctors alike, being showered with gifts from the former and receiving a never-ending series of invitations from the latter, and on top of that, she was very good at her job. She turned her bright blue eyes upon her cousin now.

‘Bella, remember when old Lady Marchant asked me if I’d go with that bus load of kids to that holiday camp in Holland—something to do with that society—she’s the president or secretary, I can’t remember—and I said I would, because after all, she’s frightfully influential and all that—well, Dicky White’—Dicky was one of the adoring housemen who followed her around—‘told me yesterday that the old girl had gone to Canada, so she won’t know if I go on that dreary trip or not.’

She smiled brilliantly and with great charm. ‘Go instead of me, darling—you know how good you are with brats. Besides that, Sister Brewster’s going too, and you know I simply can’t stand her—I should go mad.’

Arabella didn’t like Sister Brewster either. ‘They’re spastics,’ she reminded her cousin.

Hilary gave her a faintly impatient look. ‘Well, of course they are, ducky, that’s why you’ll be so marvellous with them—after all, you’re children’s trained.’ She nodded encouragingly, ‘You’ll be just right.’

‘It’s for two weeks,’ Arabella pointed out, and added reasonably, ‘and I don’t really want to go, Hilary, my holidays are due and I’m going to stay with Doreen Watts—you know, in Scotland.’

‘Oh, lord, Bella, you can change your holidays and go a couple of weeks later—what’s a couple of weeks?’ Hilary waved an airy hand; she had long ago mastered the art of reducing everything which didn’t directly concern herself to an unimportant level which she didn’t need to worry about.

‘Why don’t you want to go?’ asked Arabella. ‘Oh, I know about old Brewster, but what’s the real reason?’

Hilary smiled slowly. ‘It’s a secret, so don’t breathe a word. You know that new honorary? The one with the dark hair and the hornrims?’

‘Mr Thisby-Barnes?’ Arabella’s voice was squeaky with surprise. ‘But he’s married!’

Her cousin gave her a look of contemptuous affection. ‘Bella, you are a simpleton—a nice one, mind you—I do believe you still live in an age of orange blossom and proposals of marriage and falling in love.’

‘Yes,’ said Arabella simply.

‘Well, darling, a lot of girls still do, I suppose, but one can have some fun while waiting for the orange blossom—and I’m not doing any harm. He and his wife don’t get on, and I’m only going out to dinner with him.’

‘But can’t you go out with him before you go with the children?’

Hilary frowned. ‘Look, darling, there’s a dance he’s taking me to—oh, don’t worry, it’s miles away from Wickham’s, no one will ever know, and it comes slap in the middle of this wretched trip.’ She turned her beautiful eyes upon Arabella. ‘Bella, do help me out—I can wangle it so easily, and no one will mind. There are a thousand good reasons why I can’t go at the last minute and they’ll be only too glad if I can find someone to take my place—you.’ Which was true enough.

Arabella frowned, and the stammer which only became noticeable when she was deeply moved, became apparent. ‘You s-see, Hilary, I d-don’t think you sh-should.’

Her cousin smiled beguilingly. ‘Oh, Bella darling, I tell you it’s all right. Anyway, I’ve promised to go and I can’t break a promise.’

‘B-but you m-must have kn-known that you were going with the children before you s-said you would go,’ stated Arabella baldly.

She studied her cousin’s face, reflecting that Hilary had been like a big sister to her ever since she could remember—a rather thoughtless sister sometimes, but never unkind. That she was also completely selfish was a fact which Arabella had grown up with and accepted cheerfully; if she herself had been the pretty, pampered daughter of a well-to-do man she would undoubtedly have been selfish too. She watched a dimple appear in Hilary’s cheek.

‘Yes, I did,’ admitted her cousin, ‘but I knew you’d help me out.’ She added urgently, ‘You will, won’t you, Bella?’

‘All right,’ said Bella, ‘but I won’t do it again, really I won’t.’

Her cousin flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re a darling—tell you what, I’ll see if I can get Watts’ holidays changed, then you can go home with her when you get back—how’s that for a good idea?’

Arabella agreed that it was, provided that Doreen didn’t mind, and suppose it wasn’t convenient for her family? Hilary waved the idea away carelessly; she would arrange everything, she said airily. ‘And what’s more,’ she promised, ‘I’ll come back to Wickham’s tomorrow with you, instead of waiting until the next day, then you can have the Triumph to drive us up and drive yourself back on your next days off.’

A bribe—Arabella recognised it as such; she loved driving. One day, when she was a qualified nurse and earning more money, she intended to save up and buy herself a car, but until then she had to depend upon her uncle’s kindness in lending her the Triumph which shared the garage with his Daimler. She said now: ‘That will be nice, thank you, Hilary,’ but Hilary, having got what she had come for, was already on her way to the door.

It was when the twins had been sent away to wash their hands for tea that Nanny, knitting endlessly, had looked up from her work to say:

‘You always were a bonny child, Miss Arabella, and far too kind-hearted. Miss Hilary always had what she wanted out of you, and still does; no good will come of it.’

Arabella was putting the last few pieces of the puzzle in their places, but she paused to look at the cosy little figure in the old-fashioned basket chair. ‘Nanny dear, I don’t mind a bit—did you hear what we were talking about?’

‘Well enough. And what happens, young lady, if Miss Hilary should set eyes on a young man you fancied for yourself, eh? Do you let her have him?’

‘Well,’ said Arabella matter-of-factly, ‘I can’t imagine that happening, and if it did, what chance would I have, Nanny? No one ever looks at me when Hilary’s there, you know—besides, I don’t care for any of the men who fancy her.’

‘That’s a vulgar expression,’ said Nanny repressively, ‘but one day, mark my words, Mr Right will come along and you won’t want to share him.’

Arabella wasn’t attending very closely; she asked eagerly:

‘Nanny, do you believe in orange blossom and falling in love? You don’t think it’s old-fashioned?’

‘How can anything be old-fashioned when it’s been going on since the world began, Miss Arabella? You keep right on thinking that, and leave those queer young people in their strange clothes and hair that needs a good brush…’ she snorted indignantly. ‘Let them think what they like, they’ll find out what they’re missing, soon enough,’ she added darkly.

Arabella got up off her knees and went to look out of the window.

‘I wonder if I shall like Holland,’ she hazarded. ‘The camp’s somewhere in the middle.’ She sighed to herself; probably she would be alternately run off her feet and bored stiff, for Sister Brewster was twice her age and she had worked on her ward and hated every minute of it. It was a pity that Lady Marchant had ever had the idea of asking Wickham’s Hospital to lend two of its nurses to accompany the children—just because she had been a patient there and had taken a fancy to Hilary—perhaps she thought she was conferring a favour, or more likely, she had had difficulty in recruiting anyone else.

‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ said Arabella; she didn’t want any tea, she felt all of a sudden out of tune with the world, a good walk would settle everything back into its right place again. After all, what did it matter if she went on holiday a couple of weeks later—and she liked children. Besides, it would be an opportunity to see another country, however limited the sightseeing would be.

She went down the back stairs and out of the kitchen door and through the little wicket gate at the bottom of the vegetable garden and so into the woods beyond. It was quiet there, the house stood equidistant between Great Sampford and Little Sampford, a mile or so away from the country road which connected these two villages, so that there was nothing but the quiet Essex countryside around her. She wandered on, and presently came out on to the crossroads, where four lanes met and parted again to go to Finchingfield, Steeple Bumpstead, Cornish Hall End and, behind her, back to the Sampfords. She chose the way to Cornish Hall End, because it went through the neck of the woods once more and at its end she could take the path back through the trees.

It was September and warm for the time of year. Arabella pulled off the cardigan she had snatched up as she had left the house and walked on, wishing she was wearing something thinner than the cotton shirt and rather shabby tweed skirt she had on. There had seemed no point in wearing anything else when she had got up that morning; she had known in advance that she would be asked to pick fruit some time during the day, and later, when she would have changed, she had had the twins wished on her. Thinking about them reminded her of Hilary’s request, and her pleasant little face became thoughtful—it was a pity that her cousin had got entangled with Mr Thisby-Barnes, but Arabella knew from experience that it wouldn’t help in the least if she were to argue with Hilary about him. Hilary had always done exactly what she wanted to do, in the most charming way possible, and would brook no interference.

Arabella dismissed the vexing matter from her mind, sensibly realizing that there was nothing to be done about it except hope that Hilary would tire of Mr Thisby-Barnes as quickly as she had tired of so many other of her admirers. Having disposed of one worry, however, Arabella found her mind turning to another—the bus trip with the children. She would have to find out more about it, and about a passport and what she was supposed to take in the way of clothes. It would be necessary to go and see Sister Brewster, who would probably hate her going just as much as she herself was beginning to.

She turned off the road and started back home, thinking vaguely now of all the things she would like to do and wondering if she would ever get the chance of doing half of them. She would like to marry, of course—some paragon whose hazy picture in her head was a splendid mixture of good looks and charm and endless adoration of her homely self, besides being possessed of sufficient money to give her all she should ever ask for. That she wasn’t the kind of girl to ask for anything seemed beside the point, as did the fact that the young men of her acquaintance tended to treat her like a younger sister and seldom showed any sign of even the mildest interest in her. It would help, she thought a trifle wistfully, if Hilary were to marry and go and live somewhere sufficiently far away to leave her a clear field; not that that would help much, although there had been Jim Besley, a casualty officer at Wickham’s who had shown signs of fancying her—he had driven her home for her days off, though, but Hilary had been home too, and although she had made no effort to charm him, he had had no eyes for Arabella after that. And there had been Tony Clark, a dull young man from the Path Lab—he had got as far as suggesting that he should take Arabella to the cinema one evening, only Hilary had come along just as he was getting down to details as to where they should meet, and somehow they didn’t go after all. He took Hilary out instead and spent so much money on her entertainment that Arabella’s kind heart was wrung by the sight of the economical meals of eggs and chips he was forced to live on in the canteen until pay day came round again.

She had walked rather further than she had intended; she got back to the house only just in time to get ready for dinner, and her aunt, meeting her in the hall as she went in, her mousy hair hanging untidily down to her waist, her cardigan slung anyhow round her shoulders, asked her with some asperity where she had been, and would have doubtless delivered a short, not unkind lecture on her appearance, if Hilary hadn’t come running downstairs, looking like a fairytale princess, to rescue her with a few careless, charming words. Arabella gave her a grateful glance. Hilary was a dear, it was mean to feel annoyed, however faintly at having been coerced into taking her cousin’s place on the children’s outing; it was, after all, a small return for the kindness she had received from her cousin since she had gone, as a small, unhappy girl, to live with Hilary’s parents.

She was still of the same mind the following morning as she drove the Triumph back to London with Hilary beside her, and although she was disappointed when her cousin declared herself too bored with the whole matter to give her any more information about the trip she was to take, she agreed readily enough to wait until Sister Brewster had been informed of the change. ‘She’ll send for you,’ laughed Hilary, ‘and fuss and fret about a hundred and one things, but you don’t need to take any notice, love—I can’t think what Lady Marchant was about, suggesting that old Brewster should be in charge.’

‘How many children?’ asked Arabella.

Hilary shrugged. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember—not many, though, most of them…’ she stopped abruptly and made some remark about the traffic, so that the sentence never got finished.

Wickham’s looked as grey and forbidding as it always did, even on a lovely autumn day, its brick walls and rows of windows looked uninviting, and now, today, under a pale sky with a threat of rain, and a wind blowing the first of the leaves from the row of plane trees across the London square, it looked more inhospitable than ever. But Arabella didn’t notice, and if she had, she wouldn’t have minded; she was happy at Wickham’s—in a year’s time, when she had finished her training, she would probably take a job in some other hospital, but that was a long while yet. She parked the car in the corrugated iron shed set apart for the nursing staff and walked with her cousin to the side entrance which would take them to the Nurses’ Home. She had barely half an hour before she was due on duty; she bade Hilary a swift goodbye and raced along the complexity of passages which would get her to the Home.

On the third floor, where she had her room, there was a good deal of laughing and talking. Second dinner was just over, the young ladies who had eaten it were making themselves a cup of tea. They crowded into her room, obligingly filling a mug of the comforting liquid for her, and carrying on a ceaseless chatter while she cast off her green jersey dress and tore into her blue and white striped uniform. Between heartening mouthfuls of scalding tea, she answered her companions’ questions as to her days off, exclaimed suitably over the latest hospital gossip, and agreed to go with a number of her friends to the cinema on her next free evening. It wasn’t until they were crowding through the door that she told them she was going to take her cousin’s place on the children’s bus trip.

The dozen or so nurses milling around her paused in their headlong flight back to their work on the wards. ‘Arabella, you can’t!’ exclaimed Anne Morgan, one of her particular friends. ‘Old Brewster’s in charge and there are to be twenty-two kids and they’re almost all more or less helpless—it’ll be terrible!’

‘Why can’t your cousin go?’ a voice wanted to know.

Arabella got out of answering that one by exclaiming, ‘Lord, look at the time!’ and belting down the stairs. Going on duty at two o’clock after days off was bad enough, it would be ten times worse if one were late and incurred the displeasure of the Ward Sister.

She slid into Women’s Medical with thirty seconds to spare, and when Sister came through the door a minute later, Arabella was making up an empty bed for all the world as though she had been at it for five minutes or more.

She had no time to herself after that, and when she went off duty that evening, her impending journey was quite overlooked in the scattered conversations carried on between baths and cups of tea and the trying on, by at least six of her closest friends, of a hat which had been delivered to Anne that evening. She was to be bridesmaid to her sister within a short time, and the hat was a romantic wide-brimmed affair, all ribbons and lace. It suited Anne very well—it suited them all, it was that kind of a hat, but when it was offered to Arabella she laughingly refused; her aunt had advised her that the maxim ‘A plain hat for a plain face,’ was a good one, and Arabella had faithfully abided by it. All the same, when she came back from her bath some twenty minutes later and found everyone gone and the hat on Anne’s bed, she settled the masterpiece of millinery upon her head and looked rather fearfully in the mirror.

Aunt Maud had been wrong; the hat did something for her, she looked almost pretty. She winced at the memory of the severe felt she had purchased for church-going last winter, with her aunt’s unqualified approval. The next hat she bought, she vowed, turning her head this way and that before the mirror, she would buy by herself, and it would be a hat to shock the family, the village churchgoers and the parson himself. She took it off with regret. It was a pity that as a general rule she didn’t wear hats; all the same she glowed gently with the knowledge that she wasn’t quite as plain as she had imagined. It would be nice, she thought sleepily, if you were wearing such a hat when Nanny’s Mr Right came along, if ever he came, which seemed unlikely.

Two days later Sister Brewster sent for her, to inform her in tones of disapproval that since her cousin was unable to go on the children’s holiday which Lady Marchant had so kindly arranged, and Matron had signified her approval of Arabella taking her place, she would have to make do with whoever was offered her. Upon this rather unfortunate opening she proceeded to build her plans for the expedition, merely pausing from time to time in order to tell Arabella that she was to do as she was told at all times. ‘I shall have my hands full,’ stated Sister Brewster loftily, ‘and I want no nonsense of any sort.’

Arabella wondered if the programme—and a very muddled one it was too—was to be adhered to, what time there would be left for her to do more than draw breath, let alone give way to any sort of nonsense. She assured the older lady that she wasn’t the nonsensical type, and then enquired how many children they were to escort.

‘Twenty-two,’ said Sister Brewster snappily.

‘Are they all able to help themselves?’

‘Some ten or eleven are capable of doing most things. You will need to help the others.’

Arabella caught her breath, clamped her teeth firmly on to her tongue and remained commendably silent. It was going to be far worse than she had been led to believe; no wonder Hilary hadn’t wanted to go, although she might not have known the details when she cried off. Arabella, who wouldn’t have played a dirty trick on anyone, couldn’t imagine others doing so, especially her own cousin.

She went along to the Sisters’ Wing of the Home that evening and told Hilary about it, and her cousin, sitting before her mirror, doing things to her pretty face, made a sympathetic sound. ‘Poor old Bella, I am sorry, love. Never mind, it won’t be for long and once you get to the camp I’m sure you’ll find swarms of volunteer helpers, then you won’t have nearly so much to do.’

She applied mascara with an expert hand and Arabella watched with an appreciative eye. ‘We’re leaving in two days’ time,’ she told her cousin. ‘Did you do anything about Watts’ holiday?’

Hilary got up and put on her coat. ‘Watts? Don’t worry your head, Bella—everything will be arranged.’

Arabella prepared to leave. ‘Where are you going?’ she enquired.

Hilary gave her a mischievous smile. ‘Just a little dinner for two. I’m late—be a darling and tidy up a bit for me, will you? I’ll be late back and I know I’ll be too tired…’bye, love.’

She was gone in a discreet cloud of Ma Griffe and Arabella started to put away discarded clothes and tidy the dressing table. She had done it before quite a number of times, and as she opened doors and closed drawers she reflected, without envy, that her cousin was certainly the prettiest girl she had ever seen. The thought sent her to the mirror to peer at her own reflection, an action so unrewarding that she made haste to go back to her own room.

Lady Marchant, even though she was in Canada, had seen to it that her work in arranging a holiday for the spastic children should not go unsung; the children were conveyed to Wickham’s in the morning where the bus was waiting for them, together with a battery of cameramen from all the best newspapers and even someone from the BBC.

Arabella, busy arranging the children in their most comfortable positions and then strapping them in, had no time to pose for her photograph, although she was assured by her friends later that there were some excellent shots of her back view on the six o’clock news, but Hilary, who had come down into the courtyard ostensibly to help, turned her lovely face to the cameramen, who realized that she was exactly what they were looking for. They snapped her in a dozen positions and the BBC reporter managed a short interview, in which Hilary, without actually saying so, gave the impression that she was in charge of the whole excursion.

The bus left at length, half an hour after everyone else, because Sister Brewster, at the last minute, had discovered that she had left behind most of the papers she needed for the journey; it was unfortunate that she couldn’t remember where she had left them. They came to light in her room finally, but by then the newspaper men and the reporter had gone home to their lunch.

Contrary to her expectations, Arabella enjoyed the journey; the children were good even though they were wild with excitement; most of them were able to do only a very little for themselves even though they had the intelligence of a normal child. Arabella listened patiently to their slow, difficult speech, pointed out the sights as they went along, and when the bus pulled in to a layby, helped them to eat their lunches. Several of them needed to be fed, several more needed a steadying hand. It took so long that she ate her own sandwiches once the bus had started again, sitting up in front with three of the more helpless of the children. They were pathetically lightweight, so they were close to the driver and the bus door, so that they could be whisked in and out quickly and leave room for those not quite so handicapped. The driver, Arabella had quickly decided, was a dear; quite elderly and rather thickset, a good steady driver too and not easily distracted by the shouts and noise going on around him.

They were to cross by Hovercraft to Calais and spend the night near Ghent, at a convent known to Lady Marchant, and despite Sister Brewster’s misgivings, the journey went smoothly and surprisingly rapidly. Once on the other side of the channel, Mr Burns, the driver, took the coast road to Dunkirk, turning off there to cross into Belgium and so eventually to Ghent. The convent was just outside the town, a charming red brick building enclosed by a large garden and with a gratifyingly large number of helpers waiting to receive them. The children were fed and put to bed and the three of them were sitting down to their own supper in a commendably short space of time. They talked little, for they were tired, and Arabella for one was glad to stretch herself out in her severe little bed in the room allotted to her leading from the children’s dormitory.

They were on their way directly after a breakfast eaten at an hour which had meant getting up very early indeed, but the morning was fine if chilly and spirits were high as Mr Burns turned the bus towards Holland. They had a journey of roughly a hundred and fifty miles to go and more than five hours in which to do it, for they were expected at the camp by one o’clock. Part of the journey at least would be on the motorway, the remainder as far as Arnhem on a first-class road. The holiday camp was nine or ten miles further on, in the Veluwe, and with no towns of any size nearby, that much Arabella had learned from her study of the map before they had left, and as they went along, Mr Burns supplied odds and ends of information concerning the country around them.

They were through Arnhem and off the main road now, tooling along through pleasant quiet country, wooded and sparsely inhabited—a little like the New Forest, decided Arabella, on her way round the bus with sweets for the children. It was as she was making her way to the front again that she noticed that Mr Burns’ driving had become rather erratic; he wasn’t on the right side of the road any more, but well in the middle. The bus shot back to the right far too sharply and then, as though propelled by some giant hand, to the left. Arabella was beside a strangely sagging Mr Burns by now, applying the hand-brake, switching off the ignition and then leaning across his inert body to drag at the wheel. The bus came to a lop-sided halt on the wrong side of the road, on a narrow grass slope leading to a small waterway. It took a few long seconds to decide what it would do next and then tilted sideways and slid slowly over. Arabella had ample time to see a car, coming fast and apparently straight at them. Her head was full of a jumble of thoughts, tilting themselves sideways out of her mind just as the bus was tilting—Sister Brewster, squeaking like a parrot; the children, gasping and crying incoherently for help; Hilary, telling her it would be quite an easy trip and she had nothing to worry about; last and most strangely, a vivid memory of Anne’s gorgeous bridesmaid’s hat.

The bus landed on its side quite gently and lay rocking. She heard the squeal of brakes as she tried to twist round to hold the children nearest to her upright.

CHAPTER TWO

THERE was someone trying to open the driver’s door, now crazily above Arabella’s head. She could hear a man’s voice, uttering harsh foreign words as the door handle came away uselessly in his hand and fell within inches of her head. The next moment she saw a large hand slide through the partly opened glass top of the door and work its way to the inside handle; when the door opened with a protesting groan, the hand’s owner put his head through and stared down at her.

He was a good-looking man, not so very young, with fair hair and blue eyes under thick arched brows. Arabella examined his face with a dreamlike detachment brought on through shock, but when he allowed his gaze to roam rapidly round the chaos around her, she pulled herself together.

‘Please help us,’ she was glad to hear her voice was steady. ‘These children are spastics.’ Even as she spoke she wondered if he understood a word she said.

Apparently he did, for he disappeared without a word, leaving her a prey to the fear that he might have decided that it would be more prudent to get help rather than start rescue operations on his own. Her fears were groundless, however; she heard the door at the back of the bus being wrenched open with some difficulty and his voice, speaking English this time, telling Sister Brewster with firm authority to climb out into the road and stop any car which might come along. She couldn’t hear Sister Brewster’s reply, but the squawking had stopped.

The bus had stopped rocking by now, but there was water slopping through the half-open windows at the back. Arabella made shift to unbuckle two or three of the children who were getting wet, and lift them on to the other side of the bus, to sit them higgledy-piggledy on top of the children already there. She heard the man’s voice again and saw that he was back, leaning precariously through the door. He spoke with approval:

‘Good girl—move as many as you can from that side, but keep away from the back, the bus may slide even more. We’ll get the children out in a minute or two, but first I must move the driver.’

Arabella cried: ‘He’s…’ and stopped herself just in time because the children had stopped their wailing and crying to listen. ‘Isn’t he?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Tell me the names of any of the children who can help themselves enough to get out of the back of the bus.’

‘John, Teddy, Peter…’ she paused. ‘Sister Brewster’s there,’ she reminded him.

‘No use at the moment—go on.’

‘I can’t remember any more names, but they can help William and Joan once they’re out. They’re not too good on their feet, but they could manage.’

She could hear him telling them what to do; he had a deep, rather slow voice, it was very reassuring just listening to it; she felt her heartbeats slow as her first fright subsided. It was just a question of getting the children out. She contrived to turn once more and take a more detailed look at her small companions. Some of them had minor cuts and red patches which would be nasty bruises later on and they would all be badly shocked; she thought briefly and with regret of poor Mr Burns and then lifted her head again as their rescuer spoke.

‘You’ll have to help, I’m afraid. Untwist his feet from the pedals, will you?’

He made the request in a matter-of-fact way which made it easier for her to do as he had bidden her. Poor Mr Burns disappeared from view and the way was more or less clear for the children.

‘I’m afraid you must heave them from below,’ said the man, ‘but there’s bound to be a car along soon and then we’ll have help—it’s a quiet road, but not as quiet as all that.’ He peered down. ‘Strapped to their seats, are they? Let’s start with the little one beside you and then you’ll have more room to turn round.’

It was a slow business, for the children were unable to help themselves, but Arabella, although small, was sturdy and possessed the gift of patience. She had just pushed ten-year-old Bobby Trent’s frail body below the door so that the man could lean down and catch him by the arms, when she heard a car pull up. Without loosening his hold on the little boy, the man turned his head and shouted something, and Arabella heard an answering voice before the car started up again, its urgent roar fading quickly into the distance.

The man grinned down at her. ‘Gone for help,’ he told her briefly, ‘and there’s help here besides.’

He lifted Billy as though he had been made of feathers and disappeared with him, to reappear after a moment and climb through the door. The bus had been overcrowded before, what with its cockeyed seats and scattered luggage and terrified children. Now there was no room to move, for he was an immensely tall man and largely made. But they were not cramped for long; another man appeared above them and now the children were being passed swiftly upwards and out to safety. Arabella, with an eye to the men’s speed, began at once to unbuckle the remaining children so that no time should be lost. It was a difficult task, for the children were frightened, making their helplessness even more marked. She soothed them as best she could and tried to control wildly waving arms and legs, wishing that Sister Brewster could pull herself together and give a hand, although probably she was busy with the children already rescued.

‘Would it be easier to get the rest of the children out of the back door?’ ventured Arabella.

Her companion didn’t pause in his rescue operations. ‘No—the bus is beginning to tilt at that end; we don’t want to shift the balance, it might make it more awkward.’

She considered that nothing could be more awkward than their task at that moment, but she kept silent. It was hardly an occasion for conversation, and the men seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

There were only five children left when she heard several cars stop close by with a tremendous squealing of brakes. The man beside her had called to his helper above, who in his turn shouted down to whoever it was who had arrived, and a moment later a round, serious face, crowned by a peaked cap, appeared at the door above them. ‘Police,’ muttered Arabella, and redoubled her efforts with the incredible muddle Sally Perkins had got herself and her straps into. The owner of the face seemed to know the man in the bus, for he listened to what he had to say, nodded his head in agreement and disappeared again.

Arabella could hear the singsong warning of the ambulances now, and the thought flitted through her head that she hadn’t the least idea of what was to happen to them all; presumably someone would arrange something—perhaps Sister Brewster? No, on second thoughts, old Brewster would be waiting for someone else to do it for her. The last child was heaved gently aloft, so that he could be lifted clear of the bus, and Arabella found herself clipped round her neat waist and held high, so that she could be lifted through the door too, to be deposited gently on the grass. She was barely on her feet when the two men joined her. The second man spoke no English, but he smiled kindly at her, dusted her down, said ‘OK’ and when she thanked him, shook her by the hand and made off after a brief word. She wondered if the man who had come to their rescue was going too; his car was close by—a Bentley, a silver-grey piece of elegance which stirred her to envy.

‘We had better take a look at these children before they go to hospital,’ remarked her companion.

‘Hospital?’ she echoed stupidly.

‘In Doesburg.’

‘In Doesburg?’ repeated Arabella, still stupid, knowing she sounded like a bad Greek chorus and unable to do anything about it.

He smiled at her very kindly. ‘I imagine that the other lady is in charge?’ and at her nod: ‘If you will tell me her name? I think I should speak to her, then we will have a quick look at everyone and get them settled as quickly as possible.’ He turned to go and then paused to add: ‘I’m a doctor, by the way.’

He glanced at the huddle of small figures lying and sitting awkwardly on the grass verge, being tended by ambulance men and police, and then allowed his gaze to rest upon Arabella, who looked deplorable; her overall stained with heaven knew what, her hair hanging wispily around a far from clean face; her cap—the cap Sister Brewster had insisted that she should wear, with some vague idea that it would uphold the prestige of the British nurse abroad—crushed and dirtied by desperate little fingers, pulled askew by some unhappy child.

Arabella was in no state to mind her appearance; she was indeed unaware of the doctor’s amused and critical eye. Relief was surging through her, because they were all out of the ruined bus and here was a doctor at hand to help the children. She declared with fervour: ‘Gosh, I am glad!’ and started at once on the difficult task of discovering which of the children, if any, was seriously hurt.

The doctor was back beside her within a few minutes. ‘Sister Brewster will go with those children who can help themselves a little—they’re going to the hospital now. Do you mind staying and giving a hand here?’

She accompanied him from child to child as he examined each one, leaving her to put on an emergency dressing here and there before they were whisked away to an ambulance. On the whole, they had got off lightly; cuts and bruises and terror, and a nervous excitement which had caused the children’s condition to be grossly exaggerated. Only Billy Trent and Sally Perkins had suffered serious injury, for they each had broken a leg. Surprisingly, they were quieter than the other children, possibly exhausted by fright and pain and bewilderment. The doctor muttered to himself as he made them as comfortable as possible in the last waiting ambulance. ‘Hop in,’ he ordered Arabella tersely, and the expression sounded strange in his correct English. ‘I’ll go ahead in the car.’

He banged the door on her as though the very sight annoyed him, but she forgot that at once in her efforts to keep Billy and Sally happy once the ambulance was on the move.

They turned off the road after a very few minutes, to go through heathland and woods, cross beneath two main roads after a mile or so, and enter a small, pleasant town. The hospital was situated some way back from its main street, a fairly modern building at the end of a cul-de-sac lined with small old houses. Its courtyard was a hive of activity and from what Arabella could see from the ambulance windows, there was no lack of helpers. Several people detached themselves now and came hurrying to undo the ambulance doors and convey the children inside; Arabella was swept inside too, with a kindly nurse’s hand firmly under her elbow. She had time to glimpse the silver-grey of the Bentley parked on one side of the small forecourt before she was borne through the doors into what was apparently the entrance hall. But they didn’t stay here. The trolleys bearing the children were already turning down a short passage leading away from the hall, and Arabella, urged on with gentle insistence by her companion, trotted obediently after them. Casualty, she saw at once, quite a nice one too, but just now filled to capacity with spastic children… She barely had time to glimpse Sister Brewster lying back with her eyes closed, when the doctor appeared from nowhere beside her.

‘Keep with these two,’ he counselled her. ‘X-Ray first, and then probably the plaster room—they’ll feel better about the whole thing if they see you around.’

She nodded, and then remembered to voice a doubt at the back of her mind. ‘Mr Burns—his people in England, and Wickham’s—should someone do something?’

‘It’s being done now. Off to X-Ray—I must go and have another chat with Sister Brewster.’

Arabella perceived that for the moment at any rate she was a nurse, not a young woman who had had a nasty fright and needed, above all things, a nice cup of tea and a good cry. She said quietly: ‘Yes, very well, Doctor,’ and was brought to a halt by his: ‘She has brown hair, and speaks soft like a woman.’

‘The Merry Wives of Windsor,’ she stated automatically, and wondered if he had sustained an injury to his head while he was in the bus. It seemed not.

‘The sight of you called it to mind,’ he explained, and walked away, leaving her to accompany Billy and Sally to X-Ray.

It took a long time to get everyone sorted out, especially as Sister Brewster, instead of being helpful and efficient, lay back and declared that she was far too poorly to be bothered with a lot of questions and plans. Arabella, freed for a short time from Billy and Sally while they were anaesthetized while their legs were put in plaster, drank the cup of coffee someone put into her hand and then helped get the remaining children into their beds.

The hospital had risen nobly to the occasion; extra beds were being put up, more staff had been called back on duty, there was a supply of night garments and a trolley of warm drinks and soup. Arabella, almost dropping with tiredness, her appearance more deplorable than ever and starving for food, toiled on. The children had rallied amazingly. They had all been examined by now; two house doctors and the doctor who had come to their help in the first place had checked each one of them carefully. There was nothing, they declared, that could not be put right by a good night’s sleep and a day or two’s rest before being sent home. Excepting for Sally and Billy, of course, who would have to stay for a week or two.

Sister Brewster had retired to bed in the Nurses’ Home, tearfully contradicting herself with every breath and far more worried about a bruise on her arm than anything else. Arabella, called away from the children to speak to her superior, was put out to find that Sister Brewster didn’t much care what happened to anybody but herself; she made no enquiries as to Arabella’s state of mind or body, declared peevishly that Mr Burns should never have been sent on the journey without a medical examination, and even implied that it was all his fault, which annoyed Arabella so much that she would have liked to have answered back, only she had a sudden urge to cry, and that would never have done. She wished Sister Brewster a cold good night instead and went back to the children, to help them eat their suppers and then go from bed to bed, tucking them in and kissing them in a motherly fashion.

She was on her way down to the hospital dining room with a friendly group of nurses, intent on her comfort, when a voice over the intercom requested, in good English, that the nurse who had accompanied the children should present herself at Doctor van der Vorst’s office. ‘The younger of the two nurses,’ added the voice.

‘Who’s he?’ demanded Arabella of those around her, a little cross because her thoughts were bent on supper and bed. She neither knew nor cared for the moment what arrangements had been made nor who was making them. Presumably someone would sort everything out and they would all be sent home, but now all that she wanted was food and a good sleep so that she could forget Mr Burns, dying with such awful suddenness, and the children’s terrified little faces—she had been terrified herself.

No one had taken any notice of her question, perhaps they hadn’t understood, but she had been led down a short passage and stood before a door upon which several helpful knuckles rapped before opening it and pushing her gently inside.

Doctor van der Vorst looked quite different, sitting at a large desk piled most untidily with a variety of papers, but the look he gave her was the same calm, friendly one which had cheered her when she had peered up in that awful bus and seen him staring down at her. He got up as she took a few steps into the room and said: ‘Hullo—I do apologise for taking up your time, you have been working for two since you got here, so I’m told, you must be asleep on your feet. But I must have some particulars, and unfortunately Sister Brewster doesn’t feel able to help.’

He paused, waiting for her comment, no doubt, but Arabella, much as she disliked old Brewster, was loyal. ‘She’s very shocked,’ she offered in her pleasant voice, a little roughened because she was so tired, and took the chair he offered her, facing him across the desk. The door behind her opened and a homely body, very clean and starched, came in with a tray.

‘Coffee?’ enquired the doctor. ‘It will keep you going until you can get to your supper.’

The coffee was hot and milky and sweet, and there were little sandwiches besides. Arabella gobbled delicately and when she had drunk her coffee and her cup had been filled again, the doctor spoke.

‘I’ve done what I could,’ he began in his slow, pleasant voice. ‘I’ve telephoned your hospital, who are dealing with notifying relatives and so forth, attended to the matter of Mr Burns and made a preliminary list of children’s names, but not yours…’ He paused, his eyebrows raised in enquiry and Arabella, whisking the last delicious crumb into her mouth with a pink tongue, made haste to tell him: ‘Arabella Birch.’

He scribbled. ‘You are a nurse at Wickham’s Hospital?’

She nodded. ‘I’ve still a year’s training to do before I take my Finals, but I’m children’s trained.’ And because he still looked enquiring, she went on: ‘I’m twenty-two and I live with my aunt and uncle when I’m not in hospital. Mr and Mrs Birch at Little Dean House, Little Sampford, Essex.’

‘There is a telephone number?’

She gave that too and he picked up the receiver beside him and spoke into it, then turned to the papers before him. ‘Will you check these names with me?’ He hardly glanced at her, but began to read down the list in front of him, a slow business, for she had to correct him several times, give the children’s ages and the extent of their disability and any other details she could remember. They were almost at the end when the telephone rang once more. ‘They are getting your home,’ he told her, ‘and will ring back. I expect you would like to speak to your family.’

‘Oh, yes—you’re very k-kind. I’m sure Wickham’s w-will have t-telephoned, but that’s not the s-same…’ she added suddenly. ‘P-poor Mr Burns!’

The doctor stared at her across his desk. ‘I telephoned his wife a little while ago—I too am deeply sorry. Shall we get on with this list?’

It was complete by the time the telephone rang again. The doctor grunted something into the receiver and pushed the instrument towards her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her, and smiled nicely as he went out of the room. Just the sort of man, thought Arabella, watching him go, one would wish to have with one in a tight corner—quite unflappable, and knowing what to do about everything. She picked up the receiver and waited patiently until her aunt’s excited voice had calmed a little before embarking on the skeleton of their day’s adventure. When she had finished her aunt said: ‘You’re coming back home, of course, Arabella—your uncle will come down and meet you…’

Her heart warmed to this unexpected kindness. ‘That’s very sweet of him, b-but I d-don’t know…I should think the ch-children would be travelling b-back in a d-day or so, but I don’t know how, and there are t-two of them who will have to stay—they both have f-fractures. I’ll t-telephone you as soon as I know.’

She said goodbye then and sat quietly in her chair, waiting for the doctor to come back. It was peaceful in the room, and in an austere way, pleasant too; there were a quantity of bookshelves stuffed with heavy tomes, a gently ticking clock on the wall and thick blue curtains drawn across the tall windows. The walls were hung with portraits of wise-looking gentlemen whom Arabella took to be previous governors and members of the medical profession attached to the hospital—the one behind the desk was particularly severe; she closed her eyes to avoid his pointed stare and went to sleep.

She wakened within minutes to find the doctor standing over her.

‘I’m s-so s-sorry,’ she began, and was annoyed to find that her stammer, which hadn’t been too much in evidence, had returned. ‘I was t-trying not t-to look at th-that m-man over there.’

‘My great-grandfather,’ remarked the doctor briefly. ‘You’re tired out, we’ll talk again in the morning—there are still several things…’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas—I must say you look as though you’ve come through stormy seas and you have certainly toiled.’

She ignored the last part of his remark, but: ‘Spenser,’ she confirmed, ‘isn’t it from the Faerie Queen?’

He nodded as she got to her feet. ‘I don’t feel that I have anything in common with someone as delicate and dainty as that,’ she said soberly, and he laughed again.

‘No? I daresay I shan’t recognise you in the morning, you will look so prim and neat.’ He opened the door. ‘Good night, Arabella.’

There was a nurse hovering outside, waiting for her, a large, friendly girl, who sat with her while she ate her supper and then took her upstairs to a small, nicely furnished room where the bed had been invitingly turned down and someone had thoughtfully arranged a nightie, a brush and comb and a toothbrush on a chair.

Arabella looked with horror at her appearance in the mirror, had a bath, brushed her hair in a perfunctory fashion and jumped into bed, considerably hampered by the nightie, which was a great deal too large. She was asleep within seconds of laying her head on the pillow.

She felt quite herself in the morning, for she was young and strong, and besides had learned from an early age to school her feelings; giving way to these had been something her uncle had discouraged; he never gave way to his, and although Hilary and her mother were allowed to be the exception to his rule, everyone else about him was expected to be what he described as sensible. So Arabella wasted no time in self-pity but dressed in the clean overall someone had found for her, pinned a borrowed cap upon her now very neat head, and when a nurse knocked on the door and asked if she were ready for breakfast, declared cheerfully that she was.

Not that she thought much of the meal; bread and butter and cheese and jam seemed a poor exchange after Wickham’s porridge and bacon, but the coffee was delicious and everyone was very kind, chattering away to her in sketchy English and occasionally, when they forgot, in Dutch. And they were quick to help, for when she asked if she might see Sister Brewster, she was taken at once to that lady’s room, to find her sitting up in bed with a tray before her.

‘I feel very poorly,’ declared Sister Brewster as soon as Arabella entered the room. ‘I have hardly closed my eyes all night and I have a shocking headache. I shall be glad to get back to Wickham’s and have a few days off in which to recover, for I have had a great shock.’

Arabella let this pass and waited for her to enquire about the children, or for that matter, about herself, but when the older woman remained silent she said: ‘Well, if you don’t mind, Sister, I’m going to the ward to see how the children are.’

Her companion shot her a baleful look. ‘I can see that this dreadful experience has hardly touched you,’ she commented sourly. ‘I suppose you found it all very exciting.’

‘No,’ said Arabella patiently, ‘I didn’t find it at all exciting when Mr Burns died, nor when the children were hurt and frightened. Do you want anything before I go, Sister?’

‘No,’ her superior sounded pettish, ‘you’ll have to see to everything. I’m in no fit state to cope with anything—my head.’

Arabella bit back some naughty remarks about her companion’s head and went out, closing the door smartly behind her.

She received a quite different welcome from the children. True, they had bruises and cuts and one or two black eyes, but they were smiling again, trying to express themselves as they had their breakfast. Arabella went to feed Sally and Billy, lying side by side in their beds and inclined to be grizzly and saw with surprise that Doctor van der Vorst was already doing a ward round, going from child to child with a couple of young doctors and the Ward Sister. When he reached Arabella he stopped, wished her good morning and wanted to know how she felt.

‘F-fine, thank you, Doctor,’ said Arabella, annoyed about the stammer.

‘Good. Will you come to the office at eleven o’clock, Nurse Birch? I—er—gather that Sister Brewster is still confined to her bed.’

‘Her head aches,’ said Arabella flatly.

He nodded again. ‘In that case, we must endeavour to make all the necessary arrangements without bothering her unduly, must we not?’ he asked smoothly as he bent to examine the two children. ‘These fractures are in good alignment; they should do well.’ He smiled at Billy and Sally, ruffled their hair, made a little joke so that they smiled at last, and passed on to the next bed.

He wasn’t sitting at his desk when she entered the office later on, but standing at the window, looking out, but he turned to her with a smile and came forward to pull out a chair for her.

‘How I do take up your time,’ he remarked pleasantly, ‘but I feel we must get these children back home as soon as possible, don’t you agree? The camp to which you were going is quite unsuitable for them, I’m afraid, for most of them are still shocked, not to mention bruises and cuts; to go back to their own familiar surroundings and people they know and trust is essential. I’ve been on the telephone this morning and we have arranged to fly them back the day after tomorrow—I’ll engage to have ambulances to take them to Schiphol, and the staff there have promised their fullest co-operation The children will be met at London Airport—Wickham’s will send nurses and ambulances and give them another check-up before they go to their homes.’ He paused. ‘I have just been visiting Sister Brewster, who feels that she is well enough to accompany them,’ his voice was dry. ‘There remains the question of Sally and Billy; it is out of the question that they should leave the hospital for the moment. I suggest that you should remain here with them, Arabella.’

She saw her holiday with Doreen fading to a regretful oblivion. Doreen couldn’t be expected to change her holidays yet again—besides, by the time she got back to England it would be October and she couldn’t expect her friend to miss the last of the autumn weather. A wild idea that Hilary might come out in her place crossed her mind, to be instantly dismissed. Mr Thisby-Barnes, for the moment at any rate, was far too important a factor in her cousin’s life. She said slowly:

‘If you s-say so, D-Doctor, and if Wickham’s d-doesn’t mind.’

He smiled at her. ‘Apparently not. It was suggested to the Matron—by your cousin, I believe—is she not a Ward Sister at Wickham’s?’

‘Yes. Who is to tell Sally and Billy?’

‘You, Arabella; they trust you, don’t they, and you’ll know just what to say. They have homes? They aren’t orphans?’

She racked her brains for the information she had primed herself with before she had started on the ill-fated trip. ‘No, they come from good homes, I believe, but poor, though. I’m sure their mothers and fathers came to see them off.’

‘I’ll see if we can arrange something.’ He sounded vague. ‘You don’t mind staying?’

It wouldn’t be much use saying that she did, she concluded ruefully.

‘Not at all,’ she spoke with such politeness that he shot her a keen glance before going on to say:

‘Good—if you would be kind enough to look after the two of them—day duty, of course, and the usual off-duty hours. I think it might be best if we paid you as though you were a member of our own nursing staff, and any adjustments can be made when you get back. Have you sufficient money for the moment?’

‘Yes, thank you—the police gave me my handbag and case.’

He stood up. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’ He went to the door to open it for her. ‘I am grateful to you for your help.’

She paused by him, looking up into his face; he wasn’t only a very handsome man, he was kind too, even though she perceived that he was in the habit of getting his own way. ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. ‘I have a practice in the town,’ he told her, ‘and I am Medical Director of this hospital.’

‘How fortunate it was that you should have come along.’

‘A happy accident, shall we say, Arabella, if one might use the term without giving offence. You don’t mind if I call you Arabella?’

The stammer, which had been happily absent, came back with a rush.

‘N-no, n-not in the l-least.’ In fact she liked to be called Arabella by him, but it would never do to say so; she liked him very much, but he was still the Medical Director, being kind to a strange nurse who had been forced, willy-nilly through circumstances, to join his staff. To be on the safe side, she added ‘sir.’

CHAPTER THREE

ARABELLA found that she slipped into the Dutch hospital’s routine easily enough. True, there were difficulties with the language, which she considered quite outlandish and impossible to pronounce, but a great number of the staff spoke a little English; the house doctors spoke it fluently, so, more or less, did the Directrice, a large, bony woman with the face of a good-tempered horse and the disposition of an angel. It was she who explained to Arabella about her off-duty and her days off, and what would be expected of her when she was on duty; mostly the care of the two spastic children who were injured, she discovered, and when they didn’t need her attention, help with the routine ward duties.

For the first two days she was kept busy, for Sister Brewster, although feeling better, seemed to think that it was beneath her dignity to come on to the wards and help with her little charges. She contented herself with twice-daily consultations with Arabella, during which she uttered a great many statements, each one contradicting the last; never ceased to lament their misfortunes, and shook her head doubtfully over Doctor van der Vorst’s decision to keep Arabella at the hospital to look after Billy and Sally. But she was far too anxious to get home to trouble overmuch about this, beyond warning Arabella to remember that she was still only a student nurse even if she had her Children’s training. Arabella listened meekly, for there was nothing much she could do about it, although she felt ashamed of Sister Brewster with her whining voice, looking on the black side of everything.

It could have been so much worse; the children could have been seriously injured, even killed. Doctor van der Vorst might never have come along that particular road at that particular time. Arabella considered that they had a great deal to be thankful for, but it would have been useless to say so; she could see that Sister Brewster, now that she was on the point of departure, was about to shed her role of a woman battered by cruel fate and a number of children who could do nothing much for themselves, and assume a quite different part in their adventure. Arabella guessed that she would have a quite different tale to tell by the time she reached Wickham’s.

In this she was quite correct, but she was unaware that Doctor van der Vorst had already told the authorities at Wickham’s his version of the whole affair, both by telephone and also in a remarkably concise letter, written in beautiful English. Not that Arabella minded overmuch what Sister Brewster might fabricate when she returned; her own friends wouldn’t believe a word of it, and old Brewster was noted for evading responsibility and laying the blame on other shoulders when anything went wrong.

So it was with faintly guilty pleasure that Arabella waved goodbye to the home-going party, setting off in their convoy of ambulances; it would be super not to have Sister Brewster’s disapproving lectures twice a day; super to see something of the town and perhaps, if she were lucky, the surrounding countryside, super too, to accept the invitations extended to her by various members of the hospital staff to go to the local cinema with them, or shopping. She skipped happily up the staircase leading to the ward where Sally and Billy were being nursed. There was a cheerful hubbub of sound coming from behind its closed doors and no one to be seen, Arabella, feeling for some reason she didn’t bother to question, delighted with life and the immediate future, started to whistle the first tune which came into her head: ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind…’ She rendered it happily if inappropriately, and then quite carried away, started to sing: ‘Thou art not so unkind…’ slightly off key and regrettably loud. ‘As man’s ingratitude…’ She reached the top of the staircase and became aware all of a sudden that Doctor van der Vorst was beside her; he must have followed her silently up the stairs and what with the cheerful din from the ward and her noisy singing… She frowned fiercely, went a faint pink and said reprovingly:

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