“My dear Amelia, what are you waffling on about? This is just silly girl’s talk. I thought better of you. You are a sensible young woman.”

She whispered, “I’m not, I’m not, and soon I won’t be young anymore. Oh, Tom, what about children and making a home together and having a dog and a cat and going out for picnics on Sundays…?” He was silent.

She tried just once more. “Tom, won’t you look for a job in England? For my sake?”

He smiled kindly. “Amelia, you know how important my work is to me.”

“More important than I am?”

He considered that carefully. “That’s hard to answer, but if I must be honest—yes, it is.”

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 Silver Thaw
Betty Neels

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE OPERATING THEATRE was quiet; not a peaceful quiet, though. Mr Thomley-Jones was in a bad temper and although he was working with his usual meticulous care and skill, he was making life hard for those in attendance upon him, snapping and snarling his way through a cholescystectomy, two nasty appendices—both pushed in between the other cases because they could have perforated at any moment—and now with a still nastier splenectomy almost completed, he was venting his wrath on the hapless house surgeon who was assisting himself and his registrar. The unfortunate young man, clumsy in any case, became even more so, dropping things, tightening retractors when they should have been loosened, using the wrong scissors and generally making a fine muddle. His chief waited in mounting impatience and a silence which spoke for itself while his assistant cut the ends of gut with which Mr Thomley-Jones was reassembling his patient’s inside and then let out a great roar as the unfortunate young man cut too close so that the stitch was no longer a stitch. The registrar sighed soundlessly and took over, the thunder of his chief’s rage leaving him unmoved.

Just as unmoved was Mr Thomley-Jones’ theatre Sister, who in one swift movement removed the scissors from the hapless surgeon’s hand, gave him a swab to hold, handed more gut to Mr Thomley-Jones, threaded another needle ready for the mattress stitches and swept her gaze round the theatre. The theatre mechanic was standing stolidly by the anaesthetist, her staff nurse was checking swabs, the more senior of the student nurses was looking frightened but doing just as she should, and her companion, fresh in the theatre that very morning, was in tears.

She put the needle and gut into Mr Thomley-Jones’ impatient hand and said in a quelling voice: ‘Sir, you’ve made one of my nurses cry.’

‘Bah!’ exclaimed Mr Thomley-Jones, ‘she shouldn’t be in theatre if she’s got no guts for it.’

Theatre Sister looked at him from a pair of fine dark eyes, heavily lashed. ‘Unlike many of the people who come here, she has got guts, but when you get annoyed you’re rather awesome, sir.’

He glanced at her and although she couldn’t see his face she knew that he was pleased at being called awesome—it sounded godlike.

‘Impertinent young woman, aren’t you, Sister?’

‘I’m sorry if you think so, sir, but I try to look after my nurses.’

He held out a hand for more gut and she inserted it into the needle-holder with great neatness.

‘Oh, you do that all right, teach ’em well, too. You’re a good one at your job, Amelia.’

When he called her by her name she knew that she had been forgiven. They had worked together now for four years and had a proper respect for each other’s job; as the operation drew to its close he mellowed visibly so that the houseman was emboldened to take up the scissors again and the registrar winked at Amelia.

The surgeons went away presently to drink their coffee in her little office down the corridor, and, the patient safely despatched to his ward, the anaesthetist wandered away to join his colleagues, leaving the mechanic to tidy up after him while Amelia collected her nurses and set about the task of clearing away and setting up for the afternoon list. But presently she left Sybil, her staff nurse, and the student nurse and guided her new member of the team into the anaesthetic room where she was at pains to explain to the still tearful girl that Mr Thomley-Jones’ bark was a great deal worse than his bite, that in time she would find that she could continue with her tasks in theatre whatever happened and that she had done very well for her first morning. ‘And just you remember,’ said Amelia soothingly, jumping down from the trolley where she had perched herself, ‘one day you’ll probably be a theatre Sister yourself. It’s a splendid job, you know.’

With which heartening words she took herself off to join the gentlemen; they liked her to be there while they relaxed after a list, to pour their coffee and hand them biscuits and make an attentive audience of one while they chewed over their work. It was a nice job, she mused, going down the corridor, but after four years she was beginning to wonder if she wanted it for much longer; she was twenty-seven now, almost twenty-eight and although she had been engaged for a year to Tom Crouch, the Medical Registrar, he had made it evident that he expected her to go on working for some years after they were married, and as his reasons were sound and sensible she had stifled her disappointment and agreed to stay at St Ansell’s. Tom was clever and doing well and he wanted to do better. He was anxious to make a success of his life and give her the things he considered that she should have; he was quite stubborn about this, and it was a pity, for she was the only daughter of a very comfortably placed village squire, able to provide all the comforts and luxuries Tom wanted her to have as well as helping him up the ladder. It seemed a waste of time to go on working while he saved enough to buy himself into a practice when she could have married him at once and enjoyed all the pleasure of running her own home. She saw his point of view, of course, but sometimes when she was tired at the end of a long day, she wondered if he weren’t being selfish—well, not selfish, just a bit thoughtless…

There was almost no coffee left; she went in search of more, was scolded by the theatre maid and returned to pour second cups and the remainder for herself. She drank it fairly quickly and then excused herself and went back to the theatre, thankful that it was one of the days when only one theatre was in use.

The afternoon list, with Mr Godwin operating, went peacefully. He was a small, good-natured man, not in the least temperamental, and a good surgeon. But he was slow; by five o’clock Amelia was tired and a little cross. Thank heaven, she thought, Tom was free and they would go out to dinner somewhere quiet, and in two days she would go home for her days off. The thought got her through the rest of the afternoon and presently she was curled up on the rather shabby sofa in the Sisters’ sitting room, drinking the teapot dry and contemplating her evening.

Tom had said seven o’clock, and well before that time she climbed the stairs to her room, had a bath and got changed, and because she had the time to spare she took extra trouble with her face and hair. The result was satisfactory even to her critical eye; her hair, a rich deep brown, she had brushed smooth into a chignon, her pretty face, with its delicately tilted nose and wide curved mouth, she had made up with care and her dress, a lacy knit jersey in a lovely rich ochre, although plain and very simple, had the simplicity of good cut and material. It suited her tall well-built figure to perfection and for once she found no reason to moan over her shape, which while it left nothing to be desired, was on the Junoesque side.

She was still a little early, but she put on an angora coat against the September chill and went downstairs.

Tom wasn’t there, but she hadn’t expected him to be. She whiled away ten minutes or so talking to Giles, the Head Porter, and then turned at Tom’s quiet: ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Amelia.’

She beamed up at him, wishing secretly that old Giles or no, he would kiss her or at least take her hand—after all, they had been engaged for some time now and there was nothing secret about it. She stifled regret and told herself that Tom always did the right thing and whereas she was impulsive and inclined to want her own way, he was invariably correct in his behaviour and deliberate in his decisions. She went out to his well-kept Rover and got in beside him, and he drove, with all due regard for the Rules of the Road, into the stream of evening traffic.

They almost always went to the same restaurant, an Italian one in the Brompton Road, and the head waiter showed them to their usual table with a welcoming smile. As they sat down Tom observed: ‘That’s a new dress, isn’t it, Amelia?’

‘Yes—do you like it?’

‘Very much—I suppose it cost a month’s salary?’ He smiled at her as he spoke, but it was a thin smile, and she sighed a little when she saw it.

‘It was expensive, Tom—I like clothes, most women do, but I’d cheerfully wear the same old thing for years if it would help you—but you won’t be helped…’

‘No. Will you mind after we’re married, not being able to buy anything you take a fancy to?’

She felt surprise. ‘But Tom, you won’t mind me spending my own money, will you? You know I’ve got an allowance, and it isn’t just one Father gives me, you know—it’s from some money my mother left to me. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’ll be paid to me for as long as I live.’

Tom was studying the menu. ‘When we marry, it will be when I can support you fittingly as my wife, my dear—you will have an allowance from me.’

She gave him a bewildered look. ‘But if I’m still working…?’

‘That’s a different matter. We shall both be earning and saving for our future.’

She couldn’t see the difference herself, but she didn’t say any more. It was very likely that being an only child of a loving although somewhat carefree parent, she had been spoilt and indulged and had grown up with all the wrong ideas. She studied the menu and made a mental resolve not to wear a new dress for a long time.

She went home two days later, to the small village in the Cotswolds where she had been born and had spent her childhood. Her mother had been alive then; it was only when she had died that Amelia had been sent away to a well-known girls’ boarding school and when she had left there she had refused point blank to go to the finishing school to which her father had been advised to send her, but had stayed at home, running the rambling old house, riding Sorrel, the elderly mare, learning how to be a good housewife from Bonny the housekeeper who had been there ever since she could remember.

The realisation that she wanted to do something more than these things came slowly and helping to nurse her father through a bad attack of pneumonia decided her. She enrolled as a student nurse at St Ansell’s, passed her exams brilliantly and at the age of twenty-four found herself theatre Sister in charge of the two main theatres in the hospital. She had met Tom a year later and the following year they had got engaged. She had taken him home to meet her father and proudly displayed the solitaire diamond ring he had given her. It was a small diamond but a good one; Tom never bought rubbish.

Her father met her at the station and drove her the several miles home. Amelia had a little car of her own, but she had left it behind on her last leave to have it serviced at the local garage; now she would be able to drive herself back. She sat happily beside her father and looked around her. The country was beautiful, it always was, but autumn was her time of year; she loved the colours and the smell of bonfires and the trees turning from green to gold and brown and red. She was only half listening to her father telling her about the trout he had almost caught, the new fly he had made, the old pike which still evaded even the most beguiling bait—he was an enthusiastic fisherman and ever since her mother died she had accompanied him on several trips. She didn’t like fishing herself, but over the years she had learnt a good deal about it. She turned to look at her parent now, smiling a little. He was a big man, stooping a little now, with a fine head of white hair and a luxurious moustache which didn’t conceal the good looks which she had inherited, although it was her mother’s dark eyes which enhanced them. They twinkled nicely now.

‘You sound thoroughly put out with the fishing, Father—why not try Scotland for a week or two?’

He gave a rich chuckle and swung the old Bentley through the open gate and up the drive to the lovely old house at its end. ‘Better than that, my dear. I thought I might try Norway—old Jenks is just back; had a splendid time—can’t remember the place, but there was more fish than he could take. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll hire a boat and you can see to the food and so on.’

They were crossing the gravel to the house, but she stopped and looked at him with faint horror. ‘But Father, it’s September—the end of September, it’ll be cold…’

‘Pooh, what’s a chilly wind or so? Why not get Tom to come along too?’

‘Tom? Well, yes, he’s got a week’s leave due—but I’ve got three…’

‘Well, he can come for a week, can’t he? It’s only a short flight from Heathrow.’ He stumped across the wide panelled hall. ‘Give you a chance to talk—getting married and so on. Haven’t you got a date fixed yet?’

Bonny, the housekeeper, had appeared to open the drawing room door and tell them that lunch would be half an hour and it looked, if she might be so bold as to say so, as if Miss Amelia needed a few good meals.

Amelia gave her a hug, assured her that she never felt better but would undertake to eat anything she had cooked and went to sit by the wood fire burning in the stone fireplace. When Bonny had gone she said:

‘Tom wants to get a bit more money saved—we thought in about two years’ time, and I’ll go on working.’ She sounded a bit defiant, and her father didn’t say anything for a minute but poured their sherry with care.

‘Well, you’re old enough to know your own minds,’ he said gruffly. ‘Most young people seem to set up house together without a thought of the future, nor for that matter, of getting married—that seems to come later.’

‘Tom isn’t like that.’

Mr Crosbie looked as though he was going to say something, changed his mind and handed her the glass instead. ‘Anyway,’ he said mildly, ‘a week’s holiday can’t interfere with your plans, can it, and I don’t suppose Tom will object to you staying on another couple of weeks with me. He’s a reasonable man.’

Amelia relieved at getting the bit about them not marrying for a bit off her chest, conceded that he wouldn’t mind at all and three weeks would be fun. ‘When were you thinking of going?’ she asked.

‘It’s—let me see—the twentieth today. Could you manage ten days from now?’

She frowned. ‘Yes, I expect so. Mr Thomley Jones is going on holiday, which will cut the lists quite a bit, and Mary Symes, who does the relieving, comes off Women’s Surgical in a week’s time—she could take over. I’ll see what I can do.’

Her father nodded. ‘Good—try and arrange something and fix it with Tom if you can, my dear.’

They lunched together in the rather dark, oakpanelled dining room with Badger, who had been with the family for most of his life, waiting on them in a rather absent-minded fashion. They discussed the coming trip, arguing the advantages of flying to Bergen or taking the car over from Newcastle.

‘We’ll fly,’ decided Mr Crosbie. ‘We can rent a car over there—I’ve the address of someone we can get a boat from and a list of hotels from Jenks.’ He shot Amelia a look. ‘No dressing up, mind you,’ he warned, ‘and take warm clothing. There’s a small place, Stokmarknes, where he says there’s quite a good hotel, and if we want a change there’s Harstad. There’s a road,’ he added laconically.

‘I should hope so—will it be very isolated?’

‘Not where we’re going,’ he reassured her, ‘and we shall be on the Coastal Route, the ships call most days and it’s only an hour or so from one place to the next. If you get bored you can go off for the day, you and Tom.’

It might be a good idea, Amelia thought, to have Tom to herself, miles away from his work and the hospital, and try and get him to change his mind about their future. ‘It sounds super. I’ll talk to him as soon as I get back.’

She spent her two days riding, grooming the two elderly donkeys who kept her own horse and her father’s great skewbald company, pottering about the garden, listening to Job, the old gardener, carrying on about his rheumatism, the apple crop and the incredible size of his pumpkins. And when he told her, with the familiarity of an old and trusted servant, to let him get on with his work, she wandered indoors to the kitchen and sat on the kitchen table while Bonny got the lunch, gobbling up biscuits from the tin Bonny had just filled.

‘You’ll get fat,’ said Bonny.

‘I haven’t gained an ounce in two years,’ Amelia told her happily, ‘I work too hard.’ All the same she got down and crossed to where an old-fashioned mirror hung against a wall and studied what she could see of her person. She wasn’t conceited, but it gave her no misgivings. True, she was a bit too curvy for modern fashion, but she was a big girl and if she had been thinner she would stand in danger of looking like a clothes pole. ‘I won’t eat any more biscuits before lunch,’ she observed, and took an apple from the dish on the kitchen table as she went out.

She saw Tom when she returned to St Ansell’s; he had come into theatre to pass on a report about one of his patients, due for surgery the following day. The list was over and Amelia, in her office dealing with the paper work, looked up smiling as he went in.

He didn’t kiss her, even though there wasn’t anyone around to see; he had pointed out gravely when they had first become engaged that he didn’t mix work with his private life, and they were both on duty, and she had accepted that although she hadn’t agreed with him entirely. He smiled back at her now and asked: ‘Busy?’

‘Not really—just finishing off the bits and pieces. Tom, can you get a week’s leave?’

He was reading up some case notes, but he put them down again to look at her. ‘Yes, I think so—why?’

Amelia explained about the fishing trip and went on: ‘It seemed a good idea—we don’t see all that much of each other: we could have a week’s peace and quiet—we’ll have to see something of father, of course…’

He looked surprised. ‘Well, of course; I don’t know much about fishing, but I’m sure I shall enjoy trying my hand at it, but isn’t it a bit late in the year for that part of the world?’

‘Well, Father doesn’t seem to think so—it’ll be chilly, and dark in the evenings, I suppose, but he says the hotel is quite comfortable. He suggested that we could go off for local trips if we wanted…’

‘Oh, I don’t suppose we’ll want to do that,’ said Tom easily, and didn’t see the little gleam of temper in her eyes. ‘I mean, a week isn’t very long, is it? You can go off sightseeing when you’re on your own.’

She stifled a wish to tell him that she didn’t want to go anywhere on her own, only with him; their times together were nearly always bound by the need to get back on duty and if they went away they would have every day in which to do exactly what they wanted. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed quietly.

She went home again on her next days off, this time driving herself in the Mini, to find her father deep in preparations for the trip, his whole interest concentrated on fishing rods, hooks, bait and all the paraphernalia of the dedicated fisherman, so Amelia spent a morning with Badger, packing a case with the right sort of clothes for her father, and then went away to her own room to render herself the same service.

It was a lovely day, clear and blue-skied and sunny, and if it hadn’t been for the leaves all over the lawns and the trees changing their colours she might have supposed it was summer. She went and sat on the window seat and looked out on to the flower beds below, watching Job carefully taking off the dead roses. It was his boast, and no one had disputed it, that he could pick roses until Christmas; he certainly took great care of them. She got up presently and went to her clothes closet and began to look through it; no dressing up, her father had said. She chose two pairs of cord slacks, some thick sweaters and a quilted jacket with a hood and a pair of wellingtons, thick gloves too and a couple of scarves, and then because there might be a tiny chance of wearing something else, she added a pleated skirt and matching bolero and two blouses to go with them and as an afterthought a jersey dress in a warm burgundy. She found a pair of shoes, some tough ankle boots she wore when she went walking, and packed them into her Gucci case, filling in the corners with undies and night clothes and stockings. She would be coming on holiday in a few days, but it seemed a good idea to be packed and ready before then—there wouldn’t be much time. They were to travel on a morning flight to Bergen and she wouldn’t be able to get home before late evening before that. She put the case tidily in the closet and went downstairs to find her father.

She had only four days to do before she went on holiday, but they were busy; Mr Thomley-Jones, due to go the day before her, had suddenly become determined to do twice as many cases as he usually did, which left them all stretched to their limit. Fortunately, the new student nurse, after her first disastrous day, was shaping very well, and Nurse Knollys, who had been off sick for several weeks, was back again. A large, ungainly girl with no looks to speak of, she was utterly dependable in theatre. Amelia, wishing her nurses a cheerful good morning on the last day before her holiday, sighed thankfully that all her staff were there. Sybil could be relied upon to keep them all up to scratch, and Mary Symes would be able to cope—Mr Thomley-Jones wouldn’t be there and the other four surgeons who operated were calm, quiet men who seldom raised their voices…

She went to scrub presently. The morning’s list was a long one and there were a couple of laparotomies, and heaven only knew what Mr Thomley-Jones might find or what he would say if he found anything… She sighed, got into the gown a nurse was offering on the end of the Cheatles and stood while it was tied.

Mr Reeves, the Registrar, was scrubbing too. ‘Going on holiday today?’ he wanted to know. ‘Tom said something about a fishing trip…’

Amelia was putting on her rubber gloves. ‘Yes—he’s only got a week, though. I’ve got three—still, a week’s better than nothing. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘So’s he, I imagine.’ He glanced at her carefully drawing the cuffs of her gloves over the sleeves of her gown. A nice girl and very pretty. Plenty of money too—and a good theatre Sister; he’d never seen her hesitate or falter or lose her temper for that matter, although he fancied that she could do that on occasion. A little cool for his taste, though—no, cool wasn’t quite the word; reserved was better. He wondered if she was like that with Tom Crouch; it seemed to him that the pair of them hardly struck sparks…

Mr Thomley-Jones’ voice, thick with annoyance, cut through his thoughts. ‘Here I am, working my fingers to the bone and nothing ready,’ he said as he entered the scrubbing up room.

It was Amelia who spoke, on her way out to the theatre, ‘Everything is quite ready, sir,’ she said briskly, and, ‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Oh, pooh, you’ve always got an answer, haven’t you? Where’s that fool of a young Phillips?’

‘Your house surgeon is in theatre, sir.’

‘Wretched girl, why are you smiling?’

‘I think it’s relief, sir, because we’re quite ready for you.’

He laughed then and started to scrub. ‘Go away, Amelia—in another minute I shall be in a good temper, and that’ll never do!’

But miraculously, he stayed positively sunny for the entire morning. Even the discovery that the first laparotomy exposed a diverticulitis of magnitude and the second revealed a nasty patch of gangrene which he instantly removed made no difference. The list ran late, of course, and Amelia got no dinner in consequence, but that hardly mattered; there was only the afternoon’s list to get through and Sybil would be relieving her at five o’clock. Amelia gobbled toast and drank mugs of tea in her office and went to scrub up.

The afternoon list wasn’t a long one. They were finished by five o’clock and by half past that hour she had bidden Sybil goodbye, gone to the home for a cup of tea and then up to her room. She was driving herself down that evening, for Tom was still on duty and would meet them at Heathrow in the morning. She had snatched a brief moment with him on the way to the home and they had been able to make last-minute arrangements. She dressed now happily enough. A week in Tom’s company would be lovely and give them a chance to talk; sometimes she wondered uneasily if, even when they were together, they talked about the right things. When they had first become engaged, they had discussed the future pretty thoroughly, but now it was as though having said it all once, there was no need to mention it again. Once or twice she had tried to persuade Tom to get married at once, but although he had been patient and understanding, he had been quite adamant—perhaps being together would help to change his mind.

She got into the sage green tweed Jaeger suit she had bought only a week ago, quite forgetting that she wasn’t going to wear anything new for a while. It had a pleated skirt and was warm enough to travel in with the matching cashmere sweater underneath. She had already filled her handbag with all the things she would require on the journey. She sprayed herself with Miss Dior, pushed her feet into beautifully made brown leather brogues, found her gloves and went down to the corner of the courtyard where the staff kept their cars. It was dark by now and in the headlights the hospital looked grim and very gloomy. Amelia swung the Mini out of the front gates and edged it carefully into the evening traffic.

Bonny had a late supper waiting for her. She ate it from a tray on a small sofa table in the drawing room while her father sat opposite her outlining his plans for the next three weeks. He had got them rooms at the hotel, he told her, arranged for the hire of a boat and had worked out some sort of an itinerary. ‘We might as well see something of the country while we’re there,’ he told her. ‘Not too far,’ he added hastily, ‘the best fishing is in that part, I’m told.’

It all sounded delightful. Presently Amelia went to bed, to sleep soundly until she was roused in the morning by Fred, her father’s labrador, who expected to be taken for a quick walk before breakfast.

They left early with Badger sitting beside Mr Crosbie in front; he would drive the Bentley back home again and come to fetch them on their return. Amelia, sitting in the back, daydreamed gently. It would be perfect weather, of course, even if chilly, and Tom and she would hire a car and explore. She was certain that her father wouldn’t mind at all if he were left to fish on his own; he’d been doing it for years and she suspected that although he tolerated her company he wasn’t quite happy about Tom. They liked each other well enough… She frowned a little and switched her thoughts to the pleasanter one of the future—the wedding, the house they would find together and furnish and should she take Cordon Bleu cooking lessons or would Bonny be able to teach her how to cook? She wondered how much money she would need to housekeep; it was deplorable, but she really didn’t know.

Tom reached Heathrow five minutes after they arrived there themselves; he parked his car, picked up his case and joined them quietly, shaking hands with her father and smiling at her as he held hers briefly. After her daydreaming it seemed rather a let-down.

She didn’t like flying, but it saved time, and as the plane was only half full, she didn’t get the feeling that she was travelling in a rather crowded bus. The weather was good too; England disappeared and with nothing but the sea below to look at she turned to Tom beside her. He was asleep and she smiled gently; probably he’d missed most of the night’s rest and it must have been an almighty rush to get to the airport. She sat back quietly until the stewardess came round with the lunch trays and wakened Tom.

And almost before they had finished their coffee they were coming down over the countless islands round Bergen. The weather wasn’t so good now, grey and great blankets of cloud which enveloped them until they touched down, when Amelia wasn’t surprised to find that it was raining.

But who cared? she asked Tom as they followed her father into the arrival hall. They were on holiday.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY WERE TO spend the night at the Norge hotel and leave the following morning by an air taxi Mr Crosbie had booked previously. Amelia would have preferred to have travelled to Stokmarknes by boat or road, but her father had come to fish and that as soon as possible. However, they had the rest of the day in which to explore Bergen and once settled into their rooms, she declared her intention of seeing as much of the town as she could.

‘It’s raining,’ objected her father.

‘I’ve got my anorak,’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘Besides, you know quite well that you’ll not mind in the least if it rains every day once you get a rod in your hands.’ She smiled at him and made for the door with Tom close behind her. ‘We’ll be back in plenty of time for dinner.’

They set off, walking the few yards down Ole Bulls Plass into the main shopping street, Torgalm, a wide thoroughfare with broad pavements and trees bordering them, only now there were few leaves and those that were left were limp with the rain. But the shops were splendid, their lights welcome in the early gloom of the afternoon. Amelia strolled along, 27 her arm tucked into Tom’s, pausing to look at everything until presently she suggested that they found somewhere for tea. ‘Just a cup,’ she begged. ‘It’s only four o’clock and it might be fun. I’m going to ask in this shop.’

There was a tea-room close by, the saleslady told her in excellent English, and they found it without difficulty, a little way away from the shops, opposite a small beautifully kept park close to the hotel. Inside it lived up to its name with little tables occupied by smart housewives and uniformed waitresses, and to Amelia’s satisfaction the tea was delicious and brought in a tea-pot, nicely set out with cups and saucers, and with it they ate enormous creamy cakes which Tom warned her would spoil her appetite for dinner later on.

‘Oh, pooh,’ she told him robustly, ‘I’m a big girl and I get hungry.’

They wandered back presently and spent the rest of the evening in the hotel, eating deliciously in a beautifully appointed restaurant. Amelia went to bed very contented, sure that the holiday was going to be one of the best she had ever spent.

They flew to Ardenes by air taxi the next morning and then went by hired car down to Stokmarknes. Amelia, who had heard of the Lofoten Islands but never been near them before, was struck dumb by the awe-inspiring scenery. The mountains loomed majestically almost to the edge of the fjords already deeply snow-capped, only here and there small green patches, each with its tiny community, clung to their skirts. Sitting behind the Norwegian driver as he followed the one road across the islands, she began to wonder what Stokmarknes would be like.

It was a delightful surprise. True, there was the inevitable fish oil refinery down by the small quay, but the little town itself, strung out along the fjord for perhaps a mile, was charming; its wooden houses, brightly painted and surrounded by birch trees, already orange and red-leafed, bordered each side of the road which ran on through the cluster of houses and small shops, towards Melbu and the Ferry. The hotel, close to the quay, was a square wooden building and Amelia’s heart sank a little when she got out of the car before its door; it looked lonely and uninviting from where she stood. But inside she saw how wrong she had been; it was cosily warm for a start, bright with cheerful lights and comfortable modern furniture, and moreover they were welcomed by a smiling manager whose English was almost as good as theirs. There were, he told them cheerfully, very few visitors, but it was hardly the time of year, although to a keen fisherman that would make no difference, and, he went on, glancing at Amelia, there were some delightful walks in the neighbourhood and a daily bus service. Sortland or Svolvaer were no distance away by road. Meanwhile he would show them to their rooms and doubtless they would enjoy a cup of tea or coffee.

It was going to be great fun after all, she decided, looking with approval round her bedroom. It faced the fjord, so that she could see the constant coming and going on the water, and its furniture, though simple, was very much to her taste. She made short work of tidying herself and went downstairs to find the two men were already in the lounge, deep in discussion with the manager about the hiring of a boat. She heard her father’s satisfied grunt when he was told that the vessel was ready and waiting for him.

‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ he promised Amelia, ‘we’ll take her out and see what we can get.’ He glanced at Tom. ‘You’ll come, of course, Tom?’

‘I’ll be delighted, though I’m not much good with boats, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, never mind that,’ said Crosbie in high good humour. ‘Amelia is a first class crew, she’ll tell you what to do. I understand the weather’s likely to be good for a few days at least—they’ve had one or two snow showers further north, but they haven’t reached these parts, although it’ll probably rain.’

Amelia caught Tom’s eye and smiled and was a little disconcerted to see that although he smiled back, he didn’t look quite happy.

‘Tom and I are going to do a bit of exploring once you’ve got your eye in, Father,’ she said quickly. ‘You’re bound to find several enthusiasts before long, and I daresay they’ll crew for you—besides, when Tom goes back I’ll come out with you every day.’

She turned away to pour out the tea and her father answered her vaguely, his mind already busy with the question of how to get the most out of his stay.

Amelia and Tom went for a walk before dinner. It was already dusk, but the little place was well lighted, and they went from one end of the town to the other, admiring the houses, dotted haphazardly on either side of the road, creeping as far as they could go to the very edge of the fjord on one side, and on the other, tucking themselves against the base of the massive mountains.

‘I could live here,’ declared Amelia. ‘It’s peaceful and cosy and…’

‘A bit isolated,’ finished Tom. ‘Nowhere to go in the evenings, is there?’

‘Ah, I’d sit at home and embroider those lovely tapestries we saw in Bergen, and knit.’

He laughed at her. ‘What? No dinners out, no cinemas, no theatre—you’d get bored.’

‘No.’ She suddenly felt a little irritated with him. ‘I don’t believe the people who live here are bored, I think they’re content and satisfied with their lives—how could you be anything else with all this glorious scenery around?’ She added a shade defiantly, ‘I like it.’

Tom took her arm and turned her round to go back to the hotel. ‘Well, so do I,’ he said placatingly. ‘I’m looking forward to tomorrow.’

It was a splendid morning; blue sky and a cold sun with almost no wind. They breakfasted together and then went down to the boat, not as early as Mr Crosbie would have liked, but Amelia had wanted to sample the variety of breads and rolls arranged on the long table in the restaurant, and try the contents of the great number of dishes laid upon it. She had never had herrings in an onion sauce for breakfast, nor beetroot and cucumber. The cold meats and cheese seemed more like home as well as the great bowl of marmalade, flanked by cranberry jam. She tried as many of them as possible and declared that she would get up earlier in future so that she might have a go at the rest.

But there was little fear of them going hungry, judging by the size of the picnic box they had been given to take with them. Amelia arranging things just so in the small cabin, found it all very satisfactory and great fun. It was going to be choppy later on, they had been warned, but she didn’t mind that; she was wearing slacks stuffed into wellingtons, a bright yellow anorak and a wool cap pulled well down over her ears and thick gloves.

They cast off and her father started the outboard motor before leaving it to Tom’s care while he went off to check his rods and bait. Today, he had assured them, was merely a trial run; they would go north through the fjord towards Sortland and see if there were any fish.

There were a great many. Presently Tom left Amelia to steer in the little cockpit while he joined her father, and presently she stopped the motor and they anchored while the two men reeled in trout, herring, flounders and a couple of salmon. It was past midday by then and she gave them their lunch, made soup and coffee on the stove and joined them on deck to listen patiently to their enthusiastic discussions as to which rod and what bait were the best to use. It was nice to see her father so happy and Tom too. She looked around her and could find no fault in her morning.

It began to rain a little by mid-afternoon and they turned for home, slowed by a sharp wind. Mr Crosbie was at the wheel now, thoroughly enjoying himself, not minding the change in the weather, although Tom looked a little uneasy. It was getting dark already and it was no use trying to use the binoculars Amelia had brought with her. They stood side by side watching the lights of Stokmarknes getting nearer. The little quay, when they reached it, was almost deserted. The coastal steamer had come and gone and the little school was empty of children; only the shops were still open as they walked the short distance to the hotel. Amelia paused to buy a yesterday’s Telegraph at the little kiosk close to the quay; the woman who served her was friendly and spoke a little English and she would have liked to have stayed a few minutes and talked, but the men were impatient now and hurried her along the road and in through the hotel door.

They ate their dinner with splendid appetites and Amelia went early to bed. The hotel manager had told them that a short walk in the morning would take them behind the little town and up the lower slopes of the mountains where the view of the fjord was something worth seeing, and Amelia persuaded her father to delay his fishing trip for an hour so that she and Tom might go. Her father hadn’t minded; he had the rest of the short day to look forward to and there was a man who worked down on the quay who would tell him just where he could go for salmon.

Amelia, getting sleepily ready for bed, yawned widely and decided that she was enjoying herself hugely.

The morning walk was all that she had hoped for. They had turned off the road and taken a rocky lane leading up to the houses clinging so precariously to the lower slopes of the mountains. There were no roads here, only paths leading from one house to the next, and they had been built in haphazard charm between the birch trees. They left them behind presently, climbing over the rough ground, and then stopped to admire the view. It was cold, too, with a sky filled with clouds which every now and then allowed the sun to shine through. Amelia had brought the binoculars with her and used them now, picking out isolated houses along the shore. ‘It’s cold enough for snow,’ she declared.

‘A bit early for that,’ observed Tom, ‘though I must say it’s rather wintry.’ He smiled at her. ‘Rather different from St Ansell’s.’

She said impulsively: ‘Tom, let’s come here on our honeymoon,’ and was chilled by his careless:

‘Isn’t it a bit too early to make plans?’

She said tonelessly: ‘Yes, of course, I was only joking. We’d better get back or Father will get impatient.’

Walking back briskly, she kept the conversation cheerful and impersonal. Tom didn’t want to talk about their future together, that was obvious. Perhaps she was too impatient, she must remember that; perhaps, she thought uneasily, she wanted her own way too much.

Her father was sitting on the rough stone wall bordering the road, his back to them, looking out to the fjord and talking to someone—a man who when he saw them, got to his feet, unfolding his great height slowly. He was broad-shouldered and heavily built as well as tall, with a handsome face whose eyes were heavy-lidded above an imposing nose. His hair was dark, as far as she could see, and his eyes as he frankly appraised Amelia were very blue.

She didn’t like his stare. She lifted her chin and looked down her straight little nose, at the same time taking in the fact that he was wearing corduroy slacks stuffed into boots and a fisherman’s waterproof jacket. Another fisherman, she thought, and how like Father to find him! He’s probably the only one for miles around and they had to meet—and I don’t like him, she told herself.

Her parent was in high good humour. ‘Hullo, my dear,’ he beamed at her. ‘You see I’ve found another enthusiast. This is Doctor van der Tolck from Holland, like us, on holiday. My daughter Amelia and her fiancé, Doctor Tom Crouch.’ He stood back smiling while they shook hands and murmured politely, and Amelia, meeting the Dutchman’s sleepy gaze, had a sudden strange feeling, as though everything had changed; that nothing would ever be the same again; that there was no one else there, only herself and this giant of a man, still staring at her. She put out a hand and caught Tom’s sleeve in a fierce grip which made him glance at her in surprise. Tom was there, right beside her, and she was going to marry him…

The man smiled faintly, just as though he read her thoughts and mocked them, and made some remark to Tom. She told herself, seconds later, that she had imagined the whole puzzling thing.

‘Doctor van der Tolck has a boat here too,’ observed Mr Crosbie with satisfaction. ‘He’s staying at the hotel, got here last night on the coastal express. We might go out together—he tells me that the Raftsund is a good area for cod.’

‘What are we going to do with the catch?’ asked Amelia.

‘Oh, let the hotel people have it,’ declared her parent carelessly. ‘Well, how about moving off?’

She took a quick peep at the Dutchman, who was standing quietly, saying nothing, apparently waiting for the rest of them.

‘We’ll go and pick up the food,’ she offered, and gave Tom’s sleeve a tug. ‘Tom?’

‘Do that, my dear, and ask them to let you have Doctor van der Tolck’s sandwiches at the same time.’

‘I have to go back to the hotel,’ he had a slow deep voice, ‘I’ll pick my food up then.’ He smiled at Mr Crosbie. ‘Shall I come down to the quay with you—you were going to show me that rod of yours.’

Amelia turned away with Tom beside her. On the way to the hotel she said with a touch of pettishness: ‘Why on earth does Father have to dig up these chance acquaintances—I expect he’ll stick like a leech now!’

‘You don’t like him?’

‘No, I do not,’ she said a little too sharply, ‘butting in like that.’

‘Probably your father suggested that we should join forces—rather difficult to refuse in the circumstances.’

‘Rubbish, Tom—he could have made some excuse.’

He gave her a long considered look. ‘You do dislike him, don’t you?’

She bounced through the hotel door. ‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘I shall keep out of his way.’

A decision which Doctor van der Tolck had apparently made too, for he had little or nothing to say to her when she and Tom rejoined him and her father presently—polite enough, but she mistrusted the wicked gleam in his eyes and the faint smile when he spoke to her, which he did only when politeness made it imperative.

He left them presently, agreeing easily with Mr Crosbie that he would join them in his own boat within ten minutes. He was as good as his word, manoeuvring it alongside their own vessel while he exchanged opinions with Mr Crosbie as to the best area in which to fish. They settled the important question at last, working their way down towards the Raftsund and presently they anchored, not too far apart, and settled down to the serious business in hand. The clouds had strengthened and the sun no longer shone even fitfully, the mountains around them were grey and cold and Amelia secretly found them a little frightening. She went into the cabin and made coffee and sat there in comparative warmth, drinking it after handing out mugs to her father and Tom. The doctor, she saw out of the corner of her eye, had a thermos flask and even at a distance was a picture of contentment.

The weather worsened as the day went on and by three o’clock it was disagreeably cold and windy. Mr Crosbie reluctantly conceded the wisdom of returning to dry land before the rain, falling gently so far, became torrential. But he had had a good day; he and Tom sorted their catch while Amelia took the wheel. She was good at it. She passed their new acquaintance within a few feet, sending the boat tearing through the dark water before he had even got his engine going. It was galling, half way there, to be overtaken. He was making fast as she approached the quay and without speaking to her, performed the same service for her, and when she thanked him, rather haughtily, he grunted.

She left the three men there, telling each other fishy tales while they gloated over their catches, and went up to the hotel, where she ordered tea in her room and had a bath, far too hot.

It was difficult to avoid Doctor van der Tolck. The hotel wasn’t large and except for a couple of commercial travellers and a rather subdued family—on their way, the manager confided, to a funeral on the outskirts of the town—they were the only guests. True, by the time she had joined her father and Tom in the bar, a trickle of young men with their girls came in, but they kept to themselves although they were friendly enough. Amelia, sipping her sherry, made idle conversation and kept an eye on the door. Doctor van der Tolck was just the kind of man to join them for the evening unasked.

She was mistaken. He sauntered in presently, nodded pleasantly and joined the two Norwegians at the bar and either he spoke their language or they spoke Dutch, because they entered into a lengthy conversation and Amelia, her ears stretched, was sure that it wasn’t English they were speaking. It was annoying when he looked up suddenly and caught her looking at them, and still more annoying that he didn’t smile.

He dined at a table alone too, and she was a little surprised that her father hadn’t asked him to join them. She didn’t say anything, but when her father said casually: ‘I didn’t ask van der Tolck to join us—I hear from Tom that you don’t like him,’ she went pink and shot Tom a peevish look which in the circumstances was quite unjustified.

But he was there in the morning. She had gone out before breakfast to inspect the high slender bridge which joined Stokmarknes with the neighbouring island of Langoya. It was a bit too far to walk to, she saw with regret, but perhaps she and Tom would get a chance to reach it later in the day. She had supposed that it was much nearer, but appearances were deceptive, and even though she hurried to where the houses began to peter out against the base of the mountains, the bridge seemed as far away as ever. She turned round with regret and started back to the hotel, picking her way carefully along the uneven road. She hadn’t gone a quarter of the distance when a Saab swept past her and then stopped. Doctor van der Tolck was driving and Amelia said good morning in a cool voice as she drew abreast of him. He held the door open. ‘Like a lift?’ he enquired in a voice which suggested that he couldn’t care less either way. ‘I’m going back for breakfast.’

‘Thank you.’ She got in without argument. She had vowed to avoid him, but he was exactly the kind of man to demand to know why she refused if she did. He leaned across to slam the door shut and drove on without saying a word. What a good thing, she thought sourly, that the drive was a short one, for she couldn’t think of anything to say even if he had been disposed to make conversation. She peeped at him from under her lashes. He looked inscrutable—a silly, novelish word but it did describe the expression of his profile. A rather splendid profile too; a pity she didn’t like him. If he had been friendly it would have been nice to have talked… She had Tom, she reminded herself happily, and smiled quite nicely at her companion as they stopped at the hotel and he opened the door for her.

‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I daresay we shall be seeing each other very shortly.’

He agreed politely, but his smile disconcerted her; it was for all the world as though he had a secret joke which amused him very much and that after she had held out the olive branch—well not exactly held it out, but… She let the thought slide away; it was a great pity that she couldn’t opt out of the day’s fishing trip.

She did indeed suggest to Tom that they should take the bus to Sortland and have a look round, and they were arguing gently about it when Doctor van der Tolck came over to their table to speak to her father and he, despite a heavy frown from his daughter, at once suggested that the two of them should join forces for the day. ‘For Amelia is dead set on going to Sortland and of course Tom will go with her. There’s a bus…’

‘A splendid idea,’ agreed the doctor, so promptly that she suspected that he would be glad to see the back of her. He turned to Tom. ‘I’ve a Saab outside—rented it for my stay—why not borrow it? The road runs alongside the fjord and is pretty good going. There’s a bridge at Sortland and you can cross over to Hinney Island and visit Harstad; it’s quite a sizeable place and a military headquarters.’ He added, glancing at Amelia, ‘A street of shops, too.’

The faintly mocking glance he gave her from under his lids instantly made her change her mind. ‘Perhaps another day,’ she said coolly, to be overruled by Tom’s:

‘That’s jolly decent of you, if the weather changes we might not get another chance, and I’ll be going back in three days’ time.’

Amelia poured herself some more coffee which she didn’t want, but it was something to do while she argued. ‘Yes, but what about you, Father?’

Her parent was of no help at all. ‘Oh, we’ll manage very well, my dear—you and Tom go off and enjoy yourselves together.’

‘Yes, but you can’t manage the boat alone,’ she persisted.

‘Who said I was going to? We’ll use mine and share a picnic lunch. If the weather holds we shan’t come back before four o’clock, so don’t hurry on our account.’

The day had not been a qualified success. Amelia, soaking herself in a hot bath that evening, mulled it over at leisure and tried to decide where it had gone wrong. They had started off well enough—indeed, the drive to Sortland had been pleasant. The road, just as the doctor had told them, had followed the fjord the whole way and Sortland, when they reached it, was charming. They had coffee there, walked around the village, and then decided to go on to Harstad, so they drove over the bridge to the neighbouring island, Hinney, and took the only road, at first following the fjord and then going inland and taking a ferry once again. It proved to be a longer journey than they had expected and when they got to Harstad it was raining. They lunched at the Viking Nordic and then walked along the main street, looking at the shops, and Amelia, determined to take back some token of their trip, spent far too long in a rather splendid bookshop where she bought a couple of paperbacks, some writing paper and a pen she didn’t really need. Tom bought nothing at all, waiting patiently while she pottered round the shelves, and it was almost three o’clock when he suggested mildly that they should think about getting back to Stokmarknes.

And none too soon. The rain had settled down to a steady drizzle and the sky was an unrelieved grey, merging with the mountains, their snowy tops completely hidden by cloud. ‘We’ll have tea in Sortland,’ suggested Tom as they started back, but by the time they had reached it, it was dark, Tom was quietly apprehensive and Amelia becoming shorttempered. The day had been a waste. They hadn’t talked about themselves at all; her secret hopes that with time on their hands they could have got their future settled were coming to nothing. Tom was in no mood to talk about weddings—indeed, he had never been less romantic, advising her somewhat tersely to keep a sharp eye on the road, which, now that it was dark, wasn’t nearly as easy as it had been that morning.

They arrived back at the hotel at six o’clock, relieved to be there but unable to be lighthearted about it and meeting the doctor in the foyer didn’t help matters. He was sitting comfortably reading a Dutch newspaper, a drink at his elbow, but he got up as they went in, enquired kindly if they had enjoyed their day, expressed regret at the weather and invited them to have a drink. Tom, after a glance at Amelia, accepted, but she refused, declaring she wanted a cup of tea before she did anything else.

The doctor obligingly pressed the bell for her. ‘No tea?’ he asked with what she decided was quite false sympathy. ‘There’s a good hotel in Sortland.’

‘We left Harstad rather late,’ she explained stiffly, and when a waitress came asked for tea to be brought to her room, to drink it under the doctor’s amused eye was more than she could manage.

But tea and the bath soothed her, so that by the time she got downstairs she was feeling quite cheerful again. Tom was already there, so she went across the bar to him and tucked her hand into his arm. ‘Sorry if I was a bit snappy,’ she said softly. ‘It was disappointing, wasn’t it—all that rain.’

He agreed placidly and ordered her a drink, moving a little way away so that she had to take her hand away, and she frowned a little. Tom hated any form of affectionate display in public and just for the moment she had forgotten that. Amelia perched herself on a stool at the bar and began a rather banal conversation with the barman and Tom and they were presently joined by her father and Doctor van der Tolck, both with the air of men who had enjoyed every minute of their day and were now prepared to enjoy their evening just as much. And strangely enough, the evening was so pleasant that she had gone reluctantly to bed, much later than usual. Doctor van der Tolck had joined them for dinner and proved himself to be an amusing companion without attempting to hog the conversation—indeed, his aptitude for listening with interest to whatever was being said contributed to the success of the evening and even Amelia, wary of his friendly manner, found herself telling him about St Ansell’s. She only just stopped herself in time from telling him that she intended continuing to work there after she and Tom were married. She had told him too much already…

She stopped almost in mid-sentence and asked: ‘Are you married, Doctor van der Tolck?’

He had dropped his lids so that she couldn’t see his eyes. He said evenly: ‘No, I am not. Shall you be going fishing tomorrow?’

It was a palpable snub and she flushed a little, admitting to herself that she had deserved it. All the same, thinking about it afterwards, she came to the conclusion that while he had extracted quite a lot of information about her, he had said precious little about himself. Not that she was in the least interested.

She avoided him as much as possible for the next two days, although he shared their table now, to her father’s pleasure and to her own unease, but she had Tom to talk to, although not for much longer now, since he would be leaving the next day, and she wondered once or twice if it would be a good idea if she went back with him. She even suggested it, to be met with a very natural surprise on Tom’s part. ‘What on earth for?’ he wanted to know. ‘Your father would be left on his own and you know he wanted you to go with him in the first place.’

‘Yes, well—there’s Doctor van der Tolck to keep him company.’

Tom shook his head. ‘He told me that he was going further north after salmon.’

She told herself that she was delighted at the news. ‘Oh, well, then I’ll stay.’

‘You won’t be bored?’

She shook her head. ‘We’ll be out for most of the day and I’m going to buy some of that lovely embroidery to do—I should have got some in Harstad. I’ll persuade Father to take the ferry and we’ll spend a day there—a change from fishing will do him good.’ She added, trying not to sound too eager: ‘Will you miss me, Tom?’

‘I’ll be up to my eyes in work,’ he told her, which wasn’t a very satisfactory answer. ‘There’s that team of Australian physicians coming over at the end of the week, it’ll be interesting to work with them. I heard that there’s a strong chance that they’ll offer jobs to any of us who are interested.’ He glanced at her, ‘How do you like the idea of Australia, Amelia?’

She shook her head. ‘Me? Not at all—so far away.’ She turned to look at him. ‘Tom, you’re not serious, are you?’

‘Why not? There are marvellous opportunities out there. We’ll discuss it when you get back.’

They were in the lounge waiting for her father and Doctor van der Tolck.

‘Why not now?’ she asked.

‘Oh, plenty of time for that,’ Tom said easily.

They almost never quarrelled, but now Amelia felt herself on the verge of it.

‘But there’s not, Tom—you’re thirty and I’m twenty-seven and we haven’t even made any plans…’

‘Oh, come on, old girl—you know I can’t make plans until I’ve got a really good job. Another year or two—that’s not long, especially as we’re both working—no time to brood.’

‘I’ll be nudging thirty,’ said Amelia in a voice which held faint despair. She would have said more, only her father came in then, rubbing his hands and declaring that it was getting decidedly chilly and how about coffee before they started out. ‘We’re going down beyond the bridge,’ he told them enthusiastically, ‘they say there’s any amount of cod there.’

They were joined a moment later by the doctor, who drank his coffee with them but hadn’t much to say for himself, and presently they all trooped out and went down to the boats. It was getting colder, thought Amelia, glad of her quilted jacket and hood, and she prayed for clear skies. Bad weather wouldn’t keep her father indoors, and although he was cheerfully impervious to wind and rain, the idea of sitting in a smallish boat for hours on end in anything less than moderately fine weather daunted her.

But they were lucky for the moment. The sun came out and the mountains, with the gold and red of the birch trees wreathed around their lower slopes, didn’t look so forbidding, and the sun turned their snowy tops to a glistening fairyland, at least from a distance. The water was calm, dark and cold, but the three men didn’t notice that. They fished with enthusiasm, accepting hot drinks and food when Amelia proffered them, although she had the strong suspicion that they had quite forgotten that she was there. But not quite, apparently; it was the early afternoon when Doctor van der Tolck put his head round the cabin door where she was washing cups in the minute sink to ask her if she was all right. ‘We’ll have to get back fairly soon,’ he told her, ‘the light’s going and it’s getting cold.’

To which moderate remark she gave polite answer. As far as she was concerned it had got cold hours ago.

As it was Tom’s last evening, dinner was something of an event. They ate some of the cod they had caught with a rich creamy soup to precede it and reindeer steaks to follow, and rounded off the meal with chocolate mousse and coffee. And the doctor insisted on a bottle of wine, which, on top of the sherry she had had before dinner, warmed her very nicely.

They went to sit round the square stove afterwards, but not for long, for the doctor had offered to drive Tom to the airport at Ardenes in the morning and they would have to make an early start.

Amelia went to bed presently with the promise that she would be down in the morning to say goodbye to Tom. She was going to miss him, but two weeks would soon pass. She bade him a rather matter-of-fact goodnight because Doctor van der Tolck was watching them and hoped that he would have the good sense to look the other way when they said goodbye.

And strangely enough, he did. They breakfasted early and she joined them for a cup of coffee. Almost at once he got to his feet with some remark about the car and went away, leaving her and Tom looking at each other.

‘Well, it’s been a lovely week,’ said Amelia.

‘I enjoyed it enormously—I had no idea that fishing could be so absorbing.’ Tom caught her eye and added hastily, ‘It was splendid having you here too.’

‘I’ll be back in two weeks—I wish I were coming with you, or that you could have stayed for the rest of the time.’

‘Well, we knew that before we started, didn’t we?’ Tom got to his feet and went to put on his jacket lying ready. ‘I’d better be off, mustn’t miss the plane.’ He looked around him and then kissed her; there was no one there and there was no need to be so brisk about it, Amelia thought unhappily. She said: ‘Oh, Tom…’ and then at the look of faint unease on his nice face: ‘All right, I’m not going to cry or anything like that.’ She managed a bright smile and saw his relief. She kept it there while he went through the door.

CHAPTER THREE

HER FATHER took one look at her rather set face, declared that they might just as well get their lunch basket and be on their way, and bustled off to get his fishing gear, which gave Amelia time to get her pretty face back into its usual serene lines, and when he appeared presently she was able to give enthusiastic answers to his remarks about the day’s sport. ‘A pity van der Tolck won’t be back—still, we should get a good day’s fishing before the light changes. We won’t be back too late—the manager tells me that there’s a dance this evening, and I daresay you’ll like to go.’

She tried to sound cheerful. ‘But, Father, you hate dancing, and Tom’s not here.’

‘Well, I daresay van der Tolck won’t mind waltzing you round a couple of times.’

‘Waltzing is old-fashioned,’ said Amelia tartly. ‘Besides, I shall probably go to bed early.’

A remark which she repeated to the doctor when they returned to the hotel. After an inevitable résumé of the day’s activities, he had asked her pleasantly enough if she cared to go to the dance after dinner and she had been a little vexed at his placid acceptance of her refusal. Indeed, she had the strong impression that having done his duty in asking her, he was relieved at her answer. She waited for ten minutes, half listening to their earnest talk as they bent over a map, and when they paused, said sweetly: ‘I think I’ll change my mind. It might be fun to dance for half an hour or so.’

His ‘Splendid’, sounded to her critical ears halfhearted.

She wore the burgundy jersey dress and thanked heaven that she had remembered to pack a pair of high-heeled shoes. The dress was plain but beautifully cut and she took pains with her face and hair and found herself looking forward to the evening after all. Probably the doctor danced badly; he must be all of fifteen stone and she hadn’t seen him hurry even once, probably he was lazy. She had to admit to herself that that wasn’t true. Lazy men didn’t get up at first light and spend the day in a small boat, and presumably if he had a practice, he would need the energy to run it. She would ask him during the evening just what he did do. There were doctors and doctors.

She had no chance to find out anything. He countered her carefully put questions with a faintly amused ease which was distinctly annoying and surprised her very much by being easily the best dancer in the room, and most of them were good. Amelia danced well herself and presently, despite her feelings, she began to enjoy herself. The place was full. Obviously dancing was a favourite pastime in Stokmarknes; moreover there was a band, not a tape recorder, and they swung easily from waltzes and foxtrots to jive, and finally to the local dances which they were persuaded to join in.

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.