“Mr. Van Tecqx, I haven’t thanked you properly for all you’ve done for Father and me. I’m very grateful. Life is suddenly quite different….”

She didn’t see the little smile. “There I must agree with you, although for me it is quite another reason.”

“Oh, well, I expect so—I mean, you’re going back home, aren’t you?” She paused, getting what she wanted to say exactly right. “By the time you’ll want to operate on Father’s other hip, I shall have enough money saved to pay your fees….”

She was brought up short by his curt “That will do, Emily. We made a bargain, you and I, and we will keep to our side of it. I wish to hear no more about it.”

She said reasonably, “Well, I dare say you don’t, but you have no need to sound so annoyed, although I expect it’s because you haven’t had enough sleep.”

He uttered a crack of laughter at that but said nothing—indeed, he had nothing to say, not even when he drew up before the cottage.

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 Fateful Bargain
Betty Neels

MILLS & BOON

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

SUMMER LANE wasn’t living up to its name; for one thing it was mid-October and the rain, being lashed down by a nasty chilly wind, was even chillier; moreover it was barely eight o’clock in the morning and gloomy. At that early time of day there were few people about; a milkman whistling defiantly as he dumped down milk bottles, a handful of people scurrying along towards the nearest Tube station and a solitary girl walking away from it, head bowed against the weather, clutching a plastic bag. The street lined with shabby old houses, let out in rooms or flats, was so familiar to her that she didn’t bother to look up as it turned a sharp corner, which was why she ran full tilt into someone coming the other way.

The plastic bag, already wet, split and spilled its contents over the pavement, and the girl skidded to a halt which almost took her feet from under her, to be hauled upright by a powerful arm.

‘You should look where you are going,’ the owner of the arm observed irritably, a remark the girl took instant exception to; she was dog-tired after night duty and in no mood to bandy words with someone who sounded as cross as she felt.

All the same, she said in a reasonable voice, ‘Well, that goes for both of us, doesn’t it?’ and looked up at the man towering over her. He wasn’t only tall, he was large as well and remarkably good-looking, and when he smiled suddenly, she smiled back.

He let go of her then and bent to pick up the contents of the plastic bag—knitting, the wool already very wet, a rather battered manual of nursing, two apples and a notebook. He collected them, gave her the book and the knitting and said with rather impatient kindness, ‘Do you live close by? Suppose I carry these odds and ends as far as your door?’

‘Thank you, but I live down that street…’ she indicated a narrow side street a few yards further on. ‘I can stuff everything in my pockets.’

He took no notice of that but turned and started walking briskly towards the street that she had pointed out.

‘A nurse?’ he wanted to know.

The girl trotted beside him. ‘Yes, on night duty at Pearson’s. I’m not trained yet, I’m in my second year, almost at the end of it.’

She stopped before one of the elderly terraced houses, its gate wedged open, its tiny strip of garden a mass of soggy weeds. ‘This is where I live.’ She held her arms out for the things he had been carrying.

He didn’t give them to her at first but stood looking at her. She wasn’t much to look at: small, inclined to plumpness, with a nice little face redeemed from plainness by a pair of fine grey eyes. Her hair under an unfashionable woolly cap was pale brown and very wet. Her coat had seen better days, but it was well cut and her shoes and gloves, as shabby as the coat, were good. He smiled again. ‘When do you go on day duty again?’ he asked.

‘Oh, in another week or so; it will seem very strange after two months. I like night duty, though; there aren’t so many people around.’

‘People?’ He asked the question casually, concealing his impatience to be gone.

‘Well, doctors and surgeons and Ward Sisters.’ She went rather pink. ‘They’re a bit frightening, you know. Staff Nurse was telling me that there’s a visiting honorary—a surgeon—he’s Dutch and everyone is crazy about him. Because he’s foreign, I suppose; I do hope I don’t go on to the Orthopaedic side.’

‘You have no wish to meet this foreigner?’

‘No, oh, no. There was a French surgeon in the summer; he shouted at me and asked me to be quick, and I dropped a tray of instruments. I dare say that’s why I’m on night duty longer than usual.’ She put out a tongue to lick away a trickle of rain running down one cheek. She said breathlessly, ‘I’m sorry, I’m keeping you in the rain. Thank you very much. I hope you won’t be late for your work.’

She held out her arms for the apples and the notebook, said a hasty goodbye and whisked up the narrow path and in through the shabby front door. As she climbed the stairs she thought vexedly that she had talked too much; probably the man had been bored to death, and what had possessed her to chatter like that? It was quite unlike her. She was universally known at Pearson’s Hospital as a quiet girl, friendly enough but shy and studious, reliably calm and collected about her work and guaranteed to give a helping hand without grumbling.

She opened her door, to be greeted by a rotund tabby cat with a slightly battered look, obviously delighted to see her.

It was nice to be in her room again after a busy night. It was small, but its windows, cheerfully curtained, overlooked the narrow back garden and, bare as it was, it was green. There wasn’t much in the room: a divan bed, a small easy chair, a table by the window and a small sink and even smaller cooking stove in one corner, but it was her own just so long as she paid Mrs Winter the rent. Of course, a room in the Nurses’ Home would have been more comfortable, but then she wouldn’t have been able to keep Podge, and she had found him, hungry to the point of starving, several months ago, crouching in an empty doorway, and she had no intention of abandoning him to further misery. Indeed, he saved her from loneliness and was perfectly content to live with her in her cramped room, carried downstairs to the back garden when needful while Mrs Winter turned a blind eye. That lady didn’t approve of pets in her house, but Emily had treated a nasty boil for her and moreover cleaned and bandaged a cut finger for one of her numerous grandchildren.

Mrs Winter came to the top of the basement stairs where she lived as Podge was borne in from the garden. “Ere’s a letter for yer,’ she announced. ‘Miss Emily Grenfell, it says—yer pa, I’ve no doubt.’

Emily took the letter and tucked it into her pocket. Having no letter box of her own, she depended on Mrs Winter to take in any post she might get. ‘Yes, it’s from my father,’ she agreed cheerfully. ‘What a beastly morning!’

‘And me due at the ’airdresser’s. If that Mrs Blake ‘as ’er radio on too loud and wakes yer up, just tell me, and I’ll give her the rough edge of me tongue.’ Mrs Winter eyed Emily’s tired face. ‘Yer needs yer sleep, by the look of yer.’

There were one or two things to do in the meantime—Emily had had breakfast at the hospital, but Podge needed his; while he ate it she went down to the floor below and had a bath in the old-fashioned bathroom. The bath was in the centre of the small room so that getting in and out was awkward and the geyser made sinister rumbling noises and smelled of gas, but the water was hot. She made a cup of tea before she got into bed and set the alarm for four o’clock; she would need to do some shopping before she had tea and went back on duty. Podge got on to the bed with her; his warm weight was cosy on her feet as she read her father’s letter.

She folded it carefully when she had finished it, put it back into its envelope, and lay thinking about its contents.

The letter was cheerful, amusing and totally free from grumbles, something which was a constant source of surprise to her; arthritis had crippled her father for the last two years, so that he was confined to a wheelchair for the greater part of the day, hobbling around his house with two sticks so that he could get his meals, helped by a woman from the village who came in for an hour or so each day. He had been waiting for a year or more to have a prosthesis, first in one hip, then in the other, and it would be another year before his turn would come. He and Emily had discussed it together and he had agreed, reluctantly, that she should continue her training. She had known then what she would do, although she had said nothing to him, and she had set about putting her plan into action without more ado. It meant leaving the comparative comfort of the Nurses’ Home with its mod cons and taking a room in Summer Lane; its rent low enough to enable her to save every penny of her salary which she could spare.

She knew to a penny how much it would cost for the operation to be done privately, a considerable sum, but if she could somehow manage to get him into Pearson’s…it would have to be one hip until she could save for the second, but once she was qualified she would earn more money, and in the meantime her father would be able to leave his wheelchair, even return to work. But not to his former job as bookkeeper in the large printing firm in the neighbouring town; he had been retired from there with a small pension, enough to live on but not enough to save.

Podge edged his way up the bed to lie on her chest and stare into her face, and Emily put out a hand to stroke him. Even if she were able to do so, she wouldn’t go back to the Nurses’ Home without him. Later, when her father was able to get about again and she was getting more money, the pair of them would move to a better neighbourhood and she would go home at least twice a month. Podge started to purr, a deep-chested rumble which soothed her busy brain into a quiet which soon deepened into sleep.

It was still raining when she got up. She attended to Podge’s needs, had a cup of tea, tidied her room and went out to the grocer’s on the corner of the street, where she did her frugal buying and went back home again to eat her supper of baked beans on toast and more tea.

The solid bulk of Pearson’s Hospital loomed over her as she left the Underground, its windows lighted, and as she entered a side door, greeting her with a variety of sounds she had come to recognise and ignore. She left her outdoor things in the cloakroom, picked up the plastic bag holding her knitting and study books, and went unhurriedly up two flights of stairs. She was in good time, but then she always was, there was nothing to hinder her; no boyfriend to keep her lingering until the last minute, no visit to a West End cinema to see the latest film, no mother up for the day to shop, nobody to see off home again…Emily didn’t allow herself any self-pity and indeed she felt none; she was doing something she had made up her mind to do, and do it she would, without fuss. She was only twenty-three, and in less than a year her father could have his first operation and she would be qualified. Beyond that she resolutely refused to think, although right at the back of her mind was the shadowy hope that one day someone might fall in love with her and marry her.

As she climbed the last flight she thought fleetingly of the man who had bumped into her. It was to be hoped that he hadn’t been late for his work. She frowned. He hadn’t been the usual type she saw on the streets at that early hour of the morning, he had been well dressed and had had the air of someone unworried by clocking-in machines. In a bank, she guessed vaguely, or perhaps a solicitor.

He was in fact walking unhurriedly along the corridor leading from the Orthopaedic theatre to Sister’s office, where, still in a white drill trousers and green smock, he sat himself down at her desk and began to write up the notes of his patient. Someone brought him a mug of coffee which he drank absentmindedly as he wrote, presently to be joined by his Registrar, Henry Parker, and his Theatre Sister, a stern-featured lady who, on hearing that there was to be a Dutch specialist in Orthopaedics for a short period, had declared herself reluctant to work for him. ‘I remember,’ she had confided to the main Theatre Sister, ‘what a terrible time you had with that Frenchman, and I dare say,’ she added darkly, ‘that a Dutchman will be even worse.’ She had drawn such a deep breath that her old-fashioned corsets had creaked. ‘Foreigners!’ she observed.

The Dutchman, when he arrived, had addressed her in English as fluent as her own, and had treated her with a quiet courtesy which had won her over completely. Moreover, he remained calm while he operated and never left the theatre without thanking her nicely for her services.

Rather grudgingly she had admitted that he was every bit as considerate as Mr Griffiths, the consultant he was standing in for until that gentleman had recovered from a severe attack of shingles. As for Mr Beck, the second orthopaedic surgeon, he was on the best of terms with him, and the housemen and nursing staff considered him to be the very acme of perfection. The nurses lucky enough to work on the orthopaedic wards or in theatre bought new lipsticks, made play with their eyelashes and had their hair done far more often than usual, going to meet him in corridors or on the stairs by deliberate accident, but they were forced to admit not one of them had struck even the smallest spark of interest in him.

Mr van Tecqx finished writing as Henry Parker joined him, and they spent a few minutes discussing his patients before he bade his Registrar goodnight and made his way through the hospital. He was at the head of the staircase when the muted sounds of its late evening activities recalled something to mind and he turned back to cross the corridor which would bring him to the medical wing. There were wide glass doors at each end of the landing. He glanced through the first of them and then walked its length to glance through the second door—Women’s Medical, its occupants being settled for the night. The tall, rangy girl was scuttling down the ward in the direction of the sluice room, and going slowly from bed to bed, turning off lights, smoothing sheets and pausing to speak to the occupants, was the girl whom he had met that morning, very neat in her uniform, her hair smoothed into an unfashionable chignon under her cap, her small waist, nicely accentuating her pretty shape, encircled by its stiff white belt. As she paused under the bed lamp he could see her profile clearly; a very ordinary one with its slightly turned-up nose and wide mouth. He turned away with a shrug, wondering what quirk of fancy had made him seek her out, and went on his way down to the entrance hall, to pause at the porter’s lodge and exchange good-nights with Briggs the head porter, before walking unhurriedly through the main entrance, to get into the dark grey Bentley parked outside and drive himself away.

Emily finished her round and went back to Sister’s desk to con the day report and check that she had done everything necessary. Pearson’s was in the process of being modernised, but the Medical Wing was to be the last to be updated, so that instead of the nurses’ stations, smaller wards and day rooms with TV, and elaborate systems connecting patients with nurses, the ward she was on was long and narrow; ten beds on either side with a table in the centre and bathrooms and sluice room at the far end; in the early hours of the morning, when their energy was at its lowest ebb, leaving the desk to go to the sluice room seemed like a day’s journey. All the same, the ward was a cheerful place, mainly because the Sister in charge of it was young and cheerful herself.

Emily shrouded the desk lamp with a red cloth, opened the Report Book and Kardex, and bent her neat head over them. Two barium meals for the next day, she noted; they would have to be started at a busy time of their morning too, and both ladies were bad patients. They would roll the narrow catheter round and round in their mouths instead of swallowing it, and precious minutes would be lost… She smiled at her junior nurse as she drew up a chair and sat down beside her; she liked Stella, who worked hard and didn’t grumble overmuch at the endless bedpans and cups of tea which made up a major share of her night’s work. They shared the work as much as possible, but inevitably Emily had to leave her to it when there was treatment of any sort.

The night went slowly and then, as it usually did, merged into a brief two hours or so of intense activity—rousing the patients with cups of tea, seeing that they went along to the bathrooms, sometimes a slow business with the elderlies who couldn’t hurry and often needed an arm, doing a round with one of the Night Sisters, writing the Report, giving out medicines with her and then the final mad rush to be ready for the moment Sister came on duty. Emily went off duty at last and, careless of her appearance, ate her breakfast, exchanging sleepy gossip with the other night nurses, dragged on her coat and went out into the early morning.

The sun was shining and she breathed in the chilly air with pleasure; even if it were tainted with petrol fumes from the passing buses and the whiff from a refuse lorry, it was pleasant after a night spent in the closed ward. She made a brisk beeline for the Tube, reflecting with pleasure that pay-day was on the following morning. She would go home, she decided recklessly, taking Podge with her in his basket. She had nights off, five of them, because she had had to cut her last lot short to fill a gap owing to the night nurse on Men’s Medical having ‘flu… She began to do sums in her head. She was still doing them as she unlocked her door and scooped up a welcoming Podge.

‘A little holiday,’ she promised him as she fumbled to fill his saucer, ‘and soon I’ll be on day duty and you won’t be lonely any more.’

She reflected as she got ready for bed that she would have started her third year before the next pay-day, and that would mean more money—another five or six months and there would be enough saved for the first operation. She would get hold of Day Sister and ask her the best way to set about it. Emily closed her eyes, intending to go to sleep, but instead she found herself thinking about the man who had almost knocked her over. He had sounded cross and impatient at first. Perhaps he had his worries too—a wife and children? A mortgage? A car that hadn’t passed its MOT? She dozed off without bothering to answer her own questions.

Two days later she packed her shoulder-bag, fastened Podge into his basket and went home, a fairly simple journey since the hospital was in the East End and on the South Bank of the Thames; Waterloo Station was a short bus ride away and there was a local train service to Eynsford.

She sat in the train, one hand on Podge’s basket, and looked out at the Kent countryside, quiet and still green under the autumn sun. One day, she promised herself, she would leave London and get a post in a country town—Canterbury, perhaps, Rochester, even Tunbridge Wells, none of them too far away from her home. She would have a Sister’s post, of course… Her thoughts became woolly; she had been up all night and, even though she would have a nap when she got home, she still had to get there. She pulled her tired wits together as the train drew into the station, and got out.

Her father lived on the edge of the village. She passed the old Tollhouse at the junction of Sparepenny Lane with the road leading to the ford, and turned down a lane leading to a row of charming cottages. The end one was home; Emily went up the short garden path between the neglected flowerbeds and opened the solid wooden door.

Her father was sitting in his wheelchair, reading; with the kettle boiling its head off too. Emily put Podge’s basket down, kissed her father, turned off the gas under the kettle and cast off her outdoor things.

Her father surveyed her with pleasure. ‘What a delightful surprise, Emily! You’re here for a few days?’

He couldn’t disguise the eagerness in his voice and she answered quickly, ‘Nights off, Father; four whole days after today. I’ll make us a cup of coffee and you can bring me up to date with all the news. How are you?’

Mr Grenfell eyed her lovingly. ‘Managing very well, my dear. Night duty finished? Have you been very busy?’

They exchanged their news over coffee while Podge, who had been there before, crept around reviving his memory of the place. Satisfied that it hadn’t changed, he drank the saucer of milk he was offered and curled up on a chair in the sun.

Emily drank her coffee in sleepy content; it was lovely to be home again. She glanced round the comfortable, rather shabby room, at the comfortable chairs, the Welsh dresser with its complement of rather nice china plates and dishes, the balloon-backed chairs with their mid-Victorian seats which somehow looked quite right with the cricket table. The room was a hotch-potch of charming antique furniture, which, after years of being together, blended nicely. Emily’s eye noted the dust under the dresser; after a good night’s sleep she would give the cottage a thorough clean. Mrs Owen was a dear old thing and willing and very kind, but she had neither the time nor the strength to do more than tidy up each day.

Because she had wanted to talk about him ever since she had met him, Emily told her father about the man who had almost knocked her over on that wet and windy morning. She made a joke of it and joined in her father’s amusement, but somewhere deep inside her that wistful longing to meet him again was definitely there. Only, she told herself, so that she could see if she liked him; after that she would forget him; he was too unsettling.

Not too difficult to forget him during the next day or two, as it turned out. Her days were full as she polished and Hoovered, dug the garden and weeded and played bezique with her father. She renewed friendships in the village too, with people who had known her since she was a little girl and who were full of kindly curiosity about her life in London. Emily answered them all in her friendly, matter-of-fact way, told them frankly that she had no young man and no prospect of one either, and lent a sympathetic ear to complaints of illness, naughty children and tiresome grandparents. Perhaps she should be a health visitor or something similar, she mused as she walked back home.

The evening before she went back to the hospital, she and her father had a talk. He had already told her that his arthritis was getting slowly worse, certainly more painful, and although he had made light of it, she sensed his worry.

‘Would it be possible to mortgage the cottage?’

‘My dear child, that’s been done some years ago—your mother’s illness…’

‘There’s nothing we can sell?’

‘There would be very little money left by the time I’d redeemed the mortgage, my dear, and how could we afford to find a house to rent, or even a flat?’ He added slowly, ‘I could go into a geriatric ward…’

‘Over my dead body!’ declared Emily. ‘Let’s keep on as we are and hope for the best.’

She hated leaving her father. London, sprawling to meet her as she sat in the train, looked drab. She was aware that large parts of the city were elegant, with spacious squares and quiet streets lined with lovely old houses, and sometimes on her nights off she would take a bus to St James’s Park, eat her sandwiches there, and then roam the neighbouring streets. A very different London from the one in which she worked and lived.

Back in hospital, the notice board informed her that she was to go to the Men’s Orthopaedic Ward in six days’ time—day duty, of course. Crowded round the notice as she and the other night nurses were on their way to the wards, she was surprised to hear cries of envy from such of her friends as were being posted at the same time.

’emily, you lucky creature!’ declared the pretty student nurse who was to report to Women’s Surgical. ‘You’ll see that new consultant!’

Emily turned away from the noticeboard. ‘You can have him as far as I’m concerned,’ she observed matter-of-factly, ‘though I like the idea of Orthopaedics.’

A nice change from the medical ladies, mostly chronic bronchitis, bad hearts and diabetes and, by the very nature of their illnesses, dispirited. Emily was a shy girl, but nursing a man was quite a different matter from socialising; she was completely at ease with her patients, but put them into their clothes and let her meet them away from their beds, outside the hospital, and she became a quiet, mouselike girl with no conversation. Yet she was liked at Pearson’s; the students and the young housemen looked upon her as a rather silent sister, always ready to make cocoa or cut them a sandwich if they had been called out during the night. But none of them had ever asked her out.

Her last few nights on duty were busy ones; a sudden influx of elderly ladies with nasty chests, naturally enough sorry for themselves, anxious about husbands they had left to manage on their own, cats and dogs dependent upon neighbours and uncertain as to whether they had turned off the gas. Emily soothed and encouraged, listened endlessly to their worries and even, for one old lady, offered to go to her nearby flat and make sure that the canary was being properly fed. It made her late, which was why Mr van Tecqx saw her on the way home. He had walked to the hospital since it was a fine day and he was nearing it as she hurried down the street towards the Underground. She had a plastic bag under one arm and was so deep in thought that she didn’t see him. She was, as she so often was, engaged in mental arithmetic.

She spent her nights off turning out her room and reading up Orthopaedics so that at least she would have some idea about that branch of nursing. The Sister on the ward was reputed to be an old tartar but a splendid nurse. Even the more lively of her companions had declared that they would go anywhere but Orthopaedics, although now that the mysterious consultant was there they were prepared to change their ideas. Emily, if given the chance, would quite cheerfully have exchanged a posting with any one of them.

She climbed the staircase in plenty of time on her first morning of day duty. Sister Cook set great store by punctuality and, although she wouldn’t be on duty until half an hour after the nursing staff, she invariably asked her staff nurses if there had been any latecomers.

In her first year, Emily had spent six weeks on the women’s side, but since she had had very little to do with the actual treatment of the patients then, what knowledge she had gleaned was of little use to her now.

Staff Nurse Ash was a large comforting type. ‘You’ll soon get the hang of things,’ she assured Emily. ‘Don’t worry if Sister Cook blasts your head off, it’s just her way. We’ve just got time to go round the ward before she comes on duty.’

All the beds were occupied and most of them had various frames and cradles to support or protect the inmates’ broken bones. They were a cheerful lot of men, calling up and down the ward to each other, joking with Staff Nurse Ash, and wishing Emily cheerful good mornings. It was a far cry from Women’s Medical; she was going to like it.

She wasn’t quite so sure an hour later. Sister Cook was in a testy mood that morning; she disliked having her nurses changed, and here was a girl who didn’t look capable of the quite heavy work she would be expected to do. True, her reports from the other wards were good, but she looked as if a strong breeze would knock her down. Sister Cook, a big woman herself, rather despised the smaller members of her sex.

Over coffee in the canteen, Emily was questioned by her friends. They brushed aside her comments about Sister Cook and the patients; they wanted to know if the Dutch consultant had been on the ward, and if so, was he as marvellous as rumour had it?

Emily hadn’t seen him. There had been a couple of housemen who had been friendly and there was a consultant’s round at eleven o’clock, but she had no idea who was going to take it. With a customary eye on the clock she hurried back to the ward.

There was an hour before the round was due to start. Sister Cook marched up and down the ward, her hawklike eye searching out every small defect which might spoil the perfection of it. A junior nurse had already retired into the sluice room in tears, it just needed someone to trip over a Balkan Beam or drop a bowl; heaven forfend that she would be the one to do it, thought Emily with unhappy memories of the French consultant who had been so scathing about her clumsiness.

The ward clock pointed to eleven and the ward doors swung open. Sister Cook had taken up her position facing it; behind her stood the staff nurse, Nurse Ashe, and the junior staff nurse, both holding X-rays, Path Lab forms and all the paraphernalia necessary for the round, and behind them stood Emily, entrusted with a small trolley upon which were laid out, in an orderly fashion, the patients’ notes.

It was a very good thing that they were laid out so neatly on the trolley, for when the door was thrust open and she saw who it was who came in, she would have dropped the lot if she had been holding on to them. The man who had almost knocked her down, no less, looking quite different in a dark grey suit of impeccable design, looming head and shoulders above the group of people milling about him; his Registrar, his housemen, medical students, the rather hearty lady from Physiotherapy and the social worker, the whole party swollen by Sister Cook, her staff nurses and Emily, trying to look as though she wasn’t there. Not that she needed to worry; his gaze swept over her with no sign of recognition.

The round pursued its usual course with frequent pauses to assess a patient’s mobility, lengthy arguments as to treatments, and even longer pauses while Mr van Tecqx listened patiently to the complaints, fears and doubts of the occupants of the beds. It took all of an hour, and the smell of the patients’ dinners was strong from the ward kitchen as they all halted at the doors and polite exchanges were made before the consultant’s posse moved off down the corridor.

‘Nurse Grenfell, take the patients’ charts back to my Office.’ Sister Cook was already sailing in the opposite direction, intent on ticking off a patient who had had the temerity to complain to the consultant, of all people, about the breakfast porridge.

Emily escaped thankfully. It had been exciting meeting the man again, and thank heaven he hadn’t recognised her, although it had been pretty mean of him to let her ramble on about her work when he was working at Pearson’s himself.

She gained the office and started to stack the notes exactly as Sister liked them. She was almost finished when the door opened and Mr van Tecqx walked in.

Emily dropped the notes she was holding and said with a snap, ‘There, look what you’ve made me do!’ and then she remembered who she was talking to.

Her, ‘Sorry, sir,’ was polite but insincere, and she got down on to the floor and started to pick up the scattered sheets.

He got down beside her, taking up so much room that the Office seemed very small indeed. ‘Surprised to see me?’ he asked.

‘Yes—well, yes, of course I am. I never imagined—you could have told me…’ She took the papers from him and got to her feet. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to you. Sister Cook will…’

‘No, she won’t.’ He had taken the notes from her again and was arranging them tidily in their folder. ‘Do you like this ward?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

He stared down at her, neat and rather prim. ‘I can see that if we are to get anywhere conversationally, it will have to be away from this place. I’ll be outside at eight o’clock this evening; we’ll go somewhere and eat and exchange our life histories.’

Emily goggled up at his placid face. ‘But we can’t! Besides,’ she added with some spirit, ‘I haven’t a life history.’

When he didn’t say anything, only smiled at her, she went on, ‘This just won’t do, you know. I must go back on the ward…’

He opened the door for her. ‘Eight o’clock,’ he reminded her as she edged past him.

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY HAD NO intention of doing anything of the sort; she told herself that a dozen times during the day. It was absurd anyway—how could she possibly go out with anyone in the elderly coat she wore to work? She would have had a long day and she would be tired and her hair would look awful. He must have been joking—but just to be on the safe side, she would go out through the side entrance. She would have to nip across the back of the entrance hall to reach it, but no one would see her.

All the same, she rushed back to her room during her three hours off after midday dinner, saw to Podge, washed her hair and, while it was drying, did her nails. Not because she had any intention of accepting Mr van Tecqx’s surprising invitation, indeed she still wasn’t sure if it was a joke. And she was far too busy to speculate about that during the evening; there were arms and legs to prepare ready for operation in the morning and supper to serve, and since both staff nurses were off duty and she was on with Sister Cook, there was the added complication of keeping out of that lady’s way as much as possible.

At length she was allowed to go, and skipped through the corridors and down the stairs to the cloakroom, where she bundled on her coat and with no thought as to her appearance, hurried down the back stairs to the back of the entrance hall. It was empty, although she could see Briggs’ bald head in his lodge. Quelling a wish to go out of the entrance and have supper with Mr van Tecqx even as, she strongly suspected, he wouldn’t be waiting for her, Emily nipped across the hall and opened the side door used by the staff and those fortunate enough to travel in their own cars.

The Bentley was parked exactly outside the door and Mr van Tecqx was leaning against its bonnet. Emily would have bounced back inside, only he was beside her before she could do so.

‘I am much encouraged,’ he told her, ‘to find that we think alike—you, that you would escape by this door, and I quite certain of it. Come along, now, I’m hungry.’

Emily stood outside the door, his hand on her arm. ‘Look, Mr van Tecqx, this really won’t do—you’re a consultant and I’m not even trained…’

A silly sort of remark, she realised as soon as she had uttered it. She tried again. ‘I can’t possibly go out with you in this.’ She waved a hand at her coat.

‘Well, of course you can’t. I’ll drive you to your lodgings and wait while you tidy yourself. You can have ten minutes; I’ve booked a table for half past eight.’

She made no effort to move. ‘You were sure I would come?’

‘No, that’s why I waited here.’ He smiled at her suddenly, which somehow made it perfectly normal to be going out to supper with him, although she was convinced that when she had the time to think about it she would be horrified. ‘Student nurses just don’t go out with consultants,’ she voiced her thoughts out loud.

‘There is always a first time.’

He popped her into the car and got in beside her.

Outside her gate she said, ‘I’m sorry I can’t ask you in—I’ve only got one room…’

For answer he got out of the car and went to open the door for her. ‘Ten minutes,’ he reminded her carefully.

Emily fed Podge, washed her face and made it up rather sketchily, then tore into her only decent dress—navy blue needlecord, bought in a C & A sale. Her coat was navy blue too, almost as elderly as the one she wore to work but neatly brushed and pressed. Her hair she brushed and tied back with a ribbon, as there was no time to pin it up. She thrust her feet into her one pair of high-heeled shoes, caught up her handbag and gloves, patted Podge and told him to be a good boy, and went out of the house followed by Mrs Winter’s shrill voice.

‘Got yerself a boyfriend, dearie? ’Ave a nice evening!’

If Mr van Tecqx heard her he gave no sign, merely remarked that punctuality was a virtue he seldom met with among his female acquaintances and stowed Emily into the car again.

He took her to Bubb’s, just off the Farringdon Road and only a short distance away from Pearson’s, and she was relieved to find that the people dining there were dressed very much as she was. The navy blue outfit, dull though it was, had the virtue of being inconspicuous. But she forgot to be shy in her companion’s placid company; he talked as easily as anything about this and that, ordered her a sherry and told her to order what she fancied, and when she tried to make a bewildered choice, offered to do it for her: salmon mousse on a bed of lettuce, breast of chicken in an aspic glaze, accompanied by a variety of vegetables, followed by nougat glacé with strawberries and topped with cream.

The good food loosened her tongue, and, skilfully drawn out by her companion, Emily talked, something she hadn’t done so freely with anyone for a very long time, but somehow her companion gave the impression of being a comfortable listener, putting questions just at the right moment, saying little. She was carried away, what with the delicacies which she was offered, the wine she was drinking and Mr van Tecqx’s gentle interest. She was on the point of telling him her plans for her father when common sense took over and she stopped in mid-sentence.

Mr van Tecqx studied her face, on which a look of shocked wariness had settled. ‘Yes?’ he prompted softly.

‘Oh, nothing—I can’t remember what I was going to say, it wasn’t in the least important. I hope I haven’t bored you, Mr van Tecqx; this wine doesn’t taste as strong as the bottle we got from the supermarket when Staff Nurse had her birthday…but I’m not used to drinking wine…’

Mr van Tecqx preserved an admirable calm. To anyone who compared the very expensive Chablis Grand Cru with something cheap probably chosen because of its pretty label, he would have been scathing in his opinion of such gross ignorance, but all he did was agree with her blandly, and when she added in her sensible way, ‘I’m afraid it made me talk too much,’ said politely,

‘Not at all, Emily—you don’t mind if I call you Emily?’

She shook her head. ‘Everyone does.’ She hesitated. ‘Why did you ask me to have dinner with you, Mr van Tecqx?’

‘I’m a stranger in a strange land, and you have a kind appearance, Emily.’

It seemed to her that he was quite at home in London; his English was only very faintly accented, he knew his way around the city and if Staff Nurse was to be believed, he delivered scholarly lectures at hospitals other than Pearson’s. She stared at him across the table. Because of the wine she had drunk his handsome features were slightly fuzzy round the edges, but even so, he was by far the most magnificent man she had ever met. She said now, ‘You must have a great many friends.’

‘Indeed, I have. Now, Emily, what was it you were going to tell me?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember…’

‘About your father?’ he prompted gently.

Her denial was instant, ‘No, no, it wasn’t anything…’

He had already discovered where she lived, now he observed, ‘You must miss village life—Pearson’s is situated in very drab surroundings. You look forward to your days off, I expect.’

Emily poured them more coffee. ‘Oh, yes—only I don’t go home each week.’ She stopped again, her wretched tongue tripping along ahead of her wits. She expected him to ask, ‘And why not?’ Only he didn’t, knowing that she wasn’t going to tell him anyway.

He said easily: ‘It is always a surprise to me that there is such charming country so close to London. Even in London itself—Hampstead and Richmond—one could almost be living in the country.’

She was on safe ground again; they did discuss London and its environs, until she said diffidently that she had to be in by eleven o’clock. ‘I haven’t an outdoor key, and Mrs Winter is very strict about us being in by then unless we make special arrangements.’

‘There are other people living there?’

‘Oh, yes, there are six rooms—she calls them flatlets and she’s fussy about the tenants.’

‘And you have a flatlet?’

There was no point in pretending. ‘Well, no. Just a room—it’s the attic really. But I’ve a sink and a little stove. It’s quite cosy.’ She uttered the lie cheerfully, relieved to see that he accepted it without comment, paid the bill and settled her in the car once more.

At her gate she said, ‘Please don’t get out—there’s no need.’

A waste of breath, for he went with her up the path and opened the street door, to be confronted by Mrs Winter standing at the top of the basement stairs. ‘There you are—I was jus’ wondering?’ She eyed Mr van Tecqx with belligerence. ‘Me tenants ‘as ter be in by eleven o’clock unless there’s an arrangement made.’

‘Very wise,’ said Mr van Tecqx. ‘I am relieved to hear it. One cannot be too careful.’ He looked down at Emily, standing silently beside him. ‘Thank you for a delightful evening, Emily.’

She was very conscious of Mrs Winter’s interested eyes. ‘Thank you for my dinner, Mr van Tecqx, I enjoyed the evening very much. Goodnight.’

He answered her unsmilingly, bade Mrs Winter goodnight and went away, shutting the door quietly behind him. Mrs Winter secured the bolts.

‘Wot did yer ’ave ter eat?’ she asked.

Podge was waiting impatiently when Emily reached her room. She gave him his warm milk, got ready for bed and made a pot of tea while she told him about her evening. He sat, tidying his whiskers, his round eyes on her face, and when she observed in a puzzled voice, ‘I can’t think why he asked me out; Podge, even if he was lonely. I’m quite sure he must know lots of pretty girls with the right clothes…’ he jumped on to her lap and butted her with his round head, offering a sympathy he felt was needed.

‘Although,’ went on Emily, thinking aloud, ‘I ought to feel over the moon, oughtn’t I?’

She got into bed, and with Podge curled up on her feet, went to sleep at once. In the morning, hurrying through the usual routine, the previous evening seemed like a distant dream.

That was how it was going to stay, she decided sensibly. She had let her tongue run away with her and told Mr van Tecqx far too much about herself, while he had remained reticent about himself. She blushed at the thought.

Even if she had wanted to, she was given no opportunity of saying so much as a ‘Good morning, sir,’ for the best part of the week. True, he appeared at his rounds, but she was not on duty for all of them, and when she was, she did no more than hand case sheets, hovering on the fringe of the group making its steady way from bed to bed, and once or twice when she had seen him as she hurried to the dispensary or the laundry at Sister’s command it had seemed to her that he had deliberately not seen her. She had plenty of good sense; she told herself that it was only to be expected. Just because he had taken her out—no doubt on a sudden whim—it didn’t mean to say that he had any interest in her. They didn’t move in the same circles, a fact brought home to him when he had accompanied her to her lodgings. With good sense Emily bundled all thought of him to the back of her head, and even though his image popped out again far too often for her peace of mind, she thrust it back where it belonged—with her vague daydreams of the future.

The ward was full and a number of patients needed careful and constant nursing. Two burly young men who had fallen from a scaffolding on a high-rise block of flats had fractured spines, both with a degree of paralysis; they were nursed on ripple beds and had to be turned every two hours; no easy task and a continuous drain on the nurses’ time, and, more than that, they had to be kept cheerful until such time as the paralysis should give way to the return of sensation. At the other end of the ward there was another young man recovering from the laminectomy which Mr van Tecqx had recently performed. A sprinkling of broken arms and legs and three fractured skulls made up the ward’s inhabitants, most of them recovering nicely, but it was heavy work, and several times Emily saw Sister Cook looking at her in a thoughtful way, measuring her small person against the immovable arms and legs and backs and doubtless wondering if Emily would hold out. Which made Emily work all the harder, but it was worth it. She was learning as she worked, and even though she hadn’t laughed all the way to the bank on pay-day, at least she smiled widely when she saw her nest-egg swell with the latest contribution.

What made it even more worth while was the discovery that one of the spinal fractures wiggled his toes as she was bed-bathing him. Even Sister Cook smiled at her and observed with slightly less acidity than usual that Emily had been most observant in her work. The Registrar was sent for and he in his turn requested the presence of Mr van Tecqx.

It was after he had finished his examination and expressed his opinion that his patient was on the mend, standing at the foot of the bed with Sister, his Registrar and, since Staff Nurse wasn’t available, Emily, that he addressed her. ‘You are to be commended for your sharp eyes, Nurse.’ She gave a slight smile and he gave her a kindly smile as he walked away.

Emily went pink and a nearby patient with his leg slung up on a Balkan Beam said indignantly, ‘Well, I’ll be blowed! ‘E could at least ’ave given you a pat on the shoulder, ducks.’

Emily gave him a severe look. ‘Certainly not, Mr Crump, that wouldn’t do at all—besides, any one of us could have been me.’

Upon which muddled speech she tucked him in with a brisk motherliness and started off down the ward. She was met half-way by one of the first-year nurses. ’emily, you’re to go to Sister’s Office—’ She paused to take a breath. ‘He’s there!’

‘Who’s he?’ But Emily knew without being told. Was she going to be ticked off about something she should or should not have done? She was casting round anxiously in her mind as she pushed open the door of the Office to find Sister, Henry Parker, looking amused, and Mr van Tecqx, looking bland.

It was Sister who spoke. ‘Nurse Grenfell, Mr van Tecqx has made a suggestion to me which I’m sure will gratify you. It seems that he has to drive past your home on your day off—tomorrow—and offers to give you a lift. It’s most kind of him, and I’m sure you will be delighted to accept his most generous offer.’

Emily cast a quick look at him. He was gazing out of the window at the vista of chimneypots, just as though the conversation had nothing to do with him. She felt tempted to refuse since his offer, given second-hand as it were, held no vestige of interest, but on the other hand an unexpected chance to go home wasn’t to be missed. She said with polite woodenness, ‘Thank you, Sister, I shall be most grateful to have a lift home.’

Mr van Tecqx turned away from his scrutiny of the hospital’s environment. There was a faint tremor at the corners of his firm mouth which might have been the beginnings of a smile. ‘My pleasure, Nurse. No doubt Sister will be kind enough to give you the details at her convenience.’

Sister Cook gave a regal nod. ‘Certainly, sir. You may go, Nurse.’

Emily went.

She had to wait until the evening, when she was about to go off duty, before Sister Cook sailed down the ward towards her. ‘Trouble on the way,’ warned a patient sotto voce. The patients liked her, she was such a scrap of a thing and yet nothing was too much trouble for her. She pinched out a cigarette from a patient’s hand and turned a calm face to her superior.

‘I smell smoke,’ declared Sister Cook, and cast a suspicious look around her. She allowed smoking on the ward, but only at hours dictated by herself.

‘It’s always rather smoky at this time in the evening,’ volunteered Emily in her calm way. ‘I suppose it’s all the chimneys and people coming home from work. Shall I close the windows, Sister?’

Sister Cook had a thing about fresh air, even though it wasn’t all that fresh in that part of London. She said no quite sharply and added, ‘I have a message for you, Nurse Grenfell. Mr van Tecqx will be outside your flat a half past eight in the morning. Don’t keep him waiting, Nurse. He’s a busy man.’

Emily was ready and waiting when she saw the car stop before her lodgings in the morning. She picked up her overnight bag, took a grip of Podge’s basket, and went down to the front door. Mr van Tecqx was on the step, searching in vain for a bell or a knocker. She wished him good morning politely and he said sharply, ‘For heaven’s sake stop calling me Sir with every other breath!’

She got into the car and watched him stow Podge on the back seat. ‘Why ever not?’ she asked him. ‘I’m expected to do so.’

‘Not by me, you’re not, not when we are away from Pearson’s. I must say I find it very tiresome having to ignore you or at best look through you when I’m on my rounds.’

A remark which surprised Emily so much that she stayed silent while he settled beside her and drove off. As though he had read her thoughts he went on, ‘If I were to show the least sign of interest in you, Sister Cook would pounce. In her eyes, consultants and student nurses don’t mix; the fact that they are men and women as well has no bearing on the matter from her point of view.’

Emily said, ‘Oh, yes,’ rather inadequately.

‘So next time I ignore you on the ward you will know why.’

She sought for a suitable reply and came up with, ‘Oh—really?’

She heard him sigh and sought for a topic of conversation. Manners mattered, her mother had always told her, and she had always tried to remember that. ‘Are you going to Dover?’ she asked.

‘No—I have friends in Biddenden.’

The silence lasted a little too long. Emily tried again. ‘The country around there is charming, and Biddenden is charming too…’

They were going down the A20 towards Swanley; the road was moderately free from traffic and Mr van Tecqx was driving fast. ‘Tell me about your father?’ he invited.

‘My father?’ repeated Emily stupidly. ‘What do you mean—what do you know about him? I never…’

‘My dear girl, I have ways of finding out the things I wish to know. How long has he been waiting for hip replacements?’

Emily ignored him. ‘What do you know about my father—how dare you snoop…?’

‘My dear girl, I never snoop—I have no need to do so. I had occasion to discuss a patient with your father’s doctor and in the course of conversation mentioned that you were a nurse at Pearson’s and that he might know you. He told me of your father’s condition.’

Emily cast him a quick look. His profile was calm, his voice had been uninterested, there was no reason to doubt his word. She said reluctantly: ‘I’m sorry. He’s been waiting for more than a year and it will be another year before there’s a bed for him.’

‘That is the National Health?’ asked Mr van Tecqx gently.

‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I found out how much it would cost for him to be a private patient—it would save a year of waiting.’

‘So he will go privately?’

‘Well, yes…’

‘As soon as you have saved the money?’ Mr van Tecqx’s voice was so quiet she barely heard it.

‘Yes.’

He nodded. ‘Do you know your doctor’s number?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Then ring him up now on the car phone, will you, and ask him to meet us at your father’s house in—let me see—half an hour’s time.’

Emily made no move to do as he had asked. ‘Why?’

‘Let us not waste time. Your GP can call me in for consultation—I’ll have a look at your father and see what can be done.’

She said a little wildly, ‘But there are no beds—I asked. Two years, they said, and I haven’t saved enough money.’

‘The phone, Emily.’ His voice held a note she didn’t care to argue with. She did as she was bidden and then sat silent until they reached Eynsford.

‘You have to go up Sparepenny Lane and past the Tollhouse—it’s the row of cottages a bit further on,’ she told him.

Dr Mason was already there. Emily kissed her father, was greeted cheerfully by the doctor and introduced Mr vanTecqx, who nodded at the doctor, remarking that they were acquainted, and then shook hands with her father.

Her father was not in the least surprised to see him. Dr Mason, he explained to Emily, had arranged it all and he for his part was delighted. ‘Although I dare say I shall still have another year or two to wait, but just to be told by you, Mr van Tecqx, that there’s a possibility of success is a great encouragement.’

Emily, swamped in the unexpectedness of it all and vaguely suspicious at the same time, allowed her parent to suggest that she might go along to the kitchen and make coffee for everyone. ‘And don’t hurry back,’ begged Mr Grenfell. ‘We can manage very nicely.’

Emily gave Mr van Tecqx a speaking glance and did as she was told. Matters for the moment at least, were out of her hands.

There was plenty to do in the kitchen. She arranged a tray, ground the coffee and set it in the old percolator on to the gas stove. Mrs Owen had been that morning, for the dishes were washed and stacked neatly, but the sink needed a good scrub and her idea of cleaning the floor wasn’t Emily’s. Emily took off her outdoor things, donned an apron and set to work. She was washing her hands at the now pristine sink when her father called to her to bring in the coffee. She had got a little untidy as she worked, but beyond tucking a stray lock of hair behind an ear, she had no time for more; she bore in the tray which Mr van Tecqx took for her and set on the table under the window.

It was very vexing that the three men were discussing cricket and showed no sign of changing the conversation. She handed out cups, sugar and biscuits and sat composedly, seething inwardly. It seemed a long time before Dr Mason put down his cup and saucer, declared that he still had the rest of his patients to see and he would leave them all to make the arrangements. He shook Mr Grenfell’s hand, gave Emily a friendly pat on the back with the injunction to be a good girl, then shook hands with Mr van Tecqx. ‘Give me a ring when you’re ready and I’ll fix things this end. I’m greatly obliged to you, Sebastian.’

Emily, itching to hear what they had all been discussing, was momentarily diverted by the idea of Mr van Tecqx being called Sebastian. She wondered if his friends called him Seb and decided that they wouldn’t dare—he would fix them with a glare from the blue eyes which were almost always half hidden by heavy lids. She studied him from where she sat. He must be around thirty-five, she supposed; his fair hair had a good deal of silver in it…

He had turned his head to look at her and she went bright pink and looked away, wishing fervently that she didn’t blush so easily.

‘I must admire your patience, Emily.’ He came and sat down between her and her father. ‘I think we might operate on your father within the next week or so.’

She sat up very straight. ‘But I—where will he go? Sister said there wasn’t a bed for months…’ She looked at her father. ‘Father, do explain!’

‘Well, dear, I think Mr van Tecqx can do that better than I. I shall leave it to him.’

‘Ah, yes—Emily, if you will walk with me to the car we can settle matters easily enough.’

Out of her father’s hearing she said urgently, ‘I don’t understand, and there you were talking about cricket…it’s all very well stating you’ll operate. Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but you don’t understand—it’ll have to be private, of course, and the thing is I haven’t saved enough money—it will be at least four or five months, and you might not be here then.’

‘No, I shan’t. Your father can have a bed in a private hospital where I sometimes send patients, and I will operate there, and he can convalesce in a rest home—there is a good one just outside Richmond.’

Emily stopped herself just in time from wringing her hands. ‘But you don’t understand!’ They were standing by the car and she stared up anxiously into his face.

‘If you would just trust me, Emily. I have to go—I’m already late—but I shall come for you tomorrow evening and I will explain. There will be no question of fees, but I want to strike a bargain with you. More about that later.’ With which infuriatingly unhelpful remark he got into his car and drove off.

Her father was just as unhelpful, not meaning to be but wanting to discuss every aspect of the operation and what it would mean in the future.

‘I must say,’ he observed happily to Emily, ‘it’s extremely good of Mr van Tecqx to make an operation possible. It seems he has beds at his disposal at some private hospital and the opportunity to operate before he returns to Holland. I mentioned fees, but he said he’d come to some arrangement with you, my dear. I dare say you can pull a few strings with the National Health people?’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Nursing must have its perks!’

Emily agreed cheerfully. There was no point in voicing her doubts and it was really wonderful to see her father so happy.

It was impossible to worry all the time. She cooked and cleaned and shopped in the village, then went for a rambling walk to go home in the gathering dusk to cook their supper and feed Podge, and her simple chores soothed her so that by the time Mr van Tecqx arrived at the gate she was prepared to hear whatever it was that he wanted to say.

He had arrived earlier than she had expected—he had said he would fetch her in the evening, but it was barely four o’clock and she had just made the tea. Probably he had a date in town, she decided, and invited him to have a cup of tea which she assured him was ready, and she was also quite ready to leave.

When he had drunk his tea and eaten a good deal of the cake she had made he still made no move to go. Instead, much to Emily’s surprise, he suggested that she might accompany him on a brief walk. ‘There are things which I have to say to you,’ he concluded.

‘Oh, well—all right. But don’t you have to get back to town? I thought that as you were here so early…’ She faltered at the smile and amused look on his face.

‘Of course I have to get back—so do you; that’s why I’m here so early.’

He waited patiently while she got her coat, tied a scarf around her head and made sure that her father was comfortable, and then accompanied him down the path and into the lane.

‘Somewhere quiet?’ he suggested.

‘Down the lane to the end; there’s a bridle path we can take, it will bring us out on the other side of the Tollhouse—about twenty minutes or so.’

‘Excellent.’

He had nothing to say for a minute or so and she prompted him with, ‘You want to strike a bargain?’

He was walking at his own pace, so that she had difficulty in keeping up with him. ‘Yes. I’m prepared to operate upon your father—both hips—within the next week or two. Neither I nor the anaesthetist nor the private hospital where I propose he should be will require fees, although I do ask something in return. I have a young sister—the youngest of four—nineteen years old. She contracted polio last year and is making a slow recovery—too slow for her. She is impatient, given to bouts of rage and fits of depression. She is wearing my mother down, and a succession of nurses come and go with predictable rapidity. She needs someone of her own age, someone calm and kind and patient and at the same time firm. She is a dear girl, make no mistake, and she will make an almost complete recovery; but at the moment she has stopped trying; she needs something new to get her going again. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Oh, perfectly.’ They were walking along the bridle path side by side. ‘But, Mr Van Tecqx, I’m not trained—I have another year to do. I’m not free, even if I wanted to be.’

‘I can arrange that.’

‘I have no doubt of that,’ Emily’s voice was dry. ‘But what about me? Am I to start all over again once your sister is well again?’

‘No. I think it can be arranged that you will need to do only an extra six months to complete your training after you have done your third year.’

‘And if I don’t agree?’ She stopped to look at him. ‘You won’t operate?’

His voice was silky. ‘My sister is very dear to me, Emily, and I imagine that your father is also dear to you. It amounts to this: You will help me and I shall help you.’

‘Yes, but there must be dozens of nurses who would do just as well as I would.’

‘Probably. Do you know dozens of surgeons who are willing to operate upon your father? Just think, Emily; within a few months he will have the use of his legs again; he will be able to walk to the village, go for rambles, even get a part-time job if he wishes—drive a car…’

‘It’s blackmail,’ she said fiercely.

He agreed blandly. ‘What is more, you will have to trust me completely, Emily. I give you my word that everything needful will be done for your father and that when, eventually, you are ready to return to nursing, you will be given every opportunity to take your exams at the earliest possible moment.’

They had gained the lane once more and were passing the Tollhouse; in another five minutes they would be back at her home. ‘Podge,’ said Emily suddenly.

‘I have a housekeeper who looks after me when I am in London. Would you consent to her looking after Podge while you are away?’

‘He might run away.’

‘Mrs Twig will take great care of him. He is not a very adventurous cat, is he? He has known hard times and he isn’t likely to leave a comfortable home.’

She said sharply, ‘You make it all sound so easy.’

‘As it is.’ They had arrived back at the cottage and had paused outside its door.

‘How long will it take—the operation on Father and then his convalescence?’

‘He will be on his feet by Christmas.’

‘And your sister?’

‘That will depend largely on you. But you have my word that the moment she is able to cope with life once more, you shall return to England. You will, of course, be paid a salary; you will not suffer financially.’

Emily was back at her old habit of doing sums in her head. She wouldn’t need to touch her savings—once she got back home she and her father would be able to have a holiday, a decent one at a hotel with no cheeseparing, and she would be able to live at the hospital again. She drew a deep breath. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

He held out a large hand and she put hers into it. Probably she would wake up in the night and regret what she was doing, but just at that moment the whole plan seemed very sensible and easy, and above all, exactly what she had hoped for for her father.

‘I shall operate at the end of next week; your father will have limited walking exercise after twenty-four hours, his stitches will come out after a week or ten days and he will be home again before three weeks. The joint should be normal at the end of three months. I’ll do the second hip then.’

‘Yes, but who’s going to look after him? I won’t be at home, will I? He can’t stay in the hospital for months!’

‘I know just the person to look after him. If you will agree, she can move in and look after your father. A retired nurse, middle-aged and a very good cook.’

‘But it will all cost so much—I mean, even without your fees.’

‘Ah, you forget, I shall deduct an agreed sum from your salary while you are looking after my sister.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Trust me, Emily, I’m not offering you charity! You will pay for it—probably more than you bargain for—my sister won’t be easy. There is still time for you to change your mind.’

She shook her head. ‘I shan’t do that. You see, it’s something I’ve wanted so badly for a long time—to have my father back on his feet again. I’ll do my best with your sister, really I will.’

‘I know that. Shall we tell your father the plans? He will probably have plans of his own to work out.’

‘Yes, all right. Do you want to leave as soon as possible?’

‘Well, I was rather hoping that I might share your supper.’ He contrived to sound both hungry and lonely, ‘I’ll talk to your father while you cook.’

A couple of hours later, sitting beside Mr van Tecqx, being driven back to Pearson’s, Emily did her best to gather her scattered wits together into some sort of order. It all sounded so easy when he talked about it, but she saw snags at every turn. ‘Do I have to go to the office?’ she asked suddenly.

‘Eventually, but I will see the Senior Nursing Officer tomorrow morning; she will send for you, I dare say. You would like to stay till your father is home again, wouldn’t you? I can arrange for you to leave in about three weeks’ time, you will be able to see him settled with Mrs Philips. Don’t worry about getting to Holland; I will deal with that and then let you know.’ Emily stirred restlessly and he added quietly, ‘Just take one thing at a time, Emily.’

When they reached her digs, he got out of the car, took her overnight bag from her, opened the front door and went in with her. In the narrow hall with Mrs Winter’s door open a crack so that she could hear every word, Emily said hastily, ‘Thank you for the lift, Mr van Tecqx.’

‘I’m coming up, just to see you safely in.’ He had raised his voice deliberately, ‘You can’t manage Podge and your bag.’

He stood beside her in her room, taking in its shabbiness and not saying a word. But when he turned to go he paused and dropped a kiss on her cheek. She uttered a surprised goodnight to an empty room.

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