The Edge of Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You gave the anaesthetic…’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I wanted to see you again.’

‘You said that last time.’

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

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

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

Araminta, her mouth full, nodded.

‘And the man with him?’

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

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

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

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

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

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