Roses for Christmas. Бетти Нилс
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diets and diabetic diets, she pondered how she could get out of having lunch with Fulk. She wasn’t quite sure why it was so important that she should escape going with him, because actually she liked the idea very much, and even when, as usual, she was battling with Miss Tremble about the amount of ham on her plate, a small part of her brain was still hard at work trying to discover the reason. All the same, she told herself that her determination not to go was strong enough to enable her to make some excuse.
She was trying to think of one as she went back to her office with Jill, to give her a brief run-down of jobs to be done during the next hour—a waste of time, as it turned out, for Fulk was there, standing idly looking out of the window. He had assumed his consultant’s manner once more, too, so that Eleanor found it difficult to utter the refusal she had determined upon. Besides, Jill was there, taking it for granted that she was going, even at that very moment urging her not to hurry back. ‘There’s nothing much on this afternoon,’ she pointed out, ‘not until three o’clock at any rate, and you never get your full hour for dinner, Sister.’ She made a face. ‘It’s braised heart, too.’
Fulk’s handsome features expressed extreme distaste. ‘How revolting,’ he observed strongly. ‘Eleanor, put on your bonnet at once and we will investigate the fish and chips. They sound infinitely more appetizing.’
Eleanor dabbed with unusually clumsy fingers at the muslin trifle perched on her great knot of shining hair. ‘Thanks, Jill, I’ll see.’ She sounded so reluctant that her right hand looked at her in amazement while Fulk’s eyes gleamed with amusement, although all he said was: ‘Shall we go?’
The café was almost full, a number of hospital staff, either on the point of going on duty or just off, were treating themselves to egg and chips, spaghetti on toast or the fish and chips for which the café was justly famous. Fulk led the way to a table in the centre of the little place, and Eleanor, casting off her cloak and looking around, nodded and smiled at two physiotherapists, an X-ray technician, and the senior Accident Room Sister with the Casualty Officer. There were two of the students who had been in Sir Arthur’s round that morning sitting at the next table and they smiled widely at her, glanced at Fulk and gave her the thumbs-up sign, which she pointedly ignored, hoping that her companion hadn’t seen it too. He had; he said: ‘Lord, sometimes I feel middle-aged.’
‘Well,’ her voice was astringent, ‘you’re not—you’re not even married yet.’
His mouth twitched. ‘You imply that being married induces middle age, and that’s nonsense.’ He added slowly: ‘I imagine that any man who married you would tend to regain his youth, not lose it.’
She gaped at him across the little table. ‘For heaven’s sake, whatever makes you say that?’ But she wasn’t to know, for the proprietor of the Blue Bird had made his way towards them and was offering a menu card. He was a short, fat man and rather surprisingly, a Cockney; the soul of kindness and not above allowing second helpings for free to anyone who was a bit short until pay day. He stood looking at them both now and then said: “Ullo, Sister, ’aven’t met yer friend before, ’ave I?’
‘No, Steve—he’s a Dutch consultant, a friend of Sir Arthur Minch. Doctor van Hensum, this is Steve who runs the café.’
The doctor held out a hand and Steve shook it with faint surprise. ‘Pleased ter meet yer,’ he pronounced in gratified tones. ‘I got a nice bit of ’ake out the back. ’Ow’d yer like it, the pair of yer? Chips and peas and a good cuppa while yer waiting.’
A cheerful girl brought the tea almost at once and Eleanor poured the rich brew into the thick cups and handed one to Fulk. ‘Aren’t you sorry you asked me out now?’ she wanted to know. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever had your lunch in a place like this before.’
He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘You’re determined to make me out a very unpleasant fellow, aren’t you? I wonder why?’ He passed her the sugar bowl and then helped himself. ‘No, I’ve never been in a place quite like this one before, but I’ve been in far worse, and let me tell you, my girl, that your low opinion of me is completely mistaken.’
‘I never…’ began Eleanor, and was interrupted by the arrival of the hake, mouthwatering in its thick rich batter coat and surrounded by chips and peas; by the time they had assured Steve that it looked delicious, passed each other the salt, refused the vinegar and refilled their cups, there seemed no point in arguing. They fell to and what conversation there was was casual and good-humoured. Presently, nicely mellowed by the food, Eleanor remarked: ‘You were going to tell me about Imogen.’
He selected a chip with deliberation and ate it slowly. ‘Not here,’ he told her.
‘You keep saying that—you said it in the car yesterday. Do you have to have soft music and stained glass windows or something before she can be talked about?’
He put his head on one side and studied her face. ‘You’re a very rude girl—I suppose that’s what comes of being a bossy elder sister. No, perhaps that’s too sweeping a statement,’ he continued blandly, ‘for Henry assured me that you were the grooviest—I’m a little vague as to the exact meaning of the word, but presumably it is a compliment of the highest order.’
‘Bless the boy, it is.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like to thank you for being so kind to him—he’s a poppet, at least we all think so, and far too clever for his age, though he’s a great one for adventure; he’s for ever falling out of trees and going on long solitary walks with Punch and tumbling off rocks into the sea when he goes fishing. We all long to tell him not to do these things, but he’s a boy…having you for a companion was bliss for him.’
‘And would it have been bliss for you, Eleanor?’ Fulk asked in an interested voice, and then: ‘No, don’t answer, I can see the words blistering your lips. We’ll go on talking about Henry—he’s not quite as strong as you would like, your father tells me.’
She had decided to overlook the first part of his remark. ‘He’s tough, it’s just that he catches everything that’s going; measles, whooping cough, mumps, chickenpox—you name it, he’s had it.’
He passed his cup for more tea, eyed its rich brown strength, sugared it lavishly and took a sip with an expressionless face. ‘I shudder to think what this tea is doing to our insides,’ he remarked lightly. ‘Have you a good doctor?’
‘Doctor MacClew. He’s quite old now, but he’s been our doctor all our lives. He’s a dear and so kind, although I daresay he’s old-fashioned by your standards.’
‘My standards?’ He looked quite shocked. ‘My dear Eleanor, you’re at it again, turning me into someone I’m not. Why should you suppose that I would set myself up above another doctor, probably twice my age and with at least twice my experience, and who has had to improvise, make decisions, take risks, diagnose without X-rays and be his own Path Lab in an emergency? I, remember, have the whole range of modern equipment and science behind me—I need not open my mouth until all the answers have been given me.’
She said indignantly: ‘Don’t exaggerate. That’s not true; a good physician doesn’t need any of those things—they only confirm his opinion. You know as well as I do that you could manage very well without them.’
He lifted his thick brows in mock surprise. ‘Why, Eleanor, those are the first kind words you have uttered since we met.’ He grinned so disarmingly that she smiled back at him. ‘Well, you know it’s true.’
He said slowly, watching her: ‘Do you know I believe that’s the first time you’ve smiled at me? Oh, you’ve gone through the motions, but they didn’t register. You should smile more often.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘How delightful it is not to be quarrelling with you.’
She eyed him with disfavour. ‘What a beastly thing to say! I’ve not quarrelled with you, I’ve been very polite.’
‘I know, I’d rather quarrel, but not now—let’s call a truce.’
She seized her opportunity. ‘Tell me about Imogen.’
He