Never Say Goodbye. Betty Neels
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her mother into the little kitchen and put on the kettle, and while it boiled went into the minute garden beyond. It was really no more than a patch of grass and a flower bed or two but it was full of colour and well kept. There was a tabby cat lying between the tulips and forget-me-nots. Isobel said: ‘Hullo, Blossom,’ and bent to inspect the small rose bushes she cherished when she was home. They were nicely in bud and she raised her voice to say to her mother, ‘They’ll be almost out by the time I get back. It’s June next week.’
She spent her evening making a list of the things she would need to take with her; not many, and she hesitated over packing a light jacket and skirt. Dr Winter had said uniform, but surely if they were to stay in Stockholm for a day, she need not wear uniform, nor for that matter on the flight there. Perhaps the agency would be able to tell her.
The clerk at the agency was annoyingly vague, offering no opinion at all but supposing it didn’t matter and handing Isobel a large envelope with the remark that she would probably find all she wanted to know inside it. Isobel annoyed the lady very much by sitting down and reading the contents through, for, as she pointed out in her sensible way, it would be silly to get all the way home and discover that some vital piece of information was missing.
There was nothing missing; her ticket, instructions on how to reach Heathrow and the hour at which she was to arrive and where she was to go when she got there, a reminder that she must bring a Visitor’s Passport with her, a generous sum of money to pay for her expenses and a brief note, typed and signed T. Winter, telling her that she had no need to wear uniform until they left Stockholm. Isobel replaced everything in the envelope, wished the impatient lady behind the desk a pleasant day and went off to the Post Office for her passport. She had to have photos for it, of course. She went to the little box in a corner of the Post Office and had three instant photos taken; they were moderately like her, but they hardly did her pleasant features justice—besides, she looked surprised and her eyes were half shut. But since the clerk at the counter didn’t take exception to them, she supposed they would do. Her mother, naturally enough, found them terrible; to her Isobel’s unassuming face was beautiful.
She left home in plenty of time, carrying a small suitcase and a shoulder bag which held everything she might need for the journey. After deliberation she had worn a coffee-coloured pleated skirt, with its matching loose jacket and a thin cotton top in shrimp pink, and in her case she had packed a second top and a Liberty print blouse, and because she had been told at the agency that the Scandinavian countries could be cool even in May and June, she had packed a thick hooded cardigan she had bought with her Christmas money at Marks and Spencer.
She took the underground to Heathrow and then found her way to departure number two entrance and went to stand, as she had been told to, on the right side of the entrance. She was ten minutes early and she stood, not fidgeting at all, watching the taxis drawing up and their passengers getting out. She hadn’t been there above five minutes when she was startled to hear Dr Winter’s deep voice behind her.
‘Good morning, Miss Barrington. We will see to the luggage first, if you will come with me.’
Her good morning was composed, a porter took her case and she went across to the weigh-in counter for their luggage to be taken care of, handed her ticket to the doctor and waited until the business had been completed, studying him while she did so.
He was undoubtedly a very good-looking man, and the kind of man, she fancied, who expected to get what he wanted with the least possible fuss. He looked in a better temper, she was relieved to see; it made him look a good deal younger and the tweed suit he was wearing, while just as elegantly cut as the formal grey one he had worn at her interview, had the effect of making him seem more approachable.
‘Well, we’ll go upstairs and have coffee while we wait for our flight.’ He spoke pleasantly and Isobel didn’t feel the need to answer, only climbed the stairs beside him, waited a few moments while he bought a handful of papers and magazines and went on up another flight of steps to the coffee lounge, where he sat her down, fetched their coffee and then handed her the Daily Telegraph and unfolded The Times for himself.
Isobel, who had slept badly and had a sketchy breakfast, drank her coffee, thankfully, sat back in her chair, folded the newspaper neatly and closed her eyes. She was almost asleep at once and the doctor, glancing up presently, blinked. He was by no means a conceited man, but he couldn’t remember, offhand, any woman ever going to sleep in his company. He overlooked the fact that he had made no attempt to entertain her.
Isobel, while no beauty, looked charming when she slept, her mouth had opened very slightly and her lashes, golden-brown and very long, lay on her cheeks, making her look a good deal younger than her twenty-five years. Dr Winter frowned slightly and coughed. Isobel’s eyes flew open and she sat up briskly. ‘Time for us to go?’ she enquired.
‘No—no. I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was surprised…’
She gave him her kind smile. ‘Because I went to sleep. I’m sure girls don’t go to sleep when they’re with you.’ To make herself quite clear, she added: ‘Nurses when you’re lecturing them, you know. I expect you’re married.’
His look was meant to freeze her bones, only she wasn’t that kind of a girl. She returned his stare with twinkling eyes. ‘You expect wrongly, Miss Barrington.’ He looked down his patrician nose. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I were to address you as Nurse.’
‘Yes, Dr Winter.’ The twinkle was so disconcerting that he looked away still frowning.
She had time to do the crossword puzzle before their flight was announced, leaving him to return to his reading.
She had a window seat on board and she was surprised to find that they were travelling first class, but pleased too, usually if she had to travel to a case, she was expected to use the cheapest way of getting there. She fastened her seat-belt and peered out of the window: it wasn’t until they were airborne that she sat back in her seat.
‘You’ve flown before?’ asked Dr Winter. He didn’t sound interested just polite, so she said that yes, once or twice, before turning her attention to the stewardess, who was explaining what they should all do in an emergency. And after that there was coffee and then lunch; and a very good one too, with a glass of white wine and coffee again. Isobel made a good meal, answered the doctor’s occasional remarks politely and studied the booklet about Sweden offered for her perusal. A pity she wouldn’t see more of the country, she thought, but she was lucky to have even a day in Stockholm; reading the tourist guide, there appeared to be a great deal to see.
There was someone waiting for them at the airport—a thickset man, very fair with level blue eyes and a calm face, leaning against a big Saab. He and Dr Winter greeted each other like old friends and when the doctor introduced Isobel, he took her hand in his large one and grinned at her. ‘Janssen—Carl Janssen. It is a pleasure. We will go at once to my house and you will meet my wife Christina.’
He opened the car door and ushered her inside while Dr Winter got into the front seat. Isobel, who despite her placid nature had become a little chilled by his indifferent manner, felt more cheerful; Mr Janssen’s friendly greeting had warmed her nicely. She made herself comfortable and watched the scenery.
It was beautiful. They were already approaching the city, which at first glance looked modern, but in the distance she could see a glimpse of water and there were a great many trees and parks. They slowed down as they neared the heart of the city and the streets became narrow and cobbled.
‘This is Gamla Stan—the old town,’ said Mr Janssen over one shoulder. ‘We live here. It is quite the most beautiful part of Stockholm.’
He crossed a square: ‘Look quickly—there is the old Royal Palace and Storkyrkan, our oldest church—you must pay it a visit.’
He swept the car into a labyrinth of narrow streets before she had had more than a glimpse, to stop and then turn into a narrow arched way between old houses. It opened on to a rectangular space filled with small gardens and ringed by old houses with a steeple roof and small windows and wrought iron balconies.
‘This,’