The Edge of Winter. Betty Neels
on the floor. ‘Batesy dear, I haven’t got one…’
Sister Bates frowned with mock severity. ‘You’ve got dozens—well, all the unattached housemen for a start. I’ve never met such a girl!’ But her blue eyes twinkled as she spoke. Araminta was so very pretty and nice with it; she never lacked for invitations although everyone knew that she never angled for them, they just dropped into her lap and she accepted them, whether they were rather grand seats at the theatre or a quick egg and chips at the little café round the corner, and not even her worst enemy—and she had none, anyway—could accuse her of going out of her way to encourage any of the men who asked her out, and she made no bones about putting them in their place if she found it necessary. Sister Bates thought of her as an old-fashioned girl, an opinion which might have annoyed Araminta if she had known about it. She had a great many friends and liked them all, men and women alike. That she got on well with men was a fact which didn’t interest her greatly; one day she would meet a man she would love and, she hoped, marry, but until then she was just a pleasant girl to take out and remarkably unspoilt.
But for the next few evenings she stayed in her little flat, catching up on her letter writing, re-covering the cushions in the sitting room and painting the tiny kitchen. She made such a good job of this that she decided to paint the sitting room too, a task she began a few days later, for she had her two days off; ample time in which to finish the job. She came off duty full of enthusiasm for the idea, had a hurried meal, got into paint-smeared sweater and slacks, piled her bits and pieces of furniture into the centre of the room and started. She had just finished the door and was about to start on the wainscoting when someone banged the front door knocker and she put down her brush with a tut of impatience. It wasn’t late, barely seven o’clock, but already dark, and she had no idea who it might be—true, James Hickory had wanted to take her to the cinema, but she had refused him firmly, and any of the other Sisters would have called through the letterbox. She got to her unwilling feet and opened the door, sliding the chain across as she did so. The dark giant who had rescued them from the beach was standing on the steps outside and she stood staring at him, round-eyed, for a few moments before exclaiming: ‘Well, I never—however did you know that I live here?’
His eyes dropped to the chain and he smiled faintly. ‘Your aunt gave me your address.’
‘Aunt Martha? Why on earth should she do that?’
‘I asked her for it. I thought you might like to hear about Mary Rose.’
‘Oh, that’s why you came. Come in.’ Araminta slid back the chain and allowed him to enter. ‘I’m painting my sitting room, but do sit down for a minute—I’ll make some coffee.’ She led the way into the muddle. ‘There’s a chair if you don’t mind turning it right side up—I’ll go…’
He filled the little room, she began to edge past him, conscious that she was glad to see him even though she didn’t like him at all, and then came to a halt when he said: ‘Is that the kitchen through there? Suppose I make the coffee and you can go on painting. May I take off my coat?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She hoped she didn’t sound ungracious, but really, he had a nerve, though perhaps he only wanted to be kind. She took a quick look at his face and decided that he looked more like a robber baron than a do-gooder. She picked up the brush once more and got down on to her knees, feeling that she had rather lost her grip on the situation. ‘I don’t know your name,’ she called through the open door, and then as he showed himself in the open doorway, ‘Mind that paint, I’ve just done it.’
‘Van Sibbelt—Crispin,’ he told her, and disappeared to turn off the kettle. He was back again presently with their coffee mugs on a tray. He handed her one, offered the sugar and sat down on the wooden box she had been standing on to reach the top of the door.
‘About Mary Rose,’ he observed easily, ‘she’s doing very well, clumping round in a leg plaster.’ He saw her look of enquiry and added placidly: ‘I telephoned to find out.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK’ Araminta felt a little out of her depth. ‘It was very nice of you to let me know.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘You live in London?’
‘No.’
A not very satisfactory answer, but she tried again. ‘You’re not English, are you? Your name—isn’t it Dutch?’
‘Yes.’
She put down her mug with something of a thump. ‘Look, I’m not being curious—just making polite conversation. In fact,’ she added with some asperity, ‘I’ve every right to be curious, for I can’t think why you should go to the trouble of coming here. If my aunt gave you my address you could just have well sent a postcard about Mary Rose.’
He regarded her in silence, his face a little austere, then just as she was beginning to feel uncomfortable, he said: ‘I wanted to see you again.’
At the very last second she thought better of asking him why, but instead she asked him, very nicely, if he would go. ‘Such a pity that you should call at an awkward time, but you can see that I’m at sixes and sevens with this painting—you don’t mind, do you? Do finish your coffee first, though.’
He looked as though he was going to laugh, but instead he said gravely, ‘I see how busy you are. If you have a second brush I will do those bookshelves for you—half an hour’s work at the most—it would help you a good deal.’
She got to her feet, which was a mistake, because he stood up too, towering over her, making her feel very small and at a disadvantage. All the same, she said a little coldly: ‘It’s most kind of you to offer, but I can manage all the same, thanks.’
‘The brush-off,’ he murmured, and grinned disarmingly, so that instead of looking like a well-dressed man of forty or so, he was a boy enjoying a splendid joke with himself.
‘Men,’ thought Araminta, crossly, watching him put on his coat again. Here he was, walking in and out of her life just as the fancy took him. She wished him goodbye in an austere voice and closed the door firmly on his broad back.
She went on painting until very late; the book-shelves proved awkward to do and she had to stand on the box again. The second time she fell off she was unable to refrain from wishing that she had accepted Dr van Sibbelt’s kind offer.
She finished towards evening the next day and that left her with a whole day more in which to plant spring bulbs in the troughs and pots which lined the tiny paved area outside her front door. She lingered over the task, looking up and down the street from time to time—perhaps Doctor van Sibbelt was still in London, and despite his cool reception, would come again to see her. He didn’t; she went indoors, washed her hair, did her nails and watched a boring programme on TV before going to bed early.
She had been on duty barely an hour the next morning when they were all startled by an explosion, its repercussions rumbling on and on, so that even the solidly built Accident Room shook a little.
‘A bomb,’ said Araminta, busy at her desk, and left her papers to hurry into the department. It wasn’t the first time; they all knew what to do, they were ready by the time James Hickory reached them with the news that they would be receiving the casualties. Such patients as there were were moved to one end of the receiving area with a borrowed houseman to look after them. Araminta sent a student nurse to look after him and went to answer the telephone. There would be twenty odd casualties, said an urgent voice, mostly glass wounds, but there were still some people trapped.
She relayed the information to James, telephoned for another houseman and went to cast a trained eye over the preparations. There would be more nurses coming within a few minutes and probably Debby, who wasn’t on duty, but would return if she were near enough. Araminta took off her cuffs, rolled up her sleeves and went to meet the first ambulance, its sing-song wail reaching a crescendo as it stopped before the open doors.
There were two stretcher cases; the other two, both men, were walking, helped by the ambulance men. They were covered in dust and nasty little cuts from flying glass and wore the look of men who had been severely shocked. Araminta consigned