At the End of the Day. 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

      UNDER AN EARLY morning September sky London was coming awake; the sun shone impartially on stately Regency houses, high rise flats and any number of parks. It shone too on St Anne’s Hospital, a sprawling red brick edifice cramped by the mean streets around it, although not all were mean, in some of them the early Victorian houses, tall and narrow, each with its railed off area and attic windows, had made a brave effort to overcome shabbiness and were let out in flats or rooms. Even the attics had been converted into what were grandly called studio flats with tiny kitchens and showers squeezed into corners under the rafters.

      The windows of one such flat, half way down a terrace in a side street lined with dusty plane trees, were open wide now, allowing the sun to shine in. It shone on the woman sitting in front of a rather battered dressing table, allowing her to take excellent stock of her reflection in its mirror. It was a charming one, although its owner didn’t appear to like it overmuch. She had her hand up to her hair, tugging it this way and that, peering at it intently.

      ‘There are bound to be some,’ the woman said loudly and with impatience, ‘I dare say the light’s all wrong.’ She abandoned her search and scrutinised her face, looking for wrinkles. But there weren’t any of those either; her reflection frowned back at her, a lovely face with a creamy skin to go with her fiery hair and large green eyes. ‘Well, there ought to be,’ said the woman, ‘the first grey hairs and wrinkles show up at thirty,’ she added gloomily, ‘next year I’ll be thirty-one…’

      She left the dressing table and crossed the room to drink the rest of a mug of tea on the table at the other side. She was a tall woman with generous curves, and despite her thirty years, looked a great deal younger. She finished the tea and began to dress and presently, in her dark blue sister’s uniform, sat down in front of the mirror again and did her face and brushed her thick bright hair into a chignon. She had wasted time looking for the wrinkles; and there was only time for another pot of tea and some toast before she went on duty. She made the divan bed along one wall while the kettle boiled and then sat down at the table to drink the brew and munch her toast, wasting no time. Ten minutes later, the breakfast things stacked tidily in the sink in the tiny kitchen she let herself out of her room and locked the door, then with her cape slung over one shoulder ran down the three flights of stairs to the front door. No one else was about yet in the quiet street but once at its end she turned into a wider thoroughfare, bustling with morning traffic and early morning workers. It was a shabby street, with tatty shops and run down houses, and it led straight past the hospital gates, a mere five minutes’ walk. All the same the woman had cut it fine and hurried across the courtyard and in through the imposing entrance, pausing in the enormous, gloomy hall to peer into the head porter’s little office.

      ‘Morning George, any letters?’

      George, it was said jokingly, was as old as the hospital. He licked the pencil he was holding and on his newspaper made a cross by the name of the horse he intended to back later on that day before he answered. ‘Good morning, Sister Mitchell, nice post for you this morning, too. Got a birthday?’

      ‘As a matter of fact, I have.’ She beamed at him and took the handful of cards and letters, longing to open them at once, but they would have to wait until she had taken the night nurses’ report. She made for the stairs, taking them two at a time since there was no one except George to see her.

      There was though; standing at the top of the wide staircase was a very large man with wide shoulders and a distinguished air, much heightened by the elegance of his clothes. He had dark hair, greying at the temples, dark eyes with drooping lids, a formidable nose and a mouth which was firm to the point of grimness.

      Sister Mitchell, not expecting anyone on the half landing, skidded to a brief halt. Her good morning was brisk and friendly; she had no time to dally, not that Professor van der Wagema ever dallied…

      He glanced at the thin gold watch on his wrist. ‘Late, Sister Mitchell?’ His voice was bland and had a nasty edge to it. ‘Don’t let me keep you from completing your gallop.’

      ‘Oh, I won’t, sir,’ she assured him cheerfully and raced up the right hand wing of the staircase, reflecting as she went that it was a great pity that he was such an irritable man; so good looking, at the top of his profession and possessed, so rumour had it, of far more wealth than he needed. That was all rumour had been able to discover about him though. His private life was a closed book to all but his closest colleagues at the hospital, and they weren’t likely to tell. ‘Why’s he here, anyway?’ she muttered. ‘Eight o’clock in the morning…’ She went through the swing doors of the Women’s