Cobweb Morning

  “A lovely morning,” observed the doctor.

  “Heavenly—the mist makes everything look like fairyland….”

  “A cobweb morning—that’s what it’s called in these parts—did you not know that?”

  She smiled up at him. “No, I didn’t. It’s a beautiful description.”

  He said seriously, “Yes, and you are a beautiful girl, Alexandra.” He bent his head to kiss her, taking his time about it. Then, “I have to go now,” he told her abruptly, and went.

  Alexandra had up till now thought of her flagrant worship of him as a child’s gratitude for what he had done for her. Now she wasn’t so sure. She was very young, of course, but what had age to do with loving someone?

  Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

  THE BEST OF

  BETTY NEELS

  COBWEB MORNING

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE hospital dining-room was almost empty save for the maid on duty, wiping down tables in a belligerent manner and in an ever-increasing circle around the one occupied table, whose three occupants watched her warily between their mouthfuls of the wholesome if unimaginative fish pie which had been all that was left on the day’s menu. She returned their looks with a cross one of her own and spoke sourly.

  ‘There ain’t no afters, it’ll ’ave ter be cheese and biscuits.’

  The eldest of the three ladies, a thin person in her forties with an ill-tempered face and wearing a ward Sister’s uniform, merely frowned, while the small, pretty creature sitting opposite her, also in Sister’s uniform but looking somehow unaccustomed to it, looked apologetically at the speaker and murmured that it didn’t matter. It was left to the third member of the party to turn a pair of fine eyes in the maid’s direction and request her in a crisp voice to bring the cheese and biscuits. ‘And I have no doubt,’ she went on in her pleasant voice, ‘that you can find us a pot of tea, can’t you, Bertha?’

  She smiled with such charm that the grumpy Bertha smiled back, flung down her cloth, and although muttering, went away to fetch what had been requested of her, while the Sister who had spoken sat back in her chair and began a desultory conversation with her two companions. She was a very pretty young woman, with a creamy skin and abundant hair, as dark as her eyes, and with a delightful nose which tilted ever so slightly at its tip above a generously curved mouth and a small determined chin. She was a tall, well-built girl, whose figure showed off to perfection the uniform she was wearing—that of a hospital Sister, too, but rather different from the others, and decidedly better fitting, moreover, the neat coil of hair above her neck was crowned with the frilled and goffered cap of one of the famous London hospitals, its strings tied in a bow under her chin; a piece of old-fashioned nonsense which vastly became her.

  The cheese and biscuits and a large pot of tea arrived, were consumed hurriedly, and the three ladies prepared to leave. It was already two o’clock as they rose from the table and the November afternoon had dwindled into a wet, grey prospect which promised an even worse evening. Alexandra Dobbs twitched her bows into a more comfortable position with a well-kept hand and looked out of the window as they crossed the large, comfortless room. There was nothing to see outside; a hotchpotch of walls and annexes and a few trees beyond; she would have liked to have been back at her own hospital, with the traffic thundering past in a subdued roar and the prospect of a pleasant evening in the Sisters’ sitting-room when she went off duty, or what was more likely, a meal out with one of the Medical Registrars, Anthony Ferris—a young man who, at thirty, was climbing up his particular ladder successfully enough and had lately given her to believe that he would like her to climb with him. Indeed, she had wondered once or twice in the last few days if she would decide to marry him; she had, since the age of seventeen—ten years ago—been the recipient of a number of proposals of marriage, and while refusing them politely, had taken none of them seriously, but Anthony was different; he was ambitious, he wanted a consulting practice, a good income and a suitable wife. The only reason that she hadn’t encouraged him so far was because she had a niggling feeling that she wasn’t suitable. Besides, when she really thought seriously about it, she wasn’t sure that she wanted to marry him; she had told herself that it was silly to indulge in childish fancies, Anthony and she were well suited—everyone who knew them told her that—and yet she had the oddest feeling that somewhere in the world there was a man waiting for her—a man about whom she would have no doubts at all.

  This nebulous figure was at the back of her mind now, as she walked back with her companions to the new Intensive Care Unit, recently opened at the hospital—a small unit of two beds, for the hospital was small, too; serving a provincial town and its surrounding rural west country area. It was this unit which was the reason for her being there; she had been Sister-in-Charge of the large, always busy unit at St Job’s for several years now, and had been seconded to the hospital in order to instruct its staff: Sister Baxter, who had no wish to be trained, anyway, not because she didn’t want to run the new unit, but because she considered that no one could instruct her about anything; she knew it already, and Sister Pim, very young and inexperienced and quite frankly terrified of Sister Baxter. A fine setup, Alexandra considered as she went over the apparatus just once more. It was the third day of her visit and she was due back in the morning; it was a pity, without wishing anyone any harm, that a patient needing intensive care couldn’t be admitted, so that she could judge for herself if Sister Baxter knew what she was about. She very much doubted it, and Sister Pim, although a charming girl, had had no experience at all; she had barely qualified when she had been offered the post. On her own she might do very well, but with Sister Baxter bullying her she would turn into a yes-woman, doing what she was told whether it was right or not.

  A pity, mused Alexandra, who had never been a yes-woman in her life, partly because she had an elder brother and two younger ones, all of whom had made it their business to see that she could stand up for herself. Her mother, watching her lovely little daughter climbing trees, swimming like a fish and giving as good as she got when it came to holding her own against her brothers, had at times worried that she might grow up a tomboy, but Alexandra hadn’t; she had become a charming girl with nice manners, a willingness to help at church bazaars and other rural events, a pleasant way with children, and an endless patience with the elderly and their foibles. The perfect wife, Mrs Dobbs had told herself, well satisfied, and had spent the next eight or nine years wondering why Alexandra didn’t get married. Instead the dear girl had carved a career for herself in the nursing profession and had shown no signs of wanting to marry at all, although just lately Mrs Dobbs had been more hopeful; Alexandra had mentioned, more and more frequently, Anthony Ferris. Mrs Dobbs, an incurable romantic, allowed herself to plan a wedding outfit,
but took great care to keep her hopes to herself.

  The short afternoon slid into dusk and then dark. Sister Baxter went to her tea, taking the meek little Lucy Pim with her, and Alexandra, due off duty when they returned, set about making a final check before she left. She still had to see the Senior Nursing Officer, but that wouldn’t take long—she would pack that evening, she told herself contentedly, and catch an early morning train back to London.

  The other two had returned, and she was on the point of leaving them when there was the sound of a car, driven hard and braking to a halt outside the hospital entrance. It was followed, after the shortest possible interval, by the sound of footsteps coming down the corridor towards them, and an imperative voice issuing instructions. Alexandra, hearing it, felt a pang of sympathy for the elderly porter on duty—he liked to do things in his own time and it was obvious that just for once, he wasn’t being given that chance.

  The owner of the voice appeared seconds later, an immensely tall man and powerfully built, making light of the burden he was carrying—an unconscious girl. He paused momentarily as he entered and asked without preamble: ‘Who’s in charge here?’

  Sister Baxter, bristling with authority, answered him. ‘I am, but this isn’t the Casualty Department; there isn’t one at this hospital, you must go to…’

  She wasn’t given the chance to finish; the man had laid the girl down gently on a couch and was bending over her. ‘I know, I know,’ he said impatiently, ‘but this girl’s been in a car crash and she needs to go on to a ventilator at once. I’ve no intention of travelling another five or six miles to have the Casualty Officer tell me that she will have to be brought back here for treatment. Kindly summon the officer on duty and give me a hand.’ He added as an afterthought: ‘I’m a doctor.’

  He lifted his head and looked at Sister Baxter with scarcely concealed impatience, his blue eyes passing from her to Sister Pim and thence to Alexandra. He was a handsome man, in his thirties, with a straight nose and a mobile mouth. His hair, now grizzled, must have been very fair when he was younger. Alexandra noted these things as she stepped forward; it wasn’t her department and she wasn’t in charge, but Sister Baxter was being tiresome and little Lucy Pim was, for the moment, unable to cope. She said calmly: ‘Would you prefer the Cape? The Bird’s is here if it’s only for a short time—is she very bad?’ She turned her head and spoke to Lucy, ignoring Sister Baxter’s outraged face. ‘Will you get Mr Collins? He’s on duty, I believe.’

  She was competent at her work; she and the strange doctor had the Cape ventilator going by the time Mr Collins and Sister Pim arrived, and within a few minutes, after they had prepared the girl for examination, the two men set to work. Alexandra had been surprised that Mr Collins had raised no objection to the strange doctor’s obvious assumption that he should take charge of the case, it was really quite unethical, but he had murmured something with a good deal of respect when the stranger had introduced himself, so briefly and softly that she, to her annoyance, had been unable to hear a word of it. But there was no time to speculate about anyone else but the patient for the moment, for she was in a bad way.

  She was young—eighteen or nineteen, perhaps, and very pretty, although the prettiness was marred now by her ashen face and blood-matted hair. A fractured base of skull, probably, and they would have to work hard to pull her round, although the ventilator was proving its worth already, virtually breathing for her until such time as she would—it was to be hoped—take over for herself once more.

  The two men muttered together, making their slow, careful examination, and Alexandra, with a moment to spare, took a look around her. Sister Baxter was glowering from behind one of the emergency trolleys, later on, when everything had settled down once more there would probably be a dust-up. Alexandra tried a smile and got a lowering look in return. Lucy Pim, over the first shock of finding herself actually working the various apparatus Alexandra had been so painstakingly teaching her for the last day or so, was proving herself very useful; she would be all right, after all.

  Alexandra heaved a sigh of relief and then swallowed it as her eye lighted on the seventh person in the department; a thin, angular lady, no longer young, with a sharp, pointed nose and iron grey hair drawn back into a small bun under what Alexandra could only describe to herself as a lady’s hat. Its wearer, moreover, was clad in a sensible tweed suit, and her feet were shod with equally sensible lace-up shoes. A hint of pearls at the lady’s throat and the gloves and handbag, leather but a little shabby, gave her a possible clue. Someone’s aunt; the very counterpart of aunts of her own, and probably thousands more. The girl’s? She would have to be asked presently, but in the meantime she was behaving with commendable calm and not getting in the way even though she shouldn’t be there in the first place. She caught her eye and they exchanged smiles as she handed the strange doctor an X-ray form just a second before he could open his mouth to ask for one.

  Sister Pim had sped away with it, with instructions to bring back the porters with her when he turned his eyes, very cool, on Alexandra. ‘And what are you doing here?’ he wanted to know. ‘Isn’t that a St Job’s cap—’

  She eyed him with a similar coolness, not liking his tone. ‘I’m here to get this unit started,’ she told him briefly. He wasn’t English; he spoke it perfectly, but there was something in his deep voice…she would find out later, meanwhile: ‘The lady by the door,’ she prompted him. ‘Is she the mother? If so, she shouldn’t be here—if you would speak to her, I’ll take her along to the waiting room.’

  His smile was so unexpected that she caught her breath. ‘My aunt,’ he said, ‘Miss Euphemia Thrums, a formidable lady and of great help to me when this accident occurred. She insisted upon coming with me and I didn’t care to leave her alone.’ His voice was blandly authoritative.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alexandra, rather at a loss, and then: ‘Were there any relations or friends…the police…?’

  ‘Are already dealing with it,’ he told her smoothly. ‘The girl was driving herself—presumably there would be papers in her handbag or the car.’

  It was time for Alexandra to take her observations again; she bent to her task and was just finished when the porters arrived with the portable X-ray machine, which left her with nothing much to do for a few minutes; Sister Pim was managing very nicely, so Alexandra drifted quietly back to where Sister Baxter was still standing and encountered a look from that lady which would have reduced anyone of a less sturdy nature than hers to pulp.

  ‘This is highly irregular,’ began Sister Baxter. ‘If anything is said, I shall hold you personally responsible.’ She nodded towards the lady by the door. ‘And who is she, I should like to know, and this man, ordering us about…’

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ Alexandra pointed out, ‘they do order people about when it’s necessary, you know. After all, they’re the ones who know.’

  ‘Yes, but who is he?’

  Alexandra studied the man. He had an air of authority, but his clothes, though well cut, were a little shabby; there was nothing about him to denote the successful physician or famous surgeon. Her speculations were interrupted by the entry of the hospital’s senior anaesthetist, Doctor White, who added to the mystery by greeting the stranger as an old friend and shaking hands. What was more, he crossed the room to shake hands with Miss Thrums too, although he didn’t stop to talk to her, returning to the couch where the radiographer had done his work and was on the point of leaving. The three doctors went with him, the stranger pausing to lift a beckoning finger at Alexandra, and when she reached his side: ‘You will be good enough to remain with the patient,’ he said, ‘and let us know at once if you have reason for alarm.’ He nodded, staring at her as though he didn’t like her at all, and followed the others out.

  Alexandra, checking this and that and making neat entries on the chart, ruminated with the tiny piece of her brain not occupied with her work, that her evening plans had been squashed: it was already an hour after she should have
been off duty and she saw no chance of getting away for quite some time; it would have to be decided where the girl was to go, there would be delays while her relations were sent for, another hour, she reckoned before the doctors would make their decisions, and once they had, she vowed silently, she would hand over to the other two Sisters and streak off to her room and pack.

  She looked up and caught Miss Thrums’ eyes on her and exclaimed with sudden contrition: ‘Oh, you poor thing—Sister Pim, do you suppose we could charm someone into giving Miss Thrums a cup of tea, she must need one after the nasty time she’s had.’

  She was on the point of suggesting that she might like to go to the waiting room down the passage, too, when she remembered that the doctor had brought her with him and would probably turn nasty if she took it upon herself to send his aunt away, however kindly she meant it.

  Miss Thrums smiled tiredly. ‘That would be delightful.’ She spoke in a whisper, with due regard for her surroundings, all the same she had a carrying voice. ‘What a very efficient girl you are, Sister—St Job’s, are you not? Miss Trott is a friend of mine.’ Miss Trott was the Principal Nursing Officer and rather an old duck. The doctor’s aunt went on: ‘I hope that poor girl will be all right—we were directly behind her, you know, so fortunate, because Taro was able to give help within seconds.’

  She broke off as Sister Pim came back with the tea, and settled back to enjoy it as the men came back. It was Mr White who crossed the room to speak to Alexandra. ‘I believe that you are due back at St Job’s tomorrow, Sister Dobbs? We are hoping that you will co-operate with us in the plan we have decided upon. The patient has a fractured base—she’s very ill, but provided we can get specialist treatment for her within a reasonable time, I think we may hope for complete recovery. I’ve been in touch with Mr Thrush—you know him, of course, and he is willing to accept her as a patient of St Job’s. Now, would you be willing to escort her on the journey—ambulance, of course, and not immediately—possibly in a few hours’ time, by then we should get a very good idea of her condition and be reasonably certain that she can stand the journey. You will have everything laid on, needless to say.’