The Edge of Winter Read online

  It might be Sylvia, or one or her many friends, off duty and come to see how she was getting on. But it wasn’t anyone she knew but a messenger boy, thrusting a long rush basket at her.

  ‘For me?’ Araminta asked, surprised.

  ‘Miss Shaw, ain’t yer?’ And when she nodded: ‘Sign ’ere, miss.’

  She signed, found her purse and gave him something for his trouble and carried the basket into the sitting room. It was packed with roses, red and pink, cream and white; two dozen at least, and here was a card with them, inscribed disappointingly: ‘Araminta, instead of goodbye. C.v.S.’

  She arranged them in all the vases she possessed while she ruminated on the words. They could mean several things, and taking all in all, the most likely seemed to her that Crispin had sent the roses as a nice way of letting her know that he had thought better of it; that although he had liked her—more than liked, perhaps—it hadn’t been enough… She wept a little into the sweet-smelling flowers, then blew her nose vigorously, arranged the vases round the room, and went out shopping. But it was no use. Crispin filled her head to the exclusion of all else. She had been a fool not to have shouted him down when he had bidden her to say nothing. The arrogance of the man, she fumed, telling her what to do and what not to do and then sending her roses, so that her state of uncertainty was worse now than it had ever been. She banged and thumped her possessions in her little home in a very fury of exasperation, cooked herself a deplorable meal, which she didn’t eat, and went early to bed.

  She was instantly plunged into work the next morning. The Accident Room filled up as fast as it was emptied, and it was with difficulty that Araminta managed to get away to see Miss Best; a purely formal interview, with that lady expressing her sympathy at Thelma’s death and at the same time declaring her satisfaction at Araminta being back at her post once more. She added a rider to the effect that the department had been very busy during her absence, and Araminta, remembering the queue waiting for attention in the Accident Room, made a suitable rejoinder and got herself back on duty, to be kept fully occupied for the rest of that day.

  Two days slid by, nasty, dark November days, not quite winter yet, but bleak enough. Araminta, caught up in a vast amount of paper work, was thankful to have every minute of her time filled, so that by the time she went off duty each evening she was too tired to do more than cook herself a meal, do a few household chores and go to bed, but on her fourth morning back James stopped her as she was going to lunch, hurrying down the long passage which could lead her eventually to the nurses dining room. She would have passed him with a word of greeting, for they saw each other often enough during their working hours, but he stopped her.

  ‘I never have the chance to talk to you,’ he complained, ‘and I know this is short notice, but will you come along to the Butterfly’—a favourite café frequented by the hospital staff—’this evening?’ He looked suddenly rather shy. ‘I’ve got engaged—you don’t know her, but I’d like you to meet. There’ll be quite a few there—you know them all. It’s by way of being a celebration.’

  She beamed at him. ‘James, you dark horse, and how splendid! Of course I’ll come. What time?’ ‘Seven o’clock. Come back here to the main entrance—several of us will be going at the same time, there’ll be plenty of room for you in one of the cars. Mary has to come from Woolwich, so her father is going to run her up here.’

  ‘It sounds fun. I’ll be there on the dot of seven o’clock.’

  She very nearly wasn’t, though; an R.T.A. came in at five o’clock and it took all of the next hour to get the three people involved examined, X-rayed, tidied up and sent to their appropriate wards. Araminta cleared away with Dolly’s help, made sure that the two student nurses were getting everything ready for anything else which might come in, handed over the keys to her faithful staff nurse and tore back to her flat, where, after a hasty cup of tea, she set about getting herself ready for the evening’s outing. The other girls had decided to wear long dresses, so she put on the russet velvet pinafore with a chiffon blouse beneath it, piled her hair, did her face in record time, flung on the black velvet coat she had had for years, and walked briskly back to the hospital. It wanted five minutes to the hour as she went through the main doors, but James was there, looking nervous in his best suit.

  His face cleared when he saw her. ‘The others went on. I thought you might be a bit late—you must have moved like lightning.’

  Araminta was still some way from him, so that she raised her voice to answer. ‘I did—I was in a panic that I’d never make it in time. I’ve been looking forward to our evening all day.’ She started towards him and then paused to look back over her shoulder because the doors had swung open behind her.

  Crispin had come in. She forgot James and his party, she forgot where she was; her pretty face glowed with her delight at the sight of him. She choked on all the things she wanted to say; all she managed was: ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  ‘Indeed, it is I.’ His voice was bland and icy and she saw that his face was dark with rage, so that she faltered in her headlong rush towards him. He continued nastily: ‘I’m delighted to see that you are enjoying yourself, Araminta. Don’t let me keep you.’ His dark eyes flickered towards James and he nodded carelessly.

  ‘Oh, but it doesn’t matter,’ declared Araminta, lightheaded with her joy still and choosing her words badly. ‘James won’t mind…’

  ‘How accommodating of him.’ The doctor’s handsome mouth was touched by an unpleasant smile. ‘I had no idea that you were so fickle, Araminta.’

  The smile became so ferocious that she blinked, quite bereft of words. By the time she had thought of something to say to this, he had gone. She watched his broad back disappear down the corridor leading to the consultants’ room and the look on her face prompted the kindly James to ask: ‘Shall I go after him, Araminta? I think he misunderstood…’

  ‘Of course he misunderstood,’ she said fierily, ‘and I wouldn’t go after him for all the money in the Bank of England.’ She tossed her head so defiantly that her topknot looked to be in danger of coming down. ‘Let’s go,’ she said in a bright voice which nicely disguised her wish to burst into tears.

  James gave her an anxious look. ‘I say, would you rather not come? I mean, he’ll be back presently—he’s bound to come this way.’

  The very words needed to stoke up Araminta’s temper. ‘And find me waiting?’ she demanded in a high voice. Her lovely eyes flashed. ‘You’re mistaken, James, I wasn’t expecting Doctor van Sibbelt, you know—I had no idea that he was in England. We—we met in Amsterdam.’ With a considerably heightened colour she cried: ‘Oh, do let’s go. Your Mary will think you’ve cried off, and that would never do.’ She laughed so gaily at this witticism that James, who was a nice young man, laughed with her out of politeness.

  Araminta got through the evening very credibly. She laughed and talked and toasted James and Mary, contributing her share of the gaiety of the occasion, and only when it was over and one of the house doctors had taken her back to her flat and she was alone again did she allow herself to think. It was already after midnight, but she sat straight down, still in her velvet coat and without even bothering to put on the gas fire, for at the back of her head was the foolish thought that Crispin might come. She waited patiently, occupying the time in trying out suitable explanations to offer him, wondering at the same time if she should have swallowed her pride and waited for him there in the hall until his return, but when she heard the clock strike one she knew that he wouldn’t come and she went to bed, to lie awake for a long time, trying to make up her mind if she should write to him. Perhaps he was still in London. She would ask old Charlie, the head porter, in the morning. He might even seek her out…she slept on the happy thought.

  She had no chance to see Charlie until the morning was well advanced. Staff Getty had a day off, leaving them short-handed. Charlie heard her out and then shook his bald head. ‘He’s gorn, Sister—spent the night and went ‘arf n
’hour ago. I seen ’im leave.’ He eyed her with some curiosity. “oo wants ’im?’

  ‘No one, Charlie,’ Araminta said hastily. ‘It’s just that Doctor Hickory saw him yesterday evening and wondered why he was here.’ She turned away and then paused. ‘Any messages for me, Charlie?’ she asked casually.

  He looked across at the row of pigeonholes behind him. ‘No, Sister.’

  Araminta hurried back to the Accident Room to find a merciful lull in the work, so that she was able to go to her office and get the daily book up to date, make up the list of instruments for repair, engage in a slight altercation with the CSU, and embark on the off duty lists for the next two weeks. She didn’t get far with this, however, for her thoughts turned to Crispin. She wasn’t a conceited girl, she didn’t think it likely that he had come to London for the express purpose of seeing her, but at least he could have made some effort to see her—even a note or a telephone call. Surely if a man sent roses to a girl, he would, given the chance, at least pass the time of day with her? He had been in a filthy temper, too.

  She squashed a rising desire to telephone him then and there and find out exactly what was the matter. A hare-brained idea, for she hadn’t a clue where he might be. Not that he would tell her; she could imagine his mouth, set like a rat trap in his dark face. She paused to draw a not very good likeness of him on her blotting pad; on second thoughts, there was nothing really wrong with a rat trap, and most of the time his mouth was rather nice, with a quirk at the corners as though he were on the point of smiling. Her reflections were interrupted here by one of the student nurses with the news that there was another overdose coming in. Araminta closed her books and started to roll up her sleeves. ‘They always come just when we’re due to go to dinner,’ she said testily, and sailed away to check that everything was in readiness.

  Thinking about it afterwards, she had no idea when the preposterous idea first entered her head; she only knew that it was there, taking shape during the afternoon, so that by the time she went to tea she knew exactly what she was going to do.

  She did it the following morning as soon as Miss Best was available, and that lady heard her out with outward calm at least.

  ‘You have some other job in mind, Sister Shaw?’ she asked finally.

  ‘No,’ said Araminta, ‘it’s just that I want to leave London for a time—perhaps for always—I don’t know yet.’

  Miss Best looked mystified, but said gamely: ‘Very well, if your mind is quite made up, Sister. You have three weeks’ holiday due to you, have you not? Would you prefer to work the full month and receive a salary for those weeks, or leave—let me see—in five days’time?’

  ‘Five days’time,’ said Araminta quickly before Miss Best could think better of her offer.

  Her superior blinked. ‘Sister Dawes is capable of taking over your work permanently?’ And when Araminta said yes: ‘And do you consider Staff Nurse Getty suitable for the post of Junior Sister in her place?’

  ‘Oh, rather,’ Araminta agreed. ‘She’s jolly good at her job.’

  At least Sylvia and Dolly would be happy, especially Dolly, who had been such a faithful right hand and longed, without making a thing of it, to get her Sister’s blue. Dismissed by Miss Best, she went back to the department and when the opportunity occurred, invited her two colleagues into the office and over their morning coffee broke the news. It surprised her that they really minded her going, even though it would mean their own promotion, and James, when he was told, was flatteringly put out. Araminta had always been popular, now she was a little shattered to find how many of her friends were sorry to see her go. Of course they wanted to know why she should suddenly want to leave for no reason at all, and she had no answer for them, indeed she wasn’t sure of the answer herself. Only she had an instant need to get away from St Katherine’s and London, because if she stayed, sooner or later she might meet Crispin, and if he was going to smile at her like that again and call her fickle she wouldn’t be able to bear it. She couldn’t bear it now, just thinking about it.

  She lived through the five days in a state of nerves in case he should appear suddenly once more, but he didn’t. She said goodbye to her friends, handed over the key to her flat to Sylvia, who had begged to take it over, promised Miss Best that if she should reconsider her decision to give up nursing, she would let her know, got into the Mini and drove herself down to Somerset.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ARAMINTA HAD WARNED her father and Aunt Martha of her plans, but she strongly suspected that they hadn’t believed her to be serious about them. A week or so at home, Aunt Martha had said over the telephone, would do her a great deal of good—dear Thelma’s death had upset her; they would have a nice little talk about everything when she got home. Araminta, driving out of London, frowned uneasily. She had told her elderly relations very little about Thomas and now she wondered just how much she had better say about him.

  She stopped for lunch on the way, for she had planned to arrive just before tea; talking over a meal was always easier and her father and aunt would both be rested after their afternoon nap. The road was surprisingly empty and she didn’t hurry, but when she reached Dunster she felt her delight at seeing it again, its street almost empty, although the shops were cheerfully lighted. There were lights shining from her home too and the front door was opened as she stopped the car. She could see her aunt in the doorway; she got out of the Mini and ran to meet her.

  They were glad to have her, too, they made that plain, but they were also mystified as to why she should give up a perfectly good job apparently on impulse. Over their leisurely tea she told them a good deal about her stay in Amsterdam, taking care not to dwell too much on Thomas. Just the same, when she had finished, her father observed: ‘I never liked him—I told you that, did I not? But I’m glad you went, my dear, you must have been a joy to Thelma. You say you went with her to the hospital. Could the doctors there do nothing to help—with Thomas, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes—they did all they could; talked to him and advised him, but you see, he wouldn’t take any notice of them.’

  ‘Were they nice? The doctors, I mean?’ asked Aunt Martha.

  ‘Very nice—and so kind. Thelma liked them all.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t see that nice man who rescued you at Mousehole?’

  Araminta took some cake she didn’t want because it gave her time to think up a casual answer. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she told her listeners, ‘he was the consultant in charge of Thelma’s case.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ declared her aunt happily. ‘Talk about the world being small! I expect he was very glad to see you again.’

  ‘He didn’t say,’ said Araminta truthfully. ‘He was very kind to Thelma.’ There was a short silence while they both looked at her. Presently Aunt Martha said briskly: ‘A holiday will do you good, child. You look tired—and you couldn’t have come at a better time, with Christmas only six weeks away and the puddings and mincemeat to make, I shall be glad of your help.’

  Araminta expressed an entirely false pleasure at her aunt’s suggestion. Six weeks to Christmas and she had no job—her own silly fault—and no future without Crispin. Oh, she would make all the puddings and pies Aunt Martha could wish for and cut out the interesting bits in The Times for her father so that he could paste them in his reference books, and in a little while, because they really did expect it of her, she would go away and find herself another job exactly like the last one, and in a year or two her hair would lose its brightness and instead of being slim she would be bony, and bad-tempered with it.

  ‘You look melancholy, my dear,’ her aunt said sharply, so that she hastily rearranged her features into a light-hearted smile, while strongly denying any feeling other than that of pleasure at being home again.

  And it was a pleasure. The calm routine of the small household was very soothing. She found herself, after the first two days, absorbed into it without any effort at all, helping with the small chores, doing
the shopping, painstakingly cutting up the fruit for Aunt Martha’s puddings. It was on the third morning after her arrival, with her father and aunt in Minehead, visiting the tailor and the dentist, and Araminta busy in the kitchen, that she went to answer the thud of the old-fashioned door-knocker. The baker, she supposed, not bothering to take off the old-fashioned pinny she was wearing.

  It was Crispin, large and elegant, with the faintest of smiles twitching the corners of his mouth; not at all the kind of smile he had given her in the entrance hall of St Katherine’s—She frowned at the awful memory of it, even while her very bones melted at the sight of him.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said coldly, steeling her loving heart.

  The doctor eased himself nearer the door. ‘I’ve come to apologise,’ he said, quite humbly for him, ‘if necessary on bended knee—er—perhaps a length of sack-cloth and a few ashes if you have them handy?’ He peered over her shoulder into the narrow hall beyond. ‘If I might come in?’

  Araminta had perforce to give way before his bulk, standing on one side as he passed her, saying peevishly to him: ‘Oh, all right, but you’ll have to come into the kitchen—I’m cooking.’

  ‘Ah, yes—the apron. Lunch, dear girl? I didn’t stop on the way down.’

  She turned round sharply, which was a mistake, for he was right behind her and she found her nose in his waistcoat. ‘Your car,’ she said with dignity. ‘You can’t leave it in the street, it’s too narrow.’

  ‘I didn’t—the grocer on the corner very kindly allowed me to park beside his shop.’

  They had reached the kitchen and she went to the stove to peer in her saucepans and open the oven door. The doctor’s splendid nose flared. ‘Roast beef?’ he enquired hopefully.

  ‘Baked potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, sprouts,’ Aramita recited, shutting the oven door on the delicious aroma and going to the table. She didn’t look at him, but picked up a rolling pin and attacked the pastry before her.