Текст книги "Britannia All at Sea"

Автор книги: Betty Neels

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 10 страниц)

‘But you must,’ insisted Madeleine, ‘otherwise you will never believe me. Why should you when you know that Jake and I…’ She shot another look at Britannia, who had gone back to her chair, sitting there with her hands folded so quietly in her lap. ‘I owe it to us all to be honest, and I am trying to be that.’ She sounded very sincere.

She opened the letter and went to the window to read it. ‘It begins: “My darling…”’

‘No,’ said Britannia sharply, but Madeleine took no notice. “‘We see so little of each other and there is so much that I want to tell you—to explain how I could have imagined myself in love—but only a little—with someone else when you were there, waiting for me, for you knew it sooner than I. I intend to see her and tell her that it is you I will marry, and I think that she will understand, for her feeling for me cannot be deep. Perhaps you are wondering why I have not told you this instead of writing it, but somehow the time and place have never been right.” It ends: “All my love, Jake.”’

‘When did you get this letter?’ asked Britannia in a dry little voice.

‘Marinus brought it round this morning.’ Madeleine walked deliberately to the bell rope by the fireplace. ‘I’ll ring for Marinus to come here—you will believe him.’ Her voice was so bitter that Britannia said at once:

‘There’s no need for that. I’ve seen the letter, haven’t I?’ She stirred in her chair. ‘Jake went to see you yesterday, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, and I had to see you first…’

Britannia glanced at the clock. Jake would be home soon and she wondered what he was going to say. Madeleine said quietly: ‘Men like new faces even though they still love the old.’ She was putting on her coat, ready to go, and Britannia got to her feet and said in a polite voice:

‘Thank you for coming. I’m—I’m sure you have done what you think is right and at least I know what to do…’ She drew a breath to steady her voice. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,’ and then: ‘I didn’t know that you loved each other.’

Madeleine didn’t answer her as she went.

The professor came into his house half an hour later, during which time Britannia had tried to sort out her thoughts and had failed lamentably. There was so much truth in what Madeleine had told her and she had sounded sincere; moreover, she had looked upset, not sure of herself, and the letter had been genuine…

So it was that when Jake entered the room she voiced her thoughts without allowing common sense to control them. ‘You went to see Madeleine yesterday.’

He paused on his way across the room and gave her a long look. ‘I did.’ The smile on his lips had gone and his mouth had taken on a rather grim look. Britannia saw it and plunged still further.

‘She told me you had—and it was in the letter, and although I believed her I thought there might be a mistake—that I hadn’t understood…’

‘Nor have I understood, Britannia. I take it that Madeleine has been here?’ He frowned. ‘And you speak of a letter?’ His eyes had narrowed and Britannia said quickly before she lost her courage:

‘The letter you wrote to her, of course. She showed it to me—well, the beginning and end with your name. I didn’t want to see any more of it, I didn’t want to hear it either, but she insisted on translating it, otherwise she said I wouldn’t have believed her.’

‘But you did believe her, my dear Britannia,’ he observed blandly, ‘without giving me the benefit of the doubt, too.’ There was a nasty curl to his lip.

‘Oh, dear,’ cried Britannia in an exasperated voice, ‘now you’re in a fine temper…’

‘Not yet, but I believe I shall be very shortly,’ he agreed silkily. ‘I thought that you trusted me, Britannia.’

She looked at him helplessly, aware that she had started all wrong and it was going to be difficult to put it right—indeed, she had the strongest suspicion that he wasn’t going to listen to anything she said. ‘Shall we talk about it later?’ she asked quietly. ‘It was my fault, jumping on you like that.’

‘We will talk about it now.’ He had become all at once arrogant as well as angry, and it was all so much worse because he was so coldly polite. ‘If I am to be accused of—what shall we call it? Double dealing? Philandering? then I would prefer to settle the matter now and not, as you had no doubt hoped, after I had been softened with a whisky and a good dinner.’

Britannia stamped her good foot, careless of what she said now. ‘You’re impossible!’ she told him bitterly. ‘You won’t listen—you don’t want to. There must be some explanation, only you won’t give it, only snarl at me. And you are bad-tempered and arrogant and now you won’t listen…’

‘Not listen?’ his voice was all silk again. ‘My dear girl, what else am I doing but listening, most unwillingly, to your tirade?’

‘Oh, it’s not—it’s not, and I expected you to tell me,’ she went on desperately.

He lifted his brows. ‘I have no intention of telling you anything.’ He smiled mockingly. ‘Madeleine seems to have done that for me.’ He added: ‘And you believed her.’

Britannia regarded him with hopeless eyes. ‘It’s Madeleine you love and want to marry—she said so. I wouldn’t have believed it, only there was the letter.’

‘Ah, yes, this letter. And you imagined that I would—what is the old-fashioned term—trifle with your affections and then drop you when it suited me?’

‘That’s only one way of looking at it,’ she pointed out fiercely.

‘The only way, Britannia.’ He wandered over to the fireplace and kicked a log into flames. ‘And if that is how you feel about it, there is nothing more to be said.’

Britannia’s insides went cold. ‘Jake, please don’t let’s quarrel…’

He turned to look at her over his shoulder. ‘I never quarrel, I say what I have to say and that is all.’

‘It’s not, you know,’ cried Britannia in a high voice. ‘You haven’t said anything, only made nasty remarks.’ Her voice quavered for a moment, ‘I thought we were honest with each other…’

His face was bland and expressionless. ‘What would be the point of being honest with you, my dear girl? You have condemned me unheard and that, in my judgement at least, makes honesty between us quite pointless.’ He added, ‘I’m not sure what I should have explained to you, but nothing, and I mean nothing, would force me to do so now, even if I knew what it was.’

‘But Jake, you do know.’

‘Perhaps I can guess.’ His smile mocked her again. ‘But anything I had intended to tell you when I came into this room is quite purposeless now.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘I THINK I should go home,’ said Britannia slowly.

‘Of course you will go home.’ The professor was in a towering rage, his eyes like blue ice, the nostrils of his magnificent nose flaring with his temper. ‘I shall drive you there myself.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We should be able to catch the night ferry from the Hoek. I imagine that half an hour is time enough in which to pack.’

Britannia goggled at him. ‘Half an hour? The night ferry? Jake, you’re in a most shocking rage and you don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘Indeed I am in a rage, but I am quite aware of what I am saying. We should arrive at your home during tomorrow afternoon.’

‘You’re not coming with me.’ She spoke defiantly.

‘Yes, I am.’ He glared quite ferociously at her. ‘You wish to leave my house as soon as possible; the least I can do is to speed you on your way and make sure that you arrive home.’

She swallowed the great lump in her throat. ‘Jake, please—you must try and understand. I can’t hurt Madeleine—I hate her, you know that, and that’s all the more reason…’

‘I understand very well. I also understand that you have no compunction in hurting me.’ His sneering voice made her shudder.

She was almost in tears now, but it would never do to cry. She said in a calm little voice which shook just a little, ‘Jake, could we talk about it? You haven’t given me a chance…and you haven’t told me…’

His cold voice cut through her muddle. ‘Why should I tell you anything? You already know.’

It was hopeless; he was angry because she had discovered that he really loved Madeleine before he had found a way to tell her himself. ‘You’ll forget me,’ she told him miserably.

His smile was nasty. ‘I have no intention of discussing the matter with you, Britannia. Like all women you have rushed into a situation without stopping to think.’

‘I have thought!’ snapped Britannia, stung by the memory of the last few hours. ‘I’ve thought so much that I don’t know my own mind any more.’

‘So I perceive.’ His voice was all silk. ‘And now if you care to go and pack and say goodbye to my mother…?’

He held the door open and there was nothing else for her to do but to go through it.

A little over half an hour later, sitting beside the professor as he sent the Rolls racing down the motorway which would take them to the Hoek, Britannia reflected that it was like being in a nightmare where one wishes desperately to do something and is prevented by other people and circumstances. She had packed in a daze and then gone to wish Mevrouw Luitingh van Thien goodbye, and because there had been no time to explain, she had stated baldly that she wasn’t going to marry Jake after all and that he was taking her home there and then.

His mother had said very little. ‘A misunderstanding,’ she had observed severely, ‘and of course Jake is in one of his rages and won’t allow anyone to say a word. I’m sorry, my dear—you were, still are, the right wife for him.’

Britannia let that pass even though she agreed with every word. ‘He insists upon taking me all the way to Moreton,’ she said helplessly.

‘And quite right too. I hope you will have a good journey, Britannia.’ She had offered a cheek and then added: ‘It is Madeleine, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Britannia, ‘it is. Jake will forget me.’

‘A pity that there is no time to tell me the whole. Jake has, of course, said nothing.’

Britannia had walked to the door and with her hand on the handle, had said miserably: ‘He loves her,’ and then gone out to where Jake waited for her.

The professor might be in a rage, but he had it under control now; his flow of light conversation would have done credit to a seasoned diplomat making the best of a bad situation. Throughout the journey he was never at a loss for a topic; not that Britannia had much idea of what he was saying. Once she tried to stop him, but her desperate: ‘Jake, please could we…?’ was ignored as he went into a detailed account of the rulers of Holland. Britannia, bogged down in a succession of Willems and the Spanish Occupation, said ‘Oh, really?’ and ‘Indeed,’ every now and then while she tried to sort out her thoughts. But they were still only as far as Koningin Emma when they reached the Hoek and began the business of getting on board. Presumably the professor had found the time to telephone for tickets, for there was no delay in getting the car on board and after a polite goodnight, Britannia was led away to a comfortable cabin and presently a stewardess appeared with a tray of coffee and sandwiches, and the information that tea and toast would be brought in the morning.

Britannia drank all the coffee and nibbled at a sandwich and then, because there seemed nothing else to do, undressed and got into the narrow little bed. It was going to be a rough crossing judging by the way the boat was lurching out into the North Sea; not that that mattered. As far as she was concerned, it could sink with all hands and her with it for all she cared. But although she lay awake, she was quite unable to think sensibly. The arrival of her morning tea was a relief and she drank it thankfully, got up and dressed, made up her white face very carefully and then, uncertain as to what to do next, sat down on the stool by the bed and waited in a kind of daze, not thinking at all for by now she was too tired.

When a voice over the intercom told everyone to rejoin their car she picked up her bag and opened the door. The professor was outside, leaning against the wall. He gave her an icily courteous good morning, told her to follow him, took her bag and strode off. In the car presently, waiting to disembark, there was too much noise to talk, and presently going through the routine of landing there was no need to say more than a word or two, but once on the road to London the professor broke his silence.

‘Rather a rough crossing,’ he remarked pleasantly. ‘I hope you weren’t too disturbed?’

All she could think of to say was: ‘Not at all, thank you,’ but the baldness of this reply didn’t deter him from keeping up a steady flow of small talk. It lasted right through Colchester and down the A12 and around the northern perimeter of London until they eventually joined the M3 at the Chertsey roundabout. Jake turned off again almost at once, remarking that she would probably like a cup of coffee, and drove the few miles to Chobham where he drew up before the Four Seasons restaurant and invited her to get out. Britannia shivered as she did so, for it was a chilly morning and she was tired and empty, but the coffee put new heart into her and she got into the car feeling more able to cope with the situation, until it struck her forcibly that very shortly she would be home now and her parents would expect some explanation. It was only too likely that they would dash forward with cries of welcome for their supposedly future son-in-law. Just as though he had read her mind, Jake said silkily: ‘Have you got your speech ready? Do say anything you wish—don’t mind me.’ He added: ‘I have broad shoulders.’

She blinked back tears, stupidly wanting to weep her eyes red because he had broad shoulders and large, clever hands and a handsome face, and very soon now she wouldn’t see them again. She mumbled: ‘I don’t know what I’m going to say,’ and cried pettishly: ‘Oh, can’t you see? I’m not doing or saying any of the things I want to…words are being put in my mouth. I’m forced to come home, there’s so much I want to say and you haven’t the patience to listen—what am I to do?’

‘My dear girl, surely I am the last person to ask?’

She kept quiet after that while the Rolls swallowed the miles in its well-bred way until he turned off at Ringwood, went through the little town and travelled on to Ibsley where they lunched at The Old Beams. It was a well-known restaurant and the food was delicious, but Britannia ate what was put before her without noticing what it was, making a great effort to match her companion’s relaxed manner and failing, did she but know it, miserably. They didn’t linger over the meal, but drove on, back on to the A31, through Wimborne Minster and Bere Regis, to turn off on to a side road and then turn off again to Moreton. An early dusk was falling by now, and as they approached the cottage, Britannia could see that there were lights already shining cosily from its windows. ‘It’s here,’ she said, and bade an unspoken goodbye to the Rolls as he opened her door and she got out.

Her mother answered the door and after a surprised moment cried: ‘Darling—how lovely, and you’ve brought Jake with you…’ She stopped there because she had seen Britannia’s face, white and rigid, certainly not the look of a happy girl. ‘Come in, both of you,’ she continued, ‘you must be cold.’ She peered over the professor’s broad shoulders and saw the Rolls. ‘Well, probably not, in that car, but I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea.’

She submitted to Britannia’s hug and held out her hand to Jake. ‘I’m so glad to meet you,’ she told him. ‘Come and meet my husband.’

They were all in the sitting room, with Britannia taking off her coat while the two men shook hands and her father, rightly interpreting her mother’s look, forbore from making any of the remarks fathers usually make on such occasions. Instead he asked about their journey, remarked upon the weather, begged his visitor to remove his coat and then embraced his daughter with a cheerful: ‘How nice to have you home, Britannia—for Christmas, I hope?’

He didn’t wait for her answer; even his loving but not very discerning eye could see that she was holding back tears, so he invited the professor to sit down and engaged him in conversation while tea was brought in and sandwiches eaten, and the professor, at his most charming, didn’t look at Britannia at all but said presently: ‘This has been delightful, but I must start back. I intend to catch the night boat.’

Britannia looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s almost five o’clock, you’ll never do it in the time.’

He smiled at her quite nicely. ‘What a pity that we can’t bet on that,’ he told her. ‘As it is, I’m afraid you’ll have to guess whether I do or not.’

He made his farewells quickly, including Britannia in them without actually speaking to her, and to her thanks for bringing her home he murmured: ‘As I have already told you, Britannia, it was the least I could do.’

He didn’t wish her goodbye, only smiled a little thinly at her. Her mother and father saw him to the door, but she stayed where she was, not moving until she heard the last murmur of the Rolls’ engine die away.

Mr and Mrs Smith came back into the room together and Britannia said at once in a high voice: ‘You must be wondering…I told you that I’d found the man I wanted to marry, didn’t I, and it seemed as though I would; everything went right for me—well, most of the time. I—I thought he loved me even though there was this other girl.’ She looked at her mother. ‘Vogue and Harpers and utterly beautiful—you know what I mean.’ She lapsed into silence and her parents waited patiently, not saying a word. ‘She was furious, of course, and she hated me—still does. We didn’t see much of each other, and then the day before yesterday she came to Jake’s house and showed me a letter from him; not all of it, but enough to make me see…’

‘In Dutch or English?’ asked her father quietly.

‘Oh, Dutch, because it was to her, of course, but she translated it for me…’

‘You are sure it was to her?’

Britannia nodded, ‘It began “Lieveling”, that’s darling, and it was his writing and his name at the bottom, and the envelope was addressed to her. She offered to show me the whole letter, but she was so quiet and sad and she couldn’t have invented all of it. She told me she hated me, but she thought that if I married Jake and he still loved her, I would be miserable if I found out, and he would be wretched as soon as he had recovered from his infatuation, tied to me and loving her…’

‘He brought you home,’ observed her mother softly.

‘He’s the kind of man who does his duty,’ said Britannia bitterly.

Her mother asked: ‘And did Jake mind very much when you told him you weren’t going to marry him?’

‘He wouldn’t even discuss it, he—he was furiously angry; he has a very nasty temper.’

Her mother nodded. ‘But I don’t quite see why he should have been so angry. After all, if he loved this girl all the time and was only passing the time of day with you, he should have been glad that you had found out about it—it saved him having to tell you, didn’t it?’

Britannia sniffed. ‘He likes to do things his way– I expect he’d got it all planned how he wanted it. It’s over now, anyway.’ She began to collect the tea things on to the tray. ‘May I use the telephone? I thought I’d ring the hospital and start straight away—I’ve ten days to work still, then if I may I’ll come home for Christmas and find another job.’

‘Of course, dear. Your father will help me with the washing-up; you telephone now and get it fixed up.’ Her mother picked up the tray. ‘Your ankle will stand up to it?’

‘Well, I think so, I thought I’d ask if I could work somewhere where there’s not such a rush.’

‘Geriatrics,’ she was told by the Senior Nursing Officer. The ward Sister there had gone off sick and Britannia’s return was providential, and could she report for duty as soon as possible?

A day or two at home would have been nice; on the other hand, if she went back on the next day and saved her days off, she would be finished before Christmas; she agreed to report for duty the following afternoon, and went to tell her mother, and that astute woman said not another word about Jake but for the rest of the evening discussed plans for Christmas and sent Britannia early to bed. ‘Father will drive you up,’ she said comfortably. ‘You can leave after breakfast and that will give you plenty of time.’

So Britannia retired to her room and unpacked and repacked a smaller case and went to bed, to lie awake and think of Jake and then force her thoughts to the future.

The geriatric wards of St Jude’s weren’t in the main hospital but five minutes’ walk away, down a narrow street made gloomy by the blank walls of warehouses. There wasn’t a tree in sight nor yet a blade of grass, and the annexe itself was an old workhouse, red brick and elaborate at that on the outside and a labyrinth of narrow passages, stone staircases and long wards into which the sun never seemed to shine. And yet the best had been made of a bad job; the walls were distempered in pastel colours, the counterpanes were gay patchwork, there were flowers here and there and sensible easy chairs grouped together round little tables so that those who were able could sit and gossip. To most of them, the place had been home for many months and probably would be for the rest of their lives, and Britannia, eyeing the female wards which were to be her especial care, supposed that it was probably a better home than the solitary bedsitter so many of them occupied. True, they hadn’t their independence any more, and most of them set great store by that, but they had regular food, warmth, company and a little money each week which they could spend when the shop lady came round with her trolley, and some of them, though regrettably few, had families who came to see them.

Britannia took the report from the agency nurse who had been called in to plug the gap and settled down at her desk to read the patients’ notes before she did a round. She had been a little surprised when she arrived at the hospital at lunch time to be asked if she would go on duty immediately, but she hadn’t minded. Having something to do would get through the days and if she had enough work she would be tired enough to sleep. She had been given her old room in the nurses’ home; she didn’t bother to unpack but got straight into uniform, donned her cloak against the cold, and hurried along the miserable little street to the annexe. Sitting at the desk, it seemed to her that she had never been away from the hospital and yet so much had been crowded into those few weeks, and the whole telescoped into the quick journey home again. She thanked heaven silently for understanding parents; a pity she wouldn’t be going home for her days off, but if she saved them up she would be able to leave two days sooner. Eight days, she told herself with false cheerfulness, and buried her pretty head in the pile of notes before her.

She went to see Joan when she got off duty that evening; a very excited Joan, her head full of plans for her wedding, but she paused presently to ask: ‘Why Geriatrics, ducky? Isn’t the ankle up to the rush and scurry of Men’s Surgical? And I had a letter from Mevrouw Veske saying that you would have some wonderful news for me.’ She paused to look at Britannia’s face. ‘But I can see that she’s wrong. Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No, not now, Joan. I’m only on Geriatrics for a week, then I’m leaving.’

‘You’re not getting…no, of course not. It’s that professor, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Now tell me more about your wedding…’

The geriatric wards might have been easy on her ankle, but their occupants made heavy demands on Britannia. They had taken to her at once and most of them saw in her a kind of daughter, there to fulfil their many and several wants; she was also Staff, someone who gave them their pills, saw that they had their treatments and got up in the morning and went to bed in the evening, ate their meals, and twice a day did a round of the wards, stopping to talk to each of them. The nursing was undemanding but heavy and Britannia had a staff of part-time nurses and auxiliaries, but still it was tiring and she was thankful for that; it meant that she slept for a good deal of the night. All the same, the first two days dragged even though she filled her off-duty with Christmas shopping, willing herself not to think of Jake at all. It didn’t work, of course. She thought of him all the time, he was there beside her, behind every door she opened, round every corner, beneath her eyelids when she closed them at night.

On the third morning she went on duty with a headache and the nasty empty feeling induced by too little sleep and too many meals missed, and when she had taken the night nurse’s report the Senior Nursing Officer telephoned to say that the part-time staff nurse who was to do the evening duty wouldn’t be able to come in, and would Britannia mind very much filling in for her. ‘You can save it up and leave half a day sooner,’ said the voice cheerfully, ‘and you should manage an hour’s quiet this afternoon during visiting.’

Britannia thought that very unlikely; visitors liked to talk to Sister, the patients who hadn’t anyone to see them tended to make little demands of her because they felt lonely and left out… She said she didn’t mind and heard the Senior Nursing Officer’s relieved sigh as she put down the receiver.

She realised as soon as she went into the first ward that the day had begun badly; for one thing, it was a grey, cold morning, and despite the gay counterpanes and bright walls, the grey had filtered in, making the patients morose and unwilling to stir from their nice warm beds. Britannia set about the patient task of cheering them up, an exercise which took a great deal of the morning. Luckily it was the consultant’s weekly round, one of the highlights in the old ladies’ week, and they had brightened up considerably by the time Doctor Payne and his houseman arrived. He was a good doctor, nearing retirement; Britannia had had her medical lectures from him when she was in training and he had always been pleasant to the nurses, even when those on night duty had fallen asleep under his very nose, or the brighter ones had asked obvious questions in order to show off. He remembered her at once and observed forthrightly: ‘Staff Nurse Smith—I thought you were a surgical girl. Been ill? You look under the weather.’

‘I’m fine, Doctor Payne, a bit tired, that’s all. I’m filling in a few days before I leave.’

‘Getting married?’ he wanted to know. ‘All the pretty girls get married just as they’re getting useful. Who’s the lucky man?’

‘There isn’t one. I—I just wanted a change of scene.’

Doctor Payne shot her a look, said ‘Um,’ and then: ‘Well, well,’ and coughed. ‘And how are my old ladies?’

She gave him a brief report and they started off. The round took some time, for although most of the patients had nothing dramatic wrong with them they had a variety of tiresome complaints and aches and pains, all of which had to be discussed and if necessary treated. It was time to serve dinners when Doctor Payne had at last finished and after that there were the old ladies to settle for their afternoon rest and then the medicines to give out. Britannia went to her own dinner rather late and ate tepid beef and potatoes and carrots and remembered all the delicious food she had eaten in Jake’s house, so that she rejected the milk pudding offered her and went with the other staff nurses at her table to drink the cup of tea they always managed to squeeze into their dinner break, however short. The talk was all of Christmas, so that she was able to parry the few questions she was asked about her trip to Holland and trail the red herring of Joan’s approaching wedding across her listeners’ path. They broke up presently to go back on duty and Britannia made her solitary way back to the annexe.

Her superior’s hopeful suggestion that she should take an hour off during visiting hour came to nothing, of course; there were fewer visitors than usual, which meant that the old ladies made a continuous demand on her and the nurses on duty. It didn’t seem worth going back to the hospital for tea; she had a tray in her office before getting on with the evening’s work, and when it was time to go to supper, she decided not to go to that either; she wasn’t hungry and she could make herself some toast later. The wards were quiet now, with all the patients back in bed, most of them already dozing lightly. Britannia sent her two nurses to supper, finished her report and then went softly round the wards, saying a quiet goodnight to each old lady. It was at the bottom of the second ward, when she was almost through, that she found Mrs Thorn out of bed.

‘Now don’t you be vexed,’ said Mrs Thorn in a cheerful whisper. ‘I just took a fancy to sit out for a bit longer and I got that nice little nurse to put me back in the chair for half an hour, and don’t go blaming her, because I told her you’d said that I could.’ She laughed gently. ‘I’ll go back now you’re here.’

Britannia hid a smile. Mrs Thorn was the oldest inhabitant in the Geriatric Unit and was consequently a little spoilt. She said without meaning it: ‘You’re a naughty old thing, aren’t you? But doing something different is fun sometimes, isn’t it?’

Mrs Thorn was small and fragile and very old, with birdlike bones knotted and twisted by arthritis. Britannia lifted her out of the chair and popped her gently into her bed. It took a little time to get the old lady’s dressing gown off, for Mrs Thorn liked things done just so and she enjoyed a chat too. Britannia was tucking in the patchwork quilt when she became aware that someone was walking down the ward, to stop at the foot of the bed. Jake, elegant and calm and self-assured as always. Mrs Thorn, with the childlike outspokenness of the old, broke a silence which for Britannia seemed to go on for ever and ever.

‘And who are you?’ she demanded in a piping voice. ‘A handsome, well-set-up man like you shouldn’t be here. You should be out with some pretty girl, or better still by your own fireside with a wife and children to share it.’ She smiled suddenly and caught at Britannia’s hand. ‘Perhaps you’ve come to fetch our dear Staff Nurse away? She’s a lovely young thing and she shouldn’t be here—we’re all so old…’