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Two Weeks to Remember
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.Faith…Hope…and Charity! Nothing exciting happened to Charity. Her job as a hospital secretary was hectic, but routine. Even the man everyone expected her to marry was safe, reliable and dull. There surely had to be more to life.So, when Professor Jake Wyllie-Lyon offered her the chance to work for him, Charity didn’t hesitate to accept. The job was everything she had dreamed of—and so was Jake! But there Charity’s problems really began…



“A very pleasant evening,” said the professor, and waited, his eyes on her face.
“Why did you come?” It sounded a bit bold, but she wasn’t a girl to mince words.
“Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?” He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her. Being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone.
“Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.”
She asked abruptly, “Have you any friends?”
“Oh, Lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully….”
She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.
“Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?” He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. “Enjoy your weekend,” he said in a noncommittal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car.
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.

Two Weeks to Remember
Betty Neels



CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE
CHARITY RATTLED OFF the last few words of the Path Lab report, took the form out of the machine and reached for its cover. She was late by reason of Miss Hudson having to go to the dentist and Charity offering to finish off her reports for her. If she wasn’t to keep Sidney waiting she would have to get a move on. She got to her feet, a tall shapely girl with curly dark hair pinned into a careless french pleat, and a pretty face, and stretched and yawned widely, glad to be free from her typewriter at last. She yawned again and crossed the bare little office to the minuscule cupboard where the pair of them hung their things and made the tea, and did her face and poked at her hair. Charity, a contented girl, sometimes found herself at the end of a busy day wishing that she was somewhere else; somewhere exotic, dressed to kill and being plied with champagne by some man who adored her… So silly, she admonished her reflection, and surely she was old enough not to daydream. Especially as there was Sidney. It was regrettable, but she had found herself quite unable to daydream about him. He was everything a prospective husband should be: non-smoking, non-drinking, with a steady job in a building society and a nice little nest egg; he was a pleasant companion, too. They had known each other for so long that she wasn’t sure when the idea of marrying had turned from a vague possibility to a taken-for-granted fact. Certainly he had never actually proposed.
She fetched her purse from the desk drawer, turned off the lamp and went out of the room, plunging at once into a narrow passage with a stone floor. It wound its way round the back of the hospital, a forgotten thoroughfare from Victorian times, only used by herself and Miss Hudson and anyone who delivered the reports, letters and treatment sheets, written for the most part in almost unreadable scrawls, which they deciphered and returned neatly typed, in an unending stream.
The familiar sounds of hospital life and the faint but penetrating smell of disinfectant, floor polish and Harpic, nicely blended, caused her to wrinkle her charming nose; she hardly noticed it during the day, but somehow by the time she left for home, it had become a bit much.
There were other people using the passage: porters, someone from X-Ray taking a short cut, a couple of nurses who shouldn’t be there at all, and the nice little man who went round the wards collecting specimens. She greeted them all cheerfully, opened the door leading to the entrance hall and whipped smartly through it. The entrance hall was vast; the Victorians may have stinted on the gloomy semi-basement rooms and endless gloomier corridors, but they had let themselves go on the committee rooms, consultants’ rooms and the entrance. From the outside, the front of the hospital resembled Euston Station, with more than a dash of the original Crystal Palace. The large glass doors opened on to a gloomy, marble-floored hall upon whose fairly lofty ceiling were depicted various scenes of a surgical or medical aspect, while round its dark oak-panelled walls stood an orderly row of dead and gone consultants, each on his plinth. Half-way down this symbol of Victorian ill-taste was the head porter’s box, where old Mr Symes spent his days, ruling the porters with a heavy hand and a fount of knowledge when it came to the hospital and its activities. He knew the nursing staff, the students, the housemen and the consultants, and they in their turn regarded him as a kind of symbol; Augustine’s without Symes was unthinkable.
He looked up from his paper as Charity crossed the waste of marble towards the door, wished her a civil good evening and then got to his feet and reached back to take a handful of notes from the board behind him. The glass doors had been thrust open and a man had come in: Professor Wyllie-Lyon, Senior Medical Consultant, a pleasant, rather quiet giant of a man about whom the hospital grapevine could find very little to say. No one knew if he were married or where he lived—no one being the nursing staff who found his good looks and great size irresistible.
He paused to take the messages Symes offered him, bade him a polite good evening and smiled at Charity. ‘You work late, Miss Graham. Are we so hard on you?’
She stopped in front of him. ‘Oh, no, sir, it’s not that—Miss Hudson had the toothache and went to the dentist and there were one or two reports to finish.’
She smiled at him in return; she liked him. True, his notes and letters were sometimes scribbled in an abominable scrawl which took all her wits to decipher, and he had a nasty habit of springing something urgent on them to be typed just as they had cleared their desks for the day, but he was always beautifully mannered. She knew a good deal more about him than the grapevine, too, but discretion was part of her job. Sharing a table with the nurses at dinner time, she listened to them guessing as to where he lived or if he were married and, if so, to whom, knowing quite well that he had a house in an elegant backwater—an expensive one, too, she guessed—tucked away behind Wimpole Street; he wasn’t married, either, but wild horses wouldn’t have dragged that from her; he had mentioned it a while ago, quite casually, when he had brought some letters to be typed. His secretary, he had explained, was ill and would Charity be so kind? The letters had his home address but he had said nothing about that, only remarking before he went that he would collect them personally on the following day, ‘For I shall be away for a day or so and my housekeeper will probably tidy them away if you post them.’
Now he didn’t hurry away. ‘You like your work?’ he asked.
‘Yes, very much; you see it isn’t just office work; we meet lots of people—it’s never boring.’
‘You don’t strike me as being a young lady to be easily bored.’
She was a little surprised at that. As far as she was aware he knew nothing about her; their meetings had been brief and businesslike.
‘No, I’m not…’
‘And now you will go to your home and doubtless spend your evening with some fortunate young man.’ He stood in front of her, staring down into her face from heavy-lidded blue eyes.
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then I mustn’t keep you.’ He was his usual courteous self again and she bade him good night and went out into the chilly sombre autumn evening, feeling vaguely disturbed. She had no idea why and she shrugged the feeling off as she hurried along the crowded pavement to the bus stop.
She was already late and the next bus which came along was already full; a precious ten minutes had passed before she squeezed on to the next one. Sidney would be put out at having to wait for her and would have to be soothed back into good spirits again. She frowned. It would be nice if he soothed her for a change, but somehow he always made her feel that she worked to please herself, without due regard to his feelings, and if she came home tired of an evening it was entirely her own fault. She had tried to explain to him when they had first started going out together, but she had sensed his lack of interest and had long ago dropped the subject. What was the use of explaining to him that although her father was a retired solicitor and tolerably comfortable, his propensity for buying rare books ate great holes into his income, and her aunt, who had come to live with them when her mother had died years ago, was incapable of being economical. She hadn’t realised this herself until she had left school and found that there was to be no university because of lack of money. So she had taken a course of shorthand and typing, both of which she really didn’t like, and found herself a job; it made her independent and in a year or two she could have found herself a small flat and lived her own life, but her aunt had come to depend on her contributions to the housekeeping and she was too kind-hearted a girl to ignore that.
She had been at St Augustine’s for two years now and supposed that she would be there until Sidney asked her to marry him. She stood there, crammed between two men reading their evening papers, trying to imagine herself married to him. She still hadn’t got the image right when she got off the bus at St John’s Wood and walked briskly away from the Finchley Road down a sober side street. Her home was in the more unfashionable part, a modest semi-detached with a front garden hedged by laurel bushes and planted by her with daffodils, wallflowers and dahlias according to the season. In winter, alike with its neighbours, it was bare. Charity, who loved gardening, had done her best with chrysanthemums, but without much success. She stopped to look at them now, on her way up the garden path; they were soggy with October rain and damp, drooping against the sticks she had given them. For a few wild seconds she wanted to run away from London, to some quiet country spot where things grew, unhampered by soot and fog and neglect.
Sidney was in the sitting room with her aunt and she felt a wave of irritation when he didn’t bother to get up as she went in, but only remarked on her lateness in what she called his civil servant’s voice. She greeted her aunt and accorded him a ‘Hallo’, and stood a little uncertainly between them in the vaguely shabby room. The chairs needed new covers; if she didn’t buy a new winter coat perhaps they could get some… There were some nice pieces in the room: a canterbury and a davenport, a rent table in the window and a corner cupboard housing the Waterford glasses. She polished them all lovingly each weekend, but Aunt Emily didn’t bother during the week. She took off her jacket and went to hang it in the hall, and Sidney said, ‘I thought we were going out… I’ve been waiting.’ He sounded impatient.
‘I had some work to finish; I’ll only be ten minutes or so.’
‘Too late to go to the cinema.’
She turned to look at him. ‘The big film doesn’t start until after eight o’clock.’
‘Too late. I have to go to work in the morning—we can’t all please ourselves.’
‘I’m sure your work is very important,’ observed Aunt Emily with a vague desire to please someone.
Sidney passed a hand over his pale hair and looked important. ‘I hope I pull my weight,’ he observed smugly. Charity, still standing at the door, knew for certain at that moment that she would never marry him. She gave a great sigh of relief; it was like a heavy weight falling away, or coming out of a mist into the bright sunshine. She was about to throw away her secure future, another semi-detached, suitably furnished—although at the rate Sidney was going, it would take some years. I’m twenty-six, she thought, and in ten years time I’ll be thirty-six and very likely still living here. She said aloud, ‘Then I’ll make us all some coffee, shall I? Where’s father?’
‘In his study. A parcel of books came this morning.’ Her aunt gave her an apologetic look. ‘I believe there are some which he particularly wanted.’
Charity went along to the kitchen and made the coffee and cut the jam sponge she had made the evening before. She and Sidney usually had a snack supper when they went out together and she felt empty; when he had gone she would make a sandwich. She carried in the tray and pretended not to see his look of displeasure. Presently, she decided silently, she would walk to the corner of the street with him and tell him that she didn’t want to see him again. She was by nature a kind-hearted girl, and careful not to hurt people’s feelings, but she didn’t think that Sidney would be hurt. Offended perhaps, annoyed because he’d have to look for another suitable wife, but not hurt.
She took in the coffee and her aunt poured it, aware that something was wrong but not sure what it was so that she embarked on a pointless conversation about nothing in particular until Sidney put down his cup and announced that he might as well go home.
‘I’ll walk with you to the corner,’ said Charity and fetched her jacket, and Aunt Emily nodded and smiled, under the impression that whatever it was had blown over.
The corner wasn’t far; Charity wasted no time but said at once, ‘Sidney, I’ve been thinking—I’m not really what you want, you know. I think it would be a good idea if we didn’t see each other again.’ She glanced up at his face, lighted by a street lamp. ‘We’ve known each other too long,’ she finished flatly.
‘You are throwing me over?’ His voice was stiff with resentment.
‘Well,’ said Charity reasonably, ‘I’ve never really had you, have I? I mean you’ve never said that you wanted to marry me—nor that you loved me.’
‘There should be no need to state the obvious.’ He was outraged.
‘That’s all very well, but do you love me, Sidney? And do just for once stop being a civil servant and be honest.’
‘I have—did have—a deep regard for you, Charity.’
‘But do you love me?’ she persisted.
‘If by that you mean…’ He paused. ‘No, I don’t think that I do.’ He added coldly, ‘You would have been a most suitable wife.’
They had reached the corner. She said seriously, ‘But that wouldn’t have been enough for me, Sidney. I don’t want to be a suitable wife, I want to be loved just because I’m me and not because I’m suitable. There’s a difference, you know, although I’m not exactly sure what it is.’
Sidney gave a little sneering laugh. ‘If you don’t look out you’ll be too old to find out. Goodbye, Charity.’ He turned on his heel and walked away and after a moment she walked back to her home and went indoors, back to the sitting room to her aunt, who said, ‘Back so soon, my dear? I thought you and Sidney might be going to enjoy a pleasant stroll.’
‘We’re not going to see each other again,’ said Charity clearly. ‘It wouldn’t have worked out. I’m sure he’s a very good man and all that, but I’m not the wife for him—if ever he’d got around to asking me.’
‘My dear Charity,’ began Aunt Emily, and then, ‘What will your father say?’
Charity was peering at herself in the handsome rococo mirror over the fireplace, poking her hair. ‘Nothing much,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I don’t think he liked Sidney very much, did he? And he’s not really interested in me.’
Her aunt looked shocked. ‘Charity! What a thing to say about your father.’
‘Oh, I don’t mean that he doesn’t love me,’ Charity explained. ‘Just that there are other things which interest him more than I do.’
She turned away from the mirror. ‘I expect I shall end up by being a spinster.’
‘There must be a great many suitable young men at that hospital,’ ventured Aunt Emily.
‘Oh, plenty of young men,’ agreed Charity, ‘but they are not suitable. You see, that’s the trouble—they’re young. I’m twenty-six and all the older men I meet are already married.’ She then remembered Professor Wyllie-Lyon, certainly not married but, she felt sure, a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor, content with his lectures and his seminars and his hospital rounds. ‘Almost all,’ she finished.
Her aunt looked so downcast that she bent to kiss her cheek. ‘I’ll get supper shall I? I’m famished and Father will have to eat…’
She enjoyed cooking; that was one of the things Sidney had liked about her, being able to turn out appetising meals for a minimum cost. She set about making a cheese soufflé now and while it was in the oven laid the table in the small dining room, made even smaller by reason of the Regency oval table with its graceful ribbon-back chairs and the elegant sidetable which took up the whole of one wall. It was chilly there; she turned on the gas fire, drew the curtains and put on the white starched cloth her father insisted upon, then arranged the silver which had been in her mother’s family for years and set out the glasses, for he liked his wine, too, even though it was supermarket claret.
The soufflé was ready and it would spoil unless they ate it at once. She urged her aunt to the table and went to fetch her father. He looked up as she went into the small room behind the dining room. ‘Ah, my dear, have you had a good day? I have had a splendid parcel of books…’
She bent to kiss his elderly cheek. ‘You have? That’s nice. There is a soufflé in the oven waiting to be eaten—will you come now?’
He followed her reluctantly, poured the wine, and sat down while she shared out the soufflé. There was a salad, too, and they sat eating it, not talking much for her father’s mind was on his books and Aunt Emily was still brooding over Sidney’s departure. Charity, sitting between them, kept up a cheerful flow of small talk; she loved them both dearly, her elderly aunt and her elderly father. She couldn’t remember them ever being young; her father had married in his late forties and her mother had been twenty years younger than he, killed in a road accident when Charity had been six years old. Aunt Emily had come then to look after them both and, since she was only a year or so younger than her brother, she had already been middle-aged; they had done their best with the small girl, trying to make up for the loss of her mother, and she had grown up into a rather quiet young woman. She had had few friends, for neither her father nor her aunt was sociable and the few young men she had brought home from time to time had been put off by her father’s bland disregard for their existence and her aunt’s insistence on making a third. It wasn’t until she met Sidney and had pointed out that she was getting on towards thirty and quite able to look after herself that they woke up to the fact that she was no longer a child. They had even accepted his presence as a rather vague future son-in-law. And now she had put paid to that in no uncertain manner and, presently, she supposed she might regret it.
She cleared the plates, put a bowl of fruit on the table and fetched the coffee. Just one adventure, she thought vividly, passing coffee cups; something really exciting before she resigned herself to the quiet years ahead. For they would be that. She was a pretty girl, she knew that without conceit, but living such a sheltered life for years had made her shy; she wished she knew how to attract men, but she had very little idea as to how to set about it. There had been no need with Sidney, he had taken it for granted that she was attracted to him and he had never expected to hear anything else. Her thoughts were interrupted by her aunt’s gentle voice.
‘I thought we might have fish tomorrow. Could you get some, dear? I expect you can pop out during the day…?’
Aunt Emily, never having had a job herself, had her own peculiar ideas about working hours.
Charity agreed at once. She had three-quarters of an hour for her lunch break, and there was a row of shops five minutes’ walk away from Augustine’s. Perhaps she would buy a sandwich and go and sit in the churchyard tucked away between the tatty streets. It was quiet there and, although the plane trees weren’t very exciting, the grass grew between the ancient tombstones and there were birds, too.

The office looked dreary when she got there the next morning; it was a gloomy day with wild clouds scudding across the sky and the threat of rain, so that they had to have the lights on. Miss Hudson, minus the offending tooth and conscious of the gap which showed when she smiled, was disposed to be peevish, a state of affairs not improved by the pile of notes and letters already waiting to be typed.
Charity whipped off her typewriter cover, took the lion’s share of work on to her desk, rolled paper and carbon into her machine and went to put the kettle on. ‘You’ll feel better after a cup of tea,’ she promised and got out their mugs and the milk and sugar.
Miss Hudson sniffed. ‘It’s all very well for you young ones,’ she grumbled, ‘you don’t have any worries.’
Charity didn’t answer. Miss Hudson was within shouting distance of fifty, thin to the point of boniness, with a sharp nose and a sharp tongue and a refined voice. At least I won’t be bony, thought Charity, looking down at her splendid curves and then worming her way into the cupboard to make the tea.
Refreshed, they worked without pause until Miss Hudson looked at her watch. ‘I’m off to the canteen,’ she announced. ‘You’ll be all right, Charity?’
She always asked that; Charity had once or twice been tempted to say that, no, she wouldn’t, and wondered what Miss Hudson would have to say to that. Left alone, she picked up one of Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s reports and began to decipher it. The writing was worse than usual and there was an awful lot of it. She sighed gently. ‘That anyone so clever could find it impossible to write so that anyone could read it!’ she exclaimed to the room around her. ‘And I wonder what that means—something something five times…’
‘Sthenic,’ said Professor Wyllie-Lyon in an apologetic voice.
She turned slowly to look at him standing in the doorway. He was holding another sheaf of papers, watching her and smiling at her a little. ‘It means strong or active. The trouble is,’ he went on, ‘I can read my own writing and tend to forget that no one else can.’
He laid the papers on her desk. ‘These are urgent, if you would be so kind?’
He was at the door again and she hadn’t uttered a word. He was shutting it behind him when he put his head round to ask, ‘I trust you had a pleasant evening, Miss Graham?’
‘No,’ said Charity and began to thump on her typewriter, stifling a sudden urge to tell him all about Sydney. She didn’t look up as the door closed softly behind him.
Miss Hudson came back from her dinner in a better frame of mind. ‘Run along,’ she told Charity. ‘Did anything else come in while I was away?’
‘Another lot from Professor Wyllie-Lyon—urgent.’
Miss Hudson cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘That man—nice though he is, and I’m sure I’ve never met anyone in this place with better manners—no wonder the nurses all fall for him. It’s a pity he has to work so hard. I must leave on time, too; the dentist’s going to take an impression…’
‘I’ll stay on if we are not finished,’ offered Charity and thought uneasily of the fish. If she got the fishmonger to put it in a stout plastic bag and she put it on the windowsill and cooked it the moment she got home… Anyway it was quite a chilly day. She got her coat and started off along the passage. Five minutes to the shops, five minutes there, and she would buy a ham roll and eat it in the churchyard; there was a convenient cluster of old tombstones in one corner out of the wind. There would still be time to have a cup of coffee at the café at the end of the row of shops. Reg, the proprietor, made excellent coffee and one could ignore the plastic surroundings.
There was a queue at the fishmongers; she bought cod fillets and because she was a pretty girl with a nice smile the fishmonger wrapped them carefully in a second bag. She stowed the fish into her shopping basket, bought a ham roll and crossed the road to the churchyard.
There was no one else there; there seldom was. Sometimes in the summer she had found a tramp sleeping peacefully on one of the stone slabs, and once or twice someone like herself, intent on peace and quiet for half an hour. She selected an eighteenth-century angel to lean against and began on her roll.
She had scarcely sunk her splendid teeth into it before someone came strolling towards her. Professor Wyllie-Lyon, hands in pockets and just for once no papers that needed typing immediately. She paused, the roll half-way to her open mouth; surely he hadn’t sought her out to do some urgent notes?
It seemed not. He came to a halt in front of her and remarked pleasantly, ‘We seem to share the same desire for peace and quiet, Miss Graham. May I sit for a moment?’
He arranged his great size against the scroll over which the angel was brooding. The family Wodecock: father, mother and a quiverful of children; there were so many of them that the scroll made an excellent support for such a large man. After a moment he said, ‘Fish?’
She watched his magnificent nose flare. ‘Well, yes, I’ve just bought some for supper when I get home.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Do go on with your lunch, Miss Graham. I come here to close my eyes for ten minutes—it’s quiet.’
A hint for her not to talk? She took another bite of her roll. His eyes were still shut when she had finished. She brushed the crumbs away and got soundlessly to her feet and he was there, beside her, wide awake, looming over her.
‘I would be glad if you would have a cup of coffee with me, Miss Graham. Reg, at the café by the grocer’s, makes a splendid cup.’
‘Yes, I go there sometimes—it’s a change from the canteen.’ She discovered to her surprise that she didn’t feel shy with him. ‘Thank you, I’ve just got the time before half past one.’
They were sitting at an orange, plastic-topped table, their coffee before them, before he asked, ‘What went wrong then?’
She was an honest girl; it didn’t occur to her to pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. She said, ‘Oh, I’m still not sure.’ She was silent for so long that she heard him say comfortably, ‘I dare say it will sort itself out.’
And she had been on the point of telling him all about it. She must be mad, she thought crossly; she didn’t even know the man. They didn’t move in the same hospital circles and she felt pretty sure that their social backgrounds were as wide apart as the poles. He was being kind without making much of an effort, probably because he knew that it was he, more than any of the other consultants, who kept her nose to the grindstone.
She drank her coffee, glanced at her watch, thanked him and got up to go. He got up, too, but made no effort to accompany her. His goodbye was impersonal and casual. She went back to the hospital feeling peevish.
Miss Hudson, as always, glanced at the clock as she went in. They worked well together, but she let it be known by small signs such as this that she was in charge. ‘Dr Carruthers’—she bridled a little, for she fancied him—’ popped in with a couple of letters. There’s not much else besides Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s stuff, is there?’
Luckily not, thought Charity, hanging up her coat, for there was more than enough of it.
She was a little more than half-way through them when Miss Hudson fancied a cup of tea and while Charity was filling the kettle the phone rang. ‘That was to ask you to take the professor’s papers down to the consultants’ room should they not be ready by five o’clock.’
Miss Hudson inserted a fresh sheet of paper. ‘Will you be done by then?’
‘No,’ said Charity, ‘I had those biopsy reports to do, you know.’ She made the tea and carried the tray to Miss Hudson’s desk. ‘I’m about half-way. It’ll be six o’clock I should think.’
‘Poor you,’ said Miss Hudson, not meaning it. She sipped her tea in a genteel fashion. ‘I did hear a rumour that he was off shortly on some lecturing tour or other; that’ll make life much easier for us both.’
Which, seeing that she had long ago left Charity to deal with almost all of his work, wasn’t quite true.
The office seemed very quiet when Miss Hudson had gone. The afternoon was already darkening and there was a first splattering of rain against the uncurtained windows. Charity remembered the fish wedged on the windowsill and brought it inside, then settled down to work again. Another hour’s work, she reckoned, perhaps less since there would be no interruptions now. The administrative side of Augustine’s had packed up and gone home, leaving the nurses to their work; she could hear faint hospital sounds and from time to time the strident warning of an ambulance.
She finished before an hour was up, tidied her desk and put on her coat and picked up her work. There was no one in the passage; the day’s rush had died down for the moment, patients were being readied for their suppers; except for the non-stop flow of patients in the accident room, Augustine’s was, for a little while, tolerably quiet.
Charity hurried along, anxious to get home; Aunt Emily would be worrying about supper. She gained the entrance hall and turned down one of the corridors leading from it, wider than the rest, lined by magnificent mahogany doors. This was where the consultants, the management committee and the upper heirarchy of the hospital had their various rooms. The consultants’ was half-way down; she tapped at the door and went in. Professor Wyllie-Lyon was overflowing a chair with his feet on the table. He appeared to be sleeping, but as she hesitated he said, ‘Come on in. I’m much obliged to you, Miss Graham; I’ve curtailed your evening.’
He had taken his large feet in his handmade shoes off the table and was looming over her. ‘It was important that I should have these,’ he observed as he took the papers she handed him. ‘They need to be delivered this evening.’
Charity murmured a nothing, said good night and made for the door. He reached it first, which was surprising considering that he was such a large man and so far away from it.
‘I’ll drop you off,’ he said and when she said, ‘Oh, there’s no need of that,’ he interrupted her gently, ‘You live in St John’s Wood; I’m going in that direction. It’s the least I can do.’
‘But it’s my work,’ protested Charity.
He took no notice of that, but gathered up the papers and opened the door and ushered her through. Short of making a silly fuss there was nothing she could do but accompany him out of the hospital and into the dark blue Bentley parked in the forecourt.
The professor, beyond a word here and there, had little to say as he drove along the Finchley Road. Presently he asked, ‘Where do I turn off?’
‘Oh, this will do, thank you,’ said Charity. ‘I can walk down here—it’s quite close…’
‘In that case I’ll drive you there.’
He had the reputation of being quite mild at the hospital, but she had the feeling that that was a cover-up for a steely determination to get his own way. After all, how many dozens of times had she meekly agreed to type his letters, knowing that she had no hope of finishing them by five o’clock when she was supposed to go home? She gave him her address and sat silently until he stopped outside the gate. He leaned across and opened the door for her. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get out; time is of the essence.’
It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that he could have saved himself a few minutes by dropping her off in the Finchley Road when she had suggested it, but all she said was a polite thank you and a rather brisk good night, uneasily aware that the cod might have left a faintly fishy atmosphere in his beautiful car. She was surprised that he didn’t drive away until she had gone through the gate and shut it behind her.
Aunt Emily came into the hall to meet her; she might be elderly but her hearing was excellent. ‘I heard a car,’ she began. ‘Have you and Sidney made it up, darling?’ And, before Charity could reply, ‘You bought the fish?’
‘Yes, Aunt Emily—it’s here. I’ll take it straight to the kitchen. And yes, you did hear a car, but it wasn’t Sidney and we haven’t made it up. It was one of the consultants at St Augustine’s—I stayed late to finish some work for him and he gave me a lift as he was coming this way.’
Upon reflection she wondered if that had been true. The papers had been urgent—reports on a case of leukaemia he had been consulted about, but the patient, if she remembered aright, had been in an East End hospital in exactly the opposite direction. He had said that he had needed the reports urgently, but if that was the case why had he wasted time bringing her home? Perhaps he had some other urgent business to attend to first.
She didn’t bother her head over it but went to say hallo to her father and then started on the fish.
In the oven with a bit of parsley, she decided; easy to prepare and not too long to cook. While it was cooking she sat down at the kitchen table with her aunt. As so often happened, that lady had used up the housekeeping money and shied away from asking her brother for more until it was due. ‘I do try to be economical, dear,’ she observed worriedly, ‘but somehow the money just goes…’
Charity, who had had her eye on a pair of expensive shoes for some weeks and had intended to buy them on pay-day, heaved an inward sigh. By the time she had enough money for them they wouldn’t be fashionable any more. She wasn’t extravagant and she didn’t buy many clothes, but what she had were good and suited her, for she bought with a careful eye. She said now, ‘Don’t worry, Aunty, I’ve a few pounds tucked away—you can pay me back later.’ They both knew that that wouldn’t happen but neither of them mentioned the fact.
At supper her father remarked, ‘You came home by car, Charity? I was at my window…’
She told him about the professor, but only briefly, for half-way through he interrupted with, ‘Ah, that reminds me, in the catalogue I had sent to me today there’s a book I think I must have: early medical practices in Europe; it should be most informative. This professor would doubtless be very interested.’
Very unlikely, thought Charity, murmuring agreement. Just for a moment, as she changed the plates, she wondered where he was and what he was doing at that moment. Wining and dining some exquisite young lady, or with his head buried in some dry-as-dust tome? Probably the latter, propped up against the cruet while he ate his solitary dinner. Charity, who had a very vivid imagination, felt rather sorry for him, allowing her imagination to run away with her common sense, as she so often did.

CHAPTER TWO
MISS HUDSON’S RUMOUR must have had some truth in it, for Charity saw nothing of Professor Wyllie-Lyon for the whole of the following week. It made her workload much lighter, of course, but she found herself missing him. She went home each evening to spend it in the company of her aunt and father and an occasional visitor, dropping in for a drink or after-supper coffee. True, she could have gone out on at least two occasions, once with the assistant dispenser, a short earnest young man with no sense of humour, and on the second occasion with the surgical registrar, who was married with a wife and family somewhere in the depths of rural Sussex. She had declined both invitations in her pleasant, rather shy manner and found herself wondering what she would have done if it had been Professor Wyllie-Lyon who had asked her out. Leapt at the chance, she had to admit, and then told herself sternly that she was being silly; for one thing he wasn’t there and for another he had never been known to date anyone at the hospital. Even at the annual ball, which she had attended on two occasions, he had circled the floor with grave dignity with the senior ladies present and then gone to play bridge in an adjoining room.
She did the shopping on Saturday morning, met an acquaintance unexpectedly and had coffee with her, and then walked unhurriedly back home, to come face to face with Sidney when she was half-way there. He had a girl with him, someone she knew slightly, and they both looked embarrassed, whereas she felt nothing but pleased relief that Sidney should have found a successor to herself so quickly. Once or twice she had felt guilty about him, but now she saw that there was no need for that. She beamed at them both, passed the time of day and went on her way with her groceries to give a hand with the lunch and then catch a bus to visit an old school friend who had married and gone to live in Putney.
Sunday held no excitement either; church in the morning and then an afternoon in the garden, encouraging the chrysanthemums and tidying up the flower beds for the winter. Charity, restless for no reason at all, was quite glad to go to work on Monday morning.
Miss Hudson was in a bad temper; she had missed her usual bus, lost her umbrella and started a cold. Charity hurried to put on the kettle and offer a soothing cup to cheer while she sorted through the pile of work waiting for them. There was quite a lot. She accepted the major portion of reports since, as she was quick to point out, Miss Hudson didn’t feel able to cope, and they settled down to a morning’s work.
They were interrupted after an hour or so by Symes’s elderly voice growling over the phone. Would Miss Graham take her notebook to Women’s Medical, as Professor Wyllie-Lyon wanted notes taken during his round.
Miss Hudson was indignant. ‘Leaving me alone here to get through all this pile of work. I shall have something to say about it, I can tell you! You’d better get along at once, Charity, and be sure you are back in time for me to go to the canteen. I feel very poorly and it is essential that I have a break.’
Charity gathered up her notebook and pencil. It would make a nice change from the typewriter; besides, she would see Professor Wyllie-Lyon again. She didn’t waste time in wondering why she was pleased about this but nipped smartly along the passage, into the entrance hall and up the stairs. She wasn’t supposed to use the main staircase but it would take all day to go round to either of the smaller staircases used by the nurses, and the lifts were out of the question. Anyway, she disliked lifts.
The round had started; Charity, peering cautiously round the ward doors, met Sister’s frowning gaze and then, obedient to her beckoning finger, and very aware of her size and bursting good health, walked just as cautiously down the ward between the beds occupied by a variety of limp-looking ladies with pale faces who gazed at her with a kind of disbelief that anyone could be as pretty and full of life. Miss Hudson would have been more suitable, thought Charity, gaining the group of solemn-looking people round a patient’s bed, and doing her best to hide herself behind the social worker.
‘Ah, good morning, Miss Graham,’ observed Professor Wyllie-Lyon, yards away from her and with eyes in the back of his head. ‘If you will be ready to take notes at the next patient’s bed, if you please.’
He hadn’t turned round as he spoke, so that she addressed his white-coated back with a polite, ‘Certainly, sir,’ while admiring what she could see of him—which wasn’t much, what with his registrar and housemen and a clutch of earnest medical students. Sister had the best place, of course, at his elbow, ready with X-Rays, forms and the proper answers to his questions. Charity wondered what it would be like to be clever enough to know what he was talking about and what to say in reply. She allowed her thoughts to wander. It was a pity that she was really too old to train as a nurse, although she wasn’t sure if she would be much good at it—the actual nursing that is; she enjoyed learning about the various conditions and ailments she typed about each day, but she wasn’t so sure about the practical side of them.
She became aware that there was a general movement towards the next bed and hastily held her pencil at the ready. A good thing, too, for Professor Wyllie-Lyon began at once. ‘Now, this is Mrs Elliott, whose case we might discuss, with her permission.’ He sat himself down on the side of the bed and spoke to the elderly lady lying in it. She smiled and nodded and he then turned to address the students round him.
‘You are ready, Miss Graham? Now, this patient is suffering from a comparatively rare complaint…’
Charity, standing close by so that she wouldn’t miss anything, kept her mind on her work. And again, a good thing that she did; she was grateful when he paused to ask her if she had got Thrombocytopenic Purpura down correctly. A few more tongue twisters like that and she would throw her notebook at him and gallop out of the ward.
She hoped that she had got everything down correctly, as she hurried back to the office; Miss Hudson would be in a fine state, for she was missing part of her dinner time. Charity, short of breath from running down the passage, was greeted by her irate superior, even more irate by reason of the delightful picture Charity made: cheeks pink from her haste, her magnificent bosom heaving.
‘Ten minutes,’ snapped Miss Hudson. ‘I said to be back on time…’
‘Well,’ said Charity reasonably, ‘I couldn’t just walk away before Professor Wyllie-Lyon had finished, could I? I’ve run all the way back.’
Miss Hudson sniffed. ‘I shall take the ten minutes out of your dinner time. I don’t see why I should suffer. Really, you young women, you have no sense of responsibility.’ She flounced out, leaving Charity to make sense of this, and since she couldn’t she sat down at her desk, polished off the Path. Lab reports awaiting her attention and then turned to her shorthand notes. Professor Wyllie-Lyon hadn’t said that he wanted them at once but she had no doubt that he did.
Miss Hudson was as good as her word. She came back ten minutes late, viewed the fresh pile of work which the porter had just brought to the office with a jaundiced eye and asked, ‘Have you finished those notes, then? There’s more than enough to keep us busy until five o’clock.’
The phone rang and she answered it, then said crossly, ‘You’re to take Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s notes down to Women’s Medical as soon as they’re ready. I must say he’s got a nerve…’
‘He is the senior consultant,’ Charity pointed out in her reasonable way. ‘I expect he’s got the edge on everyone else. Anyway, I’ve almost finished; I’ll drop them in as I go to dinner.’
‘Toad-in-the-hole,’ said Miss Hudson, ‘and they’ve overcooked the cabbage again.’
Charity, who was famished, would have eaten it raw.
Women’s Medical was settling down for the afternoon. There was the discreet clash of bedpans, scurrying feet intent on getting done so that their owners could go off duty, and the faint cries of such ladies who required this, that or the other before they could settle for their hour’s rest period. Charity knocked on Sister’s office door and went in.
Sister was at her desk. She was a splendid nurse and a dedicated spinster with cold blue eyes and no sense of humour. Her ward was run beautifully and her nurses disliked her whole-heartedly.
Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting opposite her, perched precariously on a stool much too small to accommodate his vast person. He looked up as Charity went in, put down the notes he was reading and got to his feet. Sister gave him a surprised look.
‘What do you want, Miss Graham?’ she asked.
‘I was told to leave these notes, Sister.’
The professor took them from her. ‘Ah, yes. Splendid. Good girl. You never let me down, do you? But shouldn’t you be at your dinner?’
‘Oh, that’s all right, Professor. I’m on my way now…’
‘It is desirable for the smooth running of the hospital catering department that staff should be punctual at mealtimes,’ interrupted Sister severely.
‘In that case, Miss Graham, run and get your coat and we’ll go and find a sandwich somewhere. I’m even more unpunctual than you are.’
Sister’s disapproval was tangible. ‘That does not apply to you, Professor Wyllie-Lyon, although I’m sure that you are joking.’
He was at the door, waiting for a bemused Charity to go through it.
‘No, no. How could I joke about such an important matter? I must set a good example, must I not? I’ll be back during the afternoon, Sister, and thank you.’
On the landing Charity said, ‘That was very…’ And then she closed her mouth with a snap and blushed.
‘Go on,’ he encouraged.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot who you were; I can’t say things like that to senior consultants, I’d get the sack.’
He was propelling her gently away from the ward. ‘No, you won’t—I promise I won’t tell.’
She shook her head again, suddenly shy. ‘I must go—I’m late…’
He said patiently, ‘Well, we’ve already discussed that, haven’t we? Get your coat, there’s a good girl, I’m very hungry.’
‘Yes, but…’
‘I shall call you Charity, a pleasant name. Also I still haven’t been told what went wrong.’ He gave her a gentle shove and she went back to the office and fetched her coat, muttered about shopping to an inquisitive Miss Hudson, and found him waiting where she had left him.
She was quite sure that she was doing something absolutely outrageous in the eyes of such as Miss Hudson or the sister on Women’s Medical. Prudence urged her to make an excuse and go to the canteen, but for once she turned a deaf ear; it struck her with some force that life, as she lived it, was becoming increasingly dull and she was shocked to discover at the same time that Sidney had done nothing to enliven it. Looking at the large man standing beside her, it seemed likely that he might brighten it, even if only for half an hour. She smiled with sudden brilliance at him and he blinked.
‘No time for a decent meal,’ he observed pleasantly as they went down to the entrance and, under old Symes’s eye, crossed the hall. ‘There’s a tolerable pub round the corner where we might get a decent sandwich. You don’t mind a pub?’
Sidney had never taken her into one; ladies, he had said, never went into bars.
‘The Cat and Fiddle? Where all the students go? The nursing staff aren’t allowed…’ She beamed at him. ‘But I’m not a nurse…’
‘And I hope never will be.’ They were walking along the busy pavement and he took her arm to guide her down a side street.
She said worriedly, ‘Oh, would I be so bad at it? I wondered if I might train—I’m a bit old…’
She was annoyed when he answered placidly. ‘Far too old. But you’d like to change your job?’
‘Well, yes. The work is interesting but I never see anyone but Miss Hudson.’
‘And me.’ He opened the pub door and ushered her inside the saloon bar, empty but for a handful of sober types drinking Guinness and eating something in a basket.
The professor swept her to a table in the corner, sat her down and asked, ‘Drinks—what will you have?’
She found his company exhilarating. Gin and tonic, which she never drank, would have been appropriate. ‘Oh, coffee, if I can have it—I’ve a mass of work this afternoon.’
He smiled gently. ‘So have I. Sandwiches, or something in a basket?’
‘Sandwiches, please. I cook a meal when I get home in the evening.’
‘After a day’s work?’ He sounded vaguely interested, no more.
‘Oh, I like cooking.’ She looked away so that he wouldn’t ask any more questions and he went over to the bar to give their order.
They didn’t talk much as they are; they hadn’t enough time for that, but over their coffee he asked, ‘So what went wrong?’
He didn’t give up easily, thought Charity, and she was wondering how to get out of telling him when he went on, ‘Consider me as an elder brother or an uncle.’ And somehow he contrived to look either the one or the other.
She glanced at her watch; there were still ten minutes left.
‘Well, there is nothing to tell. I suddenly knew that I didn’t want to go on sort of waiting for Sidney. I mean there wasn’t anything definite; I suppose we’d just drifted into taking it for granted that we’d marry one day.’ She sighed. ‘I got home late and he didn’t like having to wait for me…’
‘I think that’s my fault. I gave you that extra work.’
‘Not your fault at all,’ said Charity with some spirit. ‘If it hadn’t been you it could have been anyone else. It’s my job, isn’t it?’
Professor Wyllie-Lyon sat back in his chair as though he had nothing to do for the rest of the day. ‘Do you ever feel that you would like to change your job, Charity?’
She said seriously, ‘Oh, yes, but what could I do? I’m nothing but a shorthand typist, you know.’
‘A good one, if I may say so. But you are a capable young woman, you can cook and presumably keep house and you get on well with people, don’t you?’
She said with sudden fierceness. ‘I want to travel, see other countries; soon it will be too late.’ She stopped, ashamed of her outburst, but he didn’t seem to notice that.
‘You would like to marry and have children?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She was off again, speaking her thoughts aloud. ‘A large rambling house with a huge garden and dogs and cats and a donkey and children—not just one or two.’ She stopped for a second time, going slowly pink under his gaze, wondering what had come over her, talking such nonsense to someone she hardly knew. ‘I really must get back,’ she said, with a briskness which brought a quiver to the professor’s mouth.
He agreed unfussily and talked of nothing much on their brief journey back to the hospital, and at the door he thanked her pleasantly for her company and hoped that her afternoon wouldn’t be too busy.
She darted down the passage, her thoughts a fine muddle. She had enjoyed being with him, she liked him; on the other hand she had allowed her tongue to run away with her. Perhaps he had been bored? She burst into the office, blushing furiously at the very idea, so that Miss Hudson gave her a surprised look and said with unwonted concern, ‘Well, there’s no need to break your neck, dear. You’re scarlet from hurrying. You’d better have a drink of water.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘You’re not late.’
Charity looked rather wildly at her. ‘Oh, good—I rather forgot the time.’ She hung her coat in the cupboard, obediently drank a glass of water and went to her desk. A lot of reports had come in while she had been away and, as usual, she had the lion’s share. Not that she minded; the more she had to occupy her, the better, and in future she would keep out of Professor Wyllie-Lyon’s way.
She had no need to worry; there was no sign of him. And a very good thing too, she told herself severely; she was becoming far too interested in him. She had to remind herself of this several times during the following week; the days seemed long and purposeless and her quiet evenings at home excessively dull. She welcomed Saturday at last, with the prospect of the Church Fête, an annual affair which tried everyone connected with it to their utmost. Weeks ago she had agreed to help her aunt with a stall: fancy goods, which meant handiwork done by the ladies of the parish. She spent Saturday morning arranging tea cosies, hand-painted calendars, embroidered trayclothes, aprons and a variety of crochet work, some items of which she was unable to recognise.
She and Aunt Emily hurried back home for a hasty lunch and then presented themselves, in the nick of time, before the church hall doors opened to the public to allow the small crowd in. Most of them made for the jumble stall, crowding round it impatiently while a film star of the lesser kind made an opening speech. Charity, re-arranging knitted egg cosies, listened with half an ear. The star had a faint lisp, which became irksome after a few minutes, but she received hearty applause, although whether that was because she had finished talking and everyone could get down to the business in hand, or because they admired her oration, was a moot point.
Talking animatedly to the vicar, she did a round of the stalls, but not of course the jumble, and left presently, the richer by a number of useless articles she didn’t want, and almost totally unnoticed by the audience she had so recently addressed.
Charity, persuading a haughty lady from the better end of St John’s Wood to buy a crocheted bedjacket in a revolting pink, had just taken the money and popped the garment into a bag before she could change her mind, when she looked up and saw Professor Wyllie-Lyon, head and shoulders above everyone else, coming towards her. She handed change, assured the lady that she would never regret her purchase and, swallowing back pleasure at the sight of him, wished him what she hoped was a cool good afternoon.
He didn’t bother to answer that. ‘Is this how you spend your leisure?’ he wanted to know. ‘I must say you have remarkably persuasive powers; no woman worth her salt would wear a pink monstrosity such as you have just sold her.’
‘This is a bazaar; people buy things they don’t want—it’s quite usual.’ She re-arranged some baby bootees in sky-blue. ‘How—how did you get here?’
‘By car.’
‘Oh, well, yes. Of course. I mean, do you know anyone here?’
‘You.’
‘Oh, I thought—that is, have you been away, Professor?’
‘Ah—you missed me.’ He smiled in a self-satisfied way so that she felt impelled to say, ‘I missed all the work.’
‘You sound tart.’ He looked around him. ‘How long does this go on for?’
‘Until half-past five.’ She became aware that Aunt Emily was sidling towards her end of the stall, intent on being introduced. She said clearly, ‘Aunt, this is Professor Wyllie-Lyon from the hospital—my aunt, Miss Graham.’
She had always thought of him as being a reserved man, very large and learned, and with a mind way above church bazaars and the like; she had been wrong. He listened with every sign of interest to her aunt’s rambling discourse encompassing church bazaars in general, her own stall in particular and the amount of work it involved. ‘Although of course it would be far harder if it wasn’t for Charity’s help—such a dear girl; a real support to her father and myself.’ Aunt Emily, quite carried away, went on, ‘Such a pity about Sidney, you know. We quite thought…’
Charity’s voice throbbed with feeling, even though it was quiet. ‘I don’t expect that the professor is interested.’
Aunt Emily prided herself on being able to take a hint. ‘Of course, dear, how foolish of me.’ She peered up at him, studying his impassive face. ‘I dare say you’re very clever and learned—Charity’s father is, you know—a bookworm, as I so often tell him. I like a nice romantic novel myself, but he prefers first editions…’
‘Indeed?’ Professor Wyllie-Lyon had focused all his attention on Aunt Emily. ‘A man after my own heart; I’m a collector myself.’
Aunt Emily beamed. ‘Well, but how interesting; you must come and meet my brother, I’m sure you would have a lot in common.
The professor’s eyes rested briefly on Charity’s face. ‘I believe that we have.’
Charity, counting out change to a very pregnant young woman who had bought three pairs of bootees, stretched her ears, anxious not to miss a word.
‘If you are free this evening?’ began Aunt Emily. ‘We close the bazaar in half an hour—perhaps you would care to come back with us and meet my brother? I’m sure he’ll be delighted.’
The professor’s heavy-lidded eyes took in the look of consternation on Charity’s face and he smiled very faintly. ‘That would be delightful,’ he observed blandly. ‘I have my car outside; may I give you a lift? I’ll be outside when you are ready to leave.’
He took his leave, gave Charity a casual nod, and wandered off to try his luck on the bottle stall.
‘Such a nice man,’ declared her aunt. She turned rather vague blue eyes on to Charity’s. ‘So easy to talk to. Do you see much of him, my dear?’
Charity was totting up the takings. ‘Very little, Aunty, although I do see a great deal of his work.’ She added worriedly, ‘I can’t think how he got here.’
‘By car, dear,’ said her aunt, adding, ‘So nice to get a lift home; my feet ache.’
The bazaar wound itself to a close, the last stragglers left, the takings were handed over to the vicar and the contents of the stalls were bundled into bags and boxes, to be stored until the summer fête next year—proceedings which took very little time, for the various ladies who had manned the stalls were longing for their tea. All the same, Charity and her aunt were among the last to leave, for the latter could never resist a quick gossip with her friends. He’ll be gone, thought Charity gloomily as they went out into the October dusk. But he wasn’t; he was sitting in his car, showing no sign of impatience. He got out when he saw them, ushered them both into the back and drove the short distance through the quiet suburban streets.
‘Here we are,’ declared Aunt Emily, quite unnecessarily. ‘Do come in. Did you have tea? I shall make some at once, for we had none, although I dare say you would prefer a drink with my brother.’
Charity, following her aunt into the house and then standing on one side while that lady ushered him in, didn’t look at him. She felt awkward in a situation thrust upon her; probably the professor had absolutely no wish to meet her father. After all, there was no earthly reason why he should, even if he did collect books. She had the awful feeling that Aunt Emily had seized the opportunity to invite him under the impression that he might be Mr Right. Charity squirmed at the thought; her aunt had been going on for years about Mr Right and just for a little while Sidney had filled the bill; now she would start her well-meant matchmaking again.
She murmured a nothing and sidled into the kitchen to get the tea. Pray heaven that, by the time it was ready, he would be in her Father’s study drinking whisky or, better still, on the point of departure.
Neither of those hopes was to be fulfilled. Professor Wyllie-Lyon was sitting, very much at his ease, in the sitting room with her aunt on one side of him and her father on the other. Her aunt was taking no part in the conversation, understandably, for the two gentlemen were discussing Homer’s works and arguing pleasantly over which of the seven cities had the honour of being his birthplace. They paused, however, while Aunt Emily handed tea and cake and chatted about her afternoon. ‘Very successful,’ she declared in tones of satisfaction. ‘Was it not, Charity?’
Charity agreed; she had had very little to say and now her father observed with vague kindness, ‘A pleasant afternoon out for you, my dear; I’m sure you enjoyed it.’
She said that, Oh, yes, she had, and got up to fill the teapot, and presently the two men excused themselves on the plea that there was a particularly fine first edition her father wished to show to his guest. Charity, listening to them prosing on about Homer, tossing bits of poems in the original Greek to and fro, felt rising frustration. She must be tired, she decided, clearing away the tea things and conferring with her aunt as to what they should have for supper.
‘Do you suppose he’ll stay?’ wondered Aunt Emily hopefully. ‘There’s that quiche you made this morning, dear, and we could have a salad and biscuits and cheese.’
‘He won’t stay,’ said Charity.
It was her father who put his head round the kitchen door to inform them that Professor Wyllie-Lyon would be staying for supper; most fortunately he had declared that he had nothing much to do that evening, and it was a splendid opportunity to leaf through the Walter Scott first edition her father had been fortunate enough to pick up that week.
Charity sighed and began to prepare the salad. The professor had been a kind of secret delight to her, an interest in her otherwise rather staid life, but that was all. She had never imagined him even remotely associated with her life; indeed, she considered it highly unlikely that he would welcome the idea. It was obvious to her that they came from different backgrounds, their only mutual interest being the hospital. Why or how he had come to visit the bazaar was something she couldn’t begin to guess at. That was bad enough; what was worse was having him here, in the house. With regret she had to admit that things wouldn’t be the same again.
She sliced tomatoes and began to arrange them in a neat pattern on the lettuce, to stop suddenly at the awful thought that he might imagine that, because he’d had tea at her home, he would need to be friendly at the hospital. Of course, he had always been that in an austere kind of way, but now he might feel under an obligation. Her cheeks grew hot and her aunt, coming to see how the salad was going, remarked with some concern that she looked feverish.
She had worked herself into a state for nothing; at supper Professor Wyllie-Lyon behaved towards her as he had always done—friendly in a casual, slightly absent-minded way, placidly eating his supper, keeping the conversational ball rolling without once taking control of it, giving anyone who hadn’t met him the impression that he was a friend of the family who had dropped in for a pleasant evening.
She bore the remains of their meal away to the kitchen and took coffee into the sitting room, and presently he got up to go with the remark that Mr Graham must at some time visit him so that he might browse through his library. His leave-taking of Miss Graham was everything that lady could have wished for, and as for Charity, she was swept to the front door and was not quite sure how she had got there.
‘A very pleasant evening,’ said the professor and waited, his eyes on her face.
‘Why did you come?’ It sounded a bit bald, but she wasn’t a girl to mince her words.
‘Ah, as to that I am not absolutely certain myself, so I am unable to answer you for the moment. Later perhaps?’ He smiled gently down at her, and it struck her how nice it was for someone to actually look down at her; so often, being a tall girl, she was forced to dwindle into her shoes when she was talking to someone. ‘Your father is something of a scholar. A most enjoyable conversation.’
She asked abruptly: ‘Have you any friends?’
‘Oh, lord! Too many—and I neglect them shamefully. I so seldom have any free time…’
‘This afternoon…’ She was so anxious to get to the bottom of his visit that she had forgotten to be shy.
‘Well, as to that…a sudden whim, shall we say?’ He held out a large hand and shook hers gently. ‘Enjoy your weekend,’ he observed in a non-committal voice which told her nothing, and he went down the garden path to his car. She stood there, watching him drive away, and found herself looking forward to Monday.
Which, as it turned out, was just like any other day! Miss Hudson still moaning on about her lost umbrella and the remnants of her cold; no central heating because the engineers were having a meeting to decide if they could take industrial action over something or other; and a load of reports waiting to be typed.
‘The Path. Lab must have been working overtime at the weekend,’ grumbled Miss Hudson. ‘Of course they get double time if they do. I have a good mind to go on strike myself.’ She sniffed in a ladylike fashion. ‘Charity, you’ll have to change your dinner hour with me. I’ve a dental appointment.’
‘More teeth?’ Charity asked, her mind on other things.
‘You have no need to be funny at my expense,’ said Miss Hudson huffily. ‘I’ll do Dr Clarkson’s ledgers, you can get on with those reports.’
Dr Clarkson’s correspondence was always commendably brief and, what was more, written clearly; some of the reports had presumably been scribbled by a spider. Charity sighed, and attacked the first; it was full of long words, like cephalhaematoma and cinchocaine hydrochloride, which hadn’t been written clearly in the first place and which she couldn’t spell anyway. By twelve o’clock she was glad to go to her dinner.
The meal was unappetising; presumably the engineers’ meeting had disorganised the kitchens as well, for slabs of corned beef, baked beans and instant mashed potato were offered on a take-it or leave-it basis. Charity, sharing a table with several theatre nurses who were discussing the morning’s list in colourful detail, wished she had gone to Reg’s café, but if she had done that she might have missed Professor Wyllie-Lyon. The thought sprung unbidden into her mind and she made haste to bury it under the grim details concerning a patient’s gangrenous appendix. All the same, it would brighten a dull day if he were to bring his letters to the office…
Which he had done while she was in the canteen.
‘No hurry for that lot,’ explained Miss Hudson, nodding at the little pile he had left on her desk while she titivated herself for her own dinner. ‘And I must say, that’s unusual. And X-Ray came up for that report about the man with multiple injuries—you hadn’t done it—I had to interrupt my own work…’
Charity sat down at her desk, disappointment welling slowly inside her; a good-natured girl, she was suddenly peevish.
‘I’ve had to do the same for you often enough,’ she snapped, and flung paper into her machine, taking no notice of Miss Hudson’s gasp of surprise.
‘Well!’ said that lady. ‘Well! I have never been spoken to like that in all my years here. I must say, Charity, if that is to be your attitude you might do better in another job.’
She flounced away and Charity pounded away at her reports. Another job might be an idea, give her a fresh outlook on life; but work was hard to come by these days and her salary was needed at home. It would need a miracle.
It seemed that they still occurred; the door opened and Professor Wyllie-Lyon came in without haste. ‘Ah, good morning, or is it afternoon?’ He bent an intent eye on her still-cross face. ‘I wondered if you would consider giving up your job here and coming to work for me?’

CHAPTER THREE
CHARITY, BOTH HANDS poised above the keys, allowed her gentle mouth to drop open, while she gazed at the professor. ‘What did you say?’ she managed finally.
He repeated himself patiently as he closed the door behind him.
‘Me?’ asked Charity. ‘Work for you?’
‘My dear girl, do stop looking as though you are concussed.’
‘Why?’
His eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘I feel that you would be most suitable. You are normally a calm, hardworking young woman, able to write accurate shorthand and type rapidly. You can also spell. My secretary is leaving to get married and I need to replace her; you have mentioned that you might enjoy a change of occupation. These two facts might possibly combine to make a satisfactory whole.’
‘Well,’ said Charity, and again, ‘Well…I think I might like that—only I’m working here…’
‘I am aware of that. You are subject to one month’s notice on either side. My secretary leaves in less than five weeks’ time, which gives you time in which to give in your notice and work with her for a few days in order to get some idea of the work involved.’
His smile was so encouraging that she smiled widely. ‘Must I decide now, Professor?’
‘Certainly not. Think about it and let me know in a day or so. In the meantime I have several letters, if you would be good enough? By this evening, if you can manage that?’
‘Yes, of course. Are they to go to the consultants’ room or to the Medical Wing?’
‘Men’s Medical, please.’ He bade her a placid good afternoon and went away, leaving her to tidy up and sit doing nothing, mulling over their conversation. It might be the change she wanted: the same sort of work but different surroundings, and probably different hours. She wondered where he had his consulting rooms. She was still wondering when Miss Hudson came back, as cross as two sticks because there had been no milk pudding and her teeth were in no fit state to tackle the treacle tart. Her eyes, lighting on Charity sitting in laziness, gleamed with annoyance.
‘No wonder I find myself doing more than my share of the work,’ she began menacingly, ‘if you sit and stare at nothing the moment my back is turned.’
She sat herself down at her own desk. ‘I should never have thought…’ she went on, to be interrupted by Charity, a kind-hearted girl, not easily put out.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll catch up,’ she assured her companion, and then, ‘Do I annoy you very much, Miss Hudson?’
‘Indeed you do—I dare say you’re a very nice girl, Charity, but you’re so alive; just as though at any moment you might spring from your chair and go rushing off on an energetic ten-mile tramp. Very unsettling and most unsuitable.’
Which remark made up Charity’s mind for her. She was aware that she had already made it up anyway; she liked Professor Wyllie-Lyon and a different job might be the answer to her feelings of unsettlement.
True to form Miss Hudson left on the stroke of five o’clock, leaving Charity to tidy the office and her own person, collect up the professor’s papers and lock the door behind her. After an afternoon of contemplating a new job, it was disappointing to find no sign of him on Men’s Medical.
Sister was there, eyeing her with suspicion, and took the letters from her with an, ‘I’ll see that Professor Wyllie-Lyon gets these, Miss Graham.’ She added, as a cold dismissal, ‘Good night.’
Charity made her way out of the hospital feeling deflated. It had been silly of her to imagine that he would be waiting for her reply. After all, what was a secretary to a man such as he? A mere cog in the wheel of his learned life.
She wished Symes good night and flounced through the door, straight into the professor’s waistcoat.
‘Ah, yes—where could we go that we may discuss this job?’ he wanted to know.
‘You said a day or two…’
‘I find that I have to go away for a short time; I should prefer to have it all nicely settled before then.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It is rather early to dine. If I might call for you at half-past seven? We could have a meal and discuss the small print.’

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