Betty Neels: Cruise to a Wedding

“Is that what you told him? That I was going to get married? But I’m not… She drew a deep indignant breath. “I never heard anything like it—the nerve.”

“Ah, but I’m a surgeon. We need nerve.” He sounded quite undisturbed by her temper. “Why, I remember once in Utrecht there was a case…”

“I am not in the least bit interested in your cases,” she told him crossly. “You’ve behaved abominably!”

He nodded in agreement. “Oh, indeed I have. But in a year or two it won’t matter a bit. What will matter is that Rimada and Guake will be happily married.” He glanced at her, “And you will be married, Loveday, and so shall I.”

As he held the car door open for her, Loveday said tartly, “I really can’t think why I said I’d stay, for you are so rude. I can see that I’m not going to enjoy my holiday.”

He took her arm and walked her round to the terrace overlooking the sea. “Oh, yes, you are,” he assured her, smiling.

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, and her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

THEATRE was working late; it had been a quiet morning with a couple of straightforward cases, but the two o’clock list had started badly, when a perfectly simple appendix had turned out to be a diverticulitis; and even though the next three cases had gone smoothly, an emergency strangulated hernia, pushed in ruthlessly towards the end of the afternoon, had made nonsense of the list. With barely a ten-minute break for tea, Mr Gore-Symes, the senior consultant at the Royal City Hospital, was already three hours behind time.

Loveday Pearce, Sister in charge of the main theatre, had disposed her staff as best she might, sending them off duty at last, although late, so that now, at almost eight o’clock in the evening, she was left with only her senior staff nurse, Peggy Cross, a second-year student nurse who didn’t much care for theatre work, and was consequently not of much use, Bert the technician and the admirable Mrs Thripps, a nursing auxiliary who had worked so long in theatre that Loveday sometimes declared that in an emergency, she would be quite capable of scrubbing up and taking a case. She nodded to that good lady now as she slid forward to change the bowls, and Mrs Thripps, understanding the nod, finished what she was doing and took herself off duty too. She was already very late and although Loveday knew that she would have stayed uncomplainingly as long as she was required, she had a husband and three children at home; it would have been unfair to have asked her to stay any longer—they would have to manage without her.

Mr Gore-Symes, assisted by his registrar, Gordon Blair, was tidily putting together those portions of his patient’s anatomy which had needed his skilled attention; he would be quickly finished now, there remained only the sigmoidoscopy, an examination which would take but a few minutes. Loveday raised a nicely shaped eyebrow at her staff nurse as a signal for her to start clearing away those instruments no longer needed, and nodded again at the student nurse, impatient to be gone. That left herself, Staff and Bert—she nodded to him too. He was a rather dour Scot, devoted to her, but with stern views as to just how much overtime he should do. He disappeared also, leaving the theatre looking empty. Loveday collected the rest of the instruments in a bowl, gave them to Staff, handed the registrar the stitch scissors, Mr Gore-Symes his own particular needle holder and the needle he fancied, and allowed her thoughts to turn to supper: it had been a long, tiring afternoon and she was beginning to flag just a little.

Mr Gore-Symes stood back presently, put the needle holder on to the Mayo’s table, said: ‘Finish off, Gordon, will you?’ and wandered off to shed his gown. As he went he said over his shoulder in a satisfied voice: ‘One more, eh?’

The last patient was wheeled in ten minutes later, and Mr Gore-Symes, perched on a stool, applied his trained eye to the sigmoidoscope. He was by nature a mid-tempered man, but now the language which passed his lips was anything but mild. Loveday, used to rude words of all kinds after four years as a Theatre Sister, raised her eyebrows briefly, accepted her superior’s apology with calm, and thanked God silently that she had had the forethought to lay up a trolley against just such an unfortunate eventuality as this one.

‘Another…’ the surgeon bit back another word, ‘diverticulitis, Loveday. How long will you need?’

‘I’m ready when you are, sir.’ She forced her voice to cheerfulness; if she was weary, how must he feel? He wasn’t a young man any more. She whispered to the ever-watchful Staff to let the ward know, and with the calm of long training, handed Gordon the first of the sterile towels.

The operation went very well; it was a little before ten o’clock when the patient was wheeled away and the night runner, who had been sent to give a hand, was dispatched to make coffee for everyone. But Loveday wasted no time over hers; she gulped half of it down, excused herself and went back to theatre, to be joined within minutes by Peggy Cross. They knew their work well; with barely a word they cleared, scrubbed instruments, put them ready for the CSD in the morning, wiped and washed, polished and tidied away until the theatre looked as pristine as Loveday’s high standards demanded. Only then did she say:

‘Lord, what a day, Peggy—thank heaven there’s no list until eleven tomorrow.’ She was pulling off her gown as she spoke and then the cap and mask she hadn’t bothered to take off earlier, to reveal a charming face despite its tiredness; big brown eyes thickly fringed with black lashes, a straight nose and a generously curved mouth above a determined chin. Her hair was very dark; a rich, deep brown—a shade untidy by now, but normally drawn back into a thick twist above her slender neck. She was a tall girl and not thin, but she had a graceful way of moving which made her seem slimmer than she was. She walked slowly across the theatre now, flung her discarded garments into the bin, rolled down her sleeves, and stood waiting for her staff nurse, a small, plump girl with a round cheerful face, which, even after several hours of overtime for which she wouldn’t get paid, was still smiling.