Betty Neels - Winter of Change

Mary Jane’s bosom heaved, her nice eyes sparkled with temper. “Well, really it’s not your business—”

He interrupted her. “Oh, but it is. I am here at your grandfather’s request to attend to his affairs—at his urgent request, I remind you, before he should die—and here you are telling me what to do and what not to do. You’re a tiresome girl.” With which parting shot, uttered in his perfect, faintly-accented English, he went into the study.

Mary Jane, a gentle-natured girl for the most part, flounced into the sitting room and, quite beside herself with temper, poured herself a whiskey. It was unfortunate that Mr. Van Blocq chose to return only five minutes later.

“Good God, woman. Can’t I turn my back for one minute without you reaching for the whiskey bottle!”

She said carefully in a resentful voice, “You’re enough to drive anyone to drink. Are you married? If you are, I’m very sorry for your wife.”

He took her glass from her, set it down and poured himself a drink. “No, I’m not married,” he said blandly, “so you may spare your sympathy.”

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.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

SISTER THOMPSON made her slow impressive way down Women’s Surgical, bidding her patients a majestic good morning as she went, her sharp eyes behind their glasses noticing every small defect in the perfection she demanded on her ward—and that applied not only to the nursing and care of the ladies lying on either side of her, but also to the exact position of the water jugs on the lockers, the correct disposal of dressing gowns, the perfection of the bedspreads and the symmetry of the pillows. The nurses who worked for her held her in hearty dislike, and when posted to her ward quickly learned the habit of melting away out of her sight whenever their duties permitted. Something which Mary Jane Pettigrew, her recently appointed staff nurse, was, at that particular time, quite unable to do. She watched her superior’s slow, inevitable progress with a wary eye as she changed the dressing on Miss Blake’s septic finger; she had no hope of getting it done before Sister Thompson arrived, for Miss Blake was old and shaky and couldn’t keep her hand still for more than ten seconds at a time. Mary Jane, watching Nurse Wells and Nurse Simpson disappear, one into the sluice room, the other into the bathrooms at the end of the ward, wondered how long it would be before they were discovered—in the meantime, perhaps she could sweeten Sister Thompson’s temper.

She fastened the dressing neatly and wished her superior a cheerful good morning which that good lady didn’t bother to answer, instead she said in an arbitrary manner: ‘Staff Nurse Pettigrew, you’ve been on this ward for two weeks and not only do you fail to maintain discipline amongst the nurses; you seem quite incapable of keeping the ward tidy. There are three pillows—and Miss Trump’s top blanket, also Mrs Pratt’s water jug is in the wrong place…’

Mary Jane tucked her scissors away in her pocket and picked up the dressing tray. She said with calm, ‘Mrs Pratt can’t reach it unless we put it on that side of her locker, Sister, and Miss Trump was cold, so I unfolded her blanket. May the nurses go to coffee?’

Sister Thompson cast her a look of dislike. ‘Yes—and see that they’re back before Mr Cripps’ round.’ She turned on her heel and went back up the ward and into her office, to appear five minutes later with the information that Mary Jane was to present herself to the Chief Nursing Officer at once, ‘and,’ added Sister Thompson, ‘I suggest that you take your coffee break at the same time, otherwise you will be late for the round.’

Which meant that unless the interview was to be a split-second, monosyllabic affair, there would be no coffee. Mary Jane skimmed down the ward, making a beeline for the staff cloakroom. Whatever Sister Thompson might say, she was going to take a few minutes off in order to tidy her person. The room was small, nothing more than a glorified cupboard, and in order to see her face in the small mirror she was forced to rise on to her toes, for she was a small girl, only a little over five feet, with delicate bones and a tiny waist. She took one look at her reflection now, uttered a sigh and whipped off her cap so that she might smooth her honey-brown hair, fine and straight and worn in an old-fashioned bun on the top of her head. The face which looked back at her was pleasant but by no means pretty; only her eyes, soft and dark, were fine under their thin silky arched brows, but her nose was too short above a wide mouth and although her teeth were excellent they tended to be what she herself described as rabbity. She rearranged her cap to her satisfaction, pinned her apron tidily and started on her journey to the office.

Her way took her through a maze of corridors, dark passages and a variety of staircases, for Pope’s Hospital was old, its ancient beginnings circumvented by more modern additions, necessitating a conglomeration of connecting passages. But Mary Jane, her thoughts busy, trod them unhesitatingly, having lived with them for more than three years. She had no idea why she was wanted, but while she was in the office it might be a good idea to mention that she wasn’t happy on Women’s Surgical. She had been aware, when she took the post, that it would be no bed of roses; Sister Thompson was notorious for her ill-temper and pernickety ways, but Mary Jane, recently State Registered, had felt capable of moving mountains… She would, she decided as she sped down a stone-flagged passage with no apparent ending, give in her notice at the end of the month and in the meantime start looking for another job. The thought of leaving Pope’s was vaguely worrying, as she had come to regard it as her home, for indeed she had no home in the accepted sense. She had been an orphan from an early age, brought up, if one could call it that, by her grandfather, a retired Army colonel, who lived in a secluded house near Keswick and seldom left it. She had spent her holidays there all the while she was at the expensive boarding school to which he had sent her, and she had sensed his relief when she had told him, on leaving that admirable institution, that she wished to go to London and train to be a nurse, and in the three years or more in which she had been at Pope’s she had gone to see him only once each year, not wishing to upset his way of living, knowing that even during the month of her visit he found her youthful company a little tiresome.