Betty Neels: A Christmas Wish

“What is the use of plans? I have thought that I might study for something in my spare time,” she said.

“I do not wish to bring up the question of Rodney, but there must have been other men in your life, Olivia.”

“Oh, yes. I had a lot of friends, and I suppose if Father hadn’t died and left us awkwardly placed I might have married one of them. Although now I’m older I don’t think I should have liked that.”

“No, I don’t think you would. Wait for the right man, Olivia,” he said.

“Oh, I will,” she assured him.

It was when they were back in the car, she sitting silently beside him, that she realized that there was no need for her to wait for the right man. He was here already, sitting beside her.

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

THE dim and dusty Records Office, tucked away in the depths of the hospital, was hardly a cheerful place in which to work, but the girl going back and forth between the long rows of shelves sounded cheerful enough, singing a medley of tunes as she sorted the folders into their right places with the ease of long practice.

She was a tall girl with a splendid shape, a beautiful face and a head of tawny hair which glowed under the neon lights, wearing a blouse and skirt and a cardigan which, although well-fitting, lacked any pretensions to high fashion.

Presently, her arms full, she went to the table against one of the whitewashed walls and laid them down, still singing—quite loudly since there was nobody there but herself, and she was far from the busy wards. ‘Oh, what a beautiful morning…’ she trilled, very slightly out of tune, and then stopped as the door was opened.

The door was a long way from the table; she had ample time to study the man coming towards her. He came unhurriedly, very tall and large in a beautifully tailored suit, fair hair already silver at the edges and a handsome face with heavy-lidded eyes. She hadn’t seen him before, but then she seldom if ever went up to the hospital. When he was near enough she said cheerfully, ‘Hello, do you want something?’

His good morning was uttered in a quiet voice. He laid a folder on the table. ‘Yes, I asked for Eliza Brown’s notes, not Elizabeth Brown’s.’

‘Oh, so sorry. I’ll get them.’ She picked up the discarded folder and went down one of the narrow passages between the shelves, found the folder, replaced the discarded one and went back to the table.

‘Here it is. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient for you…’

‘It was.’ His voice was dry, and she went a little pink. ‘Do you work here alone?’

‘Me? Oh, no. Debbie has got the day off to go to the dentist.’

‘And do you always sing as you work?’

‘Why not? It’s quiet down here, you know, and dim and dusty. If I didn’t sing I might start screaming.’

‘Then why not look for other employment?’ He was leaning against the wall, in no hurry to be gone.

She gave him a tolerant look. ‘We—that is, clerks and suchlike—are two a penny. Once we get a job we hang on to it…’

‘Until you marry?’ he suggested in his quiet voice.

‘Well, yes.’

He picked up the folder. ‘Thank you, Miss…?’

‘Harding.’ She smiled at him, for he seemed rather nice—a new member of the medical staff; a surgeon, since Mrs Eliza Brown was on the surgical landing. He nodded pleasantly and she watched him walk away; she wasn’t likely to see him again. A pity, she reflected, making a neat pile of her folders ready for someone to fetch them from Outpatients.

The nurse from Outpatients was in a bad temper. Sister, she confided, was in a mood and there was no pleasing her, and the waiting-room was stuffed to the ceiling. ‘And I’ve got a date this evening,’ she moaned. ‘At the rate we’re going we’ll be here all night, as well as all afternoon.’

‘Perhaps Sister will have a date too,’ comforted Miss Harding.

‘Her? She’s old—almost forty, I should think.’

The nurse flounced away, and was replaced almost at once by a tall, thin girl with a long face.

‘Hi, Olivia.’ She had a nice grin. ‘How’s trade? I want Lacey Cutter’s notes. They’re missing. I bet Debbie got our lot out yesterday—she may look like everyone’s dream of a fairy on the Christmas tree, but she’s not heart and soul in her job, is she?’

Olivia went across to the nearest shelf and began poking around. ‘She’s really rather a dear and so young… Here you are…’

‘Well, you sound like her granny. She must be all of nineteen or so.’

‘Twenty, and I’m twenty-seven—on the verge of twenty-eight.’

‘Time you settled down. How’s the boyfriend?’

‘Very well, thank you. We’ll have to wait for a bit, though.’

‘That’s rotten bad luck. I say, there’s a new man on Surgical—a consultant all the way from somewhere or other in Holland—come to reorganise Mrs Brown’s insides. It seems he’s perfected a way of doing something or other; our Mr Jenks asked him here so that he can pick up some ideas.’ She started for the door. ‘He’s nice.’

Olivia agreed silently. She didn’t allow her thoughts to dwell upon him, though. For one thing she had too much to do and for another she had plenty of things—personal things—to think about. Rodney, for instance. She and Rodney had been friends for years, long before her father had died and left her mother poor, so that they had had to leave their home in Dorset and come to London to live with her grandmother in the small flat on the fringe of Islington. That had been four years ago, and Olivia had found herself a job almost at once to augment the two older ladies’ income. It wasn’t very well paid but, beyond an expensive education, she had no training of any sort and it was well within her scope. Indeed, after a couple of months she had realised that it was work which held no future, and longed to have the chance to train for something which would enable her to use her brain, but that was impossible. Making ends meet, even with her wages added, was a constant worry to her mother, and she couldn’t add to that.