Betty Neels - At the End of the Day

Julia, who loved her work, decided that evening that she needed a holiday, she was getting stale and vaguely discontented; not like her at all. There had been tentative plans for her to go to Portugal with Fiona and Mary, sometime in October, but she didn’t think that was what she wanted. Home would be the best place—a week or ten days pottering round with her mother, riding in the mornings, going to the rather staid dinner parties their elderly friends gave from time to time and spending days with friends of her own age who she so seldom saw nowadays. She thought about it all the next day, discussed it with Fiona and Mary and quite made up her mind. It only remained for her to tell Nigel and she could do that when they next spent an evening together; if he could manage it, he could spend a weekend…

Her plans buoyed her up all the next day and even the wet early morning dreariness of Thursday morning couldn’t depress her. She prepared for the professor’s round with more than usual briskness and greeted him cheerfully. His response, as usual, was coolly polite but she hardly noticed that. The round went well even if it was rather protracted and presently he and Dick Reed drank their coffee while they discussed their patient’s conditions, adding instructions to those Julia already had, handing her endless signed forms for her to fill in. They had just finished when Dick Reed was called away to an admission in Casualty. The professor made no move from the radiator where he was sitting. ‘Let me know if you want me, Dick,’ he advised and when the door had closed behind his Registrar: ‘You look tired, Julia, you need a holiday.’

She looked up from the notes she was tidying on the desk. ‘Well, I’m going to have one,’ she told him with satisfaction. ‘I’m going home for ten days in a couple of weeks’ time.’

‘And where is home?’ The question was so idly put that she answered without thought. ‘Near Salisbury—along the Chalke Valley—it’s a small village. Stratford Bissett…’

‘A delightful name. Your father lives there?’

‘Yes, he’s a retired schoolmaster, at least not quite retired, he takes boys in their holidays for cramming and visits two prep schools each week.’ She suddenly realised that she was giving away a whole lot of information to someone who couldn’t be in the least interested, and came to an abrupt halt.

Her companion didn’t seem to notice, he went on, almost lazily. ‘You have brothers and sisters?’

She reflected that they had known each other for more than three—almost four—years and never once had he evinced any interest in her as a person. She said ‘Yes,’ and that was all.

He couldn’t have been all that interested; he got up after a few moments, reminded her that he would be taking a teaching round the next afternoon and went away.

He was at his most remote when he arrived on the ward the following day accompanied by half a dozen students. And two can play at that game, she decided, though the students, all anxious to be at their best and nervous, must regard her as a martinet of the most horrifying kind. All the same, she managed to help them out when the professor wasn’t looking, with nods and winks to put them on the right track. At the end of the round the professor was kind enough to observe that they had done quite well, even allowing for Sister Mitchell’s well meant hints.

She had reddened delightfully at that, but had said nothing.

She had bought a basket for Wellington and in order to save time had packed an overnight bag on Friday morning before she went on duty, with any luck she would be able to get an evening train to Salisbury. If she ‘phoned home just before she left her father would meet her there. She went through the day happily enough, now that she knew she would be free in a few hours. She had seen Nigel at dinner time, just for a few minutes and suggested that he might get a weekend while she was on holiday and drive himself down to her home and he had seemed delighted with the idea. They had made a date for Monday evening when they would both be off duty, and she had returned to the afternoon’s work in a glow of contentment.

It had taken no time at all to hurry round to the flat once she was off duty, change into a jersey two-piece, cram Wellington into his basket and with her overnight bag in her other hand, take a taxi to Waterloo. It was still early evening and quite warm and the train was only half full. She sat with Wellington’s basket beside her, and allowed her thoughts to dwell on the future. It seemed rosy enough although there were one or two small pinpricks, silly ones really—her future mother-in-law loomed a little too large but she was the first to admit that probably she was making a mountain out of a molehill. She still could not see why she and Nigel shouldn’t get married before Christmas, perhaps if he spent a couple of days with her while she was on holiday she would be able to persuade him. Then there was the vexed question of her birthday. It had undoubtedly slipped Nigel’s mind, he had had a lot to think about just then, all the same, she had been hurt, still was… One day soon, she told herself bracingly, she would tell him about it and they would laugh together.

The train drew into Salisbury and she collected her bag and with Wellington’s basket in her hand, got out of the carriage. She saw her father at once, tall and thin and a little stooping and her heart gave a happy leap; for some reason she was glad to be well away from St Anne’s and her own problems, which already seemed remote and unimportant. She gave a small yelp of delight and hurried towards him.

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