Betty Neels - The Fifth Day of Christmas

“Why? And why do you call me Miss Pennyfeather?” Julia said, still absorbing what Ivo had just said.

“You don’t like it? But I always think of you as the magnificent Miss Pennyfeather. You are, you know, and you’re not only quite beautiful you’re—alive.”

He stopped the car in front of the house, turned toward her, slipped an arm around her shoulders and kissed her hard.

When she had her breath again, she said with a kind of stunned politeness, “Thank you for a very nice evening, Ivo.”

His face was only an inch or two from her own and he was smiling a little. “I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for a long time,” he said softly.

He got out, walked around the car and opened the door for her. She went inside the house without saying anything more, only a quiet good-night as she went up the stairs.

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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

VIEWED FROM the comparative comfort of the ambulance’s interior, the M1 looked uninviting. Miss Julia Pennyfeather, too occupied with her patient to have bothered overmuch with the passing scenery, now realised that the motorway was becoming more and more shrouded in fog, which, coupled with the fast darkening sky of a December afternoon, boded ill for their chances of reaching their destination as early as they had hoped. She pulled her cloak closely around her, cast a quick look at her dozing patient and peered out once more. There seemed to be a lot of traffic surging past, at great speed and in a confusion of lights, a sight which made her thankful that she wasn’t called upon to drive the ambulance. She frowned in thought, then, moving cautiously, opened the little glass window behind the driving seat and said softly to the man sitting beside the driver, ‘Willy—the fog, it’s getting worse, isn’t it?’

The man the back of whose neck she had addressed turned a cheerful face to answer her. ‘Proper thick, Nurse, but it’s not all that far. We’re coming up to Newcastle now; it’s about sixty miles to the Border and another twelve to the crossroads where we turn off—and the house is another ten miles or so.’

‘It’s nearly four o’clock,’ said Julia. ‘We shan’t get there much before nine…’

‘Just in nice time for a bit o’ supper, Nurse, before we ‘ands over the patient and goes to our warm beds.’

They were off the motorway now and almost clear of Newcastle; two hours’ steady driving would bring them to the Border, and once they were in Scotland… She broke off her speculations as the girl on the stretcher asked, ‘Where are we, Nurse?’

Julia told her, adding in a determinedly cheerful voice, ‘We shan’t be long now—three hours at the most, perhaps less. I expect you’d like a drink, wouldn’t you?’ She unscrewed a vacuum flask and poured the milkless tea into a mug. ‘As soon as we arrive, you shall have your insulin and your supper—I’m sure they’ll have it ready for you, for your nurse will have arrived some time this afternoon.’

‘I hope I like her.’

Julia glanced at her patient. ‘I’m sure you will,’ she replied in a soothing voice, and privately hoped that she was right. Miss Mary MacGall hadn’t been the easiest of patients—eighteen years old, pretty and spoilt and a diabetic who somehow never managed to achieve stabilisation, she had been a handful the Private Wing of St Clare’s Hospital had been glad to see go. In the two short weeks she had been there, having an acute appendix removed, and then, unfortunately, peritonitis, which naturally played havoc with the diabetes, she had been rude to the Matron, flirted outrageously with the young housemen, and exasperated the consultant staff; only with Julia was she amenable, and that was something neither Julia nor her fellow workers could fathom, unless it was that Julia’s dark and striking beauty was such a magnificent foil to her own blonde prettiness. And Julia didn’t fuss, but treated her with the pleasant calm that a well-trained nanny might have shown to a recalcitrant child. Not that Julia looked in the least like a nanny—indeed, just the opposite, with her almost black hair and great brown eyes with their preposterously long lashes. Her mouth was a little large perhaps, but beautifully shaped and her nose was straight, with the merest hint of a tilt at its tip. She was well above average height, nicely rounded and refreshingly and completely natural. She was just twenty-two and had achieved State Registration only a few months previously. And only the day before she had left the hospital where she had spent several happy, busy years, not because she had particularly wanted to, but to look after her sister-in-law who had just had a second child and was suffering from depression. It had been, therefore, a happy chance that Mary MacGall should have demanded to be sent home by ambulance, and also demanded, at the same time, that Julia should go with her on the journey. Julia was due to leave anyway, and it would give her a couple of days’ respite before she went home.

When next Julia looked out of the window it was snowing hard and the fog had become dense. The ambulance was travelling slowly now, with its blue light flashing, and Julia was uneasily aware that they were skidding from time to time. She opened the little window once more and said softly into Willy’s ear, ‘Is it freezing as well?’

He nodded without looking round.

‘Are we lost?’

She heard his chuckle and took comfort from the sound. ‘Not a bit of it, Nurse. We’re over the Border—we’ll be at the crossroads soon.’

‘Is Bert all right? Does he want to stop?’

She peered ahead, the visibility was down to about ten yards and that was obscured by driving snow.

Bert answered for himself. ‘I’m OK, Nurse. It’s not far now and I think we’d do better to keep going. It might clear.’

She agreed softly, knowing that he had said that to reassure her, and closed the window, observing for the benefit of her patient,

‘We’ve a dozen miles or so to go. Are you very hungry? I’ve some cream crackers here and there’s plenty of tea.’

But Mary was disposed to be difficult. She said rather peevishly,

‘I want a huge steak with lots of duchesse potatoes and creamed cauliflower and lashings of gravy and sauce, then Charlotte Russe with masses of whipped cream and a plate of petits fours—the gooey ones, and a huge whisky and soda—oh, and Kummel with my coffee.’