flying to Bergen or taking the car over from Newcastle.
‘We’ll fly,’ decided Mr Crosbie. ‘We can rent a car over there—I’ve the address of someone we can get a boat from and a list of hotels from Jenks.’ He shot Amelia a look. ‘No dressing up, mind you,’ he warned, ‘and take warm clothing. There’s a small place, Stokmarknes, where he says there’s quite a good hotel, and if we want a change there’s Harstad. There’s a road,’ he added laconically.
‘I should hope so—will it be very isolated?’
‘Not where we’re going,’ he reassured her, ‘and we shall be on the Coastal Route, the ships call most days and it’s only an hour or so from one place to the next. If you get bored you can go off for the day, you and Tom.’
It might be a good idea, Amelia thought, to have Tom to herself, miles away from his work and the hospital, and try and get him to change his mind about their future. ‘It sounds super. I’ll talk to him as soon as I get back.’
She spent her two days riding, grooming the two elderly donkeys who kept her own horse and her father’s great skewbald company, pottering about the garden, listening to Job, the old gardener, carrying on about his rheumatism, the apple crop and the incredible size of his pumpkins. And when he told her, with the familiarity of an old and trusted servant, to let him get on with his work, she wandered indoors to the kitchen and sat on the kitchen table while Bonny got the lunch, gobbling up biscuits from the tin Bonny had just filled.
‘You’ll get fat,’ said Bonny.
‘I haven’t gained an ounce in two years,’ Amelia told her happily, ‘I work too hard.’ All the same she got down and crossed to where an old-fashioned mirror hung against a wall and studied what she could see of her person. She wasn’t conceited, but it gave her no misgivings. True, she was a bit too curvy for modern fashion, but she was a big girl and if she had been thinner she would stand in danger of looking like a clothes pole. ‘I won’t eat any more biscuits before lunch,’ she observed, and took an apple from the dish on the kitchen table as she went out.
She saw Tom when she returned to St Ansell’s; he had come into theatre to pass on a report about one of his patients, due for surgery the following day. The list was over and Amelia, in her office dealing with the paper work, looked up smiling as he went in.
He didn’t kiss her, even though there wasn’t anyone around to see; he had pointed out gravely when they had first become engaged that he didn’t mix work with his private life, and they were both on duty, and she had accepted that although she hadn’t agreed with him entirely. He smiled back at her now and asked: ‘Busy?’
‘Not really—just finishing off the bits and pieces. Tom, can you get a week’s leave?’
He was reading up some case notes, but he put them down again to look at her. ‘Yes, I think so—why?’
Amelia explained about the fishing trip and went on: ‘It seemed a good idea—we don’t see all that much of each other: we could have a week’s peace and quiet—we’ll have to see something of father, of course…’
He looked surprised. ‘Well, of course; I don’t know much about fishing, but I’m sure I shall enjoy trying my hand at it, but isn’t it a bit late in the year for that part of the world?’
‘Well, Father doesn’t seem to think so—it’ll be chilly, and dark in the evenings, I suppose, but he says the hotel is quite comfortable. He suggested that we could go off for local trips if we wanted…’
‘Oh, I don’t suppose we’ll want to do that,’ said Tom easily, and didn’t see the little gleam of temper in her eyes. ‘I mean, a week isn’t very long, is it? You can go off sightseeing when you’re on your own.’
She stifled a wish to tell him that she didn’t want to go anywhere on her own, only with him; their times together were nearly always bound by the need to get back on duty and if they went away they would have every day in which to do exactly what they wanted. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed quietly.
She went home again on her next days off, this time driving herself in the Mini, to find her father deep in preparations for the trip, his whole interest concentrated on fishing rods, hooks, bait and all the paraphernalia of the dedicated fisherman, so Amelia spent a morning with Badger, packing a case with the right sort of clothes for her father, and then went away to her own room to render herself the same service.
It was a lovely day, clear and blue-skied and sunny, and if it hadn’t been for the leaves all over the lawns and the trees changing their colours she might have supposed it was summer. She went and sat on the window seat and looked out on to the flower beds below, watching Job carefully taking off the dead roses. It was his boast, and no one had disputed it, that he could pick roses until Christmas; he certainly took great care of them. She got up presently and went to her clothes closet and began to look through it; no dressing up, her father had said. She chose two pairs of cord slacks, some thick sweaters and a quilted jacket with a hood and a pair of wellingtons, thick gloves too and a couple of scarves, and then because there might be a tiny chance of wearing something else, she added a pleated skirt and matching bolero and two blouses to go with them and as an afterthought a jersey dress in a warm burgundy. She found a pair of shoes, some tough ankle boots she wore when she went walking, and packed them into her Gucci case, filling in the corners with undies and night clothes and stockings. She would be coming on holiday in a few days, but it seemed a good idea to be packed and ready before then—there wouldn’t be much time. They were to travel on a morning flight to Bergen and she wouldn’t be able to get home before late evening before that. She put the case tidily in the closet and went downstairs to find her father.
She had only four days to do before she went on holiday, but they were busy; Mr Thomley-Jones, due to go the day before her, had suddenly become determined to do twice as many cases as he usually did, which left them all stretched to their limit. Fortunately, the new student nurse, after her first disastrous day, was shaping very well, and Nurse Knollys, who had been off sick for several weeks, was back again. A large, ungainly girl with no looks to speak of, she was utterly dependable in theatre. Amelia, wishing her nurses a cheerful good morning on the last day before her holiday, sighed thankfully that all her staff were there. Sybil could be relied upon to keep them all up to scratch, and Mary Symes would be able to cope—Mr Thomley-Jones wouldn’t be there and the other four surgeons who operated were calm, quiet men who seldom raised their voices…
She went to scrub presently. The morning’s list was a long one and there were a couple of laparotomies, and heaven only knew what Mr Thomley-Jones might find or what he would say if he found anything… She sighed, got into the gown a nurse was offering on the end of the Cheatles and stood while it was tied.
Mr Reeves, the Registrar, was scrubbing too. ‘Going on holiday today?’ he wanted to know. ‘Tom said something about a fishing trip…’
Amelia was putting on her rubber gloves. ‘Yes—he’s only got a week, though. I’ve got three—still, a week’s better than nothing. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘So’s he, I imagine.’ He glanced at her carefully drawing the cuffs of her gloves over the sleeves of her gown. A nice girl and very pretty. Plenty of money too—and a good theatre Sister; he’d never seen her hesitate or falter or lose her temper for that matter, although he fancied that she could do that on occasion. A little cool for his taste, though—no, cool wasn’t quite the word; reserved was better. He wondered if she was like that with Tom Crouch; it seemed to him that the pair of them hardly struck sparks…
Mr Thomley-Jones’ voice, thick with annoyance, cut through his thoughts. ‘Here I am, working my fingers to the bone and nothing ready,’ he said as he entered the scrubbing up room.
It was Amelia who spoke, on her way out to the theatre, ‘Everything is quite ready, sir,’ she said briskly, and, ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Oh, pooh, you’ve always got an answer, haven’t you? Where’s that fool of a young Phillips?’
‘Your house