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He sat back in his chair, watching her. About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright
He sat back in his chair, watching her.
Presently he said, coldly polite, “Miss Beckworth, shall we begin as we intend to go on? I am aware that I am a poor substitute for Professor Smythe; nevertheless we have inherited each other whether we wish it or not. I must confess that you are not quite what I would have wished for, and I believe that you hold the same opinion of me. If you find it difficult to work for me, then by all means ask for a transfer. On the other hand, if you are prepared to put up with my lack of social graces, I daresay we may rub along quite nicely.”
He smiled then, and she caught her breath, for he looked quite different—a man she would like to know.
About the Author
BETTY NEELS
spent her childhood and youth in Devonshire, England, before training as a nurse and midwife. She was an army nursing sister during the war, married a Dutchman, and subsequently lived in Holland for fourteen years. She now lives with her husband in Dorset, and has a daughter and grandson. Her hobbies are reading, animals, old buildings and writing. Betty started to write on retirement from nursing, incited by a lady in a library bemoaning the lack of romantic novels.
A Kiss for Julie
Betty Neels
CHAPTER ONE
PROFESSOR SMYTHE sat behind his cluttered desk, peering over his spectacles at the girl sitting on the other side of it. A very pretty girl, indeed he considered her beautiful, with bronze hair piled on top of her head, a charming nose, a gentle mouth and large green eyes fringed with bronze lashes.
She looked up from her notebook and smiled at him.
He took off his spectacles, polished them and put them back on again, ran his hand through the fringe of white hair encircling his bald patch and tugged his goatee beard. ‘I’ve a surprise for you, Julie.’ And at her sudden sharp glance he added, ‘No, no, you’re not being made redundant—I’m retiring at the end of the week. There, I meant to lead up to it gently—’
She said at once, ‘You’re ill—that must be the reason. No one would ever let you retire, sir.’
‘Yes, I’m ill—not prostrate in bed, by any means, but I have to lead a quiet life, it seems, without delay.’ He sighed. ‘I shall miss this place and I shall miss you, Julie. How long is it since you started working for me?’
‘Three years. I shall miss you too, Professor.’
‘Do you want to know what is to happen to you?’ he asked.
‘Yes—yes, please, I do.’
‘I am handing over to a Professor van der Driesma—a Dutchman widely acclaimed in our particular field of medicine. He works mostly at Leiden but he’s been over here for some time, working at Birmingham and Edinburgh. What he doesn’t know about haematology would barely cover a pin’s head.’ He smiled. ‘I should know; he was my registrar at Edinburgh.’ He went on, ‘I’m handing you over to him, Julie; you’ll be able to help him find his feet and make sure that he knows where to go and keep his appointments and so on. You’ve no objection?’
‘No, sir. I’m truly sorry that you are retiring but I’ll do my best to please Professor whatever-his-nameis.’
Professor Smythe sighed. ‘Well, that’s that. Now, what about Mrs Collins? Did you manage to get her old notes for me?’
Julie pushed a folder a little nearer to him. ‘They go back a long way...’
‘Yes, a most interesting case. I’ll read them and then I shall want you to make a summary for me.’ He tossed the papers on his desk around in front of him. ‘Wasn’t there a report I had to deal with?’
Julie got up, tall, splendidly built and unfussed. ‘It’s here, under your elbow, sir.’ She fished the paper out for him and put it down under his nose.
He went away presently to see his patients and she settled down to her day’s work. Secretary to someone as important as Professor Smythe was a job which didn’t allow for slacking; her private worries about his leaving and the prospect of working for a stranger who might not approve of her had to be put aside until the evening.
Professor Smythe didn’t refer to his departure again that day. She took the letters he dictated and went to her slip of a room adjoining his office, dealt with mislaid notes, answered the telephone and kept at bay anyone threatening to waste his precious time. A usual day, she reflected, wishing him goodnight at last and going out into the busy streets.
It was late September and the evening dusk cast a kindly veil over the dinginess of the rows of small houses and shabby shops encircling the hospital. Julie took a breath of unfresh air and went to queue for her bus.
St Bravo’s was in Shoreditch, a large, ugly building with a long history and a splendid reputation, and since her home was close to Victoria Park the bus ride was fairly short.
She walked along the little street bordered by redbrick terraced houses, rounded the corner at its end, turned into a short drive leading to a solid Victorian house and went in through the back door. The kitchen was large and old-fashioned and there was an elderly man standing at the table, cutting bread and butter.
Julie took off her jacket. ‘Hello, Luscombe. Lovely to be home; it seems to have been a long day.’
‘Mondays always is, Miss Julie. Your ma’s in the sitting room; I’ll be along with the tea in two ticks.’
She took a slice of bread and butter as she went past him and crammed it into her pretty mouth. ‘I’ll come and help you with supper presently. Is it something nice? It was corned beef and those ready-made potatoes for lunch.’
‘As nice a macaroni cheese as you’ll find anywhere. I’ll leave you to see to the pudding.’
She went out of the room, crossed the hall and opened the door of a room on the other side of the house. Mrs Beckworth was sitting at the table writing, but she pushed the papers away as Julie went in.
‘Hello, love. You’re early; how nice. I’m dying for a cup of tea...’
‘Luscombe’s bringing it.’ Julie sat down near her mother. ‘I can’t imagine life without him, can you, Mother?’
‘No, dear. I’ve been checking the bills. Do you suppose we could afford to get Esme that hockey stick she says she simply must have? Yours is a bit old, I suppose.’
Julie thought. ‘I had it for my fifteenth birthday; that’s almost twelve years ago. Let’s afford it.’
Her mother said unexpectedly, ‘You ought to be enjoying yourself, Julie—finding a husband...’
‘I’ll wait until he finds me, Mother, dear.