The Silver Thaw

She couldn’t see the difference herself, but she didn’t say any more. It was very likely that being an only child of a loving although somewhat carefree parent, she had been spoilt and indulged and had grown up with all the wrong ideas. She studied the menu and made a mental resolve not to wear a new dress for a long time.

She went home two days later, to the small village in the Cotswolds where she had been born and had spent her childhood. Her mother had been alive then; it was only when she had died that Amelia had been sent away to a well-known girls’ boarding school and when she had left there she had refused point blank to go to the finishing school to which her father had been advised to send her, but had stayed at home, running the rambling old house, riding Sorrel, the elderly mare, learning how to be a good housewife from Bonny the housekeeper who had been there ever since she could remember.

The realisation that she wanted to do something more than these things came slowly and helping to nurse her father through a bad attack of pneumonia decided her. She enrolled as a student nurse at St Ansell’s, passed her exams brilliantly and at the age of twenty-four found herself theatre Sister in charge of the two main theatres in the hospital. She had met Tom a year later and the following year they had got engaged. She had taken him home to meet her father and proudly displayed the solitaire diamond ring he had given her. It was a small diamond but a good one; Tom never bought rubbish.

Her father met her at the station and drove her the several miles home. Amelia had a little car of her own, but she had left it behind on her last leave to have it serviced at the local garage; now she would be able to drive herself back. She sat happily beside her father and looked around her. The country was beautiful, it always was, but autumn was her time of year; she loved the colours and the smell of bonfires and the trees turning from green to gold and brown and red. She was only half listening to her father telling her about the trout he had almost caught, the new fly he had made, the old pike which still evaded even the most beguiling bait—he was an enthusiastic fisherman and ever since her mother died she had accompanied him on several trips. She didn’t like fishing herself, but over the years she had learnt a good deal about it. She turned to look at her parent now, smiling a little. He was a big man, stooping a little now, with a fine head of white hair and a luxurious moustache which didn’t conceal the good looks which she had inherited, although it was her mother’s dark eyes which enhanced them. They twinkled nicely now.

‘You sound thoroughly put out with the fishing, Father—why not try Scotland for a week or two?’

He gave a rich chuckle and swung the old Bentley through the open gate and up the drive to the lovely old house at its end. ‘Better than that, my dear. I thought I might try Norway—old Jenks is just back; had a splendid time—can’t remember the place, but there was more fish than he could take. Why don’t you come with me? We’ll hire a boat and you can see to the food and so on.’

They were crossing the gravel to the house, but she stopped and looked at him with faint horror. ‘But Father, it’s September—the end of September, it’ll be cold…’

‘Pooh, what’s a chilly wind or so? Why not get Tom to come along too?’

‘Tom? Well, yes, he’s got a week’s leave due—but I’ve got three…’

‘Well, he can come for a week, can’t he? It’s only a short flight from Heathrow.’ He stumped across the wide panelled hall. ‘Give you a chance to talk—getting married and so on. Haven’t you got a date fixed yet?’

Bonny, the housekeeper, had appeared to open the drawing room door and tell them that lunch would be half an hour and it looked, if she might be so bold as to say so, as if Miss Amelia needed a few good meals.

Amelia gave her a hug, assured her that she never felt better but would undertake to eat anything she had cooked and went to sit by the wood fire burning in the stone fireplace. When Bonny had gone she said:

‘Tom wants to get a bit more money saved—we thought in about two years’ time, and I’ll go on working.’ She sounded a bit defiant, and her father didn’t say anything for a minute but poured their sherry with care.

‘Well, you’re old enough to know your own minds,’ he said gruffly. ‘Most young people seem to set up house together without a thought of the future, nor for that matter, of getting married—that seems to come later.’

‘Tom isn’t like that.’

Mr Crosbie looked as though he was going to say something, changed his mind and handed her the glass instead. ‘Anyway,’ he said mildly, ‘a week’s holiday can’t interfere with your plans, can it, and I don’t suppose Tom will object to you staying on another couple of weeks with me. He’s a reasonable man.’

Amelia relieved at getting the bit about them not marrying for a bit off her chest, conceded that he wouldn’t mind at all and three weeks would be fun. ‘When were you thinking of going?’ she asked.

‘It’s—let me see—the twentieth today. Could you manage ten days from now?’

She frowned. ‘Yes, I expect so. Mr Thomley Jones is going on holiday, which will cut the lists quite a bit, and Mary Symes, who does the relieving, comes off Women’s Surgical in a week’s time—she could take over. I’ll see what I can do.’

Her father nodded. ‘Good—try and arrange something and fix it with Tom if you can, my dear.’

They lunched together in the rather dark, oakpanelled dining room with Badger, who had been with the family for most of his life, waiting on them in a rather absent-minded fashion. They discussed the coming trip, arguing the advantages of 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 surgeon is in theatre, sir.’

‘Wretched girl, why are you smiling?’

‘I think it’s relief, sir, because we’re quite ready for you.’