Pineapple Girl

He pulled her close and kissed her soundly before she realized what he was going to do….

While she was still staring up at him, he let her go and asked in a perfectly normal voice, “Will you have tea or coffee?”

She drew a steadying breath. “Coffee, please,” she said, and took the chair beside his because he was holding it for her. It would help the situation a great deal if someone else came down to breakfast, but on the other hand she wondered what he would say next if they were alone for a little longer.

He handed her a coffee. “Bacon? Eggs? Kippers, perhaps—or a boiled egg?”

How could he talk about kippers when only a moment ago he had been kissing her as though he really enjoyed it? “Bacon and eggs,” said Eloise; if he could eat a hearty breakfast and do a little kissing on the side, so could she.

About the Author

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.

Pineapple Girl

Betty Neels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

THE WARD was in twilight, the patients settling down for the night, those recently operated upon already sedated and made as comfortable as possible, while those ladies who were once more on their legs were putting in the last hair rollers, cleaning their teeth, and drinking the final dregs of the cocoa or Horlick’s which the junior night nurse had been handing round. There were curtains round the bed by the door, though, and everyone was careful not to look in that direction. Mrs Peake, who had been in the ward for weeks now, was about to leave it. She had been quiet and uncomplaining and grateful for even the smallest service, and as Miss Crow, a convalescent appendix, remarked: ‘It did seem ‘ard to ‘ave ter die all quiet-like.’ Her listeners had nodded in agreement and one of them had whispered: ‘Yer so right, dearie, but at least she’s got our nice Staff with ’er.’

There was another round of whispered agreement. Eloise Bennett was liked by all her patients; she somehow managed to make a long night shorter, and the coming of morning something pleasant, even for those due for theatre that day. And she was a good nurse, too, seeing to uncomfortable pillows before the bed’s occupant had time to complain, whisking sheets smooth, knowing when to be firm and when to sympathise, and over and above these things, she knew her work well—all the complications of drips and pumps, ventilators and tubes held no fears for her; sudden emergencies were dealt with with a calm born of experience and common sense, so that although she had only been qualified for a little more than a year, she had already been singled out by authority to be thrust into Sister’s blue the moment a vacancy occurred.

She came from behind the curtains now, a tall girl, with a splendid figure and a wealth of nut-brown hair piled under her nurse’s cap, and a face which could be considered plain but for a pair of large hazel eyes, richly fringed, for her nose was too short and her mouth far too wide and her brows, although nicely arched, were dark and thick. She smiled as she encountered the gaze of the little group of women still out of their beds, said in a pleasant voice: ‘Ladies, you’re missing your beauty sleep,’ and went past them to start her evening round at the top of the ward.

The first three beds offered no hindrance to her progress; operation cases of that afternoon, they were already settled for the night and sleeping, so she merely checked their conditions, studied their charts and moved on down the ward. Old Mrs James was in the next bed, elderly and crotchety and impatient of the major surgery she had undergone a few days previously; Eloise stayed with her for a few minutes, listened to her small grievances, promised sleeping pills very shortly and went on to the next bed.

The ward was almost full, only one empty bed at the end of the row stood ready to receive any emergency which might arrive at a moment’s notice. It would have to be moved presently, thought Eloise as she sped past it, for if anyone came in during the night the whole ward would be awakened by the trundling of the trolley down its length. She sighed a little, for the day staff could have done it easily without disturbing anyone at all…

The first bed on the other side of the ward still had its overhead light on, its occupant sitting up against her pillows, reading. The new patient, admitted that day for operation in the morning and according to the day nurses, as tiresome a woman as one could wish not to meet. Eloise stopped by the bed, said, ‘Good evening, Mrs Fellows,’ in her nice quiet voice and pointed out that bed lights had been due out ten minutes earlier. ‘I’m going to give you something to make you sleep,’ she promised. ‘You’ve had a drink, haven’t you? Nurse will bring you a cup of tea early in the morning and get you ready for theatre.’

Mrs Fellows was aggressively blonde, extremely fat and far from sweet-tempered. ‘And who are you?’ she wanted to know, belligerently. ‘I shan’t sleep a wink, no one knows how I suffer with my poor nerves—the least sound and I wake. I need the greatest care and attention—the very thought of my operation makes me feel faint!’

Eloise considered privately that fainting was the last thing that Mrs Fellows was likely to do; shout, scream, wake everyone up—yes, very probably; anything to focus attention on her plump person.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she advised, ‘there’s no need, you know, because you’ll know absolutely nothing about it…’

Mrs Fellows shot her a look of dislike. ‘Easy to talk,’ she sneered, ‘a great hulking girl like you, as hard as nails and never a day’s illness. You’re all alike,’ she added vaguely.

‘I expect we seem like that to you,’ conceded Eloise, ‘but we’re not really.’ She stretched up and turned off the bed light. ‘I’ll be back presently with those pills.’ She smiled kindly at the tiresome woman and turned to the occupant of the next bed, Mrs White, a small, wiry woman who was going home the next day and who greeted her with a smile. ‘I’ll miss yer, dearie,’ she said softly. ‘It’ll be nice to get ‘ome, but I’ll miss yer… ’Ere, this is from me old man and me. Yer been an angel and we wants yer ter ‘ave it.’

And Mrs White, with a swift movement worthy of a magician, heaved at something under the blankets and produced a pineapple.

‘Oh!’ said Eloise, startled, and then: ‘Mrs White, what a simply lovely present—thank you, and your husband. I’ve—I’ve never had such a delightful surprise.’ She clasped the fruit to her person and bent to kiss the donor. She was going to look a little strange finishing the round hugging it to her aproned bosom, but to do anything else would hurt Mrs White’s feelings. She tucked it under one arm, where it got dreadfully in the way, until she was back at her desk once more, where she put it in a prominent position, mindful of her patient’s watchful eye.

It stayed there for the rest of the night, while Eloise, with her junior trotting beside her, dealt with all the small emergencies which cropped up. She dealt with the inevitable admission too, a young girl who had got involved in a fight between her boyfriend and some other young man; she had been punched and knocked around and both hands had been cut where she had tried to take the knife away from one of them. She was still shocked when she was admitted; Eloise dealt with her gently, sedated her under the eye of the house surgeon on duty, and went back to her routine chores; they had to be fitted in however many times she was interrupted. And the girl was quiet, which was more than could be said for the two men admitted with her. Lucy Page, the staff nurse on Men’s Surgical, had a good deal to say about them when she got down to her meal.

‘A nasty pair,’ she informed Eloise. ‘I’ve got them in the two-bedded ward opposite the office—they’re laid low at the moment and there’s a member of the force with them, thank heaven, but I don’t envy the day staff. How’s yours?’

Eloise told her, gobbling rice pudding, her mind already hours ahead, working out how she could best catch up with the night’s work before the morning was upon her. ‘Someone gave me a pineapple,’ she informed the table at large, and added apologetically: ‘I would have brought it down with me, but I thought it would have been nice to take home…’

There was a chorus of assent; everyone there knew that Eloise lived in a poky little flat behind the Imperial War Museum—true, it was on the fringe of a quite respectable middle-class district, but with, as it were, an undesirable neighbourhood breathing down its neck. It had been all that her mother could afford after her father had died, and now, several years later, they both knew that she had made a mistake, giving up their pretty little house in the Somerset village and coming to live in an alien London. At the time it had seemed a good idea; Eloise had just started her training as a nurse, and if she lived with her mother there would be more money to eke out Mrs Bennett’s tiny pension, and if her mother had stayed in Eddlescombe, then Eloise would have been hard put to it to find the fare home, even for an occasional visit.

Accordingly, when her sister-in-law had suggested that she might be able to find them a flat near St Goth’s, Mrs Bennett had been delighted. Surprised too; her elder brother’s wife and now widow had never liked them overmuch; she had paid an occasional visit, turning up her long nose at the smallness of the village house, sneering at the small country pleasures they enjoyed, wondering, out loud and in a penetrating voice, how they could exist without central heating, colour TV and the amenities of town life. But after Mr Bennett’s funeral she had stayed on for a few days, full of suggestions as to their future. And at the time they had been grateful, for it had seemed a way out of their difficulties, but now, sadly, with the wisdom of hindsight they knew that they had made a mistake.

Mrs Bennett had never settled in London and although they lived more comfortably now that Eloise was trained and had more money, it was still hard to make ends meet. Besides, her aunt, now that her first enthusiastic efforts had palled and she had seen them settled in their new home, had rather washed her hands of them, not that Mrs Bennett would have accepted any help from her. A small, rather timid woman, sheltered all her married life by her husband and then by his daughter, she had nonetheless a good deal of pride which made it unthinkable to rely on any form of charity, especially from her sister-in-law, so she lived uncomplainingly in the hideous block of flats, her treasured furniture around her, and looked upon with good-humoured tolerance and casual affection by her neighbours, while she, for her part, was ever ready to babysit, read aloud to the bedbound and offer a ready hand when it was needed.

Eloise hated it too, but the hate hadn’t soured her. She had done well during her training, been the gold medallist for her year and was well on the way to a Sister’s post—Junior Night Sister first, the stepping off point for promotion, and then the chance of a ward of her own—and when that happened, and it wouldn’t be all that long to wait, she had made up her mind to find a home for them both, in or near Eddlescombe. She would be earning enough to do that, and although she would hate living in the hospital, she would be able to go home fairly often and at least have the satisfaction of knowing that her mother was happy.

She was thinking about it as she went off duty in the morning after a tiring night, culminating in Mrs Fellows’ shocking behaviour when she had wakened at six o’clock. Little Mrs Peake had died in the early hours of the morning, as gently and quietly as she had lived, and Eloise and her nurse had done what they had to do in a sad silence, for there had been no one to mourn the dear soul; as far as anyone knew she had no family and very few friends. They made up the bed with silent speed and went back to their endless little jobs until the first of the operation cases woke, to be instantly made comfortable for the day, sat up, given a drink, and where necessary, another injection. They had all the poorly ones settled by the time the rest of the ward roused itself and the mobile patients began their self-appointed task of handing round the early tea.

It was in the middle of this cheerful bustle that Mrs Fellows had made herself heard; she refused in no uncertain manner to drink her tea, take a bath and put on her theatre gown; she had refused loudly, rudely and at great length, so that Eloise, called from the re-packing of dressings, changing of drips and filling in charts, was hard put to keep her patience and temper—something Mrs Fellows’ neighbours didn’t do. She was told to belt up, shut up and invited to buzz off, their advice given in the pungent, forceful language of the cockney, with strong recommendations to mind what she said to Staff. ‘For yer don’t know yer luck,’ declared one old lady, still without her teeth but none the less a force to be reckoned with. ‘She’s a h’angel, she is, an’ yer jist wait till ternight, yer won’t ‘arf be glad she’s ‘ere ter look after yer.’

The chorus of agreement was uttered in so menacing a tone that Eloise had intervened, begging everyone in a calm voice to hush a little: ‘Don’t forget the ladies at the other end,’ she reminded her belligerent supporters, ‘they’re not feeling too bright and most of them have just had injections.’

She had pulled the curtains round Mrs Fellows’ bed then, while that lady muttered abuse at her. It would have been nice, she thought tiredly, if she could have muttered back at her; the night had been a heavy one and she was dog-tired, and going off duty presently, with the prospect of a lot more of Mrs Fellows when she came on again that night, did nothing to cheer her. She had sent her junior nurse on ahead while she went back to say a final farewell to Mrs White, and then, with her bag, bulging with the knitting she hadn’t had a chance to do, and the pineapple clasped under one arm, she had set off for the canteen, a vast, dreary place in the basement.

Women’s Surgical was on the second floor and nurses were supposed to use the stairs; in any case both lifts were in use. Eloise started off running down the stone steps, late and tired and a little cross. She had reached the ground floor and had begun to traverse the back lobby in order to reach the last, narrow flight of stairs, when she saw Sir Arthur Newman, the senior consultant on the surgical side, standing directly below the staircase she was tearing down, looking the other way, talking to a tall man with very broad shoulders, facing her. The man was good-looking—very, noted her tired eye, with fair hair and commanding features—and he was staring at her.

And no wonder, she thought peevishly; her hair was coming loose from its bun and her cape was hanging from one shoulder; all the same, he didn’t have to look at her as though she were surrounded by winking lights or something. She frowned and lifted her chin because he had begun to smile a little, and that was a great pity, because she took a step which wasn’t there and fell flat on her face. The knitting cushioned her fall, but the pineapple bounded ahead and landed with a squashy thump on the man’s shoe, denting itself nastily.

The shoe’s wearer kicked it gently to one side, surveyed his large, well-shod foot and bent to pick her up. The pair of them hauled her to her feet rather as though she had been a sack of coals, dusted her down with kindly hands and while Sir Arthur handed her her knitting, his companion bent to pick up the crushed fruit.

‘So sorry,’ said Eloise breathlessly, ‘very clumsy of me…’ Her eye fell on the pineapple and her face dropped. ‘Oh, it’s spoilt!’ She lifted a worried face to his. ‘And I did so want to…’ She paused; this stranger wouldn’t be in the least interested in her intentions regarding her gift. ‘I hope it didn’t hurt your foot,’ she said politely.

‘I have large feet,’ he had a slow, pleasantly deep voice, ‘and there’s no harm done—only to this.’ He handed over the battered thing. ‘A present?’ he inquired gently.

‘Well, yes—you know, someone going home…so kind…thank you both very much…breakfast…I’m late…’ She smiled at them both, happily forgetful of her deplorable appearance, and nipped across the lobby and down the stairs, to be greeted by her friends wanting to know why she was so late and had someone dragged her through a hedge backwards.

She sat down with her plate of porridge and showered it with sugar. ‘Well, I got off late, and then I fell down in the back lobby and Sir Arthur was there and picked me up.’ For some reason she didn’t want to tell them about the man who had been with him. ‘I’ve ruined my pineapple, though.’

‘Put it in the fridge,’ someone suggested. ‘Perhaps it’ll harden up—you’ve got nights off after tonight, haven’t you?’

Eloise fetched scrambled eggs on toast and began to devour them. ‘And three weeks’ holiday only two weeks away.’

‘What will you do?’

‘Stay at home—I expect we’ll go out, exhibitions and things,’ she observed vaguely; London at the beginning of October wasn’t really the place for a holiday. Now, Eddlescombe would be lovely; bonfires in the gardens and falling leaves and long walks under an autumn sky… She pushed aside the rest of her breakfast, no longer hungry, and got herself another cup of tea. ‘Does anyone want any stamps?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got to go to the post office on the way home.’

She went home by bike, on an ancient machine which creaked and groaned through the morning traffic and brought her finally to the block of flats where she and her mother lived. The building looked bleaker than usual as she wheeled it to the basement shelter and chained it up for the day before walking up two flights of stairs to the second floor, the pineapple, very much the worse for wear, secure on top of the knitting in her bag. It looked a bit second-hand by now, but at least most of it would be edible.

Second-hand or not, Mrs Bennett was delighted with it, making light of the damage. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she declared happily. ‘We’ll have it at supper.’ Her still pretty face creased into a ready smile, while her eyes, hazel like her daughter’s, noted the tired white face.

‘A bad night, love? Well, only two more nights before you get nights off—what shall we do with them? There’s that exhibition of pottery—oh, and your aunt wants to come and see us…’

Eloise had cast off her outdoor uniform and was putting on the kettle. ‘Oh, Mother, must she? She only comes when she wants something.’

‘Yes, I know, darling, but this time she’s bringing Deborah Pringle with her—remember I knew her years ago and we were always great friends—still are in a way, for we write regularly even though she doesn’t live in England. I should like to see her again.’

She went back into the kitchen and made the tea and they went into the sitting room, small and rather crowded with the furniture they had brought with them from Somerset; all the same, it was a pretty room with a few flowers and some small pieces of silver on the sideboard. The pair of them sat down by the window and drank their tea and presently Eloise went off to have her bath and go to bed. Really, night duty was no life at all, she thought sleepily as she brushed her hair; here it was almost eleven o’clock and she would have to be up soon after five so that she could eat her supper in peace before going back on duty—there was no time to read or talk. ‘Poor Mother,’ she muttered, ‘it’s even worse for her.’

She went to say goodnight to her parent, busy in the kitchen, and then retired to take her night’s rest in her topsy-turvy world. It had been a horrid night, she reflected gloomily as she curled up in bed. At least, not quite horrid, for there had been that nice man… She fell asleep thinking about him.

Her mother called her, as she always did, with a cup of tea and sat on the end of the bed while she drank it. ‘You’ve not slept very much, have you?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, once the children get out of school…’ Eloise tried to sound cheerful because she knew that her mother worried about her wakefulness, and her mother nodded and went on:

‘That pineapple, dear—was there something special about it?’

‘Just a pineapple, Mother.’

‘Yes, I know that—but a special delivery man called after lunch with a Fortnum and Mason basket, I opened it because all the man said was “name of Bennett”, the way they always do—and it’s crammed with fruit: three pineapples and grapes and those enormous pears and apples…there’s a note.’

She handed an envelope to her daughter and didn’t say a word while Eloise opened it and read the brief note inside: ‘Allow me to offer compensation for the damage done by my foot this morning.’ The signature was unintelligible and it was addressed to the Pineapple Girl.

‘Well!’ said Eloise, and then: ‘He must be nuts.’

‘Who, dear?’ Mrs Bennett’s voice was casual, masking her seething curiosity.

‘Well, there was this man…’ Eloise related the morning’s happening without trimmings. ‘And my hair was coming down—I looked a perfect fright—you know…’ She paused. ‘Mother, have I ever reminded you of a pineapple?’

Her mother took the question seriously. ‘No, dear. You’re not a beauty, but you’re not knobbly—your hair grows very prettily too, not out of the top of your head.’

‘How did he know where I lived?’

‘He only had to ask, presumably. Porters, or someone,’ said Mrs Bennett vaguely. ‘If he was talking to Sir Arthur Newman he must have been respectable, so of course they would have told him.’

Eloise looked at her mother with loving amusement. ‘Yes, well…’ She finished her tea and went along to the sitting room where the basket was displayed on the table. It was indeed a splendid sight, Eloise walked all round it, eyeing its contents. ‘I can’t thank him,’ she observed at length. ‘I haven’t a clue who he is, have I? I could ask, I suppose, but I don’t think I want to—I mean if—if he’d wanted to see me again he would have put an address or said so.’ She glanced at her mother and said seriously: ‘He was a very handsome man, he’d hardly lower his sights to me, you know. I expect he just felt sorry.’

She sighed; usually she didn’t waste time pining for a beautiful face, but just for a moment she wanted most desperately to be absolutely eye-catching. ‘Oh, well,’ she said at length, and then: ‘We’ve got enough fruit to open a shop, isn’t it marvellous?’