It was a bit off-putting to be asked to marry someone because his sister had left him to get married, and he needed someone to cook and clean.
âNot a very romantic proposal, Iâm afraid, Annis, but I donât pretend to compete with OlaâI donât intend to, either.â
He bent over the sink so that she couldnât see his face. âDo you believe in romance, my dear?â
âNot anymore.â She managed to make her voice light and when he looked at her, she smiled as well. âIâd rather be like usâgood friends.â And because that didnât seem quite enough she added, âAndâand fond of each other.â
He didnât answer, but presently, when he said good-night to her at her hut door, his kiss, quick and hard, made her hopeâfoolishly enough she had to admitâthat perhaps in time he might grow more than fond.
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. Bettyâs 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.
THE DIN ON the ward was unbelievable, rising and falling like a stormy sea gone mad; children calling to each other, crying, screaming, shouting from their cots and beds, while those already up and dressed and able to eat their breakfast at the miniature table in the centre of the ward were darting up and down, evading the nurses trying to tie their bibs and settle them to their porridge, and accompanying these sounds was the constant thin cry of the babies in the side wards, wanting their next feed, the whole cemented together by the rattle of spoons in bowls and the thumping of mugs.
The young woman who had opened the door on to this uproar closed her eyes for a split second and a tiny frown marred her lovely features, but it was banished instantly as she opened them again, remarkable dark green eyes with long curling lashes, made all the more remarkable by the rich chestnut of her hair. She was a tall girl with a figure as striking as her face and she held herself well; her friends considered her to be a beauty, while the few who werenât referred to her grudgingly as handsome, implying that she was too big and opulent for beauty. She paused now just inside the door and surveyed the ward with a practised eye; she had been Sister on the Childrenâs Ward at St Anselmâs for three years now and had grown accustomed to the turmoil around her, and she could see now that everything was just as it should be. She waved to the children at the table and without pausing again went straight to her office where the night nurses would be waiting.
With the report given and the pair of them gone, she re-read it, made up the day book so that each nurse knew what she had to do, glanced at the off duty book and was on the point of getting up from her desk when her staff nurse, Carol Drew, came in. She was a small, neat girl, devoted to her work, and they got on splendidly together.
She smiled as she came in, said âGood morning, Sister,â and waited.
âMorning, Carolâand for heavenâs sake stop calling me Sister when thereâs no one around. I see Archieâs been sick twice. Weâd better get Mr Potter to go over him againâweâve missed somethingâ¦â She stretched out a hand for the telephone. âAnd Night Nurse says that Baby Scott isnât feedingâheâd better have a look at her too. Is there anything else to worry us?â She sighed. âIâve an idea weâre in for a bad day.â
Carol nodded her head. âMe tooâBaby Cookâs ready for theatre.â
âIâll take him upâIâve just time to do a round first. How is breakfast going?â
Her staff nurse cast her eyes upwards. âThe usual; weâre just starting to clear up the mess, Iâll go and see how theyâre getting on.â At the door she looked back. âI say, Annis, donât you want to be here when Mr Potter comes?â
Annis Brown raised her magnificent head from the papers she was studying. âNo, I donât,â she grinned, and looked much younger than her twenty-seven years. âYou can have him.â
But she didnât smile when Carol had left her. Arthur Potter was becoming a problem in her life; he was persistent in his wish to marry her, worthy to the point of being boring, an excellent doctor with an undoubtedly successful career before him and one of the dullest young men she had ever met. They had known each other for three years now and he was beginning to grow on her so that every now and then the unwelcome thought that she would eventually marry him was becoming increasingly difficult to dispel; the trouble was that she liked him as a friendâhe was kind and considerate and non-demanding, he had an even temper and looked upon her occasional outburst with tolerance, and she found herself wishing more and more frequently that he might display some temper himself, or at least disagree with her.