A Christmas Proposal

He had stood up when Bertha had come into the room, and when she sat down he came to sit near her. ‘Yes, we have met,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I came to ask Clare to read to an old lady—a patient of mine—whose eyesight is failing, but she suggested that you might like to visit her. I believe you enjoy reading?’

‘Yes, yes, I do.’

‘That’s settled, then,’ said Mrs Soames. ‘She’s at your disposal, Oliver.’

‘Would you like to go to this lady’s flat—say, three times a week in the afternoons—and read to her for an hour or so?’

‘Yes, thank you, Doctor.’ Bertha sounded politely willing, but her eyes, when she looked at him, shone.

‘Splendid. Let me see. Could you find your way to my rooms in Harley Street tomorrow afternoon? Then my secretary will give you her address. It is quite a long bus ride, but it won’t be too busy in the afternoon. Come about two o’clock, will you? And thank you so much.’

‘You’ll have a drink, won’t you?’ asked Mrs Soames. ‘I must make a phone call, but Clare will look after you. Bertha, will you go and see Cook and get her list for shopping tomorrow?’

The doctor, having achieved his purpose, sat for another half-hour, drinking tonic water while Clare drank vodka.

‘Don’t you drink?’ She laughed at him. ‘Really, Oliver, I should have thought you a whisky man.’

He smiled his charming smile. ‘I’m driving. It would never do to reel into hospital, would it?’

‘I suppose not. But why work in a hospital when you’ve got a big practice and can pick and choose?’

He said lightly, ‘I enjoy the work.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I am most reluctant to go, but I have an appointment. Thank you for the drink. I’ll take you out to dinner and give you champagne at the first opportunity.’

She walked with him to the door, laid a pretty little hand on his arm and looked up at him. ‘You don’t mind? That I don’t want to go to that old woman? I can’t bear poverty and old, dirty people and smelly children. I think I must be very sensitive.’

He smiled a little. ‘Yes, I am sure you are, and I don’t mind in the least. I am sure your stepsister will manage very well—after all, all I asked for was someone to read aloud, and she seems to have time on her hands.’

‘I’m really very sorry for her—her life is so dull,’ declared Clare, and contrived to look as though she meant that.

Dr Hay-Smythe patted her hand, removed it from his sleeve, shook it and said goodbye with beautiful manners, leaving Clare to dance away and find her mother and gloat over her conquest.

As for the doctor, he went home well pleased with himself. He found Clare not at all to his taste but he had achieved his purpose.

It was raining as Bertha left the house the following afternoon to catch a bus, which meant that she had to wear the shabby mackintosh again. She consoled herself with the thought that it concealed the dress she was wearing—one which Clare had bought on the spur of the moment and disliked as soon as she’d got home with it.

It was unsuitable for a late autumn day, and a wet one, being of a thin linen—the colour of which was quite brilliant. But until her stepmother decided that Bertha might have something more seasonal there was nothing much else in her wardrobe suitable for the occasion, and anyway, nobody would see her. The old lady she was to visit had poor eyesight…

She got off the bus and walked the short distance to Dr Hay-Smythe’s rooms, rang the bell and was admitted. His rooms were elegant and restful, and the cosy-looking lady behind the desk in the waiting room had a pleasant smile. ‘Miss Soames?’ She had got up and was opening a door beside the desk. ‘The doctor’s expecting you.’

Bertha hadn’t been expecting him! She hung back to say, ‘There’s no need to disturb him. I was only to get the address from you.’

The receptionist merely smiled and held the door wide open, allowing Bertha to glimpse the doctor at his desk. He looked up then, stood up and came to meet her at the door.

‘Hello, Bertha. Would you mind waiting until I finish this? A few minutes only. Take this chair. You found your way easily?’ He pushed forward a small, comfortable chair, sat her down and went back to his own chair. ‘Do undo your raincoat; it’s warm in here.’

He was friendly and easy and she lost her shyness and settled comfortably, undoing her raincoat to reveal the dress. The doctor blinked at its startling colour as he picked up his pen. Another of Clare’s cast-offs, he supposed, which cruelly highlighted Bertha’s nondescript features. Really, he reflected angrily, something should be done, but surely that was for her father to do? He finished his writing and left his chair.

‘I’m going to the clinic to see one or two patients. I’ll take you to Mrs Duke and pick you up when I’ve finished. Will you wait for me there?’ He noticed the small parcel she was holding. ‘Books? How thoughtful of you.’

‘Well, Cook likes romances and she let me have some old paperbacks. They may please Mrs Duke.’

They went out together and the receptionist got up from her desk.

‘Mrs Taylor, I’m taking Miss Soames with me. If I’m not back by five o’clock, lock up, will you? I’ve two appointments for this evening, haven’t I? Leave the notes on my desk, will you?’

‘Yes, Doctor. Sally will be here at six o’clock…’

‘Sally is my nurse,’ observed the doctor. ‘My right hand. Mrs Taylor is my left hand.’

‘Go on with you, Doctor,’ said Mrs Taylor, and chuckled in a motherly way.

Bertha, brought up to make conversation when the occasion warranted it, worked her way painstakingly through a number of suitable subjects in the Rolls-Royce, and the doctor, secretly amused, replied in his kindly way, so that by the time he drew up in a shabby street lined with small terraced houses she felt quite at ease.

He got out, opened her door and led the way across the narrow pavement to knock on a door woefully in need of a paintbrush. It was opened after a few moments by an old lady with a wrinkled face, fierce black eyes and an untidy head of hair. She nodded at the doctor and peered at Bertha.

‘Brought that girl, ’ave yer? Come on in, then. I could do with a bit of company.’ She led the way down the narrow hall to a door at the end. ‘I’ve got me own flat,’ she told Bertha. ‘What’s yer name?’

‘Bertha, Mrs Duke.’

The doctor, watching her, saw with relief that she had neither wrinkled her small nose at the strong smell of cabbage and cats, nor had she let her face register anything other than friendly interest.

He didn’t stay for more than a few minutes, and when he had gone Bertha, bidden to sit herself down, did so and offered the books she had brought.

Mrs Duke peered at their titles. ‘Just me cup of tea,’ she pronounced. ‘I’ll ’ave Love’s Undying Purpose for a start.’ She settled back in a sagging armchair and an elderly cat climbed onto her lap.

Bertha turned to the first page and began to read.

CHAPTER TWO

BERTHA was still reading when the doctor returned two hours later. There had been a brief pause while Mrs Duke had made tea, richly brown and laced with tinned milk and a great deal of sugar, but Bertha hadn’t been allowed to linger over it. She had obediently picked up the book again and, with a smaller cat on her own knees, had continued the colourful saga of misunderstood heroine and swashbuckling hero.

Mrs Duke had listened avidly to every word, occasionally ordering her to ‘read that bit again’, and now she got up reluctantly to let the doctor in.

‘Enjoyed yourselves?’ he wanted to know.

‘Not ’arf. Reads a treat, she does. ’Artway through the book already.’ Mrs Duke subsided into her chair again, puffing a bit. ‘Bertha’s a bit of all right. When’s she coming again?’

He looked at Bertha, sitting quietly with the cat still on her knee.

‘When would you like to come again?’ he asked her.

‘Whenever Mrs Duke would like me to.’

‘Tomorrow? We could finish this story…’

‘Yes, of course. If I come about the same time?’

‘Suits me. ’Ere, give me Perkins—like cats, do you?’