A Betty Neels Christmas: A Christmas Proposal\Winter Wedding (6 page)

Conscious that he was looking at her, she turned her head and their eyes met.

Good gracious, thought Bertha, I feel as if I've known him all my life, that I've been waiting for him…

Clare's voice broke the fragile thread which had been spun between them. ‘There you are. Is this the donkey? Oliver, you do have a lovely house—your really ought to marry and share it with someone.'

T
HEY
didn't stay long in the orchard—Clare's high-heeled shoes sank into the ground at every step and her complaints weren't easily ignored. They sat in the conservatory again, and Clare told them amusing tales about her friends and detailed the plays she had recently seen and the parties she had attended.

‘I scarcely have a moment to myself,' she declared on a sigh. ‘You can't imagine how delightful a restful day here is.'

‘You would like to live in the country?' asked Mrs Hay-Smythe.

‘In a house like this? Oh, yes. One could run up to town whenever one felt like it—shopping and the theatre—and I dare say there are other people living around here…'

‘Oh, yes.' Mrs Hay-Smythe spoke pleasantly. ‘Oliver, will you ask Meg to bring tea out here?'

After tea they took their leave and got into the car, and were waved away by Mrs Hay-Smythe. Bertha waved back, taking a last look at the house she wasn't likely to see again but would never forget.

As for Mrs Hay-Smythe, she went to the kitchen, where she found Meg and Dora having their own tea. She sat down at the table with them and accepted a
cup of strong tea with plenty of milk. Not her favourite brand, but she felt that she needed something with a bite to it.

‘Well?' she asked.

‘Since you want to know, ma'am,' said Meg, ‘and speaking for the two of us, we just hope that the master isn't taken with that young lady what didn't eat her lunch. High and mighty, we thought—didn't we, Dora?'

‘Let me put your minds at rest. This visit was made in order to give the other Miss Soames a day out, but to do so it was necessary to invite her stepsister as well.'

‘Well, there,' said Dora. ‘Like Cinderella. Such a nice quiet young lady too. Thanked you for her lunch, didn't she, Meg?'

‘That she did, and not smarmy either. Fitted into the house very nicely too.'

‘Yes, she did,' said Mrs Hay-Smythe thoughtfully. Bertha would make a delightful daughter-in-law, but Oliver had given no sign—he had helped her out of kindness but shown no wish to be in her company or even talk to her other than in a casual friendly way. ‘A pity,' said Mrs Hay-Smythe, and with Flossie, her little dog, at her heels she went back to the greenhouse, where she put on a vast apron and her gardening gloves and began work again.

 

The doctor drove back the way they had come, listening to Clare's voice and hardly hearing what she was saying. Only when she said insistently, ‘You will take me out to dinner this evening, won't you, Oliver?
Somewhere lively where we can dance afterwards? It's been a lovely day, but after all that rural quiet we could do with some town life…'

‘When we get back,' he said, ‘I am going straight to the hospital where I shall be for several hours, and I have an appointment for eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I am a working man, Clare.'

She pouted. ‘Oh, Oliver, can't you forget the hospital just for once? I was so sure you'd take me out.'

‘Quite impossible. Besides, I'm not a party man, Clare.'

She touched his sleeve. ‘I could change that for you. At least promise you'll come to dinner one evening? I'll tell Mother to give you a ring.'

He glanced in the side-mirror and saw that Bertha was sitting with her arm round Freddie's neck, looking out of the window. Her face was turned away, but the back of her head looked sad.

He stayed only as long as good manners required when they reached the Soameses' house, and when he had gone Clare threw her handbag down and flung herself into a chair.

Her mother asked sharply, ‘Well, you had Oliver all to yourself—is he interested?'

‘Well, of course he is. If only we hadn't taken Bertha with us…'

‘She didn't interfere, I hope.'

‘She didn't get the chance—she hardly spoke to him. I didn't give her the opportunity. She was with his mother most of the time.'

‘What is Mrs Hay-Smythe like?'

‘Oh, boring—talking about the garden and the
Women's Institute and doing the flowers for the church. She was in the greenhouse when we got there. I thought she was one of the servants.'

‘Not a lady?' asked her mother, horrified.

‘Oh, yes, no doubt about that. Plenty of money too, I should imagine. The house is lovely—it would be a splendid country home for weekends if we could have a decent flat here.' She laughed. ‘The best of both worlds.'

Bertha, in her room, changing out of the two-piece and getting into another of Clare's too-elaborate dresses, told the kitchen cat, who was enjoying a stolen hour or so on her bed, all about her day.

‘I don't suppose Oliver will be able to withstand Clare for much longer—only I mustn't call him Oliver, must I? I'm not supposed to have more than a nodding acquaintance with him.' She sat down on the bed, the better to address her companion. ‘I think that is what I must do in the future, just nod. I think about him too much and I miss him…'

She went to peer at her face in the mirror and nodded at its reflection. ‘Plain as a pikestaff, my girl.'

Dinner was rather worse than usual, for there were no guests and that gave her stepmother and Clare the opportunity to criticise her behaviour during the day.

‘Clare tells me that you spent too much time with Mrs Hay-Smythe…'

Bertha popped a morsel of fish into her mouth and chewed it. ‘Well,' she said reasonably, ‘what else was I to do? Clare wouldn't have liked it if I'd attached myself to Dr Hay-Smythe, and it would have looked very ill-mannered if I'd just gone off on my own.'

Mrs Soames glared, seeking for a quelling reply. ‘Anyway, you should never have gone off with the doctor while Clare was in the house with his mother.'

‘I enjoyed it. We talked about interesting things—the donkey and the orchard and the house.'

‘He must have been bored,' said her stepmother crossly.

Bertha looked demure. ‘Yes, I think that some of the time he was—very bored.'

Clare tossed her head. ‘Not when he was with me,' she said smugly, but her mother shot Bertha a frowning look.

‘I think you should understand, Bertha, that Dr Hay-Smythe is very likely about to propose marriage to your stepsister…'

‘Has he said so?' asked Bertha composedly. She studied Mrs Soames, whose high colour had turned faintly purple.

‘Certainly not, but one feels these things.' Mrs Soames pushed her plate aside. ‘I am telling you this because I wish you to refuse any further invitations which the doctor may offer you—no doubt out of kindness.'

‘Why?'

‘There is an old saying—two is company, three is a crowd.'

‘Oh, you don't want me to play gooseberry. I looked like one today in that frightful outfit Clare passed on to me.'

‘You ungrateful—' began Clare, but was silenced by a majestic wave of her mother's hand.

‘I cannot think what has come over you, Bertha.
Presumably this day's outing has gone to your head. The two-piece Clare so kindly gave you is charming.'

‘Then why doesn't she wear it?' asked Bertha, feeling reckless. She wasn't sure what had come over her either, but she was rather enjoying it. ‘I would like some new clothes of my own.'

Mrs Soames's bosom swelled alarmingly. ‘That is enough, Bertha. I shall buy you something suitable when I have the leisure to arrange it. I think you had better have an early night, for you aren't yourself… The impertinence…'

‘Is that what it is? It feels nice!' said Bertha.

She excused herself with perfect good manners and went up to her room. She lay in the bath for a long time, having a good cry but not sure why she was crying. At least, she had a vague idea at the back of her head as to why she felt lonely and miserable, but she didn't allow herself to pursue the matter. She got into bed and the cat curled up against her back, purring in a comforting manner, so that she was lulled into a dreamless sleep.

 

Her mother and Clare had been invited to lunch with friends who had a house near Henley. Bertha had been invited too, but she didn't know that. Mrs Soames had explained to their hosts that she had a severe cold in the head and would spend the day in bed.

Bertha was up early, escorting the cat back to her rightful place in the kitchen and making herself tea. She would have almost the whole day to herself;
Crook was to have an afternoon off and Cook's sister was coming to spend the day with her.

Mrs Soames found this quite satisfactory since Bertha could be served a cold lunch and get her own tea if Cook decided to walk down to the nearest bus stop with her sister. The daily maid never came on a Sunday.

All this suited Bertha; she drank her tea while the cat lapped milk, and decided what she would do with her day. A walk—a long walk. She would go to St James's Park and feed the ducks. She went back upstairs to dress and had almost finished breakfast when Clare joined her. Bertha said good morning and she got a sour look, which she supposed was only to be expected.

It was after eleven o'clock by the time Mrs Soames and Clare had driven away. Bertha, thankful that it was a dull, cold day, allowing her to wear the lime-green which she felt was slightly less awful than the two-piece, went to tell Crook that she might be late for lunch and ask him to leave it on a tray for her before he left the house and set out.

There wasn't a great deal of traffic in the streets, but there were plenty of people taking their Sunday walk as she neared the park. She walked briskly, her head full of daydreams, not noticing her surroundings until someone screamed.

A young woman was coming out of the park gates pushing a pram—and running across the street into the path of several cars was a small boy. Bertha ran. She ran fast, unhampered by high heels and handbag,
and plucked the child from the nearest car's wheels just before those same wheels bowled her over.

The child's safe, she thought hazily, aware that every bone in her body ached and that she was lying in a puddle of water, but somehow she felt too tired to get up. She felt hands and then heard voices, any number of them, asking if she were hurt.

‘No—thank you,' said Bertha politely. ‘Just aching a bit. Is that child OK?'

There was a chorus of ‘yes', and somebody said that there was an ambulance coming. ‘No need,' said Bertha, not feeling at all herself. ‘If I could get up…'

‘No, no,' said a voice. ‘There may be broken bones…'

So she stayed where she was, listening to the voices; there seemed to be a great many people all talking at once. She was feeling sick now…

There were no broken bones, the ambulanceman assured her, but they laid her on a stretcher, popped her into the ambulance and bore her away to hospital. They had put a dressing on her leg without saying why.

The police were there by then, wanting to know her name and where she lived.

‘Bertha Soames. But there is no one at home.'

Well, Cook was, but what could she do? Better keep quiet. Bertha closed her eyes, one of which was rapidly turning purple.

 

Dr Hay-Smythe, called down to the accident and emergency department to examine a severe head injury, paused to speak to the casualty officer as he left.
The slight commotion as an ambulance drew up and a patient was wheeled in caused him to turn his head. He glanced at the patient and then looked again.

‘Will you stop for a moment?' he asked, and bent over the stretcher. It was Bertha, all right, with a muddy face and a black eye and hair all over the place.

He straightened up. ‘I know this young lady. I'll wait while you take a look.'

‘Went after a kid running under a car. Kid's OK but the car wheel caught her. Nasty gash on her left leg.' The ambulanceman added, ‘Brave young lady.'

Dr Hay-Smythe bent his great height again. ‘Bertha?' His voice was quiet and reassuring. She opened the good eye.

‘Oliver.' She smiled widely. ‘You oughtn't to be working; it's Sunday.'

He smiled then and signalled to the men to wheel the stretcher away. It struck him that despite the dirt and the black eye nothing could dim the beauty of her one good eye, its warm brown alight with the pleasure of seeing him again.

There wasn't too much damage, the casualty officer told him presently—bruising, some painful grazes, a black eye and the fairly deep gash on one leg. ‘It'll need a few stitches, and there's a good deal of grit and dirt in the wound. She'd better have a whiff of anaesthetic so that I can clean it up. Anti-tetanus jab too.'

He looked curiously at his companion; Dr Hay-Smythe was a well-known figure at the hospital, oc
casionally giving anaesthetics and often visiting the patients in his beds on the medical wards. He was well liked and respected, and rumour had it that he was much in demand socially; this small girl didn't seem quite his type…

Dr Hay-Smythe looked at his watch. ‘If you could see to her within the next half-hour I'll give a hand. It'll save calling the anaesthetist out.'

 

Bertha, getting stiffer with every passing minute and aware of more and more sore places on her person, had her eyes closed. She opened the sound one when she heard his voice.

‘You have a cut on your leg, Bertha,' he told her. ‘I'm going to give you a whiff of something while it's seen to, then you will be warded.'

‘No, no, I must go back home. Cook might wonder where I am.'

‘Only Cook?' he gueried gently.

‘Crook's got a half-day and my stepmother and Clare have gone to Henley to lunch with friends. There's no need to bother Cook; her sister's there.'

‘Very well, but you are to stay here, Bertha. I'll see that your stepmother knows when she returns. Now, how long ago is it since you had your breakfast?'

‘Why ever do you want to know? About eight o'clock.'

‘Purely a professional question. No, close your eyes; I'm going to give you an injection in the back of your hand.' He turned away and spoke to someone
she couldn't see and presently, eyes obediently shut, she felt a faint prick. ‘Count up to ten,' he said, his voice reassuringly casual.