A Christmas Proposal Read online

  The onlookers, gathering close, murmured admir­ingly. 'Proper brave young lady,' said one.

  'Oh, no,' Clare said softly. 'Anyone would have done the same.' She had laid a hand on the doctor's arm and now looked up into his face.

  He wasn't looking at her. He was watching the stretcher being lifted into the ambulance. The old lady was saying something to Bertha, who had whipped a bit of paper and pencil from her bag and was writing something down.

  He removed Clare's hand quite gently. ‘I should just take a look,' he observed.

  He spoke to the ambulance driver and then bent over the old lady, giving Bertha a quick smile as he did so. 'Can I help in any way? I'm told there's noth­ing broken, but you had better have a check-up at the hospital.'

  The shrewd old eyes studied his face. 'You're a doctor? Don't you listen to that girl's tale. Not a word of truth in it. Seen it with my own eyes—tried to run away, she did. It was this child who tackled those thugs—twice her size too.' She gave a weak snort of indignation. 'Mad as fire because her shoes had been spoilt. Huh!'

  'Thank you for telling me. Do we have your name? Is there anyone who should be told?'

  'This young lady's seen to that for me, bless her. Gets things done while others talk.'

  'Indeed she does.' He took her hand. 'You'll be all right now.'

  He went back to the driver and presently, when the ambulance had been driven away, he joined Bertha. 'Let me have her name and address, will you? I'll check on her later today. Now I'll drive you both home.'

  Clare had joined them. 'What was all that about? You don't need to bother any more; she'll be looked after at the hospital. I feel awfully odd—it was a shock...'

  'I'll drive you both back home. I dare say you may like to go straight to bed, Clare.'

  Clare jumped into the car. 'No, no—I'm not such a weakling as all that, Oliver. I dare say Bertha would like to lie down for a bit, though—she was so fright­ened.' She turned her head to look at Bertha on the back seat, who looked out of the window and didn't answer.

  The doctor didn't say anything either, so Clare went on uncertainly, 'Well, of course, it was enough to scare the wits out of anyone, wasn't it?'

  No one answered that either. Presently she said pet­tishly, 'I had a pair of new shoes—wildly expensive— they've been ruined.' Quite forgetting her role of brave girl, she turned on Bertha. 'You'll have to pay for them, Bertha. Throwing them around like that—' She stopped, aware that she had let the cat out of the bag. 'What was the good of flinging the bag at those men when they had already run away?'

  'I'm sure you can buy more shoes,' said the doctor blandly. 'And what is a pair of shoes compared with saving an old lady from harm?'

  He glanced in his mirror, caught Bertha's eye and smiled at her, and lowered an eyelid in an unmistak­able wink.

  It gave her a warm glow. Never mind that there would be some hard words when she got home; she had long since learned to ignore them. He had be­lieved the old lady and she had the wit to see that he wouldn't mention it—it would make it so much worse for her and would probably mean the end of her job at the nursery school. If any special attention from him were to come to Clare's or her stepmother's no­tice, they would find a way to make sure that she never saw him again...

  The doctor stopped the car before their door, and Clare said coaxingly, 'Take me out to dinner this eve­ning, Oliver? I do need cheering up after all I've just gone through. Somewhere quiet where we can talk?'

  He had got out to open her door and now turned to do the same for Bertha. 'Impossible, I'm afraid. I've a meeting at seven o'clock which will last for hours— perhaps at the weekend...'

  He closed the car door. ‘I suggest that you both have an early night. If there is any news of the old lady I'll let you have it. I shall be seeing her later this evening. Bertha, if you will give me her address, I'll see that her family are told.'

  She handed it over with a murmured thank-you, bade him goodbye and started up the steps to the door, leaving Clare to make a more protracted leave-taking—something which he nipped in the bud with apparent reluctance.

  Clare's charm turned to cold fury as they entered the house. 'You'll pay for this,' she stormed. 'Those shoes cost the earth. Now I've nothing to wear with that new dress...'

  Bertha said matter-of-factly, 'Well, I can't pay for them, can I? I haven't any money. And you've dozens of shoes.' She looked at Clare's furious face. 'Are they really more important than helping someone in a fix?' She wanted to know. 'And what a lot of fibs you've told everyone. I must say you looked the part.'

  She stopped then, surprised at herself, but not nearly as surprised as Clare. 'How dare you?' Clare snapped. 'How dare you talk to me like that?'

  'Well, it's the truth, isn't it?' asked Bertha placidly. 'But, don't worry, I shan't give you away.'

  'No one would believe you...'

  'Probably not.' Bertha went up to her room, leaving Clare fuming.

  The full weight of her stepmother's displeasure fell upon her when she went downstairs presently. She was most ungrateful, careless and unnaturally mean towards her stepsister, who had behaved with the courage only to be expected of her. Bertha should be bitterly ashamed of herself. ‘I had intended to take you to a charity coffee morning at Lady Forde's, but I shall certainly not do so now,' she finished.

  Bertha, allowing the harsh voice to wash over her head, heaved a sigh of relief; the last time she had been taken there she had ended up making herself useful, helping Lady Forde's meek companion hand round the coffee and cakes. She looked down at her lap and didn't say a word. What would be the use?

  She would have been immensely cheered if she had known of the doctor's efforts on her behalf. There had to be a way, he reflected, sitting in his sitting room with Freddie at his feet, in which he could give Bertha a treat. It seemed to him that she had no fun at all— indeed, was leading an unhappy life.

  'She deserves better,' he told Freddie, who yawned. 'Properly dressed and turned out, she might stand a chance of attracting some young man. She has beau­tiful eyes, and I don't know another girl who would have held her tongue as she did this afternoon.'

  It was much later, after Cully had gone to his bed and the house was quiet, that he knew what he would do. Well satisfied, he settled Freddie in his basket in the kitchen and went to bed himself.

  The doctor waited another two days before calling at Mrs Soames's house. He had satisfied himself that Bertha was still going to the nursery. Matron had been enthusiastic about her and assured him that there had been no question of her leaving, so he was able to dispel the nagging thought that her stepmother might have shown her anger by forbidding her to go.

  He chose a time when he was reasonably sure that they would all be at home and gave as his excuse his concern as to whether the two girls had got over their unfortunate experience. All three ladies were in the drawing room—something which pleased him, for if Bertha wasn't there, there was always the chance that she would hear nothing of his plans.

  Mrs Soames rose to meet him. 'My dear Oliver, most kind of you to call—as you see, we are sitting quietly at home. Dear Clare is somewhat shocked still.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it,' said the doctor, shaking Clare's hand and giving Bertha a smiling nod. 'Per­haps I can offer a remedy—both for her and for Bertha, who must also be just as upset.'

  Mrs Soames looked surprised. 'Bertha? I hardly think so. She isn't in the least sensitive.'

  The doctor looked grave and learned. He said weightily, 'Nevertheless, I think that both young ladies would benefit from my plan.'

  His bedside manner, reflected Bertha, and very im­pressive and effective too, for her stepmother nodded and said, 'Of course. I bow to your wisdom, Oliver.'

  'Most fortunately I am free tomorrow. I should be delighted if I might drive them into the country for the day, away from London. To slow down one's life­style once in a while is necessary, especially when one has had a shock such as Clare had.' He looked at B
ertha. 'And I am sure that Bertha must have been upset. I haven't had the opportunity to ask her—'

  'There's no need,' Clare interrupted him hastily. 'I'm sure she needs a break just as I do. We'd love to come with you, Oliver. Where shall we go?'

  'How about a surprise? Is ten o'clock too early for you?'

  'No, no. Not a minute too early.' Clare was at her most charming, and then, as he got up to go, she said suddenly, 'But of course Bertha won't be able to go with us—she reads to old ladies or something every morning.'

  'Tomorrow is Saturday,' the doctor reminded her gently. 'I doubt if she does that at the weekends.' He glanced at Bertha. 'Is that not so, Bertha?'

  Bertha murmured an agreement and saw the flash of annoyance on Clare's face. All of a sudden she was doubtful as to whether a day spent in the company of Clare and the doctor would be as pleasant as it sounded.

  After he had gone, Clare said with satisfaction, 'You haven't anything to wear, Bertha. I hope Oliver won't feel embarrassed. It's a great pity that you have to come with us. You could have refused.'

  'I shall enjoy a day out,' said Bertha calmly, 'and I shall wear the jersey two-piece you handed down to me. I'll have to take it in...'

  Clare jumped up. 'You ungrateful girl. That outfit cost a lot of money.'

  'It's a ghastly colour,' said Bertha equably, and went away to try it on. It was indeed a garment which Clare should never have bought—acid-yellow, and it needed taking in a good deal.

  'Who cares?' said Bertha defiantly to the kitchen cat, who had followed her upstairs, and began to sew—a tricky business since her eyes were full of tears. To be with the doctor again would be, she had to admit, the height of happiness, but she very much doubted if he would feel the same. He was far too well-mannered to comment upon the two-piece— probably he would be speechless when he saw it— but it would be nice to spend a day with him wearing an outfit which was the right colour and which fitted.

  ‘I suppose I am too thin,' she observed to the cat, pinning darts and cobbling them up. The sleeves were a bit too long—she would have to keep pushing them up—and the neck was too low. Clare liked low necks so that she could display her plump bosom, but Bertha, who had a pretty bosom of her own, stitched it up to a decent level and hoped that no one would notice.

  Dr Hay-Smythe noticed it at once, even though half-blinded by the acid-yellow. An appalling outfit, he reflected, obviously hastily altered, for it didn't fit anywhere it should and the colour did nothing for Bertha's ordinary features and light brown hair. He found that he was full of rage at her treatment, al­though he allowed nothing of that to show. He wished her good morning and talked pleasantly to Mrs Soames while they waited for Clare.

  She came at last, with little cries of regret at keep­ing him waiting. ‘I wanted to look as nice as possible for you, Oliver,' she said with a little laugh. And in­deed she did look nice—in blue and white wool, sim­ply cut and just right for a day in the country. She had a navy shoulder-bag and matching shoes with high heels. The contrast between the two girls was cruel.

  The doctor said breezily, 'Ah, here you are at last. I was beginning to think that you had changed your mind!' He smiled a little. 'Found someone younger and more exciting with whom to spend the day.'

  This delighted Clare. ‘There isn't anyone more ex­citing than you, Oliver,' she cooed, and Bertha looked away, feeling sick and wishing that the day was over before it had begun.

  Of course Clare got into the seat beside Oliver, leaving him to usher Bertha into the back of the car where Freddie, delighted to have company, greeted her with pleasure.

  Clare, turning round to stare, observed tartly, 'Oh, you've brought a dog.' And then said, with a little laugh, 'He'll be company for Bertha.'

  'Freddie goes wherever I go when it's possible. He sits beside me on long journeys and is a delightful companion.'

  'Well, now you have me,' declared Clare. 'I'm a delightful companion too!'

  A remark which the doctor apparently didn't hear.

  He drove steadily towards the western suburbs, ap­parently content to listen to Clare's chatter, and when he was finally clear of the city he turned off the main road and slowed the car as they reached the country­side. They were in Hertfordshire now, bypassing the towns, taking minor roads through the woods and fields and going through villages, peaceful under the morning sun. At one of these he stopped at an inn.

  'Coffee?' he asked, and got out to open Clare's door and then usher Bertha and Freddie out of the car.

  The inn was old and thatched and cosy inside. The doctor asked for coffee, then suggested, 'You two girls go ahead. I'll take Freddie for a quick run while the coffee's fetched.'

  The ladies' was spotlessly clean, but lacked the comforts of its London counterparts. Clare, doing her face in front of the only mirror, said crossly, 'He might have stopped at a decent hotel—this is pretty primitive. I hope we shall lunch somewhere more civ­ilised.'

  'I like it,' said Bertha. ‘I like being away from London. I'd like to live in the country.'

  Clare didn't bother to reply, merely remarking as they went to join the doctor that the yellow jersey looked quite frightful. 'When I see you in it,' said Clare, ‘I can see just how ghastly it is!'

  It was an opinion shared by the doctor as he watched them cross the bar to join him at a table by the window, but nothing could dim the pleasure in Bertha's face, and, watching it, he hardly noticed the outfit.

  'The coffee was good. I'm surprised,' said Clare. 'I mean, in a place like this you don't expect it, do you?'

  'Why not?' The doctor was at his most genial. 'The food in some of these country pubs is as good or better than that served in some of the London restau­rants. No dainty morsels in a pretty pattern on your plate, but just steak and kidney pudding and local veg­etables, or sausages and mash with apple pie for a pudding.'

  Clare looked taken aback. If he intended giving her sausages and mash for lunch she would demand to be taken home. 'Where are we lunching?' she asked.

  'Ah, wait and see!'

  Bertha had drunk her coffee almost in silence, with Freddie crouching under the table beside her, nudging her gently for a bit of biscuit from time to time. She hoped that they would lunch in a country pub—sau­sages and mash would be nice, bringing to mind the meal she and the doctor had eaten together. Meeting him had changed her life...

  They drove on presently into Buckinghamshire, still keeping to the country roads. It was obvious that the doctor knew where he was going. Bertha stopped her­self from asking him; it might spoil whatever surprise he had in store for them.

  It was almost noon when they came upon a small village—a compact gathering of Tudor cottages with a church overlooking them from the brow of a low hill.

  Bertha peered and said, 'Oh, this is delightful. Where are we?'

  'This is Wing—'

  ‘Isn't there a hotel?' asked Clare. 'We're not going to stop here, are we?' She had spoken sharply. ‘It's a bit primitive, isn't it?' She saw his lifted eyebrows. 'Well, no, not primitive, perhaps, but you know what I mean, Oliver. Or is there one of those country-house restaurants tucked away out of sight?'

  He only smiled and turned the car through an open wrought-iron gate. The drive was short, and at its end was a house—not a grand house, one might call it a gentleman's residence—sitting squarely amidst trees and shrubs with a wide lawn before it edged by flow­erbeds. Bertha, examining it from the car, thought that it must be Georgian, with its Palladian door with a pediment above, its many paned windows and tall chimneystacks.

  It wasn't just a lovely old house, it was a home; there were long windows, tubs of japonica on either side of the door, the bare branches of Virginia creeper rioting over its walls and, watching them from a wrought-iron sill above a hooded bay window, a ma­jestic cat with a thick orange coat. Bertha saw all this as Clare got out, the latter happy now at the sight of a house worthy of her attention and intent on making up for her pettishness.

  'I su
ppose we are to lunch here?' she asked as the doctor opened Bertha's door and she and Freddie tum­bled out.

  His 'yes' was noncommittal.

  ‘It isn't a hotel, is it?' asked Bertha. ‘It's someone's home. It's quite beautiful.'

  'I'm glad you like it, Bertha. It is my home. My mother will be delighted to have you both as her guests for lunch.'

  'Yours?' queried Clare eagerly. 'As well as your flat in town? I suppose your mother will live here until you want it for yourself—when you marry?' She gave him one of her most charming smiles, which he ig­nored.

  'Your mother doesn't mind?' asked Bertha. 'If we are unexpected...'

  'You're not. I phoned her yesterday. She is glad to welcome you—she is sometimes a little lonely since my father died.'

  'Oh, I'm sorry.' Bertha's plain face was full of sympathy.

  'Thank you. Shall we go indoors?'

  The house door opened under his hand and he ush­ered them into the wide hall with its oak floor and marble-topped console table flanked by cane and wal­nut chairs. There was a leather-covered armchair in one corner too, the repository of a variety of coats, jackets, walking sticks, dog leads and old straw hats, giving the rather austere grandeur of the hall a pleas­antly lived-in look. The doctor led the way past the oak staircase with its wrought-iron balustrade at the back of the hall and opened a small door.

  'Mother will be in the garden,' he observed. 'We can go through the kitchen.'

  The kitchen was large with a vast dresser loaded with china against one wall, an Aga stove and a scrubbed table ringed by Windsor chairs at its centre. Two women looked up as they went in.

  'Master Oliver, good morning to you, sir—and the two young ladies.'

  The speaker was short and stout and wrapped around by a very white apron. The doctor crossed the room and kissed her cheek.

  'Meg, how nice to see you again.' He looked across at the second woman, who was a little younger and had a severe expression. 'And Dora—you're both well? Good. Clare, Bertha—this is Meg, our cook, and Dora, who runs the house.'

  Clare nodded and said, 'hello,' but Bertha smiled and shook hands.