A Christmas Proposal

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‘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.’