A Betty Neels Christmas: A Christmas Proposal\Winter Wedding (3 page)

‘Certainly, sir. Shall I take the young lady's coat?'

He shuddered inwardly at the sight of the garish dress, but his face was inscrutable; he had until now had a poor opinion of any young ladies his master had brought home from time to time for the occasional drink or lunch, but this one was different, never mind the horrible garment she was wearing. He glided away to arrange cakes on a plate. Made by himself, of course. He didn't trust cakes bought in a shop.

Bertha, happily unaware of Cully's thoughts, went into the sitting room with the doctor to be greeted by Freddie before he went to his master's side.

‘How very convenient,' said Bertha, ‘having your home over your consulting rooms. I didn't know you lived here.'

She gently rubbed Freddie's head and looked around her. The room was very much to her taste—a pleasing mixture of comfortable chairs and sofas and antique wall cabinets, lamp-tables, a magnificent Georgian rent table under the window and a giltwood mirror over the fireplace. That was Georgian too, she was sure.

She gave a little sigh of pleasure. ‘This is a beautiful room,' she told him gravely.

‘I'm glad you like it. Do sit down.' He offered her a small bergère, with upholstery matching the mulberry brocade curtains, and took an armchair opposite her. When her eyes darted to the long-case clock as it chimed the hour of four, he said soothingly, ‘Don't worry. I'll see that you get back home before anyone else.'

Cully came in then with a laden tray. He sat everything out on a low table between them and slid away, but not before he had taken a good look at Bertha—nicely contrived from under lowered lids. His first impressions had been good ones, he decided.

Bertha made a good tea; she was hungry and Cully's dainty sandwiches and little cakes were delicious. Sitting there in the quiet, restful room with the doctor, whom she trusted and thought of as a friend, she was content and happy, and if their conversation dealt entirely with the visits she was to make to the nursery school she had no quarrel with that. She had been reminded so often by her stepmother and Clare that she was a dull companion and quite lacking in charm that she would have been surprised if the doctor had been anything else but briskly businesslike.

She was to go each morning from eleven o'clock until half past twelve, if that suited her, he told her, and she agreed at once. It might be a bit awkward sometimes, if she was needed to take the dog out or to go to the shops on some errand for her stepmother,
but she would worry about that if and when it happened; there was no need to tell him.

‘There are any number of books there; the children are various ages—two years to around four or five. You do understand that you need only read to them? There are plenty of helpers to do the necessary chores.'

‘I think I shall like it very much.' Bertha smiled. ‘Every day, too…'

He took her home presently, waiting until she had gone inside and then poked her head round the front door to tell him that no one was home.

 

Beyond telling Bertha how fortunate she was that Dr Hay-Smythe had found her something to do, her stepmother asked no questions. It was inconvenient that Bertha had to go each morning, of course, but since he was almost a friend of the family—indeed, almost more than that—she complied. ‘Clare is quite sure that he's in love with her, so of course we would wish to do anything to oblige him in any way.'

So on Monday morning Bertha set off to go to the doctor's rooms. She was to go there first, he'd told her. The nursery school wasn't far from them and she would be shown the way and introduced to the matron who ran the place. She wasn't to feel nervous about going, for Matron already knew that she would be coming.

Mrs Taylor was at the rooms and greeted her with a friendly smile. ‘Just a minute while I get Dr Hay-Smythe—he's in the garden with that dog of his.' She
picked up the phone as she spoke, and a few minutes later he came in.

‘I'll walk round with you, Bertha.' He glanced at his watch. ‘I've time enough.'

She went with him down into the street and skipped along beside him to keep up.

‘You can take a bus to the corner,' he told her. ‘Go straight there after today.'

He turned down a narrow street and then turned again into a cul-de-sac lined with narrow, rather shabby houses. Halfway down he mounted the steps to a front door, rang the bell and then walked in.

The hall was rather bare, but the walls were a cheerful yellow and there was matting on the floor and a bowl of flowers on a table against the wall. The woman who came to meet them was small and stout with a jolly face and small bright eyes. She greeted the doctor like an old friend and looked at Bertha.

‘So you're to be our reader,' she said, and shook hands. ‘We are so glad to have you—we need all the help we can get. Come and see some of the children.'

She opened the door into a large, airy room full of children and several younger women. ‘Of course, you won't be reading to them all,' she explained, ‘but I've picked out those who will understand you, more or less. They love the sound of a voice, you know…'

They were in the centre of the room now with children all around them. ‘We have children with special needs—three who are blind, several who had brain damage at birth and quite a few physically disabled…'

The doctor was watching Bertha's face. It showed surprise, compassion and a serene acceptance. Perhaps it had been unkind of him not to have told her, but he had wanted to see how she would react and she had reacted just as he had felt sure she would—with kindness, concern and not a trace of repugnance.

She looked at him and smiled. ‘I'm going to like coming here,' she told him. ‘Thank you for getting me the job.' She turned to the matron. ‘I do hope I'll do…'

‘Of course you will, my dear. Come along and take your jacket off and we'll get you settled.'

Bertha put out a hand to the doctor. ‘I dare say I shan't see you again—well, perhaps when you come to see Clare, but you know what I mean. I can't thank you enough for your kindness.'

The doctor shook her hand in his large, firm one. ‘Probably we shall see each other here occasionally. I come quite often to see the children.'

He went away then, and Bertha was led away by the matron, introduced to the other helpers and presently began to read to the circle of children assembled round her chair. It was an out-of-date book—an old fairy tale collection—and she started with the first story.

It wasn't going to be straightforward reading; she was interrupted frequently by eager little voices wanting her to read certain parts again, and some of them needed to have parts of the story explained to them, but after a time she got the hang of it and by half past twelve she and the children understood each other
very well. She would do better tomorrow, she promised herself, going home to a solitary lunch, since her stepmother and Clare were out.

 

Within a few days Bertha had found her feet. It was a challenging job but she found it rewarding; the children were surprisingly happy, though sometimes difficult and frequently frustrated. They were lovable, though, and Bertha, lacking love in her own home, had plenty of that to offer.

At the end of two weeks she realised that she was happy, despite the dull life she led at home. Her stepmother still expected her to run errands, walk the dog and fetch and carry for her, so that she had little time to call her own. She was glad of that, really, as it gave her less time to think about Dr Hay-Smythe, for she had quickly discovered that she missed him.

She supposed that if Clare were to marry him—and, from what her stepsister said occasionally, Bertha thought that it was very likely—she would see him from time to time. He had been to the house once or twice, and Clare would recount their evenings together at great length, making no attempt to hide the fact that she had made up her mind to marry him.

When Bertha had asked her if she loved him, Clare had laughed. ‘Of course not, but he's exactly what I want. Plenty of money, a handsome husband, and a chance to get away from home. Oh, I like him well enough…'

Bertha worried a lot about that; it spoilt her happiness. Dr Hay-Smythe wasn't the right husband for
Clare. On the other hand, being in love with someone wasn't something one could arrange to suit oneself, and if he loved Clare perhaps it wouldn't matter.

It was towards the middle of the third week of her visits to the nursery school that Clare unexpectedly asked her to go shopping with her in the afternoon. ‘I've some things I simply must buy and Mother wants the car, and I hate taxis on my own. You'll have to come.'

They set out after lunch, and since it had been raining, and was threatening to do so again, Crook hailed a taxi. Clare was in good spirits and disposed to be friendly.

‘It's time you had something decent to wear,' she said surprisingly. ‘There's that jersey two-piece of mine—I never liked it; it's a ghastly colour—you can have that.'

‘I don't think I want it if it's a ghastly colour, Clare. Thank you all the same.'

‘Oh, the colour is ghastly on
me
. I dare say you'll look all right in it.' She glanced at Bertha. ‘You'd better take it. Mother won't buy you anything until Father gets home, and he's been delayed so you'll have to wait for it.'

Bertha supposed that the jersey two-piece wouldn't be any worse than the lime-green outfits and there was no one to see her in it anyway. She wondered silently if there would ever be a chance for her to earn some money. She was a voluntary worker, but if she worked longer hours perhaps she could ask to be paid? She wouldn't want much.

The idea cheered her up, so that she was able to stand about patiently while Clare tried on dresses and then finally bought a pair of Italian shoes—white kid with high heels and very intricate straps. Bertha, watching them being fitted, was green with envy; she had pretty feet and ankles, and Clare's were by no means perfect. The shoes were on the wrong feet, she reflected in a rare fit of ill-humour.

The afternoon had cleared. Clare gave Bertha the shoes to carry and said airily that they would walk home. ‘We can always pick up a taxi if we get tired,' she declared. ‘We'll cut through here.'

The street was a quiet one, empty of traffic and people. At least, it was until they were halfway down it. The elderly lady on the opposite pavement was walking slowly, carrying a plastic bag and an umbrella, with her handbag dangling from one arm, so she had no hands free to defend herself when, apparently from nowhere, two youths leapt at her from a narrow alleyway. They pushed her to the ground and one of them hit her as she tried to keep a hand on her bag.

Clare stopped suddenly. ‘Quick, we must run for it. They'll be after us if they see us. Hurry, can't you?'

Bertha took no notice. She pushed away Clare's hands clinging to her arm, ran across the street and swiped at one of the youths with the plastic bag containing Clare's new shoes. It caught him on the shins and he staggered and fell. She swung the bag again,
intent on hitting the other youth. The bag split this time and the shoes flew into the gutter.

Confronted by a virago intent on hurting them, the pair scrambled to their feet and fled, dropping the lady's handbag as they went. Short of breath and shaking with fright, Bertha knelt down by the old lady.

‘My purse—my pension…' The elderly face was white with fear and worry. It was bruised, too.

‘It's all right,' said Bertha. ‘They dropped your handbag. I'll get it for you. But, first of all, are you hurt?'

Before the old lady could answer, Clare hissed into Bertha's ear, ‘My shoes—my lovely new shoes. You've ruined them. I'll never forgive you!'

‘Oh, bother your shoes,' said Bertha. ‘Go and bang on someone's door and get an ambulance.'

Just for once, Clare, speechless at Bertha's brisk orders, did as she was told.

She was back presently, and there were people with her. Bertha, doing her best to make the old lady as comfortable as possible, listened with half an ear to her stepsister's voice.

‘Two huge men,' said Clare, in what Bertha always thought of as her little-girl voice. ‘They ran at this poor lady and knocked her down. I simply rushed across the street and hit them with a shopping bag—one of them fell over and they ran away then.' She gave a little laugh. ‘I've never been so scared in my life…'

‘Very plucky, if I might say so,' said a voice.

Another voice asked, ‘You're not hurt, young lady? It was a brave thing to do.'

‘Well, one doesn't think of oneself,' murmured Clare. ‘And luckily my sister came to help me once the men had gone.'

The old lady stared up at Bertha's placid face. ‘That's a pack of lies,' she whispered. ‘It was you; I saw you…' She closed her eyes tiredly. ‘I shall tell someone…'

‘It doesn't matter,' said Bertha. ‘All that matters is that you're safe. Here is your handbag, and the purse is still inside.'

She got to her feet as the ambulance drew up and the few people who had gathered to see what was amiss gave her sidelong glances with no sign of friendliness; she could read their thoughts—leaving her pretty sister to cope with those violent men… Luckily there were still brave girls left in this modern day and age of violence…

Bertha told herself that it didn't matter; they were strangers and never likely to see her again. She wondered what Clare would do next—beg a lift from someone, most likely.

There was no need for that, however.

By good fortune—or was it bad fortune?—Dr Hay-Smythe, on his way from somewhere or other, had seen the little group as he drove past. He stopped, reversed neatly and got out of his car. Clare, with a wistful little cry, exactly right for the occasion, ran to meet him.