Читать книгу A Christmas Proposal - Betty Neels, Бетти Нилс - Страница 8

THE girl standing in a corner of the crowded room hardly merited a second glance; she was small, with light brown hair strained back into an unfashionable bun, a face whose snub nose and wide mouth did nothing to redeem its insignificance, and she was wearing an elaborate shrimp-pink dress. But after his first glance the man standing across the room from her looked again. Presently he strolled over to stand beside her. His ‘Hello’ was pleasant and she turned her head to look at him.

She answered him politely, studying him from large brown eyes fringed by curling lashes. Looking at her eyes, he reflected that one soon forgot the nose and mouth and dragged-back hair. He smiled down at her. ‘Do you know anyone here? I came with friends—I’m staying with them and was asked to come along with them. A birthday party, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ She looked past him to the crowded room, the groups of laughing, gossiping people waving to each other with drinks in their hands, the few couples dancing in the centre. ‘Would you like me to introduce you to someone?’

He said in his friendly way, ‘You know everyone here? Is it your birthday?’

‘Yes.’ She gave him a quick surprised look and bent her head to examine the beaded bodice of her dress.

‘Then shouldn’t you be the belle of the ball?’

‘Oh, it’s not my party. It’s my stepsister’s—that pretty girl over by the buffet. Would you like to meet Clare?’

‘The competition appears too keen at the moment,’ he said easily. ‘Shouldn’t you be sharing the party, since it’s your birthday too?’

‘Well, no.’ She had a pretty voice and she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘I’m sure you’d like to meet some of the guests. I don’t know your name…’

‘Forgive me. Hay-Smythe—Oliver.’

‘Bertha Soames.’ She put out a small hand and he shook it gently.

‘I really don’t want to meet anyone. I think that perhaps I’m a little on the old side for them.’

She scrutinised him gravely—a very tall, strongly built man, with fair hair thickly sprinkled with grey. His eyes were grey too, and he had the kind of good looks which matched his assured air.

‘I don’t think you’re in the least elderly,’ she told him.

He thanked her gravely and added, ‘Do you not dance?’

‘Oh, I love to dance.’ She smiled widely at him, but as quickly the smile faded. ‘I—that is, my stepmother asked me to see that everyone was enjoying themselves. That’s why I’m standing here—if I see anyone on their own I make sure that they’ve got a drink and meet someone. I really think that you should…’

‘Definitely not, Miss Soames.’ He glanced down at her and thought how out of place she looked in the noisy room. And why, if it was her birthday, was she not wearing a pretty dress and not that ill-fitting, over-elaborate garment? ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Me? Hungry?’ She nodded her head. ‘Yes, I missed lunch.’ Her eyes strayed to the buffet, where a number of people were helping themselves lavishly to the dainties upon it. ‘Why don’t you…?’

Dr Hay-Smythe, hard-working in his profession and already respected by older colleagues, a man who would never pass a stray kitten or a lost dog and who went out of his way to make life easy for anyone in trouble, said now, ‘I’m hungry too. Supposing we were to slip away and have a meal somewhere? I don’t imagine we should be missed, and we could be back long before this finishes.’

She stared at him. ‘You mean go somewhere outside? But there isn’t a café anywhere near here—besides…’

‘Even Belgravia must have its pubs. Anyway, I’ve my car outside—we can look around.’

Her eyes shone. ‘I’d like that. Must I tell my stepmother?’

‘Certainly not. This door behind you—where does it lead? A passage to the hall? Let us go now.’

‘I’ll have to get my coat,’ said Bertha when they were in the hall. ‘I won’t be long, but it’s at the top of the house.’

‘Haven’t you a mac somewhere down here?’

‘Yes, but it’s very old…’

His smile reassured her. ‘No one will notice in the pub.’ He reflected that at least it would conceal that dreadful dress.

So, suitably shrouded, she went out of the house with him, through the important front door, down the imposing steps and onto the pavement.

‘Just along here,’ said the doctor, gesturing to where a dark grey Rolls-Royce was parked. He unlocked the door, popped her inside and got in beside her. As he drove off he asked casually, ‘You live here with your parents?’

‘Yes. Father is a lawyer—he does a lot of work for international companies. My stepmother prefers to live here in London.’

‘You have a job?’

‘No.’ She turned her head to look out of the window, and he didn’t pursue the subject but talked idly about this and that as he left the quiet streets with their stately houses and presently, in a narrow street bustling with people, stopped the car by an empty meter. ‘Shall we try that pub on the corner?’ he suggested, and helped her out.

Heads turned as they went in; they made an odd couple—he in black tie and she in a shabby raincoat—but the landlord waved them to a table in one corner of the saloon bar and then came over to speak to the doctor.

‘Ain’t seen yer for a while, Doc. Everything OK?’

‘Splendid, thank you, Joe. How is your wife?’

‘Fighting fit, thanks to you. What’ll it be?’ He glanced at Bertha. ‘And the little lady here? A nice drop of wine for her?’

‘We’re hungry, Joe…’

‘The wife’s just this minute dished up bangers and mash. How about that, with a drop of old and mild?’

Dr Hay-Smythe raised an eyebrow at Bertha, and when she nodded Joe hurried away, to return presently with the beer and the wine and, five minutes later, a laden tray.

The homely fare was well cooked, hot and generous. The pair of them ate and drank in a friendly silence until the doctor said quietly, ‘Will you tell me something about yourself?’

‘There’s nothing to tell. Besides, we’re strangers; we’re not likely to meet again.’ She added soberly, ‘I think I must be a little mad to be doing this.’

‘Well, now, I can’t agree with that. Madness, if at all, lies with people who go to parties and eat too much and drink too much and don’t enjoy themselves. Whereas you and I have eaten food we enjoy and are content with each other’s company.’ He waited while Joe brought the coffee he had ordered. ‘Being strangers, we can safely talk knowing that whatever we say will certainly be forgotten.’

‘I’ve never met anyone like you before,’ said Bertha.

‘I’m perfectly normal; there must be thousands exactly like me.’ He smiled a little. ‘I think that perhaps you haven’t met many people. Do you go out much? The theatre? Concerts? Sports club? Dancing?’

Bertha shook her head. ‘Well, no. I do go shopping, and I take my stepmother’s dog out and help when people come for tea or dinner. That kind of thing.’

‘And your sister?’ He saw her quick look. ‘Stepsister Clare—has she a job?’

‘No—she’s very popular, you see, and she goes out a great deal and has lots of friends. She’s pretty—you must have seen that…’

‘Very pretty,’ he agreed gravely. ‘Why are you unhappy, Bertha? You don’t mind my calling you Bertha? After all, as you said, we are most unlikely to meet again. I’m a very good listener. Think of me as an elder brother or, if you prefer, someone who is going to the other side of the world and never returning.’

She asked, ‘How do you know that I’m unhappy?’

‘If I tell you that I’m a doctor, does that answer your question?’

She smiled her relief. ‘A doctor! Oh, then I could talk to you, couldn’t I?’

His smile reassured her.

‘You see, Father married again—oh, a long time ago, when I was seven years old. My mother died when I was five, and I suppose he was lonely, so he married my stepmother.

‘Clare was two years younger than I. She was a lovely little girl and everyone adored her. I did too. But my stepmother—you see, I’ve always been plain and dull. I’m sure she tried her best to love me, and it must be my fault, because I tried to love her, but somehow I couldn’t.

‘She always treated me the same as Clare—we both had pretty dresses and we had a nice nanny and went to the same school—but even Father could see that I wasn’t growing up to be a pretty girl like Clare, and my stepmother persuaded him that it would be better for me to stay at home and learn to be a good housewife…’

‘Was Clare not a partner in this, too?’

‘Well, no. She has always had lots of friends—I mean, she hadn’t time to be at home very much. She’s really kind to me.’ She laid a hand on a glimpse of pink frill which had escaped from the raincoat. ‘She gave me this dress.’

‘You have no money of your own?’

‘No. Mother left me some, but I—I don’t need it, do I?’

The doctor didn’t comment on that. All he said was, ‘There is a simple solution. You must find a job.’

‘I’d like that, but I’m not trained for anything.’ She added anxiously, ‘I shouldn’t have said all that to you. Please forget it. I have no right to complain.’

‘Hardly complaining. Do you not feel better for talking about it?’

‘Yes, oh, yes. I do.’ She caught sight of the clock and gave a little gasp. ‘Heavens, we’ve been here for ages…’

‘Plenty of time,’ said the doctor easily. ‘I dare say the party will go on until midnight.’ He paid the bill and stowed her in the Rolls once more, then drove her back and went with her into the house. Bertha shed the raincoat in the hall, smoothed the awful dress and went with him into the vast drawing room. The first person to see them was her stepmother.

‘Bertha, where have you been? Go at once to the kitchen and tell Cook to send up some more vol-au-vents. You’re here to make yourself useful—’

Mrs Soames, suddenly aware of the doctor standing close by, became all at once a different woman. ‘Run along, dear.’ She spoke in a quite different voice now, and added, ‘Don’t be long—I’m sure your friends must be missing you.’

Bertha said nothing, and slipped away without a glance at the doctor.

‘Such a dear girl,’ enthused Mrs Soames, her massive front heaving with pseudo maternal feelings, ‘and such a companion and help to me. It is a pity that she is so shy and awkward. I have done my best—’ she managed to sound plaintive ‘—but Bertha is an intelligent girl and knows that she is lacking in looks and charm. I can only hope that some good man will come along and marry her.’

She lifted a wistful face to her companion, who murmured the encouraging murmur at which doctors are so good. ‘But I mustn’t bother you with my little worries, must I? Come and talk to Clare—she loves a new face. Do you live in London? We must see more of you.’

So when Bertha returned he was at the other end of the room, and Clare was laughing up at him, a hand on his arm. Well, what did I expect? reflected Bertha, and went in search of Crook the butler, a lifelong friend and ally; she had had a good supper, and now, fired by a rebellious spirit induced by Dr Hay-Smythe’s company, she was going to have a glass of champagne.

She tossed it off under Crook’s fatherly eye, then took a second glass from his tray and drank that too. Probably she would have a headache later, and certainly she would have a red nose, but since there was no one to mind she really didn’t care. She wished suddenly that her father were at home. He so seldom was…

People began to leave, exchanging invitations and greetings, several of them saying a casual goodbye to Bertha, who was busy finding coats and wraps and mislaid handbags. Dr Hay-Smythe was amongst the first to leave with his party, and he came across the hall to wish her goodbye.

‘That was a splendid supper,’ he observed, smiling down at her. ‘Perhaps we might do it again some time.’

Before she could answer, Clare had joined them. ‘Darling Oliver, don’t you dare run off just as I’ve discovered how nice you are. I shall find your number in the phone book and ring you—you may take me out to dinner.’

‘I’m going away for some weeks,’ he said blandly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I phoned you when I get back.’

Clare pouted. ‘You wretched man. All right, if that’s the best you can do.’

She turned her head to look at Bertha. ‘Mother’s looking for you…’

Bertha went, but not before putting out a small, capable hand and having it shaken gently. Her, ‘Goodbye Doctor,’ was uttered very quietly.

It was after Bertha had gone to her bed in the modest room on the top floor of the house that Mrs Soames went along to her daughter’s bedroom.

‘A successful evening, darling,’ she began. ‘What do you think of that new man—Oliver Hay-Smythe? I was talking to Lady Everett about him. It seems he’s quite well-known—has an excellent practice in Harley Street. Good family and plenty of money—old money…’ She patted Clare’s shoulder. ‘Just the thing for my little girl.’

‘He’s going away for a while,’ said Clare. ‘He said he’d give me a ring when he gets back.’ She looked at her mother and smiled. Then she frowned. ‘How on earth did Bertha get to know him? They seemed quite friendly. Probably he’s sorry for her—she did look a dowd, didn’t she?’

Clare nibbled at a manicured hand. ‘She looked happy—as though they were sharing a secret or something. Did you know that he has a great deal to do with backward children? He wouldn’t be an easy man… If he shows an interest in Bertha, I shall encourage him.’ She met her mother’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I may be wrong, but I don’t think he’s much of a party man—the Paynes, who brought him, told me that he’s not married and there are no girlfriends—too keen on his work. If he wants to see more of Bertha, I’ll be all sympathy!’

The two of them smiled at each other.

Dr Hay-Smythe parted from his friends at their house and took himself off to his flat over his consulting rooms. Cully, his man, had gone to his bed, but there was coffee warm on the Aga in the kitchen and a covered plate of sandwiches. He poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, and the Labrador who had been snoozing by the Aga got up sleepily and came to sit beside him, ready to share his sandwiches. He shared his master’s thoughts too, chewing on cold roast beef and watching his face.

‘I met a girl this evening, Freddie—a plain girl with beautiful eyes and wearing a truly awful frock. An uninteresting creature at first glance, but somehow I feel that isn’t a true picture. She has a delightful voice—very quiet. She needs to get away from that ghastly stepmother too. I must think of something…’

Bertha, happily unaware of these plans for her future, slept all night, happier in her dreams than in her waking hours.

It was two days later that the doctor saw a way to help Bertha. Not only did he have a private practice, a consultancy at two of the major hospitals and a growing reputation in his profession, he was also a partner in a clinic in the East End of London, dealing with geriatrics and anyone else who could not or would not go to Outpatients at any of the hospitals.

He had spent the evening there and his last patient had been an old lady, fiercely independent and living on her own in a tiny flat near the clinic. There wasn’t a great deal he could do for her; a hard working life and old age were taking their toll, but she stumped around with a stick, refusing to go into an old people’s home, declaring that she could look after herself.

‘I’m as good as you, Doctor,’ she declared after he had examined her. ‘But I miss me books—can’t read like I used to and I likes a good book. The social lady brought me a talking book, but it ain’t the same as a real voice, if yer sees what I mean.’ She added, ‘A nice, quiet voice…’

He remembered Bertha then. ‘Mrs Duke, would you like someone to come and read to you? Twice or three times a week, for an hour or so?’

‘Not if it’s one of them la-de-da ladies. I likes a nice bit of romance, not prosy stuff out of the parish mag.’

‘The young lady I have in mind isn’t at all like that. I’m sure she will read anything you like. Would you like to give it a try? If it doesn’t work out, we’ll think of something else.’

‘OK, I’ll ’ave a go. When’ll she come?’

‘I shall be here again in two days’ time in the afternoon. I’ll bring her and leave her with you while I am here and collect her when I’ve finished. Would that suit you?’

‘Sounds all right.’ Mrs Duke heaved herself out of her chair and he got up to open the door for her. ‘Be seeing yer.’

The doctor went home and laid his plans; Mrs Soames wasn’t going to be easy, a little strategy would be needed…

Presently he went in search of Cully. Cully had been with him for some years, was middle-aged, devoted and a splendid cook. He put down the silver he was polishing and listened to the doctor.

‘You would like me to telephone now, sir?’

‘Please.’

‘And if the lady finds the time you wish to visit her unacceptable?’

‘She won’t, Cully.’

Cully went to the phone on the wall and the doctor wandered to the old-fashioned dresser and chose an apple. Presently Cully put back the receiver.

‘Five o’clock tomorrow afternoon, sir. Mrs Soames will be delighted.’

The doctor took a bite. ‘Splendid, Cully. If at any time she should ring me here, or her daughter, be circumspect, if you please.’

Cully allowed himself to smile. ‘Very good, sir.’

The doctor was too busy during the next day to give much thought to his forthcoming visit; he would have liked more time to think up reasons for his request, but he presented himself at five o’clock at Mrs Soames’ house and was shown into the drawing room by a grumpy maid.

Mrs Soames, encased in a vivid blue dress a little too tight for her ample curves, rose to meet him. ‘Oliver, how delightful to see you—I’m sure you must be a very busy man. I hear you have a large practice.’ She gave rather a shrill laugh. ‘A pity that I enjoy such splendid health or I might visit your rooms.’

He murmured appropriately and she patted the sofa beside her. ‘Now, do tell me why you wanted to see me—’ She broke off as Clare came into the room. Her surprise was very nearly real. ‘Darling, you’re back. See who has come to see us.’

Clare gave him a ravishing smile. ‘And about time, too. I thought you were going away.’

‘So did I.’ He had stood up when she’d joined them, and he now took a chair away from the sofa. ‘A series of lectures, but they have been postponed for a couple of weeks.’

Clare wrinkled her nose enchantingly. ‘Good; now you can take me out to dinner.’

‘A pleasure. I’ll look in my appointments book and give you a ring, if I may. I was wondering if you have any time to spare during your days? I’m looking for someone who would be willing to read aloud for an hour or two several times a week to an old lady.’ He smiled at Clare. ‘You, Clare?’

‘Me? Read a boring book to a boring old woman? Besides, I never have a moment to myself. What kind of books?’

‘Oh, romances…’

‘Yuk. How absolutely grim. And you thought of me, Oliver?’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘I don’t even read to myself—only Vogue and Tatler.’

The doctor looked suitably disappointed. ‘Ah, well, I dare say I shall be able to find someone else.’

Clare hesitated. ‘Who is this old woman? Someone I know? I believe Lady Power has to have something done to her eyes, and there’s Mrs Dillis—you know, she was here the other evening—dripping with diamonds and quite able to afford half a dozen companions or minders or whatever they’re called.’

‘Mrs Duke lives in a tiny flat on her own and she exists on her pension.’

‘How ghastly.’ Clare looked up and caught her mother’s eye. ‘Why shouldn’t Bertha make herself useful? She’s always reading anyway, and she never does anything or goes anywhere. Of course—that’s the very thing.’

Clare got up and rang the bell, and when the grumpy maid came she told her to fetch Miss Bertha.

Bertha came into the room quietly and stopped short when she saw Dr Hay-Smythe.

‘Come here, Bertha,’ said Mrs Soames. ‘You know Dr Hay-Smythe, I dare say? He was at Clare’s party. He has a request to make and I’m sure you will agree to it—something to keep you occupied from time to time. Perhaps you will explain, Oliver.’

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.