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A Christmas Proposal
Betty Neels








A Betty Neels Christmas


During this season of giving, Bertha and Emily are about to receive the greatest gift of their lives…love.

And they will discover that Christmas wishes do come true, and “handsome princes” do indeed exist.




A Christmas Proposal

Betty Neels







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




About the Author


Romance readers around the world will be sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit will live on in all her stories, including those yet to be published.




CONTENTS


A CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

WINTER WEDDING

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE



A CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL




CHAPTER ONE


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.




CHAPTER TWO


BERTHA was still reading when the doctor returned two hours later. There had been a brief pause while Mrs Duke had made tea, richly brown and laced with tinned milk and a great deal of sugar, but Bertha hadn’t been allowed to linger over it. She had obediently picked up the book again and, with a smaller cat on her own knees, had continued the colourful saga of misunderstood heroine and swashbuckling hero.

Mrs Duke had listened avidly to every word, occasionally ordering her to ‘read that bit again’, and now she got up reluctantly to let the doctor in.

‘Enjoyed yourselves?’ he wanted to know.

‘Not ’arf. Reads a treat, she does. ’Artway through the book already.’ Mrs Duke subsided into her chair again, puffing a bit. ‘Bertha’s a bit of all right. When’s she coming again?’

He looked at Bertha, sitting quietly with the cat still on her knee.

‘When would you like to come again?’ he asked her.

‘Whenever Mrs Duke would like me to.’

‘Tomorrow? We could finish this story…’

‘Yes, of course. If I come about the same time?’

‘Suits me. ’Ere, give me Perkins—like cats, do you?’

‘Yes, they’re good company, aren’t they?’ Bertha got up. ‘We’ll finish the story tomorrow,’ she promised.

In the car the doctor said, ‘I’ll bring you over at the same time and collect you later. I want to take a look at Mrs Duke; she’s puffing a bit.’

‘Yes—she would make tea and she got quite breathless. Is she ill?’

‘Her heart’s worn out and so are her lungs. She’s turned eighty and had a very hard life. She refuses to go into hospital. You have made her happy reading to her—thank you, Bertha.’ She smiled and he glanced at her. ‘You didn’t find the smells and the cats too much for you?’

‘No, of course not. Would she be offended if I took a cake or biscuits? I’m sure Cook will let me have something.’

‘Would you? I think she would be delighted; she’s proud, but she’s taken to you, hasn’t she?’

He reflected with some surprise that he had rather taken to Bertha himself…

‘Could we settle on which days you would like to visit Mrs Duke? I’ll bring you tomorrow, as I’ve already said, but supposing we say three times a week? Would Monday, Wednesday and Friday suit you? Better still, not Friday but Saturday—I dare say that will help her over the weekend. I’ll give you a lift on Wednesdays and Saturdays and on Mondays, if you will come to my rooms as usual, there will be someone to take you to Mrs Duke.’

‘I’ll go any day you wish me to, but I must ask my stepmother… And I can get a bus—there’s no need…’

‘I go anyway. You might just as well have a lift. And on Mondays there is always someone going to the clinic—I’m one of several who work there.’

‘Well, that would be nice, if you are sure it’s no trouble?’

‘None whatsoever. Is your stepmother likely to object to your going?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Bertha paused. ‘But she might not like me going with you…’ She spoke matter-of-factly.

‘Yes. Perhaps you are right. There is no need to mention that, is there?’

‘You mean it will be a kind of secret between us?’

‘Why not?’ He spoke lightly and added, ‘I’m taking your stepsister out to dinner tomorrow evening. She is a very popular girl, isn’t she?’

Which somehow spoilt Bertha’s day.



Two weeks went by and autumn showed signs of turning into winter. Mrs Soames had decided that Bertha, since she went out so seldom, needed no new dresses; Clare had several from last year still in perfect condition. A little alteration here and there and they would be quite all right for Bertha, she declared, making a mental note that she would have to buy something new for the girl when her father returned in a month’s time.

So Bertha, decked out more often than not in a hastily altered outfit of Clare’s—lime-green and too wide on the shoulders—went on her thrice-weekly visits to Mrs Duke: the highlights of her week. She liked Wednesdays and Saturdays best, of course, because then she was taken there by the doctor, but the young man who drove her there on Mondays was nice too. He was a doctor, recently qualified, who helped out at the clinic from time to time. They got on well together, for Bertha was a good listener, and he always had a great deal to say about the girl he hoped to marry.

It had surprised Bertha that her stepmother hadn’t objected to her reading sessions with Mrs Duke, but that lady, intent on finding a suitable husband for Clare, would have done a good deal to nurture a closer friendship with Dr Hay-Smythe. That he had taken Clare out to dinner and accepted an invitation to dine with herself, Clare and a few friends she took as a good sign.

Clare had looked her best at the dinner party, in a deceptively simple white dress. Bertha had been there, of course, for there had been no good reason for her not to be, wearing the frightful pink frock again—quite unsuitable, but really, when the girl went out so seldom there was no point in buying her a lot of clothes.

Dr Hay-Smythe had been a delightful guest, Mrs Soames had noted, paying court to her darling Clare and treating Bertha with a friendly courtesy but at the same time showing no interest in the girl. Very satisfactory, Mrs Soames had reflected, heaving such a deep sigh that her corsets creaked.

It was at the end of the third week on the Saturday that Mrs Duke died. Bertha had just finished the third chapter of a novel that the old lady had particularly asked her to read when Mrs Duke gave a small sigh and stopped breathing.

Bertha closed her book, set the cat on her lap gently on the ground and went to take the old lady’s hand. There was no pulse; she had known there wouldn’t be.

She laid Mrs Duke’s hands tidily in her lap and went into the tiny hall to where the doctor had left a portable phone, saying casually that she might need it and giving her a number to call. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now she blessed him for being thoughtful. She dialled the number—the clinic—and heard his quiet voice answer.

‘Mrs Duke.’ She tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Please would you come quickly? She has just died…’

‘Five minutes. Are you all right, Bertha?’

‘Me? Yes, thank you. Only, please come…’ Her voice wobbled despite her efforts.

It seemed less than five minutes until he opened the door and gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder as he went past her into the living room to examine Mrs Duke. He bent his great height over her for a few minutes and then straightened up.

‘Exactly as she would have wished,’ he said. ‘In her own home and listening to one of her favourite stories.’

He looked at Bertha’s pale face. ‘Sit down while I get this sorted out.’

She sat with the two cats crouching on her lap—they were aware that something wasn’t quite right—while he rang the clinic, and presently a pleasant elderly woman came and the doctor picked up Mrs Duke and carried her into her poky bedroom.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he told Bertha. ‘It’s been a shock. I’m sorry you had to be here.’

‘I’m not. I’m glad. If Mrs Duke didn’t know anything about it… The cats—we can’t just leave them.’ She stroked their furry heads. ‘I’d have them, only I don’t think my stepmother…’

‘I’ll take them. There’s room for them at my flat and Freddie will enjoy their company—my dog.’

‘Mrs Duke would be glad of that; she loved them.’ Bertha put the pair gently down and got to her feet. ‘I could go by bus. I expect there’s a lot for you to do.’

‘Time enough for that. Come along.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘You need a cup of tea.’

‘Please don’t bother.’ Two tears trickled slowly down her cheeks. ‘It doesn’t seem right to be talking about tea…’

‘If Mrs Duke were here it would be the first thing that she would demand. Be happy for her, Bertha, for this is exactly what she wished for.’

Bertha sniffed, blew her nose and mopped up her tears. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry. I’ll come now. You’re sure about the cats?’

‘Yes. Wait while I have a word with Mrs Tyler.’ He went into the bedroom and presently came out of it again, and whisked Bertha into the car.

He stopped the car in a side-street close to Oxford Street and ushered her into a small café where he sat her down at a table, ordered a pot of tea and took a seat opposite her.

‘There is no need to say anything to your stepmother for the moment. It so happens that a nursery school I know of needs someone to read to the children. Would you consider doing that? The times may be different, but I’m sure I can explain that to Mrs Soames. Will you leave it to me? You will want to come to the funeral, won’t you? Will you phone my rooms—tomorrow evening? Can you do that?’

‘Well, I take my stepmother’s dog for a walk every evening—I could go to the phone box; it’s not far…’

‘Splendid.’ His smile was kind. ‘Now, drink your tea and I’ll take you home.’ He added casually, ‘I don’t think there is any need to say anything to your stepmother about your change of job or Mrs Duke’s death, do you?’ He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I can explain that it will suit everyone concerned if the times are changed.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind. I don’t think my stepmother would notice. I mean…’

‘I know what you mean, Bertha.’ His quiet voice reassured her.



The funeral was to be on Wednesday, she was told when she telephoned the following evening on her walk, and if she went as usual to the doctor’s rooms she would be driven to Mrs Duke’s flat. ‘And as regards Monday,’ went on the doctor, ‘come at the usual time and I’ll take you along to the nursery school so that you can meet everyone and arrange your hours.’

As she went back into the house she met Clare in the hall, dressed to go out for the evening. She twirled round, showing off the short silky frock.

‘Do you like it, Bertha? It shows off my legs very well, doesn’t it? It’s a dinner party at the Ritz.’ She smiled her charming smile. ‘I might as well have as much fun as possible before I settle down and become a fashionable doctor’s wife.’

She danced off and Bertha took the dog to the kitchen. Was that why the doctor was being so kind to her, finding her work to fill her empty days? To please Clare, with whom he was in love? Well, who wouldn’t be? reflected Bertha. Clare was so very pretty and such fun to be with.



She was surprised that her stepmother had had no objection to her changing the hours of her reading, but the doctor, driving her to the funeral, observed that there had been no trouble about it. ‘Indeed, Mrs Soames seemed pleased that you have an outside interest.’

It was a remark which surprised Bertha, since her stepmother had evinced no interest in her comings and goings. It was a thought which she kept to herself.

A surprisingly large number of people were in the church. It seemed that Mrs Duke while alive had had few friends, but now even mere acquaintances crowded into the church and returned to her flat, filling it to overflowing while her nephew, a young man who had come from Sheffield with his wife, offered tea and meat-paste sandwiches.

Bertha, in the habit of making herself useful, filled the teacups and cut more bread and listened to the cheerful talk. Mrs Duke was being given a splendid send-off, and there had been a nice lot of flowers at the funeral.

‘Aunty left her bits and pieces to me,’ said her nephew, coming into the kitchen to make another pot of tea, ‘as well as a bit in the Post Office. She ’as two cats too—I’ll ’ave ter ’ave ’em destroyed. We’ve got a dog at home.’

‘No need. Dr Hay-Smythe has taken them to his home.’

‘Up ter ’im. ’E did a good job looking after Aunty.’

The doctor came in search of her presently. ‘I think we might leave—I’ll get someone to take over from you. Did you get a cup of tea?’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

He smiled. ‘It’s a powerful brew. Wait there while I get someone…’

Mrs Tyler came back with him. ‘Off you go, dearie. Everyone’ll be here for another few hours and you’ve done more than your fair share. It was good of you and the doctor to come.’

‘I liked Mrs Duke,’ said Bertha.

‘So did I. She’d have enjoyed this turn-out.’

‘Are you expected home?’ asked the doctor as he drove away.

‘My stepmother and Clare are at a picture gallery and then going to have drinks with some friends. I expect you’re busy—if you’d drop me off at a bus stop…’

‘And then what will you do?’ he wanted to know.

‘Why, catch a bus, of course,’ said Bertha in her practical way. ‘And have a cup of tea when I get home.’

‘Someone will have it ready for you?’

‘Well, no. Crook’s got the afternoon off and so has Daisy—she’s the housemaid—and Cook will have her feet up—her bunions, you know.’

‘In that case we’ll have tea at my place.’

‘It’s very kind of you to ask me, but really you don’t have to be polite. I’ve taken up a lot of your time, and you must have an awful lot to do.’

He spoke testily. ‘Bertha, stop being so apologetic. If you don’t wish to have tea with me say so. If not, come back with me and discuss the funeral over tea and toast.’

She said indignantly, ‘I’m not being apologetic.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘I don’t care to be—to be…’

‘Pitied? The last thing you can expect from me, my girl.’

He stopped outside his rooms and got out to open her door. She looked up at him as she got out and found herself smiling.

Cully had the door open before they had reached it. He was introduced to Bertha and offered her a dignified bow before opening the sitting-room door.

‘We would like tea, Cully,’ said the doctor. ‘Earl Grey and hot buttered toast—and if you can find a few cakes?’

‘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.




CHAPTER THREE


‘OLIVER!’ cried Clare, in what could only be described as a brave little voice. ‘Thank heaven you’re here.’ She waved an arm towards the ambulancemen loading the old lady onto a stretcher. ‘This poor old woman—there were two enormous men attacking her. She’s been hurt—she might have been killed—but I ran as fast as I could and threw my bag at them and they ran away.’

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 Bertha. ‘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 suppose 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.

‘What a heavenly kitchen.’ Her lovely eyes were sparkling with pleasure. ‘It’s a kind of haven…’ She blushed because she had said something silly, but Meg and Dora were smiling.

‘That it is, miss—specially now in the winter of an evening. Many a time Mr Oliver’s popped in here to beg a slice of dripping toast.’

He smiled. ‘Meg, you are making my mouth water. We had better go and find my mother. We’ll see you before we go.’

Clare had stood apart, tapping a foot impatiently, but as they went through the door into the garden beyond she slipped an arm through the doctor’s.

‘I love your home,’ she told him, ‘and your lovely old-fashioned servants.’

‘They are our friends as well, Clare. They have been with us for as long as I can remember.’

The garden behind the house was large and rambling, with narrow paths between the flowerbeds and flowering shrubs. Freddie rushed ahead, and they heard his barking echoed by a shrill yapping.

‘My mother will be in the greenhouses.’ The doctor had disengaged his arm from Clare’s in order to lead the way, and presently they went through a ram-shackle door in a high brick wall and saw the greenhouses to one side of the kitchen garden.

Bertha, lingering here and there to look at neatly tended borders and shrubs, saw that Clare’s high heels were making heavy weather of the earth paths. Her clothes were exquisite, but here, in this country garden, they didn’t look right. Bertha glanced down at her own person and had to admit that her own outfit didn’t look right either. She hoped that the doctor’s mother wasn’t a follower of fashion like her stepmother.

She had no need to worry; the lady who came to meet them as the doctor opened the greenhouse door was wearing a fine wool skirt stained with earth and with bits of greenery caught up in it, and her blouse, pure silk and beautifully made, was almost covered by a misshapen cardigan of beige cashmere as stained as the skirt. She was wearing wellies and thick gardening gloves and looked, thought Bertha, exactly as the doctor’s mother should look.

She wasn’t quite sure what she meant by this, it was something that she couldn’t put into words, but she knew instinctively that this elderly lady with her plain face and sweet expression was all that she would have wanted if her own mother had lived.

‘My dear.’ Mrs Hay-Smythe lifted up her face for her son’s kiss. ‘How lovely to see you—and these are the girls who had such an unpleasant experience the other day?’

She held out a hand, the glove pulled off. ‘I’m delighted to meet you. You must tell me all about it, presently—I live such a quiet life here that I’m all agog to hear the details.’

‘Oh, it was nothing, Mrs Hay-Smythe,’ said Clare. ‘I’m sure there are many more people braver than I. It is so kind of Oliver to bring us; I had no idea that he had such a beautiful home.’

Mrs Hay-Smythe looked a little taken aback, but she smiled and said, ‘Well, yes, we’re very happy to live here.’

She turned to Bertha. ‘And you are Bertha?’ Her smile widened and her blue eyes smiled too, never once so much as glancing at the yellow jersey. ‘Forgive me that I am so untidy, but there is always work to do in the greenhouse. We’ll go indoors and have a drink. Oliver will look after you while I tidy myself.’

They wandered back to the house—Clare ahead with the doctor, his mother coming slowly with Bertha, stopping to describe the bushes and flowers that would bloom in the spring as they went, Freddie and her small border terrier beside them.

‘You are fond of gardening?’ she wanted to know.

‘Well, we live in a townhouse, you know. There’s a gardener, and he comes once a week to see to the garden—but he doesn’t grow things, just comes and digs up whatever’s there and then plants the next lot. That’s not really gardening. I’d love to have a packet of seeds and grow flowers, but I—I don’t have much time.’

Mrs Hay-Smythe, who knew all about Bertha, nodded sympathetically. ‘I expect one day you’ll get the opportunity—when you marry, you know.’

‘I don’t really expect to marry,’ said Bertha matter-of-factly. ‘I don’t meet many people and I’m plain.’ She sounded quite cheerful and her hostess smiled.

‘Well, as to that, I’m plain, my dear, and I was a middle daughter of six living in a remote vicarage. And that, I may tell you, was quite a handicap.’

They both laughed and Clare, standing waiting for them with the doctor, frowned. Just like Bertha to worm her way into their hostess’s good books, she thought. Well, she would soon see about that.

As they went into the house she edged her way towards Mrs Hay-Smythe. ‘This is such a lovely house. I do hope there will be time for you to take me round before we go back.’ She remembered that that would leave Bertha with Oliver, which would never do. ‘Bertha too, of course…’

Mrs Hay-Smythe had manners as beautiful as her son’s. ‘I shall be delighted. But now I must go and change. Oliver, give the girls a drink, will you? I’ll be ten minutes or so. We mustn’t keep Meg waiting.’

It seemed to Bertha that the doctor was perfectly content to listen to Clare’s chatter as she drank her gin and lime, and his well-mannered attempts to draw her into the conversation merely increased her shyness. So silly, she reflected, sipping her sherry, because when I’m with him and there’s no one else there I’m perfectly normal.

Mrs Hay-Smythe came back presently, wearing a black and white dress, which, while being elegant, suited her age. A pity, thought Bertha, still wrapped in thought, that her stepmother didn’t dress in a similar manner, instead of forcing herself into clothes more suitable to a woman of half her age. She was getting very mean and unkind, she reflected.

Lunch eaten in a lovely panelled room with an oval table and a massive sideboard of mahogany, matching shield-back chairs and a number of portraits in heavy gilt frames on its walls, was simple but beautifully cooked: miniature onion tarts decorated with olives and strips of anchovy, grilled trout with a pepper sauce and a green salad, followed by orange cream soufflés.

Bertha ate with unselfconscious pleasure and a good appetite and listened resignedly to Clare tell her hostess as she picked daintily at her food that she adored French cooking.

‘We have a chef who cooks the most delicious food.’ She gave one of her little laughs. ‘I’m so fussy, I’m afraid. But I adore lobster, don’t you? And those little tartlets with caviare…’

Mrs Hay-Smythe smiled and offered Bertha a second helping. Bertha, pink with embarrassment, accepted. So did the doctor and his mother, so that Clare was left to sit and look at her plate while the three of them ate unhurriedly.

They had coffee in the conservatory and soon the doctor said, ‘We have a family pet at the bottom of the garden. Nellie the donkey. She enjoys visitors and Freddie is devoted to her. Shall we stroll down to see her?’

He smiled at Bertha’s eager face and Freddie was already on his feet when Clare said quickly, ‘Oh, but we are to see the house. I’m longing to go all over it.’

‘In that case,’ said Mrs Hay-Smythe in a decisive voice, ‘you go on ahead to Nellie, Oliver, and take Bertha with you, and I’ll take Clare to see a little of the house.’ When Clare would have protested that perhaps, after all, she would rather see the donkey, Mrs Hay-Smythe said crisply, ‘No, no, I mustn’t disappoint you. We can join the others very shortly.’

She whisked Clare indoors and the doctor stood up. ‘Come along, Bertha. We’ll go to the kitchen and get a carrot…’

Meg and Dora were loading the dishwasher, and the gentle clatter of crockery made a pleasant background for the loud tick-tock of the kitchen clock and the faint strains of the radio. There was a tabby cat before the Aga, and the cat with the orange coat was sitting on the window-sill.

‘Carrots?’ said Meg. ‘For that donkey of yours, Master Oliver? Pampered, that’s what she is.’ She smiled broadly at Bertha. ‘Not but what she’s an old pet, when all’s said and done.’

Dora had gone to fetch the carrots and the doctor was sitting on the kitchen table eating a slice of the cake that was presumably for tea.

‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ said Bertha awkwardly. ‘You must be a marvellous cook, Meg.’

‘Lor’ bless you, miss, anyone can cook who puts their mind to it.’ But Meg looked pleased all the same.

The donkey was in a small orchard at the bottom of the large garden. She was an elderly beast who was pleased to see them; she ate the carrots and then trotted around a bit in a dignified way with a delighted Freddie.

The doctor, leaning on the gate to the orchard, looked sideways at Bertha. She was happy, her face full of contentment. She was happily oblivious of her startling outfit too—which was even more startling in the gentle surroundings.

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.’




CHAPTER FOUR


THEY 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.’




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