A Christmas Proposal. Бетти Нилс

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