by Pat Herbert
“She’s bloody well right. What took you so long?”
Bernard shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. I suppose I just haven’t been clear in my mind until now. She’s all I could possibly want in a woman and a wife. I know that. I think I’ve always known it. Yes, don’t say it. I’m an idiot.”
“That’s putting it mildly, old fellow. I’d give my eye teeth to be in your shoes right now.”
“I know, Robbie. Are you still that keen on her?”
Robbie stared at him through his tortoiseshell-framed spectacles. “Well, I don’t know. Anyway, there’s no point. She told me categorically we can only ever be friends.”
“I’m sorry. But what about Lucy?”
“Lucy?”
“Don’t act dumb, Robbie. Lucy’s always been fond of you. Isn’t she more than just your housekeeper, these days?”
“I always thought you’d be judgmental about my relationship with Lucy. How did you know? Who told you?”
“No one told me. You’d have to be pretty thick not to realise the situation. You’re no monk, Robbie. I presumed you had some kind of arrangement with her as you never seemed to have any other women friends.”
Robbie smiled. “Well done, Sherlock. You’re absolutely right, of course. She does me very well. But before ... well, things might have been different. Anyway, how about this game?” Robbie indicated the chess board.
“Do we have to, Robbie? It’s getting late...”
“What do you mean? It’s only nine o’clock...”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t really like chess. Can’t we play Monopoly instead?”
Robbie guffawed with laughter. “I wondered when you’d admit you didn’t like the game. Monopoly it is, old boy. Bagsy I’m the boot.”
The next evening, Bernard paid a call on Dorothy. He was nervous, very nervous. It wasn’t just any old call, tonight. It was a call that would determine the rest of his life. She was pleased to see him, as always.
“Hello, Bernie. This is a nice surprise.”
He sat down by the fire in the chair she indicated and looked around the cosy, softly lit room. Everything was spick and span and in its place, yet it still looked comfortably inviting. It was a home anyone would be happy to come back to after a hard day’s work, especially with this woman in it. Dorothy would make him a wonderful wife, he thought, joy surging in his heart.
Mrs Harper would continue to reign supreme in the vicarage kitchen, of course, but Dorothy would be by his side to see to his every other comfort.
She’d be expert at arranging the altar flowers, too. She’d be able to stop the squabbling among the female parishioners who did the task now. He could never resolve their petty arguments over who should be responsible for what display. It was all the same to him, and he’d had enough of it. Now Dorothy would take charge and sort them out. She wouldn’t stand any of their nonsense, he was sure.
“Would you like tea or something stronger?” she asked him.
“Do you have any sherry? I feel like a little celebration.”
“Celebration?” She looked puzzled. “Oh, I see.” Although she didn’t, but he looked so pleased with himself, she didn’t probe further. “Of course, why not? I’ve got some rather nice wine, if you’d rather.”
“By all means. Let’s have some wine. But don’t you want to know what we are about to celebrate, first?”
“All right,” she smiled. “Let me just get the wine.”
When the wine was poured and glasses clinked, Bernard cleared his throat and, before Dorothy knew what was happening, he was down on one knee before her.
“Dorothy Plunkett, light of my life, will you do me the great honour...”
Dorothy interrupted his flow. “Please, Bernard, get up. I – I...”
Bernard looked bewildered, but stayed where he was. “Don’t you realise, my darling, I’m asking you to marry me? I know it’s taken me long enough, but I got there in the end.” He fumbled in his pocket and took out a tiny box.
“Oh dear, Bernie, my love,” she cried. “It’s too late – far too late! I’ve met someone else...”
Bernard got to his feet and stared at her. The wine untasted on the table beside them.
