A Christmas Proposal

by Betty Neels

  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.'

  Dr Hay-Smythe bent his great height again. 'Bertha?' His voice was quiet and reassuring. She opened the good eye.

  'Oliver.' She smiled widely. 'You oughtn't to be working; it's Sunday.'

  He smiled then and signalled to the men to wheel the stretcher away. It struck him that despite the dirt and the black eye nothing could dim the beauty of her one good eye, its warm brown alight with the pleasure of seeing him again.

  There wasn't too much damage, the casualty officer told him presently—bruising, some painful grazes, a black eye and the fairly deep gash on one leg. 'It'll need a few stitches, and there's a good deal of grit and dirt in the wound. She'd better have a whiff of anaesthetic so that I can clean it up. Anti-tetanus jab too.'

  He looked curiously at his companion; Dr Hay-Smythe was a well-known figure at the hospital, oc­casionally giving anaesthetics and often visiting the patients in his beds on the medical wards. He was well liked and respected, and rumour had it that he was much in demand socially; this small girl didn't seem quite his type...

  Dr Hay-Smythe looked at his watch. ‘If you could see to her within the next half-hour I'll give a hand. It'll save calling the anaesthetist out.'

  Bertha, getting stiffer with every passing minute and aware of more and more sore places on her person, had her eyes closed. She opened the sound one when she heard his voice.

  'You have a cut on your leg, Bertha,' he told her. 'I'm going to give you a whiff of something while it's seen to, then you will be warded.'

  'No, no, I must go back home. Cook might wonder where I am.'

  'Only Cook?' he queried gently.

  'Crook's got a half-day and my stepmother and Clare have gone to Henley to lunch with friends. There's no need to bother Cook; her sister's there.'

  'Very well, but you are to stay here, Bertha. I'll see that your stepmother knows when she returns. Now, how long ago is it since you had your breakfast?'

  'Why ever do you want to know? About eight o'clock.'

  'Purely a professional question. No, close your eyes; I'm going to give you an injection in the back of your hand.' He turned away and spoke to someone she couldn't see and presently, eyes obediently shut, she felt a faint prick. 'Count up to ten,' he said, his voice reassuringly casual.

  She got as far as five.

  When she opened her eyes again she was in bed— a corner bed in a big ward—and the casualty officer and Dr Hay-Smythe were standing at the foot of it.

  'Ah, back with us.' He turned away for a moment while two nurses heaved her up the bed, rearranged a cradle over her leg and disappeared again.

  He studied her thoughtfully; anywhere else she would have minded being stared at like that, but here in hospital it was different; here he was a doctor and she was just another patient.

  'Can I go home soon?' she asked.

  It was the last place he wished her to go. She looked very small, engulfed in a hospital gown far too large for her, with her face clean now but pale and the damaged eye the only colour about her. Her hair, its mousy abundance disciplined into a plait, hung over one shoulder.

  He said after a moment, 'No, you can't, Bertha. You're in one of my beds and you'll stay here until I discharge you.' He smiled suddenly. 'This is Dr Turner, the casualty officer who stitched you up.' And as another young man joined them he went on, 'And this is the medical officer who will look after you— Dr Greyson. I'll go and see your stepmother this af­ternoon and she will doubtless arrange to send in whatever you need.'

  He offered a hand and she took it and summoned up a smile. 'Thank you for all your trouble. I hope I haven't spoilt your day.'

  She closed her eyes, suddenly overcome by sleep.

  Dr Hay-Smythe waited until the late afternoon before calling at the Soameses' house—too late for tea and too early for drinks—since he had no wish to linger there. He was admitted by Cook, since Crook was still enjoying his half-day, and ushered into the drawing room, where Mrs Soames and Clare were sitting dis­cussing the lunch party. They greeted him eagerly, bored with each other's company.

  'Oliver!' Clare went to meet him. 'How lovely—I was just wondering what I would do with the rest of this dull day, and you're the answer.'

  He greeted her mother before replying, 'I'm afraid not. I have to return to the hospital very shortly. I have come to tell you that Bertha has had an acci­dent—'

  'The silly girl,' interposed Mrs Soames.

  'She saved the life of a small boy who had run into the street in front of a car.' His voice was carefully expressionless. 'She is in hospital with a badly cut leg and severe bruising, so she must stay there for a few days at least. Would you take her whatever is neces­sary when you go to see her?'

  'You've seen her?' Clare's voice was sharp.

  'Yes. I happened to be in the accident and emer­gency department when she was admitted. She is in very good hands. I'll write down the name of the ward for you—there is no reason why you shouldn't visit her this evening.'

  'Quite impossible, Oliver. I've guests coming for dinner.' Mrs Soames uttered the lie without hesitation. 'And I can't allow Clare to go. She is so sensitive to pain and distressing scenes; besides, who knows what foul germs there are in those public wards? She is in a public ward?'

  'Yes. Perhaps you would ask one of your staff.' He paused, and then went on silkily, 'Better still, if you could give me whatever is needed, I will take it to Bertha.'

  This suggestion met with the instant rejection he had expected. 'No, no!' cried Mrs Soames. 'Cook shall go with Bertha's things, and at the same time make sure that she has all she wants. The poor child!' she added with sickening mendaci
ty. 'We must take good care of her when she comes home.'

  She gave Clare a warning glance so that the girl quickly added her own sympathy. ‘I hope she comes home soon.' Clare sounded wistfully concerned. ‘I shall miss her.'

  As indeed she would, reflected the doctor. There would be no one to whom she might pass on her un­suitable clothes. She was wearing a ridiculous outfit now, all frills and floating bits; he much preferred Bertha in her startling lime-green. Indeed, upon fur­ther reflection he much preferred Bertha, full-stop.

  He took his leave presently and went back home to fetch Freddie and take him for a long walk in Hyde Park. And that evening, after he had dined, he got into his car once more and drove to the hospital. Vis­iting hours were long over and the wards were quiet, the patients drinking their milk or Ovaltine and being settled down for the night. Bertha was asleep when, accompanied by the ward sister, he went to look at her.

  'Someone came with her nightclothes and so on?' he wanted to know.

  'Oh, yes, Doctor. The family cook—a nice old soul. Gave her a large cake in a tin too, and said she would come again and that if she couldn't come someone called Crook would.'

  'Ah, yes, the butler.'

  'Has she no family?'

  'A stepmother and a stepsister and a father who at present is somewhere in the States. He's a well-known QC'

  Sister looked at him. There was nothing to see on his handsome features, but she sensed damped-down rage. 'I'll take good care of her, Doctor,' she said.

  He smiled at her then. 'Good—and will you be sure and let me know before she goes home?'

  Bertha, after a refreshing sleep, felt quite herself in the morning. True, she was still stiff and sore, and it was tiresome only having the use of one eye, but she sat up and ate her breakfast and would have got out of bed armed with towel and toothbrush if she hadn't been restrained.

  The leg must be rested, she was told. The cut had been deep and very dirty, and until it had been exam­ined and re-dressed she would have to remain in her bed.

  There was plenty to keep her interested, however. The elderly lady in the bed next to hers passed half an hour giving her details of her operation, most of them inaccurate, but Bertha listened enthralled until Sister came down the ward with a Cellophaned pack­age.

  'These have just come for you, Bertha. Aren't you a lucky girl?'

  It was a delicate china bowl filled with a charming mixture of winter crocuses.

  'There's a card,' prompted Sister.

  Bertha took it from its miniature envelope. The writing on it was hard to read. 'Flowers for Bertha', it said, and then the initials 'O.H-S.'

  Sister recognised the scrawl. 'Just the right size for your locker top,' she said breezily, and watched the colour flood into Bertha's pale face. Who'd have thought it? the sister asked herself, sensing romance.

  There were visitors later—the small boy whom she had saved led into the ward by his mother and bearing a bunch of flowers. The mother cried all over Bertha and wrung her hand and, very much to Bertha's em­barrassment, told everyone near enough to listen how Bertha had saved her small son from being run over.

  'Killed, he would have been—or crippled for life. A proper heroine, she is.'

  That evening Crook came, bearing more flowers and a large box of chocolates from Cook and the daily and the man who came to do the garden each week.

  'Is everything all right at home, Crook?' asked Bertha.

  'Yes, Miss Bertha. I understand that there is a letter from your father; he hopes to return within the next few weeks. Mrs Soames and Miss Clare have been down to Brighton with friends; they are dining out this evening.'

  'I'm not sure how long I am to stay here, Crook...'

  'As long as it takes you to get quite well, Miss Bertha. You're not coming home before.'

  He got up to go presently, with the promise that someone would come to see her again.

  'Thank you for coming, and please thank the others for the chocolates and flowers. It's so kind of them and I know how busy you all are, so I won't mind if none of you can spare the time to visit. You can see how comfortable I am, and everyone is so friendly.'

  On his way out, Sister stopped him. 'You come from Mrs Soames's household? Is she coming to see Miss Soames? She must wish to know about her in­juries and I'd like to advise her about her convales­cence.'

  'Mrs Soames is most unlikely to come, Sister. If you will trust me with any details as to the care of Miss Bertha when she returns home, I shall do my utmost to carry them out,' said Crook.

  When Dr Hay-Smythe came onto the ward later that evening, as she was going off duty, Sister paused to talk to him and tell him and the medical officer, who had come to do an evening round, what Crook had told her. 'I'll keep her as long as possible, but I'm always pushed for beds. And although I know you have beds in this ward, doctor, it is a medical unit and Bertha's a surgical case.'

  'A couple more days, Sister?' He glanced at the young doctor with him. 'Turn a blind eye, Ralph? At least until the stitches come out. If she goes home too soon she'll be on that leg all day and ruin the CO's painstaking surgery. How is she, by the way?'

  'A model patient; she's next to Mrs Jenkins—a thrombosis after surgery—and she's delighted to have such a tolerant listener.' She glanced at the doctor. 'She was delighted with your flowers, doctor.'

  'Good. May I see Miss Arkwright for a moment? She wasn't too good yesterday.'

  Miss Arkwright was at the other end of the ward from Bertha, but she could see Dr Hay-Smythe clearly as he went to his patient's bedside. She was feeling sleepy, but she kept her eye open; he would be sure to come and say goodnight presently. Only he didn't.

  After a few minutes he went away again without so much as a glance in her direction.

  Bertha discovered that it was just as easy to cry with one eye as two.

  The next few days were pleasant enough—the nurses were friendly, those patients who were allowed up came to sit by her, bringing their newspapers and reading out the more lurid bits, since her eye, now all the colours of the rainbow and beginning to open again, was still painful. Cook came too, this time with a bag of oranges.

  Everything was much as usual, she told Bertha comfortably, omitting to mention that Mrs Soames's temper had been worse than usual and that Clare was having sulking fits.

  'That nice doctor what she's keen on—always ask­ing 'im ter take 'er out, she is, and 'im with no time to spare. 'E's taking 'er out to dinner this evening, though.'

  Bertha stayed awake for a long time that night, lis­tening to the snores and mutterings around her, the occasional urgent cry for a bedpan, the equally urgent whispers for tea. She closed her eyes each time the night nurse or night sister did her round and she heard the night sister say quietly, 'She'll have to go home in a couple of days; she's only here as a favour to Dr Hay-Smythe.'

  Bertha lay and thought about going home. She had no choice but to do so for she had no money. It would mean seeing Clare and Oliver together, and she wasn't sure if she could bear that.

  I suppose, she reflected, with the clarity of mind which comes to everybody at three o'clock in the morning, that I've been in love with him since he came over to me and asked me if it was my birthday. I'll have to go away... Once Father's back home, per­haps he'll agree to my training for something so that I can be independent. I'll have my own flat and earn enough money to be able to dress well and to go to the hairdresser and have lots of friends... She fell into an uneasy doze.

  She was allowed out of bed now, and later the next day Staff Nurse took out alternate stitches.

  'I'll have the rest tomorrow,' she said briskly. 'Don't run around too much; it's not quite healed yet. I expect you'll be going home in a day or two now.'

  Bertha told Crook that when he came that after­noon. 'Please don't tell anyone, will you? I wouldn't want to upset any plans...'

  They both knew Mrs Soames wasn't likely to change any plans she had made just because Bertha was coming home.r />
  Dr Hay-Smythe came to see her that evening. 'You're to go home the day after tomorrow. I'll take you directly after lunch. You feel quite well?'

  'Yes, thank you, I'm fine. Some of the stitches are out and it's a very nice scar—a bit red...'

  'You won't see it in a few months. Will you be able to rest at home?'

  'Oh, of course,' said Bertha airily. 'I can sit in the drawing room. But I don't need to rest, do I? I'm perfectly well. I know my eye's still not quite right, but it looks more dramatic than it is.'

  He sat down on the side of the bed. 'Bertha, my mother would like you to go and stay with her for a week or two, perhaps until Christmas. How would you like that?'

  Her eyes shone. 'Oh, how kind of her. I'd have to ask my stepmother first...'

  He found himself smiling at her eager face. The few days in hospital had done her good; she had a pretty colour and she looked happy. He took her hand in his, conscious of a deep contentment. He had cau­tioned himself to have patience, to give her time to get to know him, but he had fallen in love with her when he had first seen her and his love had grown over the weeks. She was the girl he had been waiting for, and somehow or other he had managed to keep close to her, despite the dreadful stepmother and the tiresome Clare. He wouldn't hurry her, but after a few days he would go home and tell her that he loved her in the peace and quiet of the country.

  He said now, 'We have to talk, Bertha. But not here.'

  The ward was very quite and dim. He bent and kissed her gently and went away. Mrs Jenkins, feign­ing sleep and listening to every word, whispered, 'Now go to sleep, ducks. Nothing like a kiss to give you sweet dreams.'

  The next day Oliver realized that he would have to see Mrs Soames before taking Bertha home. There was bound to be unpleasantness and he wanted that dealt with before she arrived. Not that he intended to tell her that he was in love with Bertha and was going to marry her, only that his mother had invited her to stay for a short time.

  Mrs Soames gushed over him and then listened to his plans, a smile pinned onto her face. He was sur­prised at her readiness to agree with him that a week or so's rest was necessary for Bertha, but, thinking about it later, he concluded that it might suit her and Clare to have Bertha out of the way—she would be of no use to them around the house until her leg was quite healed. All the same, he had a feeling of unease.