by Betty Neels
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 s
ee 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 a
lways 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.