A Christmas Proposal. Бетти Нилс
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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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