A Christmas Proposal. Betty Neels
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afternoon had cleared. Clare gave Bertha the shoes to carry and said airily that they would walk home. ‘We can always pick up a taxi if we get tired,’ she declared. ‘We’ll cut through here.’
The street was a quiet one, empty of traffic and people. At least, it was until they were halfway down it. The elderly lady on the opposite pavement was walking slowly, carrying a plastic bag and an umbrella, with her handbag dangling from one arm, so she had no hands free to defend herself when, apparently from nowhere, two youths leapt at her from a narrow alleyway. They pushed her to the ground and one of them hit her as she tried to keep a hand on her bag.
Clare stopped suddenly. ‘Quick, we must run for it. They’ll be after us if they see us. Hurry, can’t you?’
Bertha took no notice. She pushed away Clare’s hands clinging to her arm, ran across the street and swiped at one of the youths with the plastic bag containing Clare’s new shoes. It caught him on the shins and he staggered and fell. She swung the bag again, intent on hitting the other youth. The bag split this time and the shoes flew into the gutter.
Confronted by a virago intent on hurting them, the pair scrambled to their feet and fled, dropping the lady’s handbag as they went. Short of breath and shaking with fright, Bertha knelt down by the old lady.
‘My purse—my pension…’ The elderly face was white with fear and worry. It was bruised, too.
‘It’s all right,’ said Bertha. ‘They dropped your handbag. I’ll get it for you. But, first of all, are you hurt?’
Before the old lady could answer, Clare hissed into Bertha’s ear, ‘My shoes—my lovely new shoes. You’ve ruined them. I’ll never forgive you!’
‘Oh, bother your shoes,’ said Bertha. ‘Go and bang on someone’s door and get an ambulance.’
Just for once, Clare, speechless at Bertha’s brisk orders, did as she was told.
She was back presently, and there were people with her. Bertha, doing her best to make the old lady as comfortable as possible, listened with half an ear to her stepsister’s voice.
‘Two huge men,’ said Clare, in what Bertha always thought of as her little-girl voice. ‘They ran at this poor lady and knocked her down. I simply rushed across the street and hit them with a shopping bag—one of them fell over and they ran away then.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I’ve never been so scared in my life…’
‘Very plucky, if I might say so,’ said a voice.
Another voice asked, ‘You’re not hurt, young lady? It was a brave thing to do.’
‘Well, one doesn’t think of oneself,’ murmured Clare. ‘And luckily my sister came to help me once the men had gone.’
The old lady stared up at Bertha’s placid face. ‘That’s a pack of lies,’ she whispered. ‘It was you; I saw you…’ She closed her eyes tiredly. ‘I shall tell someone…’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Bertha. ‘All that matters is that you’re safe. Here is your handbag, and the purse is still inside.’
She got to her feet as the ambulance drew up and the few people who had gathered to see what was amiss gave her sidelong glances with no sign of friendliness; she could read their thoughts—leaving her pretty sister to cope with those violent men… Luckily there were still brave girls left in this modern day and age of violence…
Bertha told herself that it didn’t matter; they were strangers and never likely to see her again. She wondered what Clare would do next—beg a lift from someone, most likely.
There was no need for that, however.
By good fortune—or was it bad fortune?—Dr Hay-Smythe, on his way from somewhere or other, had seen the little group as he drove past. He stopped, reversed neatly and got out of his car. Clare, with a wistful little cry, exactly right for the occasion, ran to meet him.
CHAPTER THREE
‘OLIVER!’ cried Clare, in what could only be described as a brave little voice. ‘Thank heaven you’re here.’ She waved an arm towards the ambulancemen loading the old lady onto a stretcher. ‘This poor old woman—there were two enormous men attacking her. She’s been hurt—she might have been killed—but I ran as fast as I could and threw my bag at them and they ran away.’
The onlookers, gathering close, murmured admiringly. ‘Proper brave young lady,’ said one.
‘Oh, no,’ Clare said softly. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’ She had laid a hand on the doctor’s arm and now looked up into his face.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching the stretcher being lifted into the ambulance. The old lady was saying something to Bertha, who had whipped a bit of paper and pencil from her bag and was writing something down.
He removed Clare’s hand quite gently. ‘I should just take a look,’ he observed.
He spoke to the ambulance driver and then bent over the old lady, giving Bertha a quick smile as he did so. ‘Can I help in any way? I’m told there’s nothing broken, but you had better have a check-up at the hospital.’
The shrewd old eyes studied his face. ‘You’re a doctor? Don’t you listen to that girl’s tale. Not a word of truth in it. Seen it with my own eyes—tried to run away, she did. It was this child who tackled those thugs—twice her size too.’ She gave a weak snort of indignation. ‘Mad as fire because her shoes had been spoilt. Huh!’
‘Thank you for telling me. Do we have your name? Is there anyone who should be told?’
‘This young lady’s seen to that for me, bless her. Gets things done while others talk.’
‘Indeed she does.’ He took her hand. ‘You’ll be all right now.’
He went back to the driver and presently, when the ambulance had been driven away, he joined Bertha. ‘Let me have her name and address, will you? I’ll check on her later today. Now I’ll drive you both home.’
Clare had joined them. ‘What was all that about? You don’t need to bother any more; she’ll be looked after at the hospital. I feel awfully odd—it was a shock…’
‘I’ll drive you both back home. I dare say you may like to go straight to bed, Clare.’
Clare jumped into the car. ‘No, no—I’m not such a weakling as all that, Oliver. I dare say Bertha would like to lie down for a bit, though—she was so frightened.’ She turned her head to look at Bertha on the back seat, who looked out of the window and didn’t answer.
The doctor didn’t say anything either, so Clare went on uncertainly, ‘Well, of course, it was enough to scare the wits out of anyone, wasn’t it?’
No one answered that either. Presently she said pettishly, ‘I had a pair of new shoes—wildly expensive—they’ve been ruined.’ Quite forgetting her role of brave girl, she turned on Bertha. ‘You’ll have to pay for them, Bertha. Throwing them around like that—’ She stopped, aware that she had let the cat out of the bag. ‘What was the good of flinging the bag at those men when they had already run away?’
‘I’m sure you can buy more shoes,’ said the doctor blandly. ‘And what is a pair of shoes compared with saving an old lady from harm?’
He glanced in his mirror, caught Bertha’s eye and smiled at her, and lowered an eyelid in an unmistakable wink.
It gave her a warm glow. Never mind that there would be some hard words when she got home; she had long since learned to ignore them. He had believed the old lady and she had the wit to see that he wouldn’t mention it—it would make it so much worse for her and would probably mean the end of her job at the nursery school. If any special attention from him were to come to Clare’s or her stepmother’s notice, they would find a way to make sure that she never saw him again…
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