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 see 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
