A Perfect Proposal (5 page)

To their mutual surprise, for Sophie and Uncle Eric, it was almost love at first sight. Uncle Eric had assumed Sophie would be like the rest of her family, who he was convinced were idle and money-grubbing. He had only agreed to have Sophie as a holiday replacement for his regular housekeeper because it would save him the trouble of finding a more suitable candidate.

Sophie had assumed he would be crotchety, set in his ways and ‘evil’ as described by her family, although she soon began to wonder why she’d believed them. They were so often wrong about things that mattered. But the moment the elderly gentleman opened the door to Sophie, in her skinny
jeans with her hair in some sort of nest on top of her head, she saw that while he might well be set in his ways and possibly a little bored, he certainly wasn’t evil. Sophie, expecting a combination of Fagin and Scrooge with a bit of Child-Catcher thrown in, saw a kindly old person, in a slightly shabby but once well-cut suit, a cardigan with a hole in it and a tie that needed a good press. She instantly wanted to darn him – if not literally, emotionally. He needed her practical skills and she determined he would get them.

He led her into the sitting room and gave her a wine glass full of sherry. ‘You’ll need it, my housekeeper is going to give you a very long list of instructions about how I like my life to be organised.’ He sighed. ‘Not sure she’s got it right, actually.’

Sophie took a sip of the sherry, which she decided she rather liked, and then went to find Mrs Brown, who, as foretold, had a timetable and a list of instructions that went on for several pages.

Sophie scanned the pages and then looked up. ‘I don’t see much exercise on this list. Can he leave the house? Get about OK?’

Mrs Brown nodded. ‘Oh yes, but he just prefers to read the paper and listen to the wireless. And very simple food. Nothing fancy. Good plain cooking, like I’ve always given him. I know how old people like things done.’

Sophie had no idea how old people liked things done but she knew she wouldn’t much fancy such a restricted life. Maybe Uncle Eric needed a bit of a change. She took another speculative sip of her sherry.

She was shown to a bedroom which had a single bed made up with sheets, blankets and a paisley eiderdown. There was a bookcase full of old-fashioned books by authors Sophie had never heard of: Ethel M. Dell, Jeffery Farnol and Charles Morgan. A silver dressing-table set comprising a hand
mirror, hairbrush, clothes brush and comb was arranged in front of a three-part mirror on which hung a little cardboard cone which Sophie realised was a hair tidy – somewhere to put the bits of hair you pulled out of the brush. It was sweet and appealed to Sophie, who liked old-fashioned things, aware that in some ways she was quite old-fashioned herself. At bedtime she snuggled down into the bed, which didn’t have the most comfortable mattress, and started reading one of the books. Two lines in she decided she should go to sleep instead.

Mrs Brown called in at breakfast-time the following morning to make sure Sophie knew what she was doing.

She explained, obviously feeling guilty for taking a long-overdue break: ‘I’ve been with Mr Kirkpatric for a long time and it suits me, but when my daughter in Australia arranged for me to visit I felt I must take the opportunity. My daughter says two weeks isn’t long enough really, but it seemed long enough to me. I don’t like leaving him.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ said Sophie firmly. ‘You just enjoy your trip. I promise I’ll look after him and hand him back to you in perfect condition.’

‘It’s porridge for breakfast—’

‘I know. It’s on the list. You’ve given me wonderful instructions. Uncle Eric and I will be just fine.’

Mrs Brown still wasn’t convinced. ‘The number of the agency is on the bottom of the final page. I felt it would be better to have someone qualified, but he wasn’t willing to pay the agency and wages. He likes to watch the pennies.’

As her family had described him as a mean old skinflint, this wasn’t a great revelation to Sophie. ‘We’ll be fine. I like to watch the pennies myself.’ With this, she ushered Mrs Brown out of the door, waving merrily at her from the step when she got to the pavement.

Then she offered a silent prayer that nothing would go wrong and he wouldn’t fall down and break a hip or anything ghastly, before going back to talk to her aged relation.

Porridge (made with water, no sugar, just a dribble of milk, don’t let him have extra salt) was what she was expected to produce, but when she mentioned this to Uncle Eric, who was already spreading the newspaper around him in the dining room, he didn’t seem enthusiastic.

‘Muesli then? I brought some with me.’

‘Good God, girl! Are you trying to kill me? Invented by dentists to increase trade! They put those damned nuts in that break the strongest teeth. Give it to the birds!’

‘OK, so what would you like? Toast? Maybe with scrambled eggs?’

A wistful expression crossed Uncle Eric’s well-worn face. ‘Boiled eggs with soldiers?’

Sophie made a face. ‘Well, I’ll do my best, but it’s very hard to get boiled eggs just right. But if it turns out too hard, we can have egg sandwiches for lunch.’

As Sophie managed to get Uncle Eric’s eggs – she made him have two – exactly right, boiled eggs and soldiers became a breakfast favourite.

Sophie had to cook Uncle Eric four small meals a day, see he took his pills, and do some housework, but that didn’t take all day. When the weather was fine she explored the local area for charity shops and cafés; when it wasn’t, to keep herself amused she sorted him out. Accompanied by Radio Four – the only radio station Uncle Eric would permit – she went through the hidden corners of his house, clearing cupboards, washing and sorting, cleaning and rearranging. By the end of the first week, having investigated every cupboard, she had found enough bric-à-brac to furnish a small shop. As he wouldn’t let her book a stall at the local
market and sell the bric-à-brac, she wanted to start on his muddle of a desk.

She’d already been through his wardrobe, darned his favourite cardigan (pointing out she was one of the few girls of her generation who knew how to do it), sewn the pocket back on his dressing gown and put fleecy insoles into his slippers.

In the evenings, over supper, and afterwards, they chatted. Sophie asked Uncle Eric about the ‘olden days’ until he got bored with this; eventually he asked her about her love life.

‘So, young Sophie, you’re moderately good-looking, I suppose, have you got a chap?’

It took Sophie a moment or two to work out what he meant. ‘Oh, you mean a boyfriend? No, not currently. Thank goodness.’ She momentarily thought of Doug, her particularly clingy ex, but dismissed him just as quickly.

‘I thought girls liked having a man around to take them dancing, on picnics, that sort of thing.’

‘Well, I would if my boyfriends ever did that, but they didn’t. The best I could hope for was a half of lager in a gloomy pub.’ She sighed. ‘I seem to attract dreadfully boring men.’ Then she considered. ‘Although my girlfriends say it’s because I’m too soft-hearted to tell them to pi—– go away. If they ask me out for a drink I always say yes and go, if I want to or not.’

‘Sounds like sheer lunacy! And pretty damn boring!’

‘Yes, it was. Awfully boring. I’m planning to stay single for a bit, anyway. I have much more fun with my female friends than I do with most of the men I know.’

‘You don’t know the right sort of men, obviously.’

‘Well, no. You’re not the first to say that.’

‘Hmph. And what’s your father and brothers doing about it? Making sure you meet the right sort?’

Horror and hysteria at the thought of any of her male
relations finding her suitable men caused to Sophie to choke with laughter. She took a large sip of tea to calm herself down.

‘I’ll take that as a no, then?’ said Uncle Eric.

‘Uncle Eric!’ Sophie was shocked. ‘That’s a very modern expression!’

Uncle Eric looked extremely pleased with himself. ‘I like to keep up with modern times.’

‘No you don’t!’ said Sophie, reaching over and patting his hand. ‘You just like to shock people, same as I do.’

‘I’ve washed all the ornaments and put them back on the mantelpiece,’ said Sophie later, after Uncle Eric had woken from what he described as his ‘postprandial nap’. ‘Now what can I do?’

‘Goodness, child, you need constant entertainment! What is the matter with you? Mrs Thing doesn’t need things to do all the time!’ Uncle Eric tried to appear displeased with Sophie but she wasn’t fooled. He was thriving on the disruption to his very circumscribed life. One week into her visit and Sophie had had a visible effect, both on Uncle Eric and on his house.

‘Mrs Thing – Mrs Brown even – must have a high boredom threshold.’

This time he looked hurt. ‘Some people find caring for an elderly gentleman a very satisfying and fulfilling task. A privilege to stay in my lovely house! Should do it for nothing.’

‘Of course it’s a privilege to count out your pills and make sure you don’t overdo the nightcaps and fall down the stairs, but it isn’t enough to keep me occupied. And your house is large, but it is not lovely! You should pay me extra for having to walk such long distances. As you’re not going to do that, you mustn’t object if I need projects.’ She paused. ‘I’ll start sorting out your desk if you like.’

‘Absolutely over my dead body! I’m not having my valuable documents pored over by a flibbertigibbet who won’t understand their significance!’

Sophie was unfazed. ‘I won’t throw anything away. I’ll sort everything into neat piles. Then you can file or recycle them, or even burn them.’ She smiled at him encouragingly. ‘In fact, that’s a good idea. They’ll help you keep warm until you get your winter-fuel allowance.’ Her great-uncle made the sort of face that encouraged her to go on. ‘After all, there can’t be anything that recent, the papers are all covered in dust. And the rest of the room looks quite tidy. The desk spoils it.’

He harrumphed, frowned and snorted but then said, ‘Oh, very well, child, if you must. But you have to promise not to read the papers, just sort them.’

Uncle Eric was wearing a very moth-eaten cardigan Sophie had begged to throw away but he had refused to be parted from it. The sight of it now made her rebel a little. ‘I can’t sort them if I don’t read them. Don’t be silly, Uncle-Eric-dear.’ She used her pet name for him, devised so she wouldn’t accidentally call him Evil-Uncle-Eric.

He sighed, having made his token protest. ‘Well, please yourself then, child, as you always do.’

‘I abandoned my iPod for you, didn’t I?’ said Sophie. ‘I only listen to Radio Four now.’ She actually found she enjoyed it, picking up bits of information that otherwise she would never have known, but she didn’t want to tell him that. Their game depended on each maintaining their chosen stance.

‘You mean the machine that makes buzzing noises? You should be grateful.’

‘It doesn’t make buzzing noises if you’ve got the earpieces in, you hear the music. Maybe you should get one?’

Uncle Eric tutted appropriately. ‘Well, I’m going for my nap now, and maybe finish the crossword.’

‘Would you like me to put the heater on for you?’

‘I’m quite capable of switching a switch,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not senile yet.’

Sophie gave him the sunny smile he was after. ‘Oh good. When I’ve finished this lot I’ll help you with those last clues.’

‘Huh!’ said Uncle Eric with a derisive snort and pottered out.

Sophie sighed fondly. She had never even looked at a crossword until she’d come here – her family whistled through them without ever giving her a chance. Uncle Eric, although very quick, was quite pleased to have someone to mull things over with. Now Sophie had learned some of the rules, she found she could get clues quite often. Staying with Uncle Eric had been good for her in many ways, and not only because his area was populated by excellent charity shops; her wardrobe was expanding.

She took the vase off the round table in the middle of the room and straightened the chenille tablecloth. She needed space if she was going to sort out the desk. Unlike her siblings, who seemed to covet everything, the only thing Sophie wanted to inherit was his desk. As it was unlikely that she would, she wanted to at least clear it, dust it and polish it now. Then she could really admire the plethora of little drawers and pigeonholes, the possible-secret compartment and the craftsmanship that had gone into producing it. It might never be hers, but she could enjoy it for a few days.

By the time Sophie went downstairs to give Uncle Eric his pills, she’d made a good start but there was still a mound of papers go to through. Cheating, really, she had emptied out all the papers on to the table so she could get to the dusting and polishing stage almost immediately. Now she had to go through all the old bills, bank statements, expired insurance certificates, estimates for work done on cars long gone and all
the other bits of paper trivia that people kept. But the desk itself looked beautiful.

The following day, when she’d done all she could for Uncle Eric, including dragging him for a short, invigorating walk and separating him from his cardigan so she could wash it, Sophie went back to her task. She liked sorting things, putting into order that which had been chaotic. While she worked, she daydreamed about going to New York, shopping with Milly, visiting art galleries and museums, getting away from her family.