Книга - There’s Always Tomorrow

There’s Always Tomorrow
Pam Weaver


When Dottie’s husband Reg receives a mysterious letter through the post, Dottie has no idea that this letter will change her life forever.Traumatised by his experiences fighting in World War II, Reg isn’t the same man that Dottie remembers when he is demobbed and returns home to their cottage in Worthing. Once caring and considerate, Reg has become violent and cruel. Dottie just wants her marriage to work but nothing she does seems to work.The letter informs Reg that he is the father of a child born out of a dalliance during the war. The child has been orphaned and sole care of the young girl has now fallen to him. He seems delighted but Dottie struggles with the idea of bringing up another woman’s child, especially as she and Reg are further away than ever from having one of their own.However, when eight-year-old Patsy arrives a whole can of worms is opened and it becomes clear that Reg has been very economical with the truth. But can Dottie get to the bottom of the things before Reg goes too far?A compelling family drama that will appeal to fans of Maureen Lee, Lyn Andrews, Josephine Cox and Annie Groves.









Pam Weaver

There’s Always Tomorrow










Copyright


AVON

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 77–85 Fulham Palace Road Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2011

Copyright © Pam Weaver 2011

Pam Weaver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847562678

Ebook Edition © MAY 2011 ISBN: 9780007443284

Version: 2014-12-12




Dedication


This book is dedicated to David, my husband, my lover and

my best friend, who never stopped believing in me.




Contents


Title Page (#u2465fbcb-5937-52e1-baf6-65e82d3f4953)

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher




One


Dottie glanced at the clock and the letter perched beside it. It was addressed to Mr Reg Cox, the stamp on the envelope was Australian and it had been redirected several times: firstly ‘c/o The Black Swan, Lewisham, London’, but then someone had put a line through that and written ‘Myrtle Cottage, Worthing, Sussex’, and finally the GPO had written in pencil underneath, ‘Try the village’.

Australia … who did they know in Australia?

She picked it up again, turned it over in her hands. Holding it up to the light, she peered through the thin airmail paper at the letter inside. Of course, she wouldn’t dream of reading it. It was Reg’s letter – but she couldn’t help being curious.

There was a name on the back of the envelope. Brenda Nichols. Who was she? Someone from Reg’s past perhaps? He never talked about his war experiences, but perhaps he’d done some brave deed and Brenda Nichols was writing to thank him …

There was a sudden sharp rap at the front door and Dottie jumped.

Nervously stuffing the letter into her apron pocket, she opened the door. A boy with a grubby face stared up at her. ‘Billy!’

‘Mrs Fitzgerald wants you, Auntie Dottie.’

Billy Prior wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. His face was flushed, a pink glow peeping out from the mass of ginger freckles, and colourless beads of perspiration trickling from the damp edges of his hairline. He was very out of breath.

Dottie smiled down at him but she resisted the temptation to tousle his hair. She knew he wouldn’t like that any more. Billy was growing up fast. He’d take the eleven plus next year and maybe he’d be clever enough to go to grammar school. As he stood there twitching for an answer, she guessed why he’d come. There was obviously some hitch back at the house and he’d run all the way, keen to do an errand regardless of whether he might get a sixpence for his trouble. He was a good boy, Billy Prior. Conscientious. Just the sort of son any mother would be truly proud of.

‘She says it’s a pair of teef that you come,’ Billy ventured again.

Puzzled, Dottie repeated, ‘It’s a pair of … Oh!’ she added with an understanding grin, ‘you mean it’s imperative that I come?’

‘S’right,’ he nodded.

‘You can go back and tell Mrs Fitzgerald I’ll be there directly.’

‘If you please, Auntie Dottie …’ Billy began again, as she turned to go back indoors. ‘Mrs F said it was urgent.’

Dottie’s fingers went to her lips as she did some quick thinking. Should she leave a note on the kitchen table and go back with Billy? Her mind raced over the preparations she’d already made for the wedding party taking place the next day. Everything was under control; she’d left nothing to chance. Whatever Mariah Fitzgerald wanted, it couldn’t be anything serious. Dottie smiled to herself. People like her always needed to feel in charge. To Mariah, any slight hitch seemed like a major disaster. Dottie looked down at Billy’s anxious face and her heart went out to him. ‘Has there been a fire?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see an ambulance at the house?’

Billy frowned. ‘No.’

‘In that case, Billy,’ she said, ‘the message is the same. Tell them I shall be there directly.’

Billy sniffed and wiped the end of his nose with his hand, palm upwards. He seemed rooted to the spot.

‘Off you go then.’

He turned with a reluctant step. ‘It’s urgent,’ he insisted.

‘I know, I understand that. It’ll be all right, Billy. I promise I will come as soon as I can.’

She watched him go back down the path, worried in case he walked too near the old disused well. Even though Reg had put a board over the top, and weighted it down with a stone, she didn’t like anyone walking too close.

Billy’s shoulders slouched, so as he reached the gate she called, ‘Just a minute, Billy.’

He turned eagerly, obviously expecting her to run all the way back with him. Instead, she went back inside and reached up onto the mantelpiece where Reg kept his Fox’s Glacier Mints in a tin. She took it down and looked inside. There were still plenty. She’d filled it up the day before, but he’d been busy last night so most likely he hadn’t had time to count them yet. Should she risk it? He could so easily fly into one of his rages if she touched his things. She could hear Billy kicking the doorstep as he waited anxiously, scared of getting into trouble. Should she? Yes … she’d take a chance. She went back to the door and held the tin out in front of the child. ‘A sweetie for your trouble.’

Billy’s face lit up. By the time he’d reached the gate again, the treat was already in his mouth.

‘And don’t throw the paper on the floor,’ Dottie called after him. She chuckled to herself as she watched him quickly change the position of his hand and slide the paper into his pocket.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck five. She’d better get a move on. Reg would be back home soon, another ten minutes or so. If she had to go back to the doctor’s house, she’d be there half the night. She’d better tidy up her sewing and shut up the chickens right now. Reg would see to the vegetables after he’d had his tea. With all the rain they’d had lately, they might not even need watering. According to the wireless, 1951 had seen the coldest Easter for fourteen years, the coldest Whitsun for nine years and, with the height of summer coming up, things didn’t look so promising for that either. Everybody grumbled and complained – everyone except Reg. He didn’t seem to be too worried.

‘All this rain is good for the celery,’ he said. ‘And it’ll help keep down the blackfly on the runner beans. Save me buying Derris dust this year.’

Dottie folded away the pink sundress she was working on and put it in her sewing box. The potatoes were beginning to boil. As she grabbed a handful of chicken feed from the tin by the back door, she turned down the gas and hurried down the garden.

Dottie had lived in their two-up-two-down cottage on the very edge of the village for eleven years. At sixteen, she’d come to live with her Aunt Bessie and now, nearly two years on from Aunt Bessie’s tragic death, she lived here as Reg’s wife. She smiled as she recalled her wedding day. How handsome he’d been in his uniform. He’d been so nervous, his hands had trembled as he put the ring on her finger. If she had been tempted to practice philosophy, Dottie would say that in life some are the haves and others the have-nots and, despite the sadness of the past, she was still one of the haves. She had come from nothing and now she had a nice little home, good health and – if she was careful – Reg was all right … Apart from the times when his horrible moods got on top of him, and he couldn’t help that, could he? What was it Aunt Bessie always used to say to her? ‘You make your bed and you must lie in it.’

She opened the gate leading to the chicken run and closed it behind her, calling as she went. The chickens clucked contentedly around her ankles, clearly recognising her position as provider.

‘Chick, chick, chick …’

She opened the door of the henhouse and threw in the seed. Most of the hens scrambled inside straightaway. She had only to coax a few stragglers to go in before she closed and locked the door. They were still noisy and agitated, but they’d soon roost on the perches and quieten down. Satisfied that all was well, Dottie turned back to the house. She saw that Reg had arrived and was putting his bicycle into the shed. Her heart beat a little faster. He had lost some weight since his illness but he still had his good looks and his hair was still as black as jet. She paused, waiting to see what kind of mood he was in.

‘Got the tea ready?’ he said cheerfully.

With a quiet sigh, Dottie relaxed. Thank God. He was in a good mood tonight.

‘Of course,’ she smiled.

‘What are you grinning about?’

She punched the top of his arm playfully. ‘Just pleased to see you, that’s all, silly.’

Something flickered in his eyes and she knew she’d gone too far.

‘Oh, silly, am I?’

Her heart sank and she chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Reg.’

As she brushed past him, he grabbed her left breast and pushed her roughly against the back door. His other hand was already up her skirt, his fingers pressing into her bare flesh above her stocking top. His breathing became quicker as, with one deft movement, he undid her suspender. She felt her stocking slip. As his urge became more acute, he pressed his body against her and she heard a crinkling paper sound coming from her apron pocket. Her heart almost stopped. She still had his letter! Her mind went into overdrive. He mustn’t know. Please, please don’t let him feel it. Please don’t let him ask, ‘What’s that noise … What have you got in your pocket?’ She could feel it getting all creased up. If he found out, what would she say? How on earth would she explain?

He was kissing her so hard she hardly had time to draw breath. His tongue filled her mouth and she could feel the rough stubble on his chin rasping against her face. She tried to respond to him – he got so angry if she didn’t – but she couldn’t. Her only thought was the letter.

The door latch was digging into her side and it took all her willpower not to push him away. Another thought came into her mind. He wasn’t going to make her do it here, was he? Not here by the back door, out in the open, where anyone could come around the side of the house and see them? What if Ann Pearce looked out of her bedroom window? She’d never be able to look her in the face again.

‘Come on,’ he said hoarsely, pinning her to the door with one hand and fumbling with the buttons on his trousers with the other. ‘Come on.’

‘Reg …’ she pleaded softly. ‘Let’s go inside.’

He pushed her again, banging her head painfully against the door as he lifted his knee to prise her legs apart. All at once, he stopped fumbling with his flies and slid his hands over her buttocks. Her skirt went up at the back.

‘No,’ she pleaded. ‘Not here, not under Aunt Bessie’s window.’

He froze. She looked up and he was staring at her coldly. His lip curled and he punched her arm.

‘Oh bugger you then,’ he snarled as he walked into the house.

Dottie grabbed the window ledge to steady herself. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. She stayed where she was for a couple of seconds, her knees trembling and her hair dishevelled. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she pulled at her suspender to secure her stocking again. The back of her head was tender but thankfully there was no sign of blood. She glanced into her apron pocket. The letter was completely crumpled. She couldn’t give it to him now. He’d go loopy.

Taking a deep breath, Dottie tugged at the front of her dress to pull it straight and held her head high as she walked back inside. She knew what was expected. Business as usual. They never discussed it when it happened. He didn’t like talking. Five minutes later, her apron and the letter hanging on the nail on the back of the door, she placed his plate on the table.

He put down his paper. ‘Got plenty of gravy on that?’

‘Yes, Reg.’

He got up from his chair and sat at the table.

‘I’ve got to go back to the house,’ she said, aware that she was treading on eggshells.

‘Oh?’

‘She sent Billy Prior up with a message.’

‘Won’t it keep until morning?’

‘I doubt it,’ Dottie said, risking a little laugh. ‘You know what she’s like. She’ll be in a right state. Josephine’s wedding is the wedding of the year.’

‘I can’t imagine there’s anything left to do,’ said Reg, pulling up his chair to the table. ‘Not with you in charge.’

She wasn’t sure what to make of that remark. Was there a note of pride in his voice, or was it sarcasm? She decided not to ask and went to fetch her own plate.

‘Well, you’d better get over there right away then, hadn’t you?’

‘We’ll eat our dinner first,’ she said, adding her own note of defiance. ‘She’ll send the doctor with the car before long.’

‘How do you know that?’

She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘You’ll see.’

‘I dare say I’ll look for any sign of mildew in the strawberry beds,’ he said, mashing his potato into the gravy and spilling it onto the tablecloth, ‘and then maybe I’ll take myself off to the Jolly Farmer for a pint.’

‘So it’s all right for me to go then?’ she said.

He looked up sharply. ‘Got any brown sauce?’

Just as she’d predicted, Dr Fitzgerald, a small man with a shock of frizzy light brown hair, walked up the path about twenty minutes later. Pushing his thick-rimmed glasses further up his nose, he curled his top lip at the same time, something he always did when he was slightly embarrassed.

Dr Fitzgerald had always admired the simplicity of Dottie’s little cottage. Reg kept the garden looking immaculate. The neat rows of carrots, cabbages, beans and peas kept the two of them well fed and healthy. He knew from the various occasions when he’d been called out when Reg was ill that the inside of the cottage was neat and tidy too.

Some would say he was nosy but the doctor made it his business to know all about his patients. Taking umpteen cups of tea by the fireside had enabled him to discover that, born and raised a gentlewoman in the last century, Elizabeth Thornton, known to everyone as Aunt Bessie and the original owner of Myrtle Cottage, had incurred the wrath of her father by marrying beneath her station. Cut off from the rest of the family, she and her beloved Samuel had amassed a tidy fortune in the twenties and thirties by running a string of small hotels, but sadly they remained childless. The frequency of the doctor’s visits had increased slightly in 1940, when her only living relative, orphaned by the Blitz, had come to live in the village. A terrible thing to happen to a young girl, but he couldn’t be sorry: Dottie had brought a very welcome ray of sunshine back into Bessie’s life.

He found the back door open. In the small scullery, Dottie’s pots and pans gleamed and glinted. He wondered vaguely where she found the time. He was well aware that she was in great demand in the village. On Mondays and Tuesdays, she worked for Janet Cooper, owner and proprietor of the general store in the village, and on Thursdays and Fridays she was at his own house. Dottie wasn’t the usual sort of daily help, all frumpy and with wrinkled stockings – she was attractive too. Damned attractive. Her figure was trim and her breasts soft and round. If she had one fault, it was that she wore her copper-coloured hair too tightly pulled back in a rather severe-looking bun, but now and then a tendril of hair would work itself loose and fall over her small forehead. He wasn’t supposed to, but he noticed things like that. And when she laughed, her clear blue eyes shone and she lit up the whole world. He sighed. Oh to have an un complicated life like hers … to have an uncomplicated wife like her … Mariah’s agitated face swam before his eyes.

Dr Fitzgerald cleared his throat. ‘We sent the Prior boy up, but we weren’t sure if you’d got the message,’ he began apologetically.

Dottie gave no hint one way or another. Oh dear, oh dear. He dared not return without her. ‘Um,’ he went on, ‘my wife … that is … we wondered if you could spare an hour or two tonight, Dottie?’

‘I told Billy to tell you I would be there directly,’ she said in her usual unhurried manner.

‘I see …’

‘I had to take care of my husband first.’ Although her tone was mildly reproachful, the doctor envied Reg Cox – not for the first time. When was the last time Mariah put him first in anything?

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said hastily. ‘Um … I was just wondering …. um … if you are able to come straight away, I could give you a lift.’

‘Well, that’s most kind of you,’ she said in a surprised tone. ‘I’ll just do this and then I’ll get my coat.’ She picked up the bowl and wandered past him to throw the washing-up water onto the garden. ‘And,’ she added as she walked past him a second time, ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t mind dropping Reg off at the Jolly Farmer on your way, would you?’

If the doctor was annoyed by her presumption, he wasn’t about to make a fuss. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that in her quiet way, Dottie controlled all their lives and for the sake of his own sanity and peace of mind, it was important for him to get their in dispensable daily woman back to his wife as soon as possible.

By the time they arrived at the house, Mariah Fitzgerald was in a complete flap. She’d got Keith running in and out of the house and into the marquee (a large ex-army tent set up on the lawn), with the large dinner plates from her best service, as well as some plates she’d found on the larder floor.

‘Don’t drop them, whatever you do,’ she’d screamed at her already nervous son. Keith tripped over the guy ropes and she almost had a fainting fit.

‘You forgot the china, Dottie,’ she said accusingly as Dottie stepped out of her husband’s car. ‘It’s a good job I went into the marquee to check. The tables were bare.’

Dottie said nothing but she was bristling with anger. Dr Fitzgerald disappeared somewhere in the direction of the surgery and she heard a door closing. She hung her coat on the peg on the back of the kitchen door and looked around in dismay. She’d expected interference to some small degree but not on a scale like this. Her beautifully organised kitchen was in total chaos.

Mrs Fitzgerald had been going through everything, even the tins in the pantry. The lid of the tin containing the strawberry shortcake was on the draining board, the tin containing the brandy snaps had the lid from the love-all cake on the top and vice versa. The tin of butterfly cakes had no lid at all. Dottie couldn’t even see it. When she’d left that afternoon, the dinner plates, on hire from Bentalls in Worthing, had been in their boxes under the shelf in the pantry. They had since been pulled out and the shredded paper used as packing was now strewn all over the kitchen worktops and the floor.

With an exaggerated sigh, Dottie set about putting things to rights. The bread bins were open and some of her carefully counted cutlery was missing from the drawer. What was the point of asking someone to do something and then changing it the minute her back was turned? Mrs Fitzgerald usually trusted her implicitly. What on earth had changed, for goodness’ sake?

Keith came in and bent to pick up some more plates.

‘You can leave them,’ Dottie said tartly.

‘But Mother says …’ he began.

‘I’ll deal with your mother,’ she said, her tone a little less edgy. After all, it wasn’t the boy’s fault. He stared at her with wide eyes. She smiled and said softly, ‘You go and have your bath.’

‘I told her you wouldn’t like it,’ Keith muttered as he turned towards the stairs.

Dottie set off in the opposite direction, towards the garden and the marquee.

‘I shouldn’t have to do this, Dottie,’ Mrs Fitzgerald wailed as she saw her coming.

‘And you don’t have to, Madam.’ Dottie’s tone made her employer look up sharply. There was no insolence on her face, but she needed to let her see she wasn’t happy.

‘There’ll be so much to do in the morning,’ said Mariah Fitzgerald. ‘Why didn’t you think to put the plates out? It would save such a lot of time, you know.’

‘They need to be washed first.’

‘Washed?’

‘I have no idea who had the plates before us, Madam,’ said Dottie. ‘I didn’t think you would want to use them unwashed so I’ve arranged for Mrs Smith and Mrs Prior to come first thing in the morning.’

Mariah Fitzgerald’s jaw dropped slightly. ‘Well,’ she flustered, as she strove to recover her composure, ‘the cutlery needs sorting out.’

‘That’s right, Madam,’ Dottie agreed. ‘And I’ve arranged that Mrs Prior will bring her little niece Elsie to do that. She’ll polish everything for ten bob.’

Mariah Fitzgerald went a brilliant pink. The napkin she was holding fluttered down onto the table. She looked around helplessly. So did Dottie. She should have come sooner. Right now, she was wishing with all her heart that she hadn’t bothered to wait for Reg when Billy Prior had knocked on the door. Now she’d have to collect up all that cutlery, take all the plates back to the kitchen and tidy up at least forty napkins before she could go back home. She might even have to iron some of them again.

Their eyes met.

‘Yes, well …’ said Mariah, patting her hair at the back. ‘I have to be up very early in the morning. The hairdresser is coming at nine thirty.’

Dottie didn’t move.

‘So … so I’ll leave you to it, Dottie.’ Mariah said, mustering what little dignity she could find. ‘As usual, you seem to have everything under control.’

Dottie watched her as she crossed the lawn and sighed. It would be at least another hour before she had everything back to the way it was before.

Reg was all set to spend the evening in the corner of the Jolly Farmer with his pint of bitter. Usually there were plenty of people still willing to buy a pint for an old soldier, but tonight the bar was almost empty. He didn’t mind. It had been a long day – Marney and the station master had had him running from pillar to post.

Marney’s chest was bad again. Too much smoking, everyone said, but Reg reckoned it was something to do with the POW camp he had been in Germany somewhere. You could pick up some weird germs in those places. Marney probably lived week in week out on the verge of starvation as well, and that couldn’t have helped. Reg might not have been in a palace himself, but his ‘rest of the war’ was nowhere near as bad as Marney’s. Even if it were the ciggies that made his cough, who could blame the poor old bugger? He probably only smoked them to forget something.

As Reg stared deeply into his pint, Oggie Wilson drifted back into his mind. He’d never forgotten poor old Oggie, and when he heard what had happened to him, he’d felt as sick as a pig. Reg never spoke of his own experiences of course. Better to let sleeping dogs, and all that, but when he’d married Dot in ’42, he knew he’d fallen on his feet. A nice little place right near the sea, two women at his beck and call – what could be better? Dottie had stuck by him all through the war and it was only the thought of coming home to her that kept him sane while he had been stuck in that bloody prison. He’d finally come back in ’48. She’d given him quite a homecoming too. Some of his mates had come back from POW camp to find their missus had given up on them. Jim Pearce’s wife had presumed him dead and when he came home he found her shacked up with somebody else. A fine how-d’you-do that was, and the woman had no shame. Reg knew what he’d have done if he’d found any woman of his cheating on him. Not Jim. He’d cleared off and she was still living next door, bold as brass.

Dottie wasn’t like that. Dottie had waited and she’d been faithful. Reg took a long swing of his beer. Nah, Dottie would never do anything bad. She was perfect. Too bloody perfect, that was her trouble. Taking her on the doorstep would have added a bit of spice to life. Why did she have to go and mention the old trout? Bloody Bessie with her silly hats and passion for cowboy films, she ruined everything. Even the thought of her made his stomach turn.

He’d had the shock of his life when Aunt Bessie had died and he’d never felt the same since. It had done for his marriage as well. He’d tried to get it together but he just couldn’t do it any more. Before the war, he could keep it up for hours, especially if he knew Bessie was listening on the other side of the paper-thin walls. He was a bit rough at times but he’d had enough women to know most of them liked it that way. But ever since … well, since then he just couldn’t do it any more. Not with her, anyway.

Dottie had never reproached him for it. She was too anxious to please. Sometimes he wished she would. He took another long drink. Trouble was, she never fought back. Whatever he dished out, she just took it. Well, that was no fun, was it? She was beginning to bloody annoy him all the time now.

‘Hey up, Reg. You coming outside?’

He put his empty glass down and looked up. Tom Prior from the Post Office was leaning in, holding the door open. ‘We’re bowling for a pig,’ he cajoled.

‘A pig?’

‘Nice little thing,’ Tom went on. ‘Fatten him up and he’ll be a lovely bit of bacon when Christmas comes.’

Taking in Tom’s weedy frame, the thought crossed Reg’s mind that he could do with a bit of fattening up himself. Naturally skinny, he and that fat cow Mary looked like Jack Sprat and his wife.

Reg shook his head. ‘Nah, I’ll settle for a bit of peace and quiet.’

‘Peace and quiet!’ Tom chortled. ‘You’ll get plenty of that when you’re in your pine box and staring at the lid. Come on, man. Let’s be havin’ you. I’ll stand you another pint and it’s only two bob a go. All in aid of the kiddies’ home.’

Reg rose from his chair. ‘I don’t know why I listen to you, Tom Prior,’ he grumbled good-naturedly. ‘I never bloody win anything.’

Dottie had worked hard and now she was very tired. The marquee was almost back to the way it had been and the kitchen was nearly straight when Miss Josephine, the bride to be, came downstairs in her dressing gown and wearing slippers.

She wasn’t exactly a pretty girl. Her nose was slightly too long and her mouth definitely too wide; but Dottie knew that just like any other bride she would look radiant in the morning. Right now the whole of her hair was kiss-curled, each one pinned together by two hair grips crossed over one another. Her face was white, and the Pond’s Cream, thick enough to be scraped off with a palate knife, hid every blemish on her skin. She was wearing little lace gloves so she’d obviously creamed her hands and, to judge by the puffiness of her eyes, she’d been crying for some time.

‘Are you making some cocoa, Dottie?’

‘I can easily make some for you, Miss.’

Dottie went to fetch the milk and a saucepan. Josephine sat at the kitchen table. ‘Oh, Dottie,’ she sighed.

Dottie was tempted to ask, ‘Excited?’ but the tone of the girl’s voice led her to believe her sigh meant something altogether different. ‘What is it?’

‘Can you keep an absolute secret?’

‘You know I can,’ said Dottie, striking a match. The gas popped into life and she turned it down.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Not sure of what, Miss?’

‘That I can go through with all this.’ Josephine produced a lace-edged handkerchief from her dressing-gown pocket and wiped the end of her nose. ‘I tried to tell Mummy, but she just got cross and shouted at me. Then she said she didn’t want to talk about it because she’d forgotten to do something really important in the kitchen.’

Ah, thought Dottie, careful not to let Miss Josephine see her lips forming the faintest hint of a smile. Mrs Fitzgerald had sent for her, not to sort out a few stray plates, but to stop her daughter from calling off the wedding.

Dottie reached for the Fry’s Cocoa, mixed a little of the powder with some cold milk in the cup, then added the boiled milk. She kept her voice level, unflappable, as she asked, ‘What’s the problem?’

‘I don’t know,’ Josephine wailed. ‘And before you tell me it’s just nerves, let me tell you it’s not.’

‘Do you love Mr Malcolm?’ Dottie put the cup and saucer in front of her, still stirring the cocoa.

‘Yes, of course I do!’ She dabbed her eyes again. ‘How can you ask such a thing? It’s just that I don’t … I can’t …’ Her chin wobbled. ‘Oh, Dottie, supposing …’

‘Every young woman is nervous on her wedding night,’ said Dottie sitting down at the table with her. ‘But if you love him …’

‘I do, I do!’

‘And he loves you?’

‘He says he does. He’s so … Oh, Dottie, you’re a married woman …’

Dottie thought back to her own wedding night. All those old wives’ tales her friends teased her with. They only did it because they knew her innocence. What they couldn’t know was that their teasing fed her fear of the unknown, the fear of failure, the dread of being hurt. But back then, all her worries had been blown away by her feelings for Reg. Poor lamb, he’d never known real love. He’d never even known a mother’s love because he’d been brought up in a children’s home. When she saw him waiting at the front of the church on her wedding day, her heart had been full to bursting. Now at last, she would be able to show someone how much she cared and as they’d walked into her honeymoon guesthouse, her one and only thought had been that she would be giving him something he’d never had before. Something very precious …

‘Haven’t you ever?’ she began, but one glance at Josephine’s wide-eyed expression told her what the answer was. Dottie reached out her hand in a gesture of affection. ‘Mr Malcolm knows you’ve never been with anyone else,’ she said gently.

‘But I won’t know what to do,’ Josephine wailed. ‘Supposing I fail him? Supposing being married doesn’t work?’

‘Of course it will work,’ said Dottie. ‘Even if it’s difficult to begin with, you’ll make it work.’ That’s what we women do, she thought to herself. Men pretend everything is fine or go down to the pub, but we get on with it and make it work.

Josephine leaned forward. ‘Dottie …. do you mind? I mean … would you tell me? What happens when you and Reg …? Oh, I shouldn’t ask that, should I? It’s not nice. But what happens …? I mean, exactly …?’

Dottie glanced up at the clock. What should she say? If she told Josephine how things really were between her and Reg, there would be no wedding. Mr Malcolm seemed a nice enough man. A bit of a chinless wonder as Aunt Bessie would say, but he clearly loved her. Reg had been good and kind in the beginning. Her wedding night had been a little … rushed … but she knew he loved her really. It was only the war that changed him. All that time he was away, she’d dreamed of what it would be like to have him back home again. It wasn’t his fault things weren’t the same. Aunt Bessie was right. She always said, ‘War does terrible things to people.’

‘Dottie?’

Josephine’s voice brought her back to the present. She leaned towards her employer’s daughter as if she were about to whisper a secret. She wouldn’t spoil it for her. She wouldn’t tell her how it was, she’d tell her how she’d always dreamed it would be.




Two


When at last Dottie walked outside into the cool night air, Dr Fitzgerald came out through the French windows.

‘I’ll take you home, Dottie.’

She was startled. ‘There’s no need, sir. I’m quite happy to walk.’

‘Nonsense!’ he cried. ‘You’ve got a big day tomorrow. You’ll need all your strength. Hop in.’

He was holding the passenger door of his Ford Prefect open as if she were a lady.

‘Everything set for the reception?’ he said as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re an absolute marvel, Dottie.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ she said. ‘I’m only doing what anyone else would do.’ But in the secret darkness of the car, she allowed herself a small smile. Yes, let him appreciate her. It was only right.

Reg still wasn’t back from the Jolly Farmer when she got indoors. It was unusual for him to be out this late on a weeknight. Still, he had a half-day off tomorrow. He’d be back home at lunchtime.

She put the kettle on a low gas while she pinned up her hair and put on a hairnet. By the time she’d finished, the overfilled kettle began to spit water so that it coughed rather than whistled. She filled the teapot and sat at the kitchen table. It was lovely and quiet. The only sound in the room was the tick-tock of the clock. Then, all at once, there was a knock at the kitchen window and she jumped a mile high. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me, Reg.’

Dottie pulled back the curtain. ‘Oh, Reg!’ she gasped clutching her chest. ‘You scared the life out of me. What are you doing knocking on the window?’

‘Come here, Dot. I’ve got something to show you.’

Remembering how he’d grabbed her when he came home earlier that evening, her heart beat a little faster. She shivered apprehensively. ‘I’m very tired, Reg.’

‘It won’t take a minute.’

What was he up to now? And what was that under his arm? Slipping her feet back into her shoes, she made a grab for her coat hanging on the nail on the back of the door. As she lifted it, her apron hanging underneath swung sideways and the pocket gaped open to reveal Reg’s creased-up letter. Oh flip! The sight of it made her stomach go over. She’d forgotten all about it.

‘Hurry up,’ he shouted from the other side of the door.

Dottie grabbed the apron, rolled it up and stuffed it into the drawer. ‘Just let me get my coat on.’

As she stepped outside into the cool night air, whatever he was holding under his arm moved. Dottie cried out with surprise.

‘Take a look at this!’ he said, flinging the jacket back.

It was a small piglet. The animal wriggled and squealed.

‘Where on earth did you get that?’ she gasped.

‘I won it,’ he laughed. ‘Tom Prior persuaded me to have a go at skittles and I was the only one who got them all down with one throw. I got the first prize. The pig.’

‘But you never win anything,’ Dottie said.

‘That’s what I bloody said,’ Reg agreed. ‘But this time I did.’

‘But what are we going to do with it?’

Reg shrugged his shoulders. The pig protested loudly so he covered it with his coat again.

‘Well, we’ll have to put it in the chicken run for now,’ she said. ‘They’re all shut up for the night. Has it been fed?’

He shrugged again. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘There’s some potato left over from last night, and some peelings in the bucket waiting to go on the compost heap. I’ll do a bit of gravy and you can give it that.’

‘If we fattened him up,’ he said, leading the way down the garden to the chicken run, ‘he’d be a nice bit of bacon by Christmas.’

They put the pig in the chicken run and, while Reg pulled an old piece of corrugated iron over the tree stump and the edge of the fence to give it a bit of shelter if it rained, Dottie ran back indoors to get some food.

Later that night, as they both climbed into bed, Reg said, ‘I reckon I’ll get ten bob, a quid, for that pig if I’m lucky.’

‘We’d need a proper pigsty,’ she challenged, as she switched off the light by the door and fumbled her way into bed. ‘It’ll upset my chickens.’

‘Blow your chickens,’ he snapped. ‘You think more of them than your own bloody husband!’

With that, Reg turned over, snatching most of the bedclothes. A few minutes later, he was snoring. Dottie lay on her back staring at the ceiling. First thing in the morning, she’d iron that letter smooth and put it back beside the clock.

Josephine Fitzgerald’s wedding day dawned bright and sunny. Dottie was up with the lark, but Reg had already gone to work. He had to be at Central Station in time for the 5.15 mail train in order to help load up the mail bags from the sorting office in Worthing.

As soon as she was dressed, she got out the iron. She had to stand on the kitchen chair in order to take out the light bulb and plug it in, then she switched it on and waited for it to warm up.

Somebody knocked lightly on the kitchen window. She looked up in time to see the tramp scurrying behind the hedge. He’d been here many times before but Dottie hadn’t seen him for ages. In fact, it had crossed her mind that perhaps he’d died during the cold winter months, or maybe moved on to another area.

Whenever he turned up, Aunt Bessie always gave him something, a cup of tea or a piece of bread and jam. They all knew Reg didn’t like him around so he planned his visits carefully.

Dottie popped out to the scullery to put on the kettle to make him some tea, and to get the rolled-up apron out of the drawer. Taking out the letter, she held it to her nose. It smelled of nothing in particular, but now that it was close up, she could see it had more than one piece of paper inside the thin envelope. There was a white sheet of paper but she could also see the edge of a smaller yellow sheet. Dottie turned it around in her hands. Who was this Brenda Nichols? Why was she writing to Reg?

Dottie and Reg first got together in 1942, on her sixteenth birthday. They’d met at a dance in the village hall and they had married after a whirlwind courtship. Aunt Bessie had paid for them to honeymoon in Eastbourne, no expense spared.

Once the wedding was over, Dottie had come back to the cottage to carry on living with Aunt Bessie, while Reg, who was in the army, had been sent to Burma. Perhaps Brenda was someone he’d met out there? All Dottie knew was that his unit was part of the Chindits. They were well respected and very brave but she had to rely on the newsreels at the pictures to give her some idea of what it must have been like for Reg because he never talked much about his experiences.

When he’d returned home three years later than most of the boys from Europe, little more than a bag of bones, Dottie had been glad to nurse him back to health. She wished that he and Aunt Bessie had got on a bit better but, try as she might, there was always a frosty atmosphere when they were together in the same room. Reg had eventually recovered physically but his war experiences left him with black moods and Dottie had to be very careful not to upset him. Was it possible that Brenda was one of the nurses who had looked after him? If she were, she would have to write and thank her.

With great care, Dottie ironed the letter flat and put it back beside the clock.

The kettle began to whistle. The tramp’s tin can with the string handle was outside on the step but, instead of being empty, there was a note inside: I did it! Thanks.

How strange. Whatever did that mean? She looked around but he was nowhere to be seen. With a shrug of her shoulders, Dottie scalded the old tin and filled it with tea the way Bessie always had. Then she cut a doorstep slice of bread and smeared it lavishly with marrow and ginger jam. She put it on the windowsill as she went down the garden with some outer cabbage leaves for the pig and some chicken food.

Motionless, the pig watched her as she let out the chickens. At first they were a little alarmed when they discovered they had a new living companion, but after a few squawks, plenty of grunting and some running about, things settled down into an uneasy truce.

When she got back to the house, the tramp’s tea and the bread were still there. Where was he? Perhaps he was afraid Reg was still around. Then she saw Vincent Dobbs, the postman, walking up the path. Obviously the tramp was waiting until the coast was clear.

‘Morning, Dottie,’ said Vince. ‘You look as if you’ve lost something.’

‘I was just wondering where the tramp was. I made him some tea.’

Vince shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen any tramps,’ he smiled, ‘but I did see some chap coming out of your gate.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Dottie, puzzled.

‘Never saw him before,’ said Vince. ‘Smart, though. In a suit.’ He handed her a letter.

‘Oh, it’s for me!’ she cried, eagerly tearing open the letter.

The letter was from her dearest friend, Sylvie. The tramp and Vince forgotten, Dottie walked indoors, reading it as she went. Sylvie was asking to come and stay for a few days when Michael Gilbert from the farm got married. Dottie had already written to tell Sylvie that Mary and Peaches and the other ex-Land Girls would be coming. Michael and Freda’s wedding, scheduled for three weeks time, might not be half so grand as the stuffy affair Mariah Fitzgerald was laying on for her daughter today, but it would be much more fun. Sylvie said how much she was looking forward to meeting up with everybody at the wedding. Dottie smiled. She was looking forward to it too. It would just be like old times.

I can’t believe that the war’s been over for five and half years, Sylvie wrote. This will be a golden opportunity to get together again. I never stop thinking about you all and the fun we had on the farm and all that blinking hard work!

Dottie laughed out loud when she read that. While everyone else had been slogging their guts out in the fields, Sylvie spent most of her time sloping off for a kip in the barn.

Write and tell me all about Freda, Sylvie wrote. What’s she like? How old is she? How did they meet? Oh, Dottie, I can’t imagine our little Michael all grown up.’

Dottie felt exactly the same way. Although there was only two years’ difference in their ages, Michael still seemed a lot younger. Freda, his bride to be, was only eighteen. Dottie didn’t know where they’d met but they had made their wedding plans very quickly; Dottie suspected that Freda might already be pregnant.

Dottie sighed. Sylvie led such a glamorous life with all those parties and important people she met, but she’d have to pick her moment to ask Reg if she could stay and that wouldn’t be easy. She knew only too well how Reg felt about her. ‘Snobby, stuck-up bitch,’ he’d say.

Dottie glanced up at the clock. 8.30. Time to go. She shoved Sylvie’s letter into her apron pocket to read again later then, humming softly to herself, she put a couple of slices of cold beef on a plate with some bread and pickles and put it in the meat safe for Reg’s dinner.

Just to be on the safe side, she propped Reg’s letter in front of the teapot on the table alongside her own hastily scribbled note – Dinner in meat safe – so that he couldn’t miss it. Then she packed her black dress and white apron into her shopping bag and set off for the big house.




Three


Mary Prior’s niece sighed. ‘Nobody’s coming yet.’

‘Good,’ said Dottie happily. ‘It must be time to put the kettle on, Elsie.’

Peaches and Mary sat down at the table.

The wedding reception was being held in the marquee on Dr Fitzgerald’s lawn. Caterers from some posh hotel in Brighton had handled all the food, but the women in the kitchen had been kept busy with unpacking and washing up the hired plates and glasses. Dottie had asked her next-door neighbour, Ann Pearce, to help out but she couldn’t find anyone to look after the kids.

Dottie looked around contentedly. She loved being with her friends and nothing pleased her more than helping to make a day special for someone.

The wedding itself was at 2pm, and once the bride had set off for the church some of them took the opportunity to pop back home. Peaches had wanted to check that her little boy, Gary, was all right with his gran. Mary wanted to get her husband, Tom, some dinner and she took Elsie with her. Dottie stayed at the house: after last night’s fiasco, she wasn’t going to leave anything to chance.

As soon as the wedding party returned from the church, the waiters began handing round the drinks and some little fiddly bits they called hors d’oeuvres. Until everyone went into the marquee for the meal, Peaches and Mary were kept busy with a steady stream of washing up.

The marquee had been set out with twelve tables, each with eight place settings. Each table was named after a precious stone – diamond, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, amber, opal, and so on – and in order to avoid family embarrassments, there was a strict seating plan. Guests were to eat their meal to the gentle sound of a string quartet.

The top table, at which the family wedding party sat, was tastefully decorated with huge vases of fresh flowers at the front, and the toastmaster was on hand to make sure that everything was done decently and in the correct order. Mariah Fitzgerald knew her daughter’s wedding would be the talk of the golf club and county set for months to come, so Dr Fitzgerald and the best man would not be allowed to move until the toastmaster had given them their cue.

The catering company had a separate tent on the other side of the shrubbery where a small team of cooks was already busy producing the meal with all the efficiency of an army field kitchen. All the washing up was to be done in the house kitchen and the team of waiters and waitresses would bring in the dirty crockery. They would send it back to Bentalls once it had been washed and repacked in the various boxes.

Dottie gave her little team a piece from one of her cakes and they sat down for a well earned cup of tea. They had been friends since the war years when they had worked together on the farm. Their friendship had deepened when Mary was widowed. It was ironic that Able had gone all through the war, only to be killed on his motorbike near Lancing. Billy was only just over five at the time and Maureen three and Susan eighteen months. Dottie and Peaches pulled together to help Mary through.

‘Well, at least the rain held off,’ Dottie said.

‘They say it’ll clear up in time for the Carnival,’ said Mary.

‘I could do with this,’ said Peaches, sipping her tea. ‘I still don’t feel much like eating in the morning.’

‘Not long now before the baby comes,’ said Mary.

‘Seven weeks,’ said Peaches leaning back and stroking her rounded tummy. ‘I can’t wait to get into pretty dresses again.’

‘I bet it won’t take you long either, you lucky devil,’ Mary said good-naturedly. ‘I looked eight months gone before I even got pregnant. Five kids later and just look at me.’ She wobbled her tummy. ‘Mary five bellies.’ They all giggled.

‘And your Tom loves you just the way you are,’ said Dottie, squeezing her shoulder as she leaned over the table with the sponge cake.

‘Our Freda is getting fat,’ said Elsie. Her eyes shone like little black buttons and Dottie guessed this was the first time she’d been included in ‘grown-up’ conversation.

‘I wouldn’t say that when Freda’s around,’ Dottie cautioned with a gentle smile. ‘She’d be most upset.’

‘I can’t wait for the wedding,’ said Elsie.

‘Michael has certainly kept us waiting a long time,’ Mary agreed.

‘But I wouldn’t call him slow,’ Peaches said, half under her breath. The baby kicked and she looked down at her stomach. ‘Ow, sweet pea, careful what you’re doing with those boots of yours, will you?’

Elsie’s eyes grew wide. ‘I didn’t know babies had boo …’

‘It’s hard to imagine Michael old enough to get married,’ Dottie said quickly.

‘Come on, hen,’ Mary laughed. ‘He’s only two years younger than you!’

She was right, but somehow, in Dottie’s mind, Michael had always remained that gangly fourteen year old in short trousers who had followed them around on the farm. It was hard to believe he was almost twenty-five.

‘I can’t wait to be a bridesmaid,’ said Elsie.

‘It’s very exciting, isn’t it?’ Dottie smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll look very pretty.’

‘Are you doing the dresses, Dottie?’ Mary asked.

Dottie shook her head. ‘Not enough time.’

The older women gave her a knowing look and she blushed. She hadn’t meant to say that and she hoped no one would draw attention to her remark in front of Elsie. She poured Peaches some more tea.

‘I think Freda will make Michael a lovely wife,’ said Dottie.

‘Oh!’ cried Peaches. ‘This little blighter is going to be another Stanley Matthews.’

‘Pretty lively, isn’t he?’ said Mary.

‘Can I feel?’ asked Elsie.

Peaches took her hand and laid it over her bump.

‘What’s it like, having a baby?’ Elsie wondered.

‘I tell you what,’ laughed Peaches. ‘I won’t be doing this again.’

‘Why not?’

‘That’s enough, Elsie,’ her aunt scolded.

Elsie pouted and took her hand away.

‘Who did you say was looking after your Gary, hen?’ asked Mary.

‘My mother,’ said Peaches. ‘She can’t get enough of him.’

‘Tom’s got all mine,’ grinned Mary. ‘That’ll keep him out of mischief. At least you don’t have to worry about who’s going to look after the kids, Dottie.’

Dottie bit her lip. Oh, Mary … if only you knew how much that hurt …

‘Did I tell you?’ she said, deliberately changing the subject. ‘I had a letter from Sylvie yesterday.’ She took it out of her apron pocket and handed it to Peaches. ‘She’s coming to Michael’s wedding.’

Peaches clapped her hands. ‘Sylvie! Oh how lovely. She’s so glamorous. I really didn’t think she’d come, did you? We’ll have a grand time going over old times. Remember that time we put Sylvie’s fox fur stole at the bottom of Charlie’s bed?’

Dottie roared with laughter. ‘And he thought it was a rat!’

‘Jumped out of bed so fast he knocked the blinking jerry over,’ Peaches shrieked.

‘Good job it wasn’t full,’ laughed Dottie.

‘Which one was Charlie?’ asked Mary.

‘You remember Charlie,’ said Dottie. ‘One of those boys billeted with Aunt Bessie and me. The one that went down with The Hood.’

‘Dear God, yes,’ murmured Mary.

‘And is your Reg all right with her staying at yours?’ Mary wanted to know.

‘Haven’t asked him yet,’ said Dottie. In truth she wasn’t looking forward to broaching the subject.

Mary glanced over at Peaches and then at Dottie. ‘Why doesn’t he ever bring you over to the Jolly Farmer, hen?’

Dottie felt her face colour. She never went with Reg because he said a woman’s place was in the home. Mary’s pointed remark had flustered her. She brushed some crumbs away from the table in an effort to hide how she was feeling. ‘I’ve never been one for the drink.’

‘But we have some grand sing-songs and a good natter,’ Mary insisted.

Dottie took a bite of coffee cake and wiped the corner of her mouth with her finger. They’d obviously been talking about it. ‘I usually have something to do in the evenings,’ she said. ‘You know how it is.’

‘You should come, Dottie,’ said Peaches. ‘You don’t have to be a boozer. I only ever drink lemonade.’

‘I can’t think what you get up to at home,’ Mary remarked to Dottie. ‘There’s only you and him, and that house of yours is like a shiny pin.’

‘She does some lovely sewing, don’t you, Dot,’ said Peaches. ‘You ought to sell some of it.’

‘I do sometimes,’ said Dottie.

‘Do you?’

Yes I do, thought Dottie. She was careful not to let Peaches see her secret smile. And one day she’d show them just what she could do. One day she’d surprise them all.

Mary leaned over and picked up the teapot again. ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’ she asked, pouring herself a second cup.

‘Having a rest!’ Dottie laughed. What were they up to? This sounded a bit like a kind-hearted conspiracy …

‘Tell you what,’ cried Peaches. ‘Jack is taking Gary and me to the Littlehampton Carnival in the lorry. It’s lovely there. Sandy beach for one thing. Nicer for the kids. Worthing and Brighton are all pebbles. Why don’t we all go and make a day of it? You and Reg and your Tom, Mary. There’s plenty of room. We can get all the kids in the back.’

‘That sounds wonderful!’ cried Mary. ‘My kids would love it. Are you sure?’

‘I don’t think Reg …’ Dottie began. She knew full well that Reg would prefer to spend a quiet day in the garden and then go down to the pub. She didn’t mind because it left her free to work out how to do her greatest sewing challenge so far: Mariah Fitzgerald’s curtains.

‘You leave Reg to me,’ said Peaches firmly. ‘You’re coming.’

‘Can I come too?’ Elsie wanted to know.

‘Course you can,’ said Peaches. ‘The more the merrier.’

‘I don’t think you can, Elsie,’ said Mary. ‘Your mum and dad are going to see your gran over in Small Dole next week. She told me as much when I asked if you could help out today.’

Elsie stuck her lip out and slid down her chair. ‘I hate it at Gran’s,’ she grumbled. ‘It’s boring.’

Peaches had gone back to Sylvie’s letter. “All the hard work …’?’ she quoted.

‘Eh?’ said Mary.

‘She says here, “I never stop thinking about you all and the fun we had on the farm and all that blinking hard work!” I seem to remember she spent more time on her back than she did digging.’

They all giggled.

‘My dad says Mum ought to do that,’ said Elsie innocently. She was sitting at the opposite end of the table, her face covered in strawberry jam and cake crumbs.

‘But you haven’t even got a garden,’ said Mary walking round behind her to top up the teapot.

‘Not digging, Auntie! Lying on her back.’

Peaches choked on her tea as Mary made frantic gestures over the top of Elsie’s head.

‘Dad said it would do her good to lie on her back every Sunday afternoon when we go to Sunday school,’ Elsie went on innocently. ‘But Mum says she hasn’t got the time.’

‘Lovely bit of sponge this, Dottie,’ said Mary, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Elsie’s really enjoying it, aren’t you, lovey?’

‘Auntie, why are you laughing?’

‘What are you going to do with your ten bob, Elsie?’ Dottie interrupted.

Elsie smiled. ‘When the summer comes, me mum’s taking me over to me other granny’s for a holerday,’ she said. ‘She says I can keep the money for then.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘She lives near Swanage,’ Elsie was in full swing now. ‘I can go swimming in the sea.’

‘While your mum’s lying on the beach?’ muttered Peaches, starting them all off again. Desperately trying to keep a straight face herself, Dottie nudged her in the side. Elsie looked totally confused.

The door burst open and a waitress dumped a pile of dirty plates on the draining board.

‘Time to get started,’ said Dottie standing to her feet and straightening her apron. ‘Get that cake and our cups off the table, will you, Elsie? We shall need all the space we can find now.’

The next hour was a frenzy of activity. The washing up seemed endless and they were hard pushed to find space for both the clean and dirty dishes.

At around four thirty, Elsie came running back. ‘They’re all coming out!’

The women gathered by the back door to watch.

Josephine Fitzgerald looked amazing and very happy. Her dress, made of organza and lace, was in the latest style. The V-shaped bodice was covered with lace from neck to the end of the three-quarter length sleeves while the skirt was in two layers. The white organza underskirt reached the ground while the lace overskirt came as far as the knee. The whole dress was covered in tiny pearls. Dottie had studied it very carefully. She knew it had cost an absolute fortune, but with a little ingenuity she knew she could make one for less than quarter of the price.

Malcolm Deery looked even more of a chinless wonder than ever in his wedding suit but, Dottie decided, they were well matched. Josephine would lack for nothing. After a couple or three years, there would be nannies and christenings. In years to come, she’d become just like her mother, going to endless bridge parties, and playing golf. She’d buy her clothes from smart shops in Brighton or maybe go up to London to the swanky shops on Oxford Street and, if Malcolm’s business did really well, Regent Street.

‘Ahh,’ sighed Peaches. ‘Don’t she look a picture?’

‘Must be coming in to get changed before they go off for the honeymoon,’ said Mary.

Dottie didn’t want to think about the conversation she’d had the night before. Had she betrayed that girl? She hoped not, but only time would tell.

‘Second wave of washing up will be on its way in a minute,’ she said to her companions. ‘Better get back to work, girls.’

As if on cue, two waitresses hurried out of the marquee, each with a tray of glasses, followed by a waiter with a stack of dirty plates.

Mary grabbed a small sausage from the top of the pile of dishes and shoved it into her mouth as she pushed more dirty plates under the soapy water.

‘Ma-ry!’ cried Peaches in mock horror.

‘I need to keep my strength up,’ said Mary, her cheeks bulging.

‘Dottie, would you come and help Miss Josephine?’ Mrs Fitzgerald’s sudden appearance made them all jump. Mary choked on the sausage and Peaches put down her tea towel to pat her on the back.

‘Yes, Madam,’ said Dottie, doing her best to steer her employer away from her friend before she got into trouble. Mariah Fitzgerald could be very tight-fisted. Dottie could never understand meanness. Why put food in the pig bin rather than allow a hard-working woman like Mary to have a little something extra? But she knew her employer was perfectly capable, at the end of the day, of refusing to pay Mary if she caught her eating.

Thinking about pig bins, she was reminded of the pig in her hen run. How was it getting on? She’d have to ask if she could take some leftovers for him … or was it a her? How do you tell the difference, she wondered.

As she followed Mrs Fitzgerald upstairs, Dottie decided – nothing ventured, nothing gained. ‘Excuse me, Madam. About the leftovers.’

‘Put them in the pantry under a cover,’ said Mariah without turning around.

‘And the plate scrapings?’

Mrs Fitzgerald stopped dead and Dottie almost walked into her. ‘The plate scrapings?’ She sounded horrified.

‘Only my Reg has a pig,’ Dottie ploughed on, ‘and I was wondering if I could take the scrapings home to feed it.’

Mrs Fitzgerald was staring at her.

‘He hopes to fatten it up for Christmas.’ Dottie swallowed hard. ‘He says it would make a nice bit of bacon.’

‘What an amazingly resourceful man your Reg is, Dottie,’ she said, walking on. ‘Yes, of course you can take the scrapings. And when Christmas comes, don’t forget to bring a rasher or two for the doctor, will you?’

They’d reached the bedroom where Josephine was struggling with the buttons on the back of her wedding dress.

‘I’ve told Dottie to help you, darling,’ said Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘I’ll have to get back to the guests.’

As they heard her mother run back downstairs, Dottie gave the bride a conspiratorial smile. ‘Are you all right now, Miss?’

‘Oh, Dottie,’ Josephine cried happily. ‘It’s been a wonderful, wonderful day, and I know, I just know, tonight will be just fine.’

‘I’m sure it will, Miss.’

‘Mrs,’ Josephine corrected her dreamily. ‘Mrs Malcolm Deery.’ She gathered her skirts and danced around the room, making Dottie laugh.

Between them, they got her out of the wedding dress and into her going-away outfit, an attractive pink suit with a matching jacket. The skirt was tight and the jacket nipped in at the waist. Her pale cream ruche hat with its small veil set it off nicely. She wore peep-toe shoes, pink with white spots and a fairly high heel. She carried a highly fashionable bucket-shaped bag.

Mr Malcolm, who had changed in the spare bedroom, was waiting for her at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in a brown suit and as he waited, he twirled a brand new trilby hat around in his hand. The newlyweds kissed lightly and, holding hands, they began to descend. Halfway downstairs, however, Josephine broke free and ran back.

Dottie was slightly startled as she ran to her, laid both hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, Dottie darling,’ she whispered urgently in her ear, ‘thank you for all you’ve done.’

‘It was nothing,’ protested Dottie mildly.

‘Oh yes it was,’ Josephine insisted. ‘And if I’m half as happy as you and your Reg have been, I shall be a lucky woman.’ With that she turned on her heel and ran back to her new husband and they both carried on downstairs.

As soon as she’d gone, Dottie went back into the bedroom. As happy as you and your Reg have been? Had they been happy? If they had, it was all a very long time ago. She could hardly remember their courtship, but they had been happy in the beginning … hadn’t they?

Even her own wedding day had been rushed. The phoney war was over by then and Reg was nervous, afraid he’d be sent abroad. Under the circumstances, Aunt Bessie had been persuaded to let them marry by special licence on August bank holiday weekend. The gossips had a field day. She knew the rumour was that she was pregnant, but she was a virgin when Reg took her to bed that night.

Remembering all that the boys had gone through at Dunkirk, when Reg wrote to say he was being posted to the Far East, she’d been pleased. ‘At least he’ll be out of all this,’ she had told Aunt Bessie.

But after he’d gone, she’d felt bad about saying that. She had little idea what happened out there, but if the newsreels were to be believed it looked far worse than what happened in Germany. He didn’t want to talk about it when he came back, at the end of ’48, and he had been a changed man. His chest was bad and he needed nursing. Reg didn’t seem to want her for ages but when he recovered and tried to make love to her, he was so rough she hated it. It was hard not to cry out with Aunt Bessie next door. And that was another thing. He and her aunt didn’t see eye to eye but funnily enough, when she died, Reg had been deeply affected. The shock of it left him with another problem: he couldn’t do it. She wished she had someone to talk to, but it wasn’t the done thing, was it? A married woman shouldn’t talk about what went on behind the bedroom door.

Dottie sighed. She was still only twenty-seven and if things went on the way they were, she was destined to be barren. There would never be any babies.

She put Josephine’s wedding dress on a hanger and, hanging it on the front of the wardrobe door, she spent a little time smoothing out the creases, until the overwhelming need for tears had passed.




Four


It was cool in the shed. Reg pulled the orange box from under the small rickety table behind the door and sat down. He kicked the door closed and the soft velvety grey light enveloped him. This was his haven from the world and, apart from the occasional passing chicken that might have crept in to lay her egg under the bench, he knew the moment he shut the door he would be left alone. Dot would never come in here uninvited. This was the place where he kept his pictures. She didn’t know about them of course, but when the mood came over him and she wasn’t there, he’d come out here and have a decko. They were getting dog-eared and yellow with age but he wouldn’t part with them for the world. Although he still burned for the love of his life, he might have forgotten what she looked like if he didn’t have the pictures.

They weren’t the only pictures he had. He’d still got the ones he’d bought off some bloke at the races. Now they really got him going. Those tarts would pose any way the punters wanted them. They got him all excited and when Dot was around, doing her washing or something, he’d watch her through the knothole on the shed wall and have a good J. Arthur Rank. It wasn’t as exciting as the real thing, but he liked it when there was an element of danger. And with the way things were at the moment, he wasn’t getting much of that either.

But looking at his pictures wasn’t the reason why he’d come out into the shed today. He positioned the box near the small window and next to the place where the pinpricks of sunlight streaming through the wood knots in the boards would give him plenty of light to read the letter. Dot had propped it on the table but he hadn’t opened it. He’d shoved it straight into his pocket while he ate his dinner. He wanted to be alone when he read it, somewhere he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.

First he took out his tobacco tin and his Rizla paper and box. As he lifted the lid, he took a deep breath. The sweet smell of Players Gold Cut filled the musty air. Putting a cigarette paper in the roll, he shredded a few strands of tobacco along its length. Then he snapped the lid shut and a thin cigarette lay on top of the box. Reg licked the edge of the paper and rolled the cigarette against the tin. He pinched out the few loose strands of tobacco from the end and slipped them back inside for another time. The years spent ‘abroad’ had made more than one mark on his character. Reg was a careful person. He hated waste and he always knew exactly how much of anything he’d got. That’s how he knew Dot had been eating his Glacier Mints. There had been twenty-four in there when she gave him the new bag. Now there were only twenty-three.

Putting the thin cigarette to his lips, he lit up and the loose strands at the end flared as he took his first drag. He laid his lighter and the Rizla box onto the bench and reached into his back pocket for the letter.

The envelope was flimsy. Airmail paper. The stamp was Australian. He stared at the handwriting and a wave of disappointment surged through his veins. It wasn’t what he thought it was. Now that he looked carefully, the sloping hand was unfamiliar. He turned the envelope over for the first time and stared at the name on the back.

Brenda Nichols – who the devil was she? He ran his finger over the writing and sucked on his cigarette. A wisp of smoke stung his eye and he closed it. The address on the front said ‘The Black Swan, Lewisham’. He dug around in the recesses of his mind but he couldn’t place it.

Reaching over to the jam jar on the shelf under the tiny window, he took out his penknife. The smoke from his cigarette drifted towards his eye again and he leaned his head at an awkward angle and closed it as he slid the knife along the edge of the envelope and tore it open. There were two sheets of paper inside the wafer-thin, transparent blue airmail envelope. The larger was white. A letter.

Reg’s hand trembled as he read slowly and carefully.

Murnpeowie. June 1951

My dear Reg

I need your help. I never told you but in ’43 I had a child. Her name is Patricia. She’s eight now. You’ll love her. Everybody does. She’s a very good girl and she will be no trouble. I cannot look after her any more. The doc tells me it’s only a matter of time. I have left Patricia with my friend Brenda Nichols but she can’t look after her for long. Her husband is sick. Please come to fetch her. I hope that deep down, you can find it in your heart to forgive me for running out on you like that but I thought it was for the best, things being the way that they are. I’m sorry for keeping this from you, but in my will I have left everything to you and I hope you will give her a good life.

God bless you,

Sandy.

There was a codicil at the bottom of the page, written in the same hand.

This letter was dictated by Elizabeth Johns to Brenda Nichols, who nursed her until she passed away peacefully in her sleep on July 15th 1951. Signed Sister Brenda Nichols.

His first reaction was panic. A kid? He didn’t want kids. That was what put him off Dot – her incessant bleating on about kids. How long he held the letter he had no idea. It was only when he realised that his cigarette was far too close to his lip that Reg stirred. He took it out, threw the dog end to the floor and ground it into the earth.

He threw the letter contemptuously onto the workbench and reached for the tobacco tin again. There was no way he was going to take in some bloody Australian bastard. He rolled another fag and stuck it between his lips while he fumbled in his pocket for the lighter. Taking a deep drag, he picked up the letter and read it with fresh eyes.

If he refused to take the kid, someone might go digging around in his past. Elizabeth Johns was dead. She’d left everything to him. That was a bit of luck. He’d need extra money if he was going to bring up a kid. Nobody would bat an eyelid if he took it. Running his hand through his own thinning hair he grinned to himself and squeezed his crotch. Yeah, he was still safe. As far as everyone knew, he was the kid’s only living relative and she was eight. She wouldn’t have a clue. What harm would it do?

Pity it all went belly up back then. He didn’t like to think about what happened when he’d got caught, and when he’d got out he was scarcely more than skin and bone. He could hardly remember those first few days of freedom. He’d been a dumb thing, beaten, exhausted, bewildered … It had been a close call, but it was worth the risk. Thank God for bloody Burma. Before the regiment was sent there, he’d never even heard of the place.

He’d written a letter to Dot telling her he was on a secret mission and given it to Oggie Wilson. Oggie owed him a favour. He’d heard after the war that Oggie had ended up on that bloody railway. When he got out, Reg tried to trace him but he couldn’t. Then someone said that they’d been forced to leave men by the roadside because the guards refused to allow them to bury the dead. He reckoned that’s what happened to Oggie Wilson. A bit of luck as far as Reg was concerned. No one left to blab. He sighed. All the same, it didn’t seem right leaving a man like Oggie out there in the open. He should have been buried, decent like. The thought of it made him shudder. If he hadn’t been caught, maybe he’d have been sent out to that bloody jungle himself, and if he had, he’d be lying beside poor old Oggie Wilson.

Putting Elizabeth John’s letter in his lap, Reg unfolded the yellow sheet of paper. It was another letter, written with a child’s hand, complete with a couple of ink stains on the page.

Dear Father,

I hope you are well. I am well. I went to MULOORINA with Mrs Unwin in her truck. We ate ice cream. I am nearly nine. I can count up to 500. That’s all for now.

Your ever loving daughter,

Patricia.

Patricia … Reg leaned back on the orange box and closed his eyes. A letter from Patsy. He liked Patsy better. His stomach was churning, the way it always churned when he was nervous. An old ITMA joke slipped between the sheets of his memories. ‘Doctor, Doctor, it really hurts when I press here.’ ‘Then don’t press it.’ He’d have to stop thinking about the past. It only made him angry. Put it out of your mind and get on with it. That’s what the screw had told them. He’d bloody tried but he couldn’t. It was the guilt mainly. He never told anyone, but sometimes he did feel bad about what happened. He felt a draught in the back of his neck and turned his head sharply, afraid that someone was standing behind him, but he was quite alone. He re-lit his cigarette and forced himself to relax.

Lifting the envelope, he put the letter back inside. Something weighted the corner. He tipped it upside down and a small photograph fell onto the workbench. Just one look at that mop of blonde hair and it was obvious why she was called Sandy. She was standing outside a bungalow. It was a sunny day and there were some funny-looking flowers growing beside the door. She was wearing a nurse’s uniform. Her hair was loose and cut short. He couldn’t make out the detail of her face – the camera was too far away – but she was holding a bundle in her arms. Bloody hell. This must be Patsy.

He was aware of his heart thudding in his chest. His mouth had gone dry. How long he stared at the small photograph he never knew. What did the kid look like now? He squinted at the bundle. Tom Prior, weedy as he was, was the father of twins and stepfather to the three others from Mary’s first husband. He always made jokes about Reg and the lead in his pencil. If everyone thought this was his kid, he’d have no trouble from now on.

In the beginning, he’d been quite pleased to get Dot. She wasn’t a bit like the sort of woman he was used to but she was all right. He’d never gone in for all that soppy stuff, but until he’d met Dot, he’d never had a virgin either. It wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. He’d tried to get her to do what he wanted, but she wasn’t having any of it. Yet she was desperate for a kid, even wept about it sometimes. She was careful not to do it in front of him but he’d heard her in the scullery. He didn’t even want her now. Since the old aunt died, she bored him.

The more he thought about being a father the more he liked it. The word sounded good. He was somebody’s dad. He had a daughter. Patricia. A nice name, Patricia, but he still preferred Patsy.

I have left everything to you … With a bit of luck Elizabeth Johns was well off when she died. For all her wealth, bloody Aunt Bessie hadn’t left him a bean. Well, this could be the big one. The only problem was Dot. She might not take too kindly to having his kid around. He didn’t want her to rock the boat so he’d have to play this one carefully. Plan it all out. And when he’d won her round, he’d have a nice little nest egg. After that, the future would sort itself out.

He opened the drawer again and took out his favourite photograph. The woman smiled up at him, her back arched and tits thrust out. She was better than Diana bloody Dors any day. He squeezed his crotch again. Right now he needed someone like her. Just the thought of her made his pulse race. She’d give him what he wanted … and more … He ran his tongue along her naked body and then shoved the photograph back in the drawer.

Taking another drag on his cigarette, Reg pulled out a writing pad and cleared a space on the worktop. For once he didn’t have to word his letter carefully in case other people read it first. All the same, he didn’t want anyone to start asking awkward questions. Licking the end of the pencil, Reg began to write.




Five


Dottie didn’t finish at the house until late. She was worn out. All she wanted to do was to get home and put a bowl of warm water on the kitchen floor to soak her poor tired feet. She was just about to set off for home when Dr Fitzgerald came into the kitchen.

‘A marvellous day, Dottie.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have you seen my wife?’

‘I believe she’s gone upstairs to lie down.’

‘And you’re off home?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘There’s really no need,’ Dottie protested. She rolled the plate scrapings in newspaper for the pig and put it into the shopping bag.

‘Oh, but I insist,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s starting to rain again.’

They drove in silence, but this time Dottie didn’t feel very comfortable. The doctor seemed tense. He stared at the road ahead and his back was very straight. He’s probably driving like that because he’s had too much to drink, she thought, but it gave her little comfort. The only sound in the car was the whoosh, whoosh of the windscreen wipers.

He pulled up outside her place and as he put the handbrake on his hand brushed her leg. She gathered her shopping bag, anxious to get out of the car as quickly as possible. ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ she said curtly.

‘Allow me,’ he said reaching across her to open the passenger door. Their hands met on the door handle and he pressed himself against her. ‘Oh, Dottie,’ he said huskily. ‘Dottie.’

Dottie was both shocked and surprised. ‘Dr Fitzgerald!’ she cried as his other hand squeezed her thigh gently.

‘Just a kiss,’ he was pleading. ‘One little kiss.’

His face was right in front of hers and his mouth was open. She could smell his whisky-soaked breath. She turned her head away and dug him in the ribs with all her might. Her bag fell to the floor and everything spilled out. ‘Get off me,’ she hissed. ‘How dare you!’

The wipers were still going and through the windscreen she could see the curtain in Ann Pearce’s bedroom moving. They didn’t get many cars in their street so obviously the sound of a motor drawing up had brought her to the window. The doctor accidentally touched the car horn and the loud and sudden noise seemed to make him come to his senses.

‘Oh God …’ he began. ‘Mrs Cox, I’m sorry …’

As he slumped back in his seat, Dottie scrambled to get out of the car. The door swung open and the light went on. As she stepped into the road, she looked up. Ann let the curtain drop, but Dottie knew she’d seen everything. Breathless and still panicking, she ran up the path. Behind her, the doctor’s car turned around in the road and drove off into the night.

She burst through the back door into the darkened kitchen and slammed it behind her. Thank God, Reg must still be at the pub. Heaven only knows what he’d do if he found out. Putting her head back, she leaned against the door and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Dirty old man …’

‘Dot?’

She jerked open her eyes and jumped a mile high. She swung round to see a dark shape in the chair. Dottie put the back of her hand to her mouth and let out a small cry. She fumbled for the switch by the door and the room was flooded with light. It was Reg. He had a bottle of beer in his hand and as he rose to his feet, the only thing that registered in her mind was the deep frown on his forehead.

‘What the hell happened? You look as white as a sheet.’

Dottie felt herself sway slightly. She hadn’t expected Reg to be sitting here in the dark. She wished now that she hadn’t put on the light. She must look a right mess.

‘Dot?’ he said again.

She felt her mouth open but nothing came out. She was shaking. He was going to be angry with her, she knew he was. She never should have accepted the lift. And yet she’d been in the doctor’s car hundreds of times and he’d never so much as looked at her. Not in that way, anyway.

He came slowly towards her. She still had enough of her wits about her not to tell Reg what had happened. He was the type to do something stupid and face the consequences later.

‘What’s that all over your skirt?’ he accused.

She glanced at her clothes. Lumps of half-eaten wedding cake and salad cream hung from her dress and she had a big blob of egg on her stocking.

‘I … I …’ she faltered and swayed again. She felt sick. Whether it was the sight of the pig food or the memory of what had happened she wasn’t sure. The room was going round and round.

He grabbed at her arm and she flinched.

‘Come and sit yourself down,’ he said kindly. ‘You’ve obviously had a shock.’

Now she was bewildered, confused. Doctor Fitzgerald’s actions were hard enough to deal with, but it was a long time since Reg had been so considerate.

‘Did something frighten you?’ He had his head on one side and was looking at her for an explanation.

‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, that’s it. Someone came up behind me and I dropped the bag of pig food.’

‘Pig food?’

‘Mrs Fitzgerald gave me the plate scrapings for the pig, but I dropped them.’

‘Who came up behind you?’ he demanded. ‘Did you see him?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said touching her forehead with her hand. She felt something cold and gooey; looking at it, she saw, she’d got pig food on her hand as well.

‘I saw an old tin full of tea on the windowsill today,’ he snapped. ‘Have you been feeding that bloody tramp again?’

‘No!’ she began. ‘Well … yes, but I’m sure it wasn’t him.’

‘I’ve told you before not to give to them scroungers,’ said Reg. ‘Let them work for their bloody living, like I have to.’ He snatched up the poker.

‘What are you doing?’ Dottie cried out, horrified.

‘You stay here,’ he said as he ran outside.

‘But it’s raining!’ she called after him. ‘He’ll be gone now.’

But Reg was in no mood to listen. For one heart-stopping second she thought the poker might be for her but now he’d gone off in search of the tramp. Thank God the street was empty.

She got up wearily from the chair and put the bowl on the table. There was a little hot water in the kettle so she poured it in and began to wash herself. The fingers on her left hand were swollen and painful from when Doctor Fitzgerald had pressed them against the door handle. Although she knew he was long gone, she still trembled. What on earth had possessed him? It was so unexpected.

As she washed off the pig food, she pondered what to do. She couldn’t say anything to Mrs Fitzgerald. The woman probably wouldn’t believe her anyway. He was the village doctor, for heaven’s sake, and besides, Mariah Fitzgerald wouldn’t tolerate even the smallest whiff of scandal. She’d give her the sack for sure and that would have a knock-on effect. If she wasn’t good enough for the doctor’s wife, most likely her other employers would ask her to leave as well. And there was no way she could tell Reg what had really happened either. She’d have to think up some yarn for when he got back indoors. And then there was Ann Pearce. She must have recognised the doctor’s car. What if she told Reg? Dottie’s heartbeat quickened. No, she told herself, she wouldn’t. There was no love lost between those two. They weren’t even on speaking terms. Ann had been living with another man when Jack came back home and Reg was so angry about it, he’d reported her to the welfare people as an unfit mother, an accusation which was totally unfounded but which caused a great deal of heartache. For a time, Ann had been the subject of gossip and innuendo in the village.

‘She’s doing the best she can,’ Dottie told him but Reg made no secret of his dislike.

Reg reappeared at the back door. He was holding the soggy newspaper with the remains of the pig food inside. ‘I found this in the hedge just up the road a bit,’ he said. ‘I reckon the tramp must have fancied it and come up behind you. You running off like that, must have scared him. Obviously he didn’t want the law on him so he ran off.’

She gave him a faint smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You’re right, Reg. That’s it. That’s what must have happened.’ It seemed safe enough to blame the tramp. He never came near the cottage when Reg was there anyway. The doctor must have thrown the pig food into the hedge as soon as he’d turned the car around.

‘You sit yourself down, love,’ Reg was saying, ‘and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea.’

He lifted the bowl of dirty water and took it outside to throw over the garden while Dottie plonked herself down in the easy chair. Reg was making her very nervous. She couldn’t face it if he wanted her tonight but he got so angry if she let him lose the urge when it came. Somehow or other, no matter what she did or didn’t do, he lost it every time, and then he’d get angry.

When he came back, she watched him busying himself with making her a cup of tea. Why was he being so nice? It should have been lovely being spoiled, but she couldn’t relax. It wouldn’t last. As sure as eggs is eggs, there would be a payback time.




Six


Reg was in a good mood when he arrived back home for Sunday lunch. Dottie was busy carving the joint but he put his arm around her and gave her a beery kiss on the cheek. ‘That smells good.’

‘Sit yourself down,’ she smiled.

He belched in her face. ‘You’re bloody marvellous.’

She felt disgust at his crudity and yet a glow of pride at his compliment. It wasn’t often Reg said something nice to her. The people round here thought Reg a good sort, helpful and friendly. Good job no one saw what went on behind closed doors.

‘It wouldn’t be half as nice without your wonderful vegetables,’ she said modestly.

The meal, roast lamb, mint sauce, new potatoes and runner beans, with gooseberry fool to follow, was Reg’s favourite. They ate with the radio on and Two-Way Family Favourites and the Billy Cotton Band Show in the background.

‘I was talking to Jack Smith in the pub,’ said Reg as he made for his armchair and the Sunday paper. ‘I told him we ought to do something while the weather’s nice.’

‘Did you, Reg?’ Dottie hid her smile. So, Peaches had done it. She’d invited him on the outing.

‘The weather might have picked up by Saturday.’

‘About time we had some good weather,’ said Dottie putting the kettle on for some tea. ‘What shall we do?’

‘How about a trip to the seaside?’

‘Ooh, Reg,’ she cried, enjoying the pretence. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘I reckon we could all get in that lorry of his,’ Reg went on. ‘You and Peaches will be all right in the back with Gary, won’t you?’

It was on the tip of her tongue to say ‘but Peaches is pregnant’, but she knew he’d be annoyed – perhaps even change his mind. ‘Of course we will.’

‘I’ve offered him some petrol money,’ said Reg, settling down for a doze before he read the papers. ‘You’d better get round to Mary Prior’s to talk about the sandwiches.’ He yawned. ‘She’s coming too.’

Dottie hummed to herself as she did the washing up. An outing. How exciting! She hadn’t been on an outing since … since … well, she could hardly remember. It must have been before Reg came back home. Things were definitely on the up. Everyone needed a bit of cheering up. This year’s harvest had only been fair to middling and the August bank holiday had been a total wash-out with torrential rain. The papers said it was the worst on record and what with the train crash at Ford which killed nine people and injured forty-seven the Sunday before, a general air of gloom hung over the village.

Never mind, next Saturday was going to be wonderful. She’d got eighteen pounds, four shillings and eleven pence saved upstairs, and that was quite apart from what she had in her Post Office savings book. She could take a couple of quid and buy all the kiddies an ice cream.

The washing up finished, Dottie picked up the bowl to throw the dirty water onto the garden.

‘Coo-ee, coo-ee.’ Ann Pearce was leaning over the garden fence.

Dottie’s heart sank as the full horror of last night came flooding back. What did Ann want? She was smiling. What was she going to say?

Dottie tried to appear unruffled. ‘Lovely day.’

‘Smashing,’ said Ann. She noted Ann’s lank and greasy hair, fastened to the side of her head with a large hairslide. Dottie thought it a pity that she didn’t make more of herself. She wondered if she should offer to give her one of those new Sta Set Magicurls like the one Mary had tried a few months ago. It only cost ninepence and it was really successful. Ann was an attractive woman but it seemed she had given up on herself. Dottie supposed it must be because Ann had lost everything when her husband came home almost two years after the war had ended. There was an ugly scene and both Ann’s husband and the man she was living with had cleared off.

Ann raised an eyebrow. ‘Having a good day today?’

‘Er … yes, thanks,’ said Dottie, slightly flustered.

Ann smiled. ‘How did the wedding go?’

Dottie felt uneasy. She didn’t want this conversation to continue. If Reg came out and saw her talking to Ann, she’d never hear the last of it. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I think I can hear Reg calling.’

‘Before you go,’ Ann called after her. Her smile was too bright, too eager. Dottie’s stomach churned. ‘I don’t like to ask, but I seem to have run out of money for the gas.’

Dottie relaxed. This was the first time Ann had ever actually asked her for anything directly. Usually, Dottie had to resort to subterfuge to offer her a helping hand.

‘I wonder if you could help me out,’ she’d said to Ann on more than one occasion. ‘I seem to have made far too much casserole for just the two of us. Reg would go mad if he thought I’d was wasting good food, but he doesn’t care to have the same meal two nights running.’

Grudgingly, and only to ‘do her a favour’, Ann would take the dish, making sure to return it, clean, when Reg was at work. For the sake of her pride, Dottie couldn’t do it very often. It wasn’t like Ann to actually ask for something.

‘I meant to have got some change when I went down the village yesterday,’ Ann went on, ‘but I clean forgot all about it when I bumped into Doctor Fitzgerald. It was such a struggle getting away from him. Well, you know how it is.’

Dottie could feel her face begin to flame.

‘So,’ Ann continued, ‘if you could spare a few shillings for the gas …’

The sun went behind a cloud. ‘Yes,’ said Dottie weakly. ‘How much do you need?’

‘Ten bob would do nicely,’ said Ann.

Dottie turned to go inside. ‘I’ll just get my handbag. Ten bob, d’you say?’

Ann nodded. ‘That’ll do … for now.’




Seven


Saturday August 25 was indeed what the papers called ‘a scorcher’. When the lorry arrived outside Dottie’s cottage, the back of it had been transformed by an assortment of blankets and cushions. Mary was perched on top of a pillow laid on a crate of beer and fizzy pop, looking every bit the carnival queen. Tom sat at her feet while all around them the kids were bursting with excitement. Billy had a firm hold on little Christopher and Mary was cradling Connie on her lap. Susan and Maureen sat side by side next to their mother.

‘Don’t you look lovely, hen,’ Mary said as Dottie came down the path carrying a big bag. ‘You’d better sit here in the cab with that pretty dress on.’

‘What, this old thing?’ laughed Dottie, although in truth she was wearing her sundress for the first time. A friend had given her the material because it was too pink. The sleeveless bodice was tight, and she had made a belt to wear at the top of its calf-length full skirt. Luckily she’d been able to match it with some other pink material with tiny white daisies to make a small bolero top.

‘You’re so good with a needle,’ said Mary. ‘Me, I’m hopeless.’

Reg nudged Dottie’s arm. ‘I can’t sit in the back, love,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid if they can’t shove up and make room for me on the seat, I shan’t be going.’ He lowered his voice for Dottie’s ears only. ‘You know I couldn’t face the back of a lorry, not after what happened during the war.’

‘Of course not, dear,’ she smiled. ‘You sit next to Peaches, I’m quite happy at the back with Mary and the children.’

She watched as Peaches, dressed in a voluptuous tent-like dress to hide her bump, pulled Gary onto what was left of her lap and Reg, his Brylcreemed hair flopping attractively over one eye, climbed in beside her. Gary looked a little pale and he was complaining a bit.

‘I’m not so sure we should be taking him,’ said Peaches.

‘He’ll be as right as ninepence when he’s down on the beach,’ said Jack.

Dottie walked around the back and, grabbing hold of Tom’s hand, clambered over the side of the lorry. ‘Poor little Gary still doesn’t seem very happy,’ she said as she sat next to Mary. ‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘Peaches reckons he’s got a bit of a cold,’ said Mary, shaking her head. ‘He’s been like it since Saturday.’ And turning to one of her children, she said sharply, ‘Put your arm in Susan. If you hit something while we’re moving you’ll do yourself a mischief.’

Maureen had gravitated to Dottie’s lap. It felt good holding her. Dottie enveloped her in her arms, enjoying the feel of her warm little body and the faint vinegar smell of her shiny clean hair, soft as down next to her cheek. The old yearning flooded over her again. If only she could have a child of her own …

‘I love you, Auntie Dottie,’ Maureen lisped.

‘And I love you too, darling,’ said Dottie with feeling.

The drive to Littlehampton was very pleasant. They all sang silly songs, ‘Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall, Ten green bottles, hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentl’y fall … there’ll be nine green bottles hanging on the wall,’ was one and the other was ‘There was ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over, rollover.’ So they all rolled over and one fell out, there was nine in the bed and the little one said …’ and they clung to each other, laughing whenever Jack took a corner fast.

Forty-five minutes later, they pulled up on the seafront. Tom was the first to jump down. He helped Mary and the kids and then lifted Dottie down. Everybody, except Reg, grabbed a bag and they made their way onto the sand. The warm weather and the Carnival had brought everyone out. The beach was already very crowded. In fact it was difficult to find a stretch of sand big enough for all of them to be together, but eventually they did and luckily it was fairly near the promenade. Dottie pointed out the toilets beyond. ‘Handy for the kids,’ said Mary, giving her a nudge.

Tom and Jack brought some deckchairs down and the adults made themselves comfortable. As for the children, they couldn’t wait to get into the water. Mary stripped them down to their little ruched bathing costumes and knitted swimming trunks and let them go. ‘Make sure you look after them,’ she told Billy.

Knowing they’d soon get bored, Dottie went up top and bought six buckets and spades from the kiosk along the promenade. The children were thrilled to bits.

‘You shouldn’t have spent all that money, hen,’ Mary scolded. ‘They must have cost you a fortune.’

‘They were only one and eleven each,’ said Dottie happily. ‘And besides, it was my pleasure.’

‘What do you say?’ Mary demanded of her children.

Five happy faces looked in her direction and chorused, ‘Thank you, Auntie Dottie.’

Reg gave Dottie a dirty look but just then Jack and Tom appeared with the crate of beer and fizzy pop.

‘Hope you’ve remembered a bottle opener,’ Reg remarked as he tied a knot in each corner of his handkerchief to make a sun hat. He had already bagged a deckchair and placed himself on the edge of the group.

Everyone looked helplessly from one to the other until Peaches rummaged in her handbag and produced one. ‘Thank the Lord for that,’ laughed Jack as he set about offering the bottles around and removing the tops.

When it came to her turn, Peaches shook her head. ‘I’d sooner have a cuppa.’

‘Then look no further,’ smiled Dottie, reaching for her Thermos flask.

In the end, the men had beer, the women had a cup of tea and the kids shared from a big bottle of cherryade with a replaceable glass stopper.

‘Can I take the empties back to the off-licence and get the tuppence, Mum?’ asked Billy.

‘We haven’t emptied the buggers yet,’ laughed Tom.

‘Language,’ said Mary.

‘Whoops, sorry love.’

The deckchair attendant turned up. Reg appeared to be asleep, so Tom parted with three bob. ‘He didn’t waste much time,’ he grumbled good-naturedly.

The sea glistened in the bright sunlight and the air was filled with the happy shouts of excited children. Dottie kicked off her shoes and let the sand get between her bare toes. Mary’s kids kept themselves amused for hours, making sandcastles and running to the sea with their new buckets to get water for the moat.

Little Gary joined in for a while but it was obvious he wasn’t really feeling well. It didn’t take long before he was all curled up on Mary’s lap with his thumb in his mouth.

At one o’clock they ate their lunch: egg sandwiches, bloater paste sandwiches and cheese sandwiches; but no matter how hard they tried, they all ended up with a little sand on them. Mary handed round some of her fruitcake and Dottie offered them some Victoria sponge. Then they made the kids lay down for a rest. The little ones were shaded by the deckchairs or a blanket suspended between the chairs as they lay underneath.

‘I reckon you should have gone in for the Miss Littlehampton, Dottie,’ said Tom holding out his newspaper. ‘You’re better-looking than that June Hadden any day.’

‘Oh, Tom,’ laughed Dottie. ‘I’m a married woman!’

‘So is she,’ said Mary. ‘She’s a mother of two.’

‘Have a go at the Miss Sussex competition.’ Tom encouraged. ‘That feller from Variety Bandbox is going to crown the winner. Derek Roy.’

‘I don’t think Reg …’ Dottie began.

‘Reg won’t mind, will you, Reg?’

Reg had been lying back in the deckchair with his eyes closed. He opened them to find everyone staring at him, willing him to agree.

‘What, and make a fool of herself?’

‘Your Dottie is a real smasher, Reg,’ Tom protested.

‘Come on, Reg,’ said Mary. ‘Be a sport.’

Reg’s eyes narrowed and Dottie laid her hand on Mary’s arm.

‘Who’s for ice cream?’ said Jack and a chorus of little voices, all wide-awake now, cried out, ‘Me, me!’

‘Good timing, Jack,’ grinned Peaches.

After their ice creams, Gary, Connie and Christopher slept for upwards of an hour while Susan and Maureen managed half an hour. Billy was allowed to go to play by the water’s edge as soon as the others were asleep. Dottie walked with him, not only to keep an eye on him, but also to have a bit of a paddle herself.

She and Billy had a special relationship. He was only little when his dad died but until Tom Prior came along, he’d so desperately tried to do what everyone told him and be the man of the house. He was fiercely protective of his mum. Dottie had never ever told Mary how he’d cried the day of their wedding. His mother and Tom were off on honeymoon – an afternoon at the pictures in Brighton – and Dottie was looking after Billy, Maureen and Susan in their new home. The babies were sleeping and she’d thought Billy was quite happy playing with his toy farmyard but all at once he’d burst into tears. At first she’d thought it was because he was jealous of Tom: after all, he’d had his mother to himself for most of his life. Up until the time Billy’s father was killed, the war had meant that, apart from a couple of periods of leave, Billy had hardly ever seen him. But as she comforted him, Dottie realised the child had taken his ‘job’ as ‘man of the house’ so seriously, that the tears were tears of relief. Now at last Tom could have the responsibility of looking after his mother.

As she and Billy paddled in the water, Reg, his trouser legs rolled up to his calves, came to join them.

Earlier that morning, Dottie had been thinking about that letter from Australia again. She kept forgetting to say something about it and, although he’d obviously taken it and read it, Reg still hadn’t said anything about it. It was probably of no con sequence. A letter from the wife of an old army pal or something … but it was funny that he hadn’t mentioned it again.

She was about to ask him about it, when he said, ‘You’d make somebody a good little mother.’ His remark caught Dottie by surprise. She stared at him, unsure what to say. How odd. Was he feeling the urge again? Oh dear. Could he hang onto it until they were home, or was he going to suggest they go somewhere?

As they all paddled together, Dottie felt she couldn’t be happier. The sun, the sea, the lovely weather, their friends on the beach and Reg … She wanted to tell him so, but she couldn’t embarrass him in front of Billy.

Picking up her skirts, Dottie ran further into the water. Billy followed and the two of them splashed about a bit.

‘Fancy a quick look around Woolworths?’ Mary suggested when Dottie and Billy came back. Reg was already back in his deckchair.

‘Ye-ah,’ said Billy.

‘What about the kids?’ asked Dottie.

‘I’ll stay and keep an eye on them,’ said Peaches.

‘The men can look after them for five minutes, can’t they?’ said Mary.

‘Reg?’ Dottie asked.

‘I’m reading the paper.’

‘Can I come?’ said Billy.

Tom and Jack waved them away. ‘Go on, get on with you and enjoy yourselves.’

‘And me?’ Billy tried again.

‘You heard your mother,’ said Tom. ‘Us men’ll have to look after the kids. About time you took our Christopher over to the toilets, isn’t it?’

‘Aw, Dad!’

The three friends set off for the town. As they walked along the promenade, Peaches fluffed out her blonde hair with her fingers. Dottie linked her arms through theirs and they began an impromptu dance until Mary slipped and trod on some man’s toe.

‘Oi!’ he shouted.

‘Sorry,’ Mary called as they all dissolved into laughter.

‘He’ll have a flat foot now,’ said Peaches. ‘Step – flip, step – flop …’

It was all very silly but Dottie laughed until she held her sides. ‘I haven’t had a laugh like this for ages.’

They stopped off to look at the exhibits in the big marquee on the green.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mary, holding a prize-winning jar of lemon curd up to the light, ‘your preserves are every bit as good as these, Dottie.’

Dottie blushed happily.

‘And I tell you what,’ said Peaches. ‘I’m busting for the toilet again. Let’s head towards the town.’

The friends linked arms once more and set off to find the public conveniences. Outside again Peaches said, ‘I’ll be glad when this one comes and I can have some fun again. Fancy coming to Brighton with me once I get my figure back? I can’t wait to get some new things.’

‘Let me make you something,’ said Dottie.

‘Be nice if we could all go shopping though, wouldn’t it?’ Peaches remarked.

‘Count me in,’ said Mary.

‘You’re on,’ said Dottie with a smile.

‘How come you haven’t got any kids, Dottie?’ asked Mary. ‘Doesn’t Reg want any?’

Dottie felt her face colour. ‘It just never happened,’ she faltered.

‘Oh darlin’, I’m sorry,’ said Mary. ‘Me and my big mouth.’

‘It’s all right,’ Dottie quickly reassured her.

‘My cousin Nelly was like that,’ said Peaches. ‘In the end she went to the doctor and he said she and her husband wasn’t doing it right.’

‘What the ’ell were they doing then?’ said Mary, agog.

‘Just touching navels.’

There was a moment of silence then Mary said, ‘Was that all?’

They all burst out laughing.

‘Perhaps your Reg needs some coaching,’ said Mary, giving Dottie a hefty nudge.

‘You volunteering?’ grinned Dottie and they all laughed a third time.

‘What about cousin Nelly?’ Mary asked.

‘Whatever the doc said to them worked,’ said Peaches. ‘They’ve got three kids now.’

‘All the spitting image of the doctor,’ roared Mary. Peaches enjoyed the joke, laughing heartily. Thank goodness they didn’t know about Doctor Fitzgerald, thought Dottie as she joined in. Thankfully the subject of babies, and the lack of them, didn’t come up again.

‘Here we are,’ said Mary as they found the shops.

They wandered around Woolworths and Peaches bought herself a bottle of Lily of the Valley. Mary got each of her brood and Gary a 3D stick of rock with ‘Littlehampton’ printed through it to take home. ‘Clever how they do that,’ she remarked.

Dottie bought a new comb for Reg.

Reg flipped through the pages of the Littlehampton Gazette. Nothing much there. He was just about to fold it up when Connie tottered towards him, a long candlestick of mucus and sand hanging from the end of her nose.

Alarmed, he cried, ‘Tom!’

‘Cor, love a duck,’ said Tom as he saw her.

Lifting her half-filled bucket towards her father, she said, ‘Eat tend cakey, Daddy.’

‘Hang on a minute, sweetheart, let Daddy clean you up first.’ With the practised hand of an expert, her father put one hand on the top of her blonde head to hold her steady while he fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief. Connie sneezed and the candlestick grew longer.

Jack, who was cuddling Gary on his lap, laughed aloud. Reg shuddered with disgust.

‘Tend cakey, Daddy?’ Connie said as her face emerged from under the voluminous handkerchief.

‘I’d love to,’ said Tom, pretending to take a piece. ‘Ummm, delicious. Don’t forget your Uncle Jack and Uncle Reg.’

‘Yum, yum,’ said Jack obligingly.

Connie turned towards Reg. ‘Not for me,’ he said quickly.

Tom ruffled the child’s hair. ‘Uncle Reg is full up,’ he said. ‘But I could eat you up!’ He growled and, snatching her in his arms, he kissed her neck. Connie giggled happily and when he put her down again she wandered back to the area of sand which served as her kitchen.

‘Not up to sand pie, Reg?’ Tom said good-naturedly.

‘Looking after kids is woman’s work,’ Reg muttered.

‘Rubbish,’ said Tom. ‘I love being with all my kids. I’m a dab hand at changing a nappy too.’

Reg shook his paper disapprovingly and hid behind it again. Thank God Patsy was well past that stage. His lip curled at the thought of changing nappies, and as for dealing with snotty noses … You’d better keep well away from me, thought Reg sourly. But a couple of minutes later, the little brat was on her way back. Reg glanced around helplessly. The other two men were gone: Tom was doing something with Christopher and Jack was walking Gary towards the sea where the other kids were splashing about at the water’s edge.

‘Clear off,’ Reg hissed.

But Connie was on a mission. Holding out her bucket of sand, she struggled to steady herself, tottered and made a grab at his trousers. She stumbled against him and fell. At the same time, Reg noticed a wasp crawling along the sand nearby. As Connie pulled herself to her feet again, Reg glanced around to make sure nobody was watching him, and then gave Connie a good shove with his leg. She sat down heavily on top of the wasp. A few seconds later, her heart-rending screams brought the others running.

By the time the girls got back, the kids were sitting further down the beach, watching a Punch and Judy show. Billy had his arm around Connie who was sporting a large white bandage on her leg. Mary listened in horror as Tom explained about the wasp.

‘Good job the St John Ambulance people were so close,’ he said, pointing to the first aid post a little way along the beach.

‘Poor little mite,’ said Dottie. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped her?’

‘She fell,’ said Reg, re-arranging the knots in the handkerchief on the top of his head. ‘Couldn’t do a thing about it, love.’

The Punch and Judy show over, Gary was looking very listless again.

‘I think you’d better take him to see Dr Fitzgerald tomorrow, hen,’ Mary told Peaches.

Peaches nodded miserably.

‘Get Dottie to run over and fetch him when we get back,’ Reg suggested.

Dottie turned her head away. Oh God, she couldn’t possibly face Dr Fitzgerald again. Not after last Saturday night. Whatever was she going to do?

‘You’ll go and get the doc for Peaches, won’t you love?’ Reg insisted.

She turned her head and everyone was looking at her. ‘Yes, yes, of course I will.’

They arrived back in the village at six thirty. Jack dropped Reg off at the Jolly Farmer and then went on to Mary’s place. It took a while to get all her sleepy kids off the back of the lorry, but they all called out their goodbyes.

‘It’s been a wonderful day, hen,’ Mary told Peaches. ‘Now don’t you worry about your Gary. He’ll be all right.’

Jack took Dottie, Peaches and Gary home. The little boy kept whimpering as if he was in pain and Jack had to carry him indoors. As soon as they were safely inside, Dottie and Jack drove to the doctor’s.

‘You’ll wait for me?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ he smiled.

Dottie was relieved. She’d been frantic with worry. She didn’t really want to face the doctor again. Not so soon. But she couldn’t refuse a friend, could she? Not when her child was so sick.

She drew some comfort from hearing the engine still running as she walked up the garden path to the big house. Dottie rang the doorbell and waved to Jack. All at once, he drove off. She almost panicked and ran after him, crying, ‘Come back …’ but then she realised he was only turning the lorry around. She turned to face the door. The glass panel grew dark and she knew someone was coming.

It was Mrs Fitzgerald. ‘Dottie!’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs Fitzgerald,’ Dottie began, ‘but is the doctor here?’

‘He’s not on call today,’ Mrs Fitzgerald said crisply. ‘You’ll have to go to Dr Bailey over at Heene Road.’

‘Who is it?’ said a voice behind Mrs Fitzgerald.

‘It’s Dottie.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Dottie quickly. She could hear Jack’s lorry drawing up outside the gate again. ‘We’ll go to Dr Bailey.’

Dr Fitzgerald snatched opened the door and Dottie jumped. She couldn’t look at him in the eye and was immediately tongue-tied. ‘I didn’t know it was your day off … um … I wouldn’t have …’

‘Is it your Reg?’ he asked all businesslike and formal.

‘It’s little Gary Smith,’ Dottie gabbled. ‘Peaches and Jack are really worried. We thought it was just a cold and a bit of sunshine would do him good so we’ve been to the beach all day at Littlehampton. He’s been too poorly even to join in with all the other kids.’

‘I’ll get the car,’ said the doctor.

‘It’s your day off,’ Mariah reminded him.

‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Dottie at the same time. ‘Jack’s here. He’ll run us over to Heene Road.’

‘I’ll just get my bag,’ Dr Fitzgerald insisted.

Dottie hurried back up the path. She wanted to get into the lorry before the doctor suggested taking her as passenger in the car. Jack was leaning anxiously out of the cab. ‘He’s coming,’ she said, swinging open the door and climbing in beside him.

‘Thank God for that,’ said Jack with feeling.

Dr Fitzgerald followed them to number thirty-four where Jack and Peaches lived. It made Dottie feel uncomfortable knowing that he was right behind them. She’d have to deal with this. She had to find a way of making it clear that his advances were totally unwelcome, and then they would both know where they stood.

‘You will come in with us, won’t you, Dottie?’ said Jack as they pulled up outside.

‘Well …’ Dottie began.

‘Peaches would be glad of a friend.’

When they all got inside the house, Gary was already in bed. Dr Fitzgerald, Peaches and Jack went upstairs and while they were all gone, Dottie busied herself making some tea for when they all came down. After a few minutes, she heard Peaches cry out, ‘Oh no, no!’

Dottie dropped the lid of the teapot and raced upstairs, her heart pounding with fear.

Peaches was sobbing in Jack’s arms. Little Gary was lying very still on the top of his bed while Dr Fitzgerald was pulling down his pyjama top. For one awful second, Dottie feared the worst, but then she saw Gary move his arm very slightly. ‘I’ll go back home and telephone for the ambulance,’ Doctor Fitzgerald was saying.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Dottie gasped.

‘I’m going with him,’ said Peaches.

‘I’m afraid that will be impossible, Mrs Smith,’ said Dr Fitzgerald, shaking his head. ‘Not in your condition.’

‘But I’m his mother!’ Peaches wailed.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ said Dottie looking wildly from one to the other.

Dr Fitzgerald closed his bag with a loud snap. ‘I’m not one hundred percent sure,’ he said, ‘but it looks to me like poliomyelitis.’




Eight


Billy didn’t have the energy to run all the way back to Aunt Peaches. He was much too tired.

It had been a grand day. Memories of the Punch and Judy show, paddling in the water and that huge ice cream Uncle Jack had given him kept going over and over in his mind. It had been his best day ever. Even better than the day Phil Hartwell let him hold the dead frog his cat had killed.

It was late. It was already way past his bedtime when Mum came back downstairs after she’d put the twins and Susan to bed and said, ‘Run over to your Aunt Peaches and find out how Gary is.’

He’d said, ‘Aw, Mum,’ but he’d known it was no use arguing. Tom looked at him over the top of his evening paper. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to: the look was enough. Billy walked as fast as he could all the way there without stopping.

Uncle Jack’s lorry was parked outside the house and the cab door was wide open. The doctor’s car was there too. And right in front of the house, there was an ambulance as well. Billy hung back. If the adults saw him, they’d be bound to send him back home again.

‘This is no place for nippers,’ Uncle Jack would say.

The ambulance door was wide open too. Billy could see the bed and all sorts of boxes and things. He tried imagining what it was like to be an ambulance driver. It was bound to be exciting. He might see squashed people … that would be better than a squashed frog the cat killed any day. He sat down on the kerb and gripped an imaginary steering wheel.

‘Neee-arrr,’ he said as he careered around the corner at top speed to save his patient.

He heard the front door open. Dr Fitzgerald came out with his doctor’s bag and the ambulance man, dressed in his dark uniform and cap, followed him. The ambulance man was carrying someone in his arms. The someone was all wrapped up in a blanket and although Billy couldn’t actually see who it was, judging by the way he was screaming, and the fact that Aunt Peaches was right behind him crying her eyes out, he knew it had to be Gary.

Auntie Dot came out and gave Aunt Peaches a kiss on the cheek. ‘Try not to worry,’ she said. He liked Auntie Dottie a lot. She was nice.

He thought back to the time when they’d paddled in the sea together. He’d been wearing his knitted cossie. Auntie Dottie didn’t have one but she had picked up her skirts and walked into the water until it was right up to her knees. No other grown up had done that. And she hadn’t minded getting wet either. She’d kicked the water all over him and when he’d done the same to her, she didn’t get cross and yell at him. She’d splashed him back and she’d laughed. He liked to hear Auntie Dottie laugh. She didn’t do it very much but when she did, her whole face lit up. He could tell by the anxious look on her face now that she wasn’t very happy.

‘You will stay with him, won’t you?’ Aunt Peaches wailed. ‘He’ll be so frightened.’

‘I’ll stay as long as they let me,’ Auntie Dottie promised. ‘The ambulance man says they have very strict visiting hours, but I’ll be there until they kick me out.’

‘I should be there,’ cried Aunt Peaches. ‘I’m his mother.’

Auntie Dottie hugged her again. ‘You have the little one to think of. Now leave Gary to me. Until he’s back on his feet, I’ll be his mum.’

Aunt Peaches blew her nose in her hanky. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dottie.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ smiled Dottie. ‘What are friends for?’

Uncle Jack appeared behind her. ‘I’ll follow the ambulance in the lorry and bring Dottie home.’

‘Come along now, Madam,’ said the ambulance driver. ‘The sooner we get him to hospital the better.’

‘Someone ought to tell Mary,’ Dottie said as she climbed into the back of the ambulance.

Billy stood up and ran to the open door. ‘I’ll tell me mum, Auntie Dot.’ But the other ambulance man pushed him away. ‘Off you go now, sonny. This is no place for you.’

‘Tell your mum Gary is in hospital,’ Auntie Dot called to him. ‘Tell her he’s got poliomyelitis.’ The ambulance man shut the door, banged it twice and walked round to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Billy watched as the ambulance raced down the road, its bell ringing like mad. He was confused. What was that she said? Polo-my-light-us? What was that?

Aunt Peaches was going back into the house.

‘What shall I say is wrong with Gary, Aunt Peaches?’

‘Gary is very ill,’ sniffed Peaches. She put her handkerchief to her mouth and closed the door. A second later, it opened again. ‘And don’t you come round again. It’s too dangerous. And tell your mum, none of your family is to come either.’

Billy stared at the closed door. Why couldn’t he go to Aunt Peaches? What had he done wrong? He turned and walked down the road scuffing his shoes and trying to work it out.

‘Hey-up, Billy. You coming on the swings?’

It was Paul Dore on his bike. He pulled up beside Billy.

‘I got to go home,’ said Billy miserably. His mum would go spare when he told her he’d upset Aunt Peaches. He’d get a walloping for sure.

‘Aw, come on,’ Paul cajoled. ‘I’ll give you a lift on me bike.’

It didn’t take much to persuade Billy to put off the moment he faced his mum. When they got to the playground, they didn’t have a swing, that was for babies, but the scrubland along the edges of the park was great for a game of Cowboys and Indians.

There was a whole crowd of them there including Mark and David Weaver. Everyone wanted to hear about his day on the beach.

‘Lucky devil,’ said David as he told them about the Punch and Judy man and his big ice cream. ‘Bags I’m John Wayne.’

‘It’s my turn,’ said Mark.

‘You did it last time,’ Billy protested.

In the end, Billy’s day out was forgotten as they had a scrap about who was going to be John Wayne and David Weaver won. Then they whooped around the bushes shooting Indians until it began to get cold and the light was failing. Paul Dore gave Billy a lift back on his handlebars as far as the road next to his and Billy, knowing that he was bound to be in trouble, walked slowly home.

‘Where the devil have you been?’ his mother demanded as she opened the door. She clipped his ear as he walked past. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

‘Gary’s gone to hospital,’ said Billy quickly. ‘He’s got …’ He froze. He couldn’t remember what it was called. ‘And Aunt Peaches said none of us should come to her house ever again and she was so upset about it, she sent Auntie Dottie off in the ambulance with him.’

His mother put her hand to her throat. ‘Don’t tell me he’s got polio,’ she said quietly.

The isolation hospital was rather grim. It smelled of carbolic soap and disinfectant and it was dimly lit because most of the patients were asleep. Dottie followed the nurse who wheeled Gary onto the ward on an adult-sized stretcher. He looked so small and vulnerable. Wordlessly, they took him to a cot and the nurse drew the curtains around him, leaving Dottie on the outside.

‘Are you the child’s mother?’

Dottie shook her head at the doctor who had walked up behind her. ‘His mother is eight months pregnant,’ she explained. ‘Her doctor was worried about infection so he told her not to come. I’m a close friend.’ The hospital doctor said nothing. ‘Gary’s father is here,’ Dottie went on. ‘He’s parking the lorry.’

The doctor parted the curtain and went inside. Gary was whimpering.

‘If you would like to wait outside,’ said Sister, pulling little white cuffs over the rolled-up sleeves of her dark blue uniform. ‘I’ll come and speak to you later.’

Behind the curtain, Gary, obviously in pain, began to cry.

Dottie hesitated. ‘I promised his mother I’d hold his hand,’ she said anxiously.

‘We have to examine him,’ Sister said, ‘and the doctor will have to give him a lumbar puncture. It’s not very pleasant, I’m afraid, but it has to be done. We need to know what we’re up against. Now if you would like to wait outside …’

It was as much as Dottie could do to fight back the tears as she waited in the corridor for Jack to arrive. She stared hard at the green and cream tiled walls and the brown linoleum floors until she thought she knew every crack. Beyond the peeling brown door Gary’s cries grew more heart-rending. Jack hurried towards her, turning his cap around and around in his hand anxiously.

‘How is he?’

Dottie shook her head. ‘The doctor’s with him now.’

Jack sat beside her and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Oh God, oh God …’

She put her hand on his forearm. ‘Try to keep calm, Jack,’ she said gently. ‘They’re doing their best.’

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ he said brokenly. ‘Oh Dottie, that boy is my life. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him.’

Mercifully, at that moment they heard Gary stop crying.

‘Don’t go thinking like that, Jack. He’s a tough little lad. He’ll pull through.’

Jack leaned further forward and wept silently. Dottie placed her hand in the centre of his back and did her best to fight her own tears. After having such a lovely day, she couldn’t believe this was happening. If Reg were here, even he would be upset.

They waited for what seemed like a lifetime until the brown door opened and the ward sister came out. ‘Are you the child’s father?’

Jack rose to his feet, and wiped the end of his nose on his jacket sleeve. ‘Yes.’

‘There’s no point in beating around the bush and there’s no easy way to say this but I’m afraid your son definitely has polio.’

Jack flung his arms around himself, squeezed his eyes tightly and turned away.

‘What happens now?’ Dottie asked. It cut her to the quick to see how hurt Jack was, but Peaches would want to know every last detail.

‘It’s best if you leave him now,’ the sister said matter-of-factly. ‘Mum can visit him in a week or so.’

‘A week or so?’ cried Dottie.

‘We keep visits to a minimum,’ the sister continued. ‘Normally we would allow his mother to see him for twenty minutes or thereabouts, but as you say, she’s pregnant.’

‘I could take her place,’ Dottie said, ‘at least until his mum is in no danger.’

‘At this highly infectious stage,’ the sister went on, ‘it’s best for the patients to remain calm. Family visits are very unsettling for young children. They cry for hours afterwards.’

‘Can we at least see him now?’ Dottie asked. ‘I want to put his mother’s mind at rest.’

‘Is he going to die?’ Jack choked.

‘It’s always possible,’ the sister said, ‘but personally I think he’ll be more stable in a day or two.’

‘Please God,’ Jack murmured.

‘I tell you what,’ said the sister, her tone softening, ‘pop in now, just for a minute to see him settled and you,’ indicating Dottie, ‘can visit him on Monday.’

Dottie couldn’t hide her gratitude. ‘Thank you, oh thank you.’

‘But when you do come, it can only be for twenty minutes,’ the nurse cautioned. ‘No more.’

‘I understand,’ said Dottie gratefully.

They followed her back onto the ward and tiptoed to Gary’s cot. His eyes were closed and although his face wore a frown, he certainly looked more peaceful than when they’d brought him in. He was still very flushed and a young nurse was sponging his face with water.

The sister picked up the temperature chart at the foot of the bed. ‘His temperature is one hundred and four degrees fahrenheit,’ she said.

Dottie touched Gary’s fingers. ‘Night, night, darling,’ she whispered. ‘See you in the morning.’

Jack leaned over the cot and kissed his son’s forehead. ‘Night, son,’ he wept.

Gary started to cry again.

‘Come along now,’ said the sister briskly. ‘It’s best not to upset the little lad again.’




Nine


It was quarter to ten when Dottie finally got home. As Jack dropped her off at the gate, she saw Ann Pearce’s curtain twitch. Nosy old cow, she thought irritably. She’d probably think she could get even more money out of her now. That last time … it was blackmail, wasn’t it?

As Dottie walked indoors, Reg scowled. For one sickening second, Dottie thought Ann might have been round and told him about Dr Fitzgerald.

‘How long does it bloody take to go to the doctor’s house and ask him for a visit?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours for my tea.’

‘They took little Gary to hospital,’ she said.

Reg’s expression changed. ‘Hospital?’

Dottie slipped off her bolero and reached for her wrap-over apron. ‘I’m afraid Gary has been admitted.’

Reg lowered himself into a chair. ‘Admitted …’

‘It’s a bit late for cooking,’ Dottie said matter-of-factly. She was angry that he’d sat there all that time, helplessly waiting for her to come home. Couldn’t he have got his own tea for once? ‘Shall I do you a couple of fried eggs?’

He nodded and she set about gathering the frying pan, the eggs from the bucket of cold water on the scullery floor and the dripping from the meat safe.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Heartened that Reg was so concerned, she forgave him immediately.

‘He has polio,’ she said, cracking an egg over the melted dripping in the pan. ‘But they seemed to think he’ll be a bit better in a day or two.’ She filled the kettle with water and put it on the gas.

‘Peaches staying with him, is she?’

‘No,’ said Dottie. ‘They wouldn’t allow it. It’s too dangerous, what with her being pregnant and all. That’s why I went.’

His eyes flashed. ‘You?’

She cut a slice of bread and put it into the hot fat. ‘And I promised Peaches I would visit him until she’s allowed to go.’

‘You’re not to go.’

‘Although how I’m going to fit it all in I don’t know,’ she said turning the bread over.

‘I said,’ his tone was harsh, ‘you’re not to go.’

She gave him a puzzled look. ‘But I promised.’

‘I don’t bloody care! You’re not going.’

She put the eggs and fried bread onto his plate and put it in front of him. Then she filled the teapot and sat at the table with him. She wanted to throw the supper at him. She’d have given anything to scream at him, ‘I’ll make my own decisions and I don’t need you to tell me what to do.’ But she knew she had to tackle this calmly. He was getting wound up and if she upset him too much, he’d be horrible for days.

‘Look, Reg,’ she said quietly. ‘I know you’re worried about me, but really, I don’t think I’ll come to any harm and Peaches is upset that Gary won’t have anyone he knows.’

He glared at her and stabbed the air with his fork. ‘I don’t care about bloody Peaches. I’m telling you now, you’re not going and there’s an end to it.’ A splatter of egg yolk ran down his chin.

‘But she’s my friend.’

He carried on eating. She poured his tea and one for herself. She had to make him understand just how important this was. She didn’t have many friends around here and Peaches was one of the best. She’d been there for her when Auntie Bessie died. She and Mary had virtually done the whole of her wake: Dottie had been in such a state, and Reg wasn’t much help, so she’d been glad to leave it to them. Their friendship went way, way back. Peaches, Mary and Sylvie had kept her going for many a long and lonely month while she’d waited for news of Reg during the war. Other women had been allowed to write to their husbands but Reg had been on a top-secret mission so she had to wait it out with no word from him at all. Peaches, Mary and Sylvie had been there for her which was why it was so important not to let Peaches down in this, her hour of need.

‘Reg,’ she tried again, ‘don’t worry. I’ll be perfectly safe.’

He slammed his knife and fork onto the plate, making her jump. Then he leaned back and, reaching into his pocket, drew out a piece of paper.

‘No, it’s not bloody safe,’ he cried. ‘And there’s the reason why you can’t go.’

He threw the paper onto the table in front of her. Dottie’s heartbeat quickened. The letter from Australia! She’d forgotten all about it. She’d had what Aunt Bessie would have called a presentiment that it wasn’t just any old letter the moment she first set eyes on it. Now it rested on the table between them, small and rectangular, and yet it seemed as big as a house.

She stared at the sloping handwriting, the stamp and the strange postmark, and her blood ran cold. This must be serious, but what on earth did it say? She shivered and looked up at her husband.

‘Well, go on,’ he said with a note of triumph in his voice. ‘Read it. I know you’re dying to.’

Her hand was trembling as she picked it up. So flimsy and yet heavy with destiny. It was going to change her life, she knew it … she just knew it.

She took it out and read it slowly. I never told you but in ’43 I had a child. Her name is Patricia. She’s eight now. Her eyes filled with tears and she swallowed hard. 1943? He had been with some other woman almost as soon as they had been married? He’d been sent abroad just four weeks after their wedding and straight after that, the very next year, he’d been unfaithful?

Please come to fetch her, she read on, I hope that deep down, you can find it in your heart to forgive me … She laid the letter on the table and looked up at him. He was smiling.

‘See?’ he said triumphantly. ‘You think I can’t bloody do it, but I can see? I’ve got a kid of my own. She gave me a kid. She knew how to turn a man on. She knew what to do. Not like you, you bloody cold fish.’

His words cut her into a thousand pieces but all she could think of was that he had had a child with another woman. He had a child … and she didn’t. Why couldn’t he make love with her? Other people thought she was attractive but he was always calling her a cold fish, even though she really tried. She did everything he wanted her to, even things she didn’t like.

‘For God’s sake, stop that snivelling,’ he said sharply and Dottie suddenly realised that she was crying. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out her hanky. Then she blew her nose quietly and dabbed her eyes. She shouldn’t have done that. It must have been the shock of seeing Gary.

‘I want to get her over here,’ he was saying. ‘I want my little girl here, living with us.’

‘Living with us?’ she said faintly.

‘Why not?’ he challenged. ‘She’s mine. Why shouldn’t I have her here?’

Dottie stared at him, her brain refusing to function. This was all too much for one day. Foolishly she’d always thought he’d been as faithful as she’d been. It never crossed her mind that he’d even had the opportunity. No, she hadn’t thought about it. She’d just presumed … but how wrong had she been? He had a child, a daughter. And now he wanted her to come over here?

Her stomach churned. All at once she felt sick and jumped up and ran to heave over the slop bucket in the scullery.

‘That’s right,’ he bellowed after her. ‘Always got to be the centre of attention. Get yourself noticed. Let’s have the drama queen.’

She steadied herself and wiped her mouth on her hanky, then she walked back into the kitchen.

He was sitting with one hand on his head and the other holding the photograph. ‘I want her here, Dot,’ he said. ‘I want my little girl.’

She couldn’t speak. She wanted to be happy for him, but his joy was her misery. He didn’t seem to care about how she was feeling. She couldn’t think straight. Her eye was drawn to the woman in the photograph.

‘Don’t you see, you daft bat?’ he said looking up at her. ‘This is your chance too. You’ve always wanted to be a mother. Well, now’s your chance. A little girl. Patsy. Nice name, Patsy. We’ll be a family.’

‘But I want a family of my own!’ she blurted out.

Reg leapt to his feet and struck her across the mouth. Dottie tasted blood as her lip split under the force of his blow. ‘Maybe this is the closest you’re going to get,’ he snarled. ‘I can do it with a real woman, but I can’t do it with you. I can’t do it in this house. Doesn’t that tell you something? Eh?’

Dottie leaned against the dresser, utterly crushed.

‘We’re going to get my baby over here,’ Reg said sitting back down again with the photograph, ‘and we’re going to be a real family. Me, Patsy and you.’

Dottie opened her mouth but no sound came out.

He turned and glared at her again. ‘That’s why I don’t want you going near that Gary see? I can’t have my Patsy getting polio.’




Ten


‘You’re very quiet today, Dottie.’

Janet Cooper, Dottie’s Monday and Tuesday employer, gave her a concerned look as she filled the kettle for their afternoon break.

Dottie had been miles away. She couldn’t get the events of the previous weekend out of her mind. Worried about little Gary and upset by Reg’s revelations and rantings, she had gone about her work as quickly and as quietly as she could. She hadn’t stopped for her mid-morning break, neither had she stopped to eat the sandwich Janet had prepared for her as she closed the shop for the lunch hour. Dottie didn’t want to be drawn into a conversation in case she said something she might later regret. She was glad today was Monday and not Tuesday. Dottie helped in the shop on Tuesdays and it was easy to be drawn into long conversations between customers. Janet loved a little gossip. Starved of excitement in her own life, she thrived on the misfortunes of others and had a clever way of weeding juicy bits of gossip out of someone, no matter how reluctant the person might be to part with them. Had it been Tuesday, Dottie would have told her about their day in Littlehampton and little Gary’s illness and, before the day was over, it would have been all over the village. Fine if Peaches told friends and neighbours, but Dottie didn’t want people to hear it from her lips first.

Janet cut across her thoughts again. ‘I see Ellen Riley’s daughter is on the bottle again.’

Dottie gave her a quizzical look.

‘There was a definite bulge in her coat pocket when she came into the shop this morning,’ said Janet, clearly enjoying her tasty morsel of gossip. ‘Want a biscuit with your tea?’

Dottie shook her head and wished Janet a million miles away.

‘It’s the kids I feel sorry for,’ Janet went on. ‘If you can’t be a responsible parent, you shouldn’t have children, that’s what I say.’

Dottie switched off. Monday was the day she cleaned the Cooper house from top to bottom. Upstairs, she changed the beds, hoovered the rooms and dusted. Then she’d come down and spend the rest of the morning putting the dirty sheets in the washing machine. You had to stand over it when everything went through the wringer, but it was a great help and if the weather was kind she would end the day by ironing the same sheets she had changed in the morning.

With the washing on the line, the afternoon was spent cleaning and dusting downstairs. It was one of her heaviest days and yet with the weight of everything on her mind, she hardly noticed the time passing.

She’d been up early that morning. Reg was still in bed when she’d left for the Coopers. After another outburst about not seeing Gary the night before, she had poured him his usual cup of tea in the morning, but instead of making sure he was awake, she’d crept upstairs, being careful not to disturb him. She’d left the tea on the bedside table. He’d groaned and rolled over when she put the cup down and she’d panicked, but she stood very still and almost immediately he’d begun to snore again. Dottie hurried downstairs and out of the house. She didn’t want … couldn’t face talking to him again. Why did she always take him a cup of tea anyway? It had started when he first came home. He was ill then. He was fine now. Well, he could get his own tea from now on, she told herself defiantly.

All day long she’d gone over and over the things he’d said and she was surprised to realise that, for the first time in her whole life, she resented the idea of looking after someone else’s child. If Patsy was already eight, there was no way she could pretend the child was hers. What was she going to say to the people in the village? She hated the thought of everybody talking behind her back.

‘Of course, you know that poor Dot Cox can’t have any children.’

Dottie bristled at the thought of being an object of pity.

‘Can’t blame a man for wanting his own child, can you?’ they’d say.

And what about the child? When she had been conceived, she and Reg were already married. Everyone would know he’d been with another woman. War or no war, what sort of a man goes with another woman within a year of his marriage? What did that say about her? And what about the child herself? Poor little thing. She didn’t ask to be born, did she?

‘Dottie …’ Janet said.

Dottie frowned. She refused to feel sorry for the child. Why should she? But while she was ironing, she found herself wondering what she looked like. Reg had black hair but only out of a bottle to hide the grey. The woman in the picture was fair. She imagined Patsy all peaches and cream, a little Shirley Temple with pretty blonde curls, who smelled of talcum powder and Gibbs toothpaste. Dottie folded and shook a sheet viciously and banged the iron down on it. She had to stop doing this. She didn’t want her. She didn’t want Reg’s kid. She wanted her own child. And another thing, why should he rant and rave on like that, expecting her to like the idea? She’d be nothing more than an unpaid servant. She was his wife, for goodness’ sake. Why should she open her home to his … his bastard!

‘Dottie!’ Janet Cooper’s voice brought her abruptly back to the present. ‘You’ve ironed that sheet to death. Sugar in your tea?’

‘Er, no. I’m sorry,’ Dottie said. ‘I was miles away.’

‘So I see,’ smiled Janet. ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

‘I was wondering …’ Dottie began hesitantly, ‘would it be possible for me to go early today?’

Janet Cooper looked at the clock. Normally her cleaner left at four. It was now ten to three. She frowned. Dottie didn’t usually ask favours but she’d have to be careful. Give these people an inch … the last thing she wanted was Dottie taking liberties.

‘I came in at eight instead of nine,’ Dottie pointed out, ‘and I haven’t taken any breaks.’

Janet hesitated. ‘Is it Reg?’ she asked.

Dottie chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t like telling lies but she could see by her face that Janet Cooper needed a good reason to let her go. ‘Yes.’

‘Oh my dear, why didn’t you say so? Of course you must go. We can’t do too much for those of our brave boys who came back. Yes, put the rest of that ironing away and off you go.’

Fifteen minutes later, Dottie, feeling somewhat ashamed and guilty, was hurrying to the next village. Durrington was easily a mile and a half away and she decided not to catch the bus that stopped outside the shops. She didn’t want anyone from the village telling Reg they’d seen her catching the bus. It was a bit of a rush, but she was fit and knew she could do it.

‘How was the trip to Littlehampton, Reg?’

Marney handed him a chipped enamel mug of tea. Reg was acting as ticket collector today, although there were few passengers on a weekday afternoon. He put the steaming mug to his lips and slurped in a mouthful of tea. ‘Not bad.’

‘Kids enjoy themselves?’

‘Reckon so.’

‘The wife wanted me to take her over for the torchlight procession and the fireworks,’ Marney went on, ‘but our Jean and her hubby came by. We all got chatting and then it was too late. Was it good?’

‘We were back before 8.30,’ said Reg. ‘Mary’s boy wasn’t looking too clever, so Peaches and Jack took him to the doc’s.’

‘Shame,’ said Marney. ‘All right now, is he?’

‘Suppose so,’ Reg shrugged.

‘A bit of a fuss about nothing, I expect,’ Marney observed. ‘It usually is where kids are concerned.’

Reg grunted.

‘Still,’ Marney ploughed on, ‘I expect Dottie enjoyed herself.’ Reg gave him a puzzled look. ‘Well, the girls like a bit of a get-together, don’t they? Have a bit of a chat and a laugh. It does them good.’

They could hear the 3.32 in the distance and Marney turned to go. The door of the ticket office clicked shut behind him, leaving Reg alone on the platform. He frowned. Another day out? Oh, no. Of one thing he was perfectly sure, he wasn’t going to be putting up with another day like that in a hurry. He only agreed to it to butter Dottie up. Well, enough was enough. From now on, Dottie would have to understand that her place was in the home, not gadding about with the likes of Peaches and that fat cow Mary.

As the 3.32 was pulling onto the platform of West Worthing station, Dottie was heading into the Isolation Hospital.

‘Visiting hours are 2 to 2.30,’ said the sister haughtily as Dottie arrived. The clock hanging on the wall behind her said a damning 3.25.

Her heart sank. ‘But I couldn’t possibly come then,’ she said. ‘Please let me see him. Just for a moment.’

‘I’m sorry, but it’s against the rules,’ said the sister. She began to walk away.

‘Sister, his mother isn’t able to come because she’s expecting,’ Dottie called after her. ‘She’s relying on me to help her out. I’ve been at work all day and I’ve had no meal breaks whatsoever in order to make sure I could get here to see Gary. Please. I can’t let his mother down.’

The sister pursed her lips and gave Dottie an irritated frown. ‘This is most irregular,’ she sighed. ‘The child has only just stopped crying. I’m not sure that a visit will be in his best interest.’

‘I would hate him to think we’ve abandoned him.’

The sister gave Dottie a long hard stare. ‘Very well.’

Dottie smiled with relief. ‘Thank you, Sister.’

‘But only five minutes and it mustn’t happen again.’

‘Of course. I understand,’ said Dottie. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s making progress,’ said the nurse. ‘Hopefully we can start his rehabilitation with the other children by the end of the week.’ She pointed down the ward. ‘He’s down there, next to the girl in the iron lung.’

Dottie hurried down the ward. In daylight, the ward seemed even gloomier than she’d remembered from the Saturday before. The dark green and cream paintwork was pretty cheerless and some of the tiles on the walls were cracked and chipped. But at least somebody had made an effort: although the curtains at the windows were dark blue and faded at the edges, the curtains on the screens that went around the beds had bright nursery rhyme pictures on them.

There seemed to be few toys. Of the children who were sitting up in bed, some were reading comics and others simply stared at her as she walked down the ward. One little girl standing at the end of her cot held her arms out as Dottie walked past.

Gary was as white as a ghost but he seemed more peaceful than before. He saw her coming and whimpered, ‘I want my mummy.’

His plaintive cry tore at Dottie’s heart. She touched his forehead and brushed back his damp hair. ‘I know, sweetheart, I know. Mummy can’t come today, so she sent me instead.’

Gary’s chin quivered.

Dottie reached into her bag and drew out two small bears wrapped in dark blue tissue paper. She had bought them the previous year when the whole country had been captivated by the story of Ivy and Brumas and early that morning she’d sneaked them out of their hiding place.

In 1949, Ivy, a polar bear at the London zoo, had surprised everyone by giving birth to a son, Brumas. The following Christmas, just about every child in the land had an Ivy and Brumas bear in their stocking. Dottie had bought a pair, and after wrapping them in tissue paper she had put them in Aunt Bessie’s wardrobe alongside Aunt Bessie’s cowboy hats and boots, and all the other things she couldn’t bear to throw away.

Dottie had always imagined that one day she would put the bears in the cot of her own baby but after what Reg said last Saturday, that day seemed too far away to matter. She realised that if Reg knew about them, he would make her give them to his child and she wasn’t prepared to do that. No, she’d sooner give them to someone more deserving and in the present circumstances, who could be more needy than Gary?

He watched her unwrap the bears. ‘Where’s my mummy?’ he whimpered again and a tear rolled down his cheek.

‘Mummy can’t come today,’ said Dottie gently as she put both bears on the bed. ‘But Mummy told me she misses you very much.’ She was willing her voice not to break. ‘So I’ll tell you what I’ll do.’ She fondled Gary’s hair again. ‘I’m going to give Brumas to you to cuddle and I’m going to put Ivy down here at the end of the bed.’

As Gary tried in vain to move his head in the direction of the bear, the full extent of his paralysis became a chilling reality. Dottie bit back her own tears.

‘Ivy loves Brumas very much,’ she went on, ‘just like your mummy loves you. She’ll be watching Brumas all the time, see?’

She placed the larger bear in his direct line of vision.

‘You look after Brumas and all the time you see Ivy watching him, you’ll know your mummy is thinking about you too.’

She lifted his limp arm and placed Brumas next to his body.

‘Is Ivy watching him?’

‘Yes,’ Gary whimpered.

‘See?’ said Dottie. ‘Ivy is watching Brumas so your mummy must be thinking about you.’

Gary looked up and gave her a weak smile.

‘Sister says it’s time to go,’ said a young nurse, coming up to them. ‘We have got to get all these children ready for bed.’

It was a ridiculous statement, but Dottie knew what she meant. She leaned forward to kiss Gary goodbye but the nurse held her shoulder. ‘No. Not too close.’

Dottie kissed her own fingers and touched Gary’s forehead. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can, darling.’ The lump forming in her throat felt like it would choke her. She had to keep strong. She mustn’t let Gary see her cry. ‘Mummy will come along another day.’

She left him watching Ivy. ‘Thank you, Nurse,’ she said as they reached the door.

‘No,’ said the nurse, taking a furtive glance over her shoulder, ‘thank you. I’m sure he’ll be much happier now. That was a nice thing you did.’ And with a rustle of her starched apron, she was gone.

Dottie made her way outside, her whole body racked with sobs. As she stood in the bus shelter, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Poor little lamb. Just three years old and not allowed to see his mummy. It wasn’t fair. What was going to happen to him?

‘Dear Lord,’ she prayed through her tears, ‘don’t let him be paralysed all his life.’

The bus came and she got on. Thankfully she couldn’t see anyone she knew. As she looked out of the window, she allowed herself a small smile as she recalled Brumas under the sheet and Ivy watching him. She’d go round and tell Peaches all about it later this evening when Reg had gone to the pub. It wasn’t much but it would certainly put her friend’s mind at rest. Careful that she mustn’t do anything to let Reg know where she’d been, Dottie got off two stops before she needed and walked the rest of the way home. The fresh air gave her a chance to clear her head and to compose herself.




Eleven


It was a mad rush to get the tea ready before Reg got home and the potatoes still needed another ten minutes when Dottie saw him parking his bike against the wall. She wondered what sort of a mood he was in; but she needn’t have worried. He was feeling cheerful. He handed her a bunch of sweet peas.

‘Ooh, Reg!’ She couldn’t hide her surprise. He seldom gave her the flowers from his station garden, preferring instead to hand them out to his passengers. In between his station duties, he’d built up a reputation as an expert nurseryman, cultivating flowers and even a few vegetables on the strip of land alongside the station ticket office, and collecting a great many ardent admirers along the way. It was well known in the village that if you had a gardening problem, Reg was the man to ask.

She held them to her nose and sniffed them loudly. ‘They’re lovely.’

‘The fence is covered,’ he said proudly. ‘A really nice show this year.’

He sat in his chair and took off his railwayman’s boots, then went upstairs. A few minutes later he came down in his gardening clothes. ‘Just going out to dig a few spuds,’ he said. ‘Dinner nearly ready?’

‘Five more minutes,’ she said as she arranged the sweet peas in a vase. Their heady perfume filled the kitchen and she could tell they were his prize blooms by their big, perfectly formed petals. They were the talk of the village.

‘No one can grow sweet peas like your Reg.’

‘He ought to go enter the flower show with those blooms.’

‘Magnificent. What’s his secret?’

She was back in the scullery putting the runner beans in a colander when she heard a footfall outside the back door.

‘I’m just dishing up, Reg,’ she called.

‘Dottie, it’s me.’

Dottie swung round to find Peaches in the doorway. She looked drained. Her face was pale and she wore no make-up. There were dark circles under her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, but Jack and I couldn’t wait. How is he? Did he look any better?’

Dottie grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. She’d have to be quick. She have to say her piece before Reg came back up the garden.

‘What’s she bloody doing here?’ He was already sitting at the kitchen table. He rose to his feet. ‘Get out of here, Peaches Smith. You’re not welcome.’

Peaches stared at him aghast. ‘Not welcome …?’ she said faintly.

‘No …’ Dottie began. ‘What Reg means …’

But Reg stepped between them, pushing Dottie aside. ‘Look, no offence,’ he said, his tone a little less harsh, ‘but Dottie’s afraid she’ll get it, see?

‘Wait, Reg …’ Dottie protested.

Peaches gave her a stricken look.

‘Listen, Peaches …’ Dottie gasped. ‘Let me explain.’

But before Dottie could start, Reg had taken Peaches’ arm and was manoeuvring her back through the door. ‘It’s best if you don’t come round for a while.’

Peaches stared at him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Hang on a minute …’ Dottie began again.

Peaches rounded on Dottie. ‘You promised to go and see my Gary today. Didn’t you go?’

Dottie saw Reg’s back stiffen and her heart almost stopped. What was she going to do now? If she said yes, he would have one of his moods. If she said no, Peaches would be distraught. For a second, her brain refused to function. Think, she told herself desperately, think. Say something. Say the right thing. They were both facing her now, one staring at her with a helpless expression and the other with that dark look in his eye.

‘Look, Dottie can’t help the way she feels,’ said Reg, his eyes unmoving as they stared into her face. His words soft and measured.

‘But you did go and see him, didn’t you, Dottie? You saw my baby?’

Dottie turned away. She lowered herself into a chair. She’d have to lie. To placate Reg, she’d have to lie. She’d go round to Peaches later, like she planned, and she’d explain why she had to do it. Peaches would understand.

‘Dottie?’

‘I’m afraid Reg is right,’ Dottie said quietly. ‘I didn’t go.’

‘But you promised,’ Peaches wailed. ‘My poor baby. All alone …’

‘It’s not that she doesn’t care for the boy,’ Reg said, his voice as smooth as silk.

‘Oh yes,’ said Peaches her voice turning brittle, ‘everybody cares.’ She snatched her arm away from Reg. ‘If I’d known you weren’t going,’ she shouted at Dottie’s bowed head, ‘I could have arranged for my mother to go. At least then my Gary would have had somebody with him. I’ll never forgive you for this, Dottie. Never.’

As she swept out of the back door, Dottie put her hands over her face and closed her eyes.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Dot. It was for the best,’ Reg said as they heard the front gate banging shut. ‘You did it for my Patsy.’

‘Patsy, your Patsy,’ Dottie burst out. ‘You don’t even know when she’s coming. Australia is thousands of miles away.’

‘She’s coming.’

‘Even the boat takes six weeks.’

‘She’s coming, I tell you.’

‘And how are we going to get the money to get her here?’

Reg clenched and unclenched his fists. ‘I’ll get the money.’

Dottie blew her nose into her handkerchief. ‘Peaches is my best friend.’

‘And I’m your bloody husband,’ he said sharply. He banged his fist on the table, making all the plates rattle. The sauce bottle fell over. ‘Now stop this bloody racket and let’s be having our tea.’

‘Where d’you want it, Reg?’

Half an hour later, Michael Gilbert’s cheery shout brought an angry and red-eyed Dottie from the scullery where she was washing the dishes.

‘Hello, Michael.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘What are you doing here?’

He gave her a long look and she knew he was wondering why she’d been crying. ‘Reg asked me to bring some bales of hay round. You all right, Dottie?’

Michael was fond of Dottie. She joined the Land Girls on his father’s farm in 1941. The Ministry of Fisheries and Food had already sent some local girls, Peaches Taylor, now Smith, Hilary Dolton-Walker (she’d ended up in Canada, he thought), Sylvie Draycot (she’d married a banker called McDonald, and lived in the New Forest somewhere) and Mary had done her bit too. There were others who came and went and he’d be hard put to recall either their names or faces, except Molly Dawson of course. She stuck out in his mind only because she’d been killed in an air raid while home on leave in Coventry. As a kid, whenever he’d looked at Dottie, he got a funny feeling at the pit of his stomach. He’d never understood it of course, but he’d made up his mind that one day he’d marry her. However, when she was eighteen and he was still only fourteen, she went and married Reg Cox. He didn’t think of her in that way any more, but he was fond of her, like a sister. He didn’t like to see her upset.

Dottie smiled, her eyes willing him not to ask any more questions. ‘Reg is upstairs getting ready to go out.’

‘Oh no, I’m not, my darling,’ said Reg coming up behind her. ‘I’m staying in tonight. We’ve got to get something sorted out about that bloody pig, haven’t we?’

Dottie’s heart sank. She’d been planning to run over to Peaches’ house as soon as Reg left for the Jolly Farmer.

‘Bring the rest of the bales down the garden, will you, Michael?’ said Reg pushing past her and grabbing the first bale from Michael’s hands. ‘I reckon a dozen will do me. Got the chicken wire?’

Michael nodded. ‘On the back of the trailer.’ He lingered a second or two. Dottie was aware that he was looking at her but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. ‘I’ll be right there.’

Silently, Dottie went back to the bowl to finish the washing up. Perhaps, she thought to herself, she could pop out while they were busy up the garden; but Reg soon put paid to that.

‘When you’ve finished that, put the kettle on, Dot,’ he called cheerfully over his shoulder. ‘Michael looks like a man dying of thirst.’

The two men set to work making a pen at one end of the chicken run for the pig but first they shut the chickens in the henhouse and put the pig on a rope tied to the old apple tree. When Dottie walked up the garden with two cups of tea, Reg was missing.

‘Where is he?’ she asked Michael furtively.

‘In the lavvy.’

Michael was at the back of the newly made pig run banging in the wooden posts. Dottie sidled up to him.

‘Listen, Michael, do me a favour, will you?’ She heard the bolt slide back on the lavatory door. Michael carried on banging. ‘It’ll take too long to explain,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Would you tell Peaches not to say anything to Reg but tell her I did go?’

Michael stopped banging. He readjusted a pin in his mouth and said, ‘You what?’

She glanced nervously over her shoulder and realised it was too late. Reg was already coming back up the path.

‘I’m sorry, Dottie,’ said Michael. ‘I missed that. What did you say?’

‘Do you have sugar in your tea? I can’t remember.’

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘No thanks.’

Reg took his cup and Dottie returned to the house. She went upstairs and looked out of the window. Michael was helping Reg staple the chicken wire onto the posts. Did she have time to get over to Peaches? She could if she got her bike out, but the bike was in the shed, and Reg would see her going in there. She’d just made up her mind to chance it when Reg spotted her at the window and shouted, ‘Bring us another cup of tea, Dot.’

Downstairs in the scullery again, Dottie wiped away her angry tears. Everything was going wrong. Reg wanted her to have his child and yet he didn’t want her. She had upset her best friend and if she didn’t explain everything to Peaches as soon as possible, she’d never repair the damage done. And on top of all that, there would be another row when she told Reg about Sylvie coming.

Twelve thousand miles away, Brenda Nichols shielded her eyes from the sun’s glare with her hand as she watched the Flying Doctor’s plane bank and circle the homestead. As it finally came in to land, the red earth exploded into a cloud of hot dry dust, which set up a swirling trail behind it.

Their radio call had been very specific. ‘We have to make Muloorina before nightfall. Can you make sure everybody’s ready to meet the doctor on the airstrip? Over.’

Brenda pressed the control button. ‘This is 8 EM. Everyone is here, Doc. I have five patients for you. Baby Christopher Patterson for a Salk inoculation, little Mandy Dickson wants some cough medicine because her chest is bad again, Taffy Knowles needs you to look at his toe. He reckons a snake bit him but I think he’s got an ingrowing toenail. Dick Rawlings has a cut in his finger that will need a couple of stitches and Mick Saul has another ear infection. Shall I have some tea ready for you? Over.’

‘Right on, Bren.’ She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘Out.’

The plane taxied towards them and came to a stop. They all waited for a few minutes before the door opened and Doc Landers, wearing his now familiar brown Tyrolean hat, given to him by a grateful patient, climbed onto the steps.

Brenda had put a white sheet over the table on the veranda and it was here that the doctor set up his makeshift surgery. As usual Brenda’s diagnoses were correct and it didn’t take him long to dish out the medicine and insert a few stitches into the cut. As soon as he’d finished he sank back into a chair and Brenda put the kettle on.





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