‘Always wants to be queen,’ Mrs Smith said.
‘Well, she’s my queen.’ Roger smiled.
‘She’s lucky to have you,’ Mrs Smith said.
‘Bye Mum.’ Angie pushed Roger off the step.
They walked down the front path. ‘You look very nice,’ Roger said.
‘Thank you.’ He really was good, she thought. So kind, so considerate. He really tried to make her happy. But that’s the difference, she told herself, Gene doesn’t have to try. He made her happy just by existing in the world.
The scooter was parked behind Doreen’s new car. ‘Great car,’ Roger said. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a car like that one day. We could go down to Clacton—’ He saw her expression. ‘Sorry, not Clacton, Southend, on a sunny day. Wouldn’t that be great?’
Of course it would, she wanted to say, but we’re not going to be together when that day comes.
‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Roger, I . . . I’ve got to say this.’
‘What?’ His face had gone pale. He knew what she was going to say.
‘We can’t . . . I . . . we’ve got to end it.’
‘What do you mean?’ He sounded breathless. His eyes raked her face in disbelief.
‘Oh Roger. You’re so good. It’s nothing to do with you, it’s me. But we’ve got to stop going out.’ There she’d said it. She felt sick.
‘Is it because of the money? Because you want someone who’s as rich as you, now?’
‘No!’
‘Is it because of Australia? Because you’ll have to leave me behind? I told you, I’ll come to Australia too.’
‘I’m not going to Australia.’
‘What is it? Is it someone else?’
‘No,’ she said. Deep down she had always known, even before she met Gene, that it couldn’t last with Roger. And she wanted to save him the hurt of it. ‘I suppose it’s because I feel trapped. I feel tied down. My mum keeps talking about us getting married.’
‘Does she? Well, we could.’ He sounded so hopeful.
‘No, what I mean is, the thought of getting married makes me feel even more tied down.’
‘We don’t have to get married.’
‘I know, but – but I know you would like to. It seems unfair to stop you. You should find someone who does want to get married.’
‘Angie! I don’t just want to get married to anybody. If it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be you. And if you don’t want to, well, then I’ll just have to live with that.’
‘But I can’t live with you living with something. I want us to feel the same.’
‘We can’t feel the same. We’re different people. Otherwise . . . you might as well . . . look at yourself in the mirror every morning and have a relationship with yourself.’
He’d never said anything so pointed. She admired him for that.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘now I know how you feel, why don’t we try and sort out how we are together? So you don’t feel tied down and I get to see you. So we have a nice time.’
‘Oh Roger. You’re making this so hard.’ She ran her fingers over the handlebar of the Lambretta.
‘How about we leave it for a month, then we meet up and see how we both feel then? Who knows,’ he said, trying a joke, ‘I might have met someone else and be married with a kid on the way.’
‘Well, good luck!’ she said, feeling a spurt of jealousy for the new person he’d meet who’d be happy to settle down with him and have a family.
‘Come on, what do you say? A month. I’m going to miss you.’
‘I’m probably going to miss you too but that’s not the point.’
‘Sometimes I don’t understand you, Angie.’ He looked away. ‘And that’s why I like you.’
He sounded so sad, she couldn’t bear it. ‘All right. A month. Let’s meet up in a month.’
‘So, you don’t want to go to the pictures now?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘OK.’ He turned, without his usual kiss, and she felt cold and empty.
CHAPTER 24
ON SATURDAY MORNING ANGIE SAT AT home in bed, in her winceyette pyjamas, feeling free. It would be hard having a weekend without Roger, but she’d said goodbye for a reason, and now she could stop agonising about whether she should be with Roger or not and get on with her life. She could do what she wanted, make the choices she wanted, be who she wanted.
She was sketching a new design, a floor-length dress, with a bias-cut skirt, with long tight sleeves and a scoop neck dotted with a few pearls. It was a wedding dress. It was an idea she’d had when she had sat in on the Professional Finishing Techniques class at the college, making an element of the sleeve correspond to something on the neckline, through different sorts of embroidery.
As she sketched, she hummed a Beatles tune. At first, she couldn’t name it, and then she realised it was ‘If I Needed Someone’. ‘Ah but I don’t,’ she whispered to herself.
There was a tap on her bedroom door. ‘Angie.’ Her mum’s voice came softly. ‘Are you awake?’ Gently the door opened and her mum, still in her housecoat and with a head full of curlers, peeped into the room.
‘Yes. Why, what time is it?’ By force of habit, Angie began pulling together the sheets of drawing paper that were strewn across the bed, hiding them from public gaze. But now it was different, they had money and she could do what she wanted, it didn’t matter who knew it. She looked at her mother’s face. ‘What’s wrong?’ She shuffled the sketches into a heap beside her and picked up her new watch. ‘It’s seven o’clock!’
‘Did you hear anything?’ Mrs Smith said.
‘What? Your face! What’s happened?’
Without answering, Mrs Smith called, ‘Doreen! Can you come in here?’
There was the sound of the bathroom door opening. ‘What? Where are you?’
‘In here.’
Doreen came into Angie’s room, in a nightdress with a towel wrapped round her head. She unwound the towel and began to dry her hair.
‘Why is everyone up so early on a Saturday?’ Angie said.
‘I have to go to work on a Saturday,’ Doreen said. ‘Unlike some people.’
‘You have Wednesday afternoons off.’
‘Girls. Stop,’ Mrs Smith said. ‘This is serious. I need your attention.’ She sank down onto Angie’s bed. She began to cry.
‘What? What?’ Angie stretched her arm out to her mother.
Doreen sat down beside her on the edge of the bed. ‘Mum? What’s happened?’ She studied her face. ‘What’s he done?’ Mrs Smith was silent. ‘He hasn’t hit you?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘You’re not ill, are you?’
Mrs Smith shook her head. She pulled a hanky from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘But it is your dad.’
‘What’s happened to him? Is he all right? Where is he?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Is he in hospital?’ Angie said. She began to rise from the bed.
Mrs Smith shook her head.
‘So what is it this time?’ Doreen sighed. ‘As if we couldn’t guess. Drunk himself into a stupor and spent the night in a ditch in Boreham.’
‘No. Well, I don’t think so. He’s gone.’
‘What do you mean?’ Angie said. She sank back into the blankets.
‘When I woke up this morning he wasn’t there. I went downstairs in case he’d gone down in the night and fallen asleep on the settee. He wasn’t there.’
‘Perhaps he’s staying at a friend’s,’ Angie said.
‘Well, perhaps. But . . .’ She gulped. ‘All his things have gone from the wardrobe.’
‘What do you mean? Why? None of his things are worth taking, are they?’
‘Oh, Doreen. He left this note on the draining board.’ She drew a scrap of paper from the pocket of her housecoat.
‘Are you sure?’ Angie said.
‘Draining board!’ Doreen said. ‘Doesn’t h
e know you have to leave notes on a dry surface if they’re going to be read?’
‘He doesn’t know what a draining board is for,’ said Angie.
Doreen pulled the note from her mother’s fingers. ‘“Sorry”,’ she read aloud. She turned over the piece of paper. There was nothing more. ‘Sorry? Sorry? Is that it? Sorry for what?’
‘For what he’s done.’
‘How far back are we going?’ Doreen said.
‘Don’t be stupid. Give me that.’ Mrs Smith snatched the note from Doreen’s fingers. She stared at it as if hidden in those letters was the full story, their life together, the better, the worse, the sickness and the health. ‘He’s gone. And so are all of his things. Oh, I should never have asked about the money.’
‘I thought he seemed happier recently,’ Angie said. ‘He made a joke last week, and another one the week before. I thought he was excited about Australia.’
‘He was excited about the money,’ Mum said.
‘But before that. I thought he was looking forward to it all.’
‘No, I pushed him too far about Australia. That’s why he’s gone.’
‘Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say,’ Doreen said.
‘But that’s not the worst part. I think – I think he’s probably taken all the money.’ Mrs Smith sobbed.
‘He’s what?!’ Doreen bounced up from the bed. ‘He’s bloody what?!’
‘What makes you think he’s taken all the money?’ Angie stroked her mum’s arm.
‘Well, you know, he set up a special bank account. The pools people paid it in there. They wanted to give him advice about what to do with it, but he said he didn’t need it because it was all arranged. He was opening bank accounts for all of us.’
‘Yes?’ said Doreen, a guttural sound from the back of her throat.
‘Well, last night I asked him about it, because you know, I’ve spent a little bit.’ She touched her hair. ‘And I know you both have.’ Angie and Doreen looked at each other.
‘I got a bloody great overdraft on the basis of it!’ Doreen said.
‘Well, half of that overdraft is mine,’ Angie whispered. She thought about the new suede coat, the sewing machine, the yards of wonderful silk and taffeta she had bought, the haircuts she had had.
‘So I said to him that we were all waiting. It was during the adverts. He’d come in when the news was on, and he sat down and it was all fine and dandy. He’d had a good evening. He said he’d seen a couple of mates he hadn’t seen in a while. They’d bought him a drink. I thought it was the right time to mention it. And he flew into a rage. Just like that. Jumped up in the air. Shouting that we were all ungrateful, that he was a hard-working man doing his best. No one gave him respect, he said. Respect! Where did he get that from? I was just pleased you girls didn’t hear. I haven’t seen him like that for a long time.’
Again, Angie scoured her mum’s face for bruises, but saw only red eyes.
‘And this morning,’ Mrs Smith raised her hands hopelessly, ‘he’s not here.’
‘No, no, it can’t be . . . Perhaps the note just means sorry for the row,’ Angie said.
‘Don’t be daft, he means sorry about the money,’ Doreen said. ‘Mum, tell me, please tell me that your name is on the main bank account!’
Mrs Smith shook her head.
‘Oh Mum.’ Angie and Doreen looked at each other.
‘He’s always looked after the money.’
‘Oh Mum,’ Doreen groaned. ‘That means he owns it all. All of it. No bank accounts for us, no measly five pound, ten pound handouts when he feels like it. Nothing. Nothing! It’s all gone. He’s gone.’
‘We don’t know that. Perhaps it’s not forever,’ Angie said. ‘Perhaps he’ll be back soon.’
‘Get you, Miss Sunshine,’ Doreen said. ‘Perhaps he’s had a personality change, and grown another three inches and got his own teeth back.’
‘He took all his clothes,’ Mrs Smith said, her voice wavering. ‘His warm winter clothes and his trousers as well as stuff that he wears in the summer – that shirt with the flamingos on.’
‘Perhaps he’s just gone on holiday,’ Angie said. ‘We don’t know, do we?’
‘He’s not coming back.’ Mrs Smith was still holding the note, in her hand, with her hanky.
Doreen took the note from her. ‘Don’t get it all creased up. We should keep this as evidence,’ she said.
‘Evidence of what?’ Angie said.
‘For when we are accused of murdering him and we have to plead justification.’ She flicked the note with her fingers. ‘“Sorry”! I’ll make him sorry.’
‘Did you hear anything in the night?’ Mrs Smith said to Angie.
‘No. Well, apart from Doreen coming in, and you going to the toilet. And then him. I thought he was going to the toilet.’
‘Don’t you ever sleep?’ Doreen asked.
‘Oh God,’ Angie said, ‘his suitcases. It’s nothing to do with your conversation last night, Mum. He’s been planning this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I went into the shed to get a screwdriver to put a plug on my new sewing machine, and there were two suitcases tucked away on the bottom shelf. I looked in one and there was a big woolly sweater I’d never seen before and some fancy slacks.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ wailed Mrs Smith.
‘I just assumed it was to do with Australia. I thought you’d both been out buying jazzy clothes for the trip.’
‘He obviously has.’ Doreen hissed, ‘Ohhh, what’s the betting that’s where he’s gone?’
‘No,’ her mum said. ‘I don’t think so. He wouldn’t do that. He doesn’t want to go to Australia.’ She looked at Doreen, ‘Don’t make that face. All right, maybe he has. Maybe,’ she said hopefully, ‘maybe he’s gone to get it ready for us. To make it nice.’
‘And maybe he’s flown Pig Airlines. When has Dad ever done anything like that?’ Doreen said.
Mrs Smith’s head hung lower and she sobbed again. Angie put her arm round her. ‘It’s not all bad, Mum.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘We’ve got each other. We’ve got our health and strength.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Doreen said. ‘I think I might have a heart attack.’
Angie frowned at her. ‘We won’t have the smell of beer all through the house. He won’t be sick in the bathroom anymore.’
‘But all that money!’ her mum said. ‘I was going to get you both such lovely things. It was going to make such a difference.’
‘Well it already has,’ said Doreen. ‘I’ve pretty much spent my share. I was working on the basis he was a decent human being and when he said he’d give us all something that that’s what he was going to do. Share it out equally, so we could all buy a car and maybe even a house each. And so like a fool, I arranged the overdraft with the bank. And then I bought the car. Oh, the car!’ She sank down on the bed. ‘My lovely beautiful car. Whatever am I going to do?’
‘How much have you spent?’ asked her mum.
‘Let’s just say it goes into four figures, and then some.’
‘Oh, love,’ her mum whispered.
Angie put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh no. Oh no! This is terrible.’
‘We know!’ Doreen said.
‘But really terrible for me. My new job. I can’t do it. I can’t afford it. The wages are almost nothing, and with my fares and everything, I’m paying them to employ me. If the money’s gone I can’t afford it. I’ll have to leave,’ Angie whispered. Tears trembled in her eyes.
‘Oh Angie,’ Doreen said.
‘And then we’ll have to send everything back.’ Angie looked over at the smart, shiny case beside her dressing table, the case that held her sewing machine – the magic of stitches and all the clothes she was going to create, the gowns, the dresses, the jackets, the boleros. She scrambled out of bed. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’
They gathered in the kitchen. Mrs Smith had swapped her h
ousecoat for an overall. She had taken out her curlers but she hadn’t brushed her hair and she had tight roller-shaped curls all over her head. In silence, she put the kettle on the stove. Doreen put slices of bread under the grill. Angie clattered in the cutlery drawer for knives and took plates down from the cupboard. She put the marge and marmalade on the table.
They sat down and looked at each other.
‘So,’ said Doreen. ‘What are we going to do? I’m the eldest, so I have to ask the questions. Mum’s in no state. She went through three hankies while the kettle was boiling.’
‘Haven’t we got to find out if it’s true or not?’
‘How? He’s not here,’ Doreen said.
‘Perhaps he’s had a heart attack,’ Mum said. ‘Perhaps we should ring the hospital and see if he’s there.’
‘Or the police station to see if he’s there.’ Doreen began spreading toast with margarine.
‘He left a note,’ Mum said.
‘That is so dramatic, it must be true.’
‘Well, it might be true he’s gone, but it might not be true he’s taken the money,’ Angie said.
Doreen snorted. ‘He’s said sorry. That’s what he’s apologising for.’
Mum’s voice wavered. ‘Shouldn’t we check?’
‘The banks are closed,’ Doreen said.
‘Would the pools people know? Reg might know. He might be able to stop it.’ As each new idea came to her, Mum’s eyes lit up for a moment.
‘I don’t think so.’ Doreen put more toast on their plates. ‘Dad was determined to do it his way, with no one knowing our business. We didn’t even know our business! So I doubt Reg would. And I don’t think Reg has got that kind of power, anyway.’ She looked at her mum’s red eyes, and Angie’s tear-streaked face. ‘I think we should wait till Monday. Then we’ll really know what we’re dealing with.’ She leaned across the table and picked up a packet of Benson and Hedges. She walked across to the stove and leaned over a burner to light her cigarette. She inhaled deeply. ‘Back to Embassy after this.’ She sat down again. ‘I’m going to have to get rid of the car, obviously.’
‘Will they take it back at the garage?’
‘They’d better. Or I’ll put an advert in the paper. One careful lady owner. It’s as good as new.’
The Girls from Greenway Page 20
