‘Good Lord! Well, you certainly deserve anything you get.’ Jim picked up his knife and fork and put them down again. ‘Oh, Sally, I feel so guilty now for grumbling about yer looking after him.’
‘Well, you’ve no need, you did enough for him too. No, Jim, it’s me who should feel guilty, for neglecting you like I did.’
She started to cry then and Jim jumped up, knocking over a chair as he reached out to hold her. ‘Oh, come on, love, it’s over now. Walter’s out of his misery, the poor old thing. Look, once we get the funeral over we’ll go away for a few days. Well, it’ll ’ave to be just for the weekend, but still, it’ll be a change.’
Sally wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘We’ll see. Come on, the dinner’s going cold.’
Jim started on his rabbit stew but Sally sat staring at her plate. ‘What’s up?’ He looked worried. ‘Come on, love, you’ll ’ave to eat summat. Where’s Daisy?’
‘At our Enid’s. Jim, do you realise what this means? How much is involved?’
‘Well, we won’t know exactly until we clear the house, but what does it matter?’ He suddenly thought he understood. ‘Do yer mean, it’s going to cost us, for the funeral? Oh, Sally, you do realise you might have to part with some of the old man’s things to pay for it? I don’t know if our savings’ll run to all of it.’
‘No, the insurance should cover that. What I mean is, everything has been left to us – and that includes the house.’
‘What?’ Jim’s fork hung in mid-air, a piece of rabbit leg still attached to it.
‘He owned the house, and now it’s ours.’
‘But I thought … well, I didn’t really think about it at all. I just surmised it was rented, like ours.’
‘Well, it wasn’t. Walter had owned it for fifty-three years, ever since it was built. He wanted something to pass down to his children, Mr Dunstone told me.’
It was suddenly all too much for Sally. She could hardly continue speaking for the lump in her throat. ‘The children they wanted so much and never had.’ She did her best not to cry.
Jim put down his cutlery and came towards her. ‘Please don’t, Sally. I can’t bear it when yer cry.’ He held her close, rocking her like a baby. ‘Come on, love, look at it this way. They obviously looked upon yer as the daughter they’d wanted so much. You certainly looked after them like a daughter would, so what is there to cry about? Oh, but Sally, are yer certain about the house? It isn’t all a mistake?’
‘No, it’s ours, Jim. According to Mr Dunstone nothing can change that. Though Charlotte what’s-her-name will no doubt try.’
Her husband’s face brightened. ‘Let her try her damnedest! If it’s our house, nobody’s going to take it away from us.’ He looked at Sally then. ‘Sorry, love, it’s yours, not ours. What are yer going to do with it? You could always sell it and be a woman of means? Put it in the bank for a rainy day.’
‘No, Jim, what’s mine is yours, and always will be. We’re going to live in it! Just think, no more rent to pay and an extra bedroom in case we have a son. Oh, Jim, I do feel so guilty about being excited when Walter is barely cold … Let’s eat our dinner, and then there’s the house to clear.’ She began to laugh. ‘What am I on about? We’ve no need to clear anything, it’s all ours, and Mrs Simms and I have actually started packing things up. Even so, there’s still a funeral to arrange …’
It was a beautiful funeral – according to Emily Simms who was a connoisseur, having attended every one taking place in Millington for years, regardless of whether she knew the poor departed soul or not. There were no more than a couple of dozen mourners in the church, which was all Sally had expected seeing, as Walter Jessops’ friends and workmates had passed on years ago. Nevertheless, there were representatives present from most houses in the rows, and Mr Baraclough had even closed the shop for an hour so that he and his wife could pay their respects.
Sally noticed a stranger standing at the back of the church and would have invited him back for refreshments had he not hurried away. Afterwards Mrs Simms told her it was Brady Scott. ‘Fancy him turning up, and her not having the decency to attend her own uncle’s funeral. Mind you, he always was a gentleman. Too good for the likes of Charlotte, even if he was one of them theer artists.’
‘Well, with her not being left anything, she must be absolutely devastated.’
‘Devastated? She’ll be more than devastated.’
‘I hope she doesn’t cause any trouble. After all, she had a right to expect more, as his only relative.’
‘Then she should ’ave acted more like a relative.’
By seven o’clock everybody had left for home except Mary and Tom. It was the first funeral they had attended since their daughter’s, and even though it must have been an ordeal for them, they were doing their best to cheer up Sally and tuck into the leftovers.
‘That’s it, eat as much as yer can,’ Jim begged them. ‘Otherwise I shall be taking dry sandwiches to work for the next three or four days.’
Sally was glad of Mary and Tom’s company, too, and very relieved that the sad occasion was over.
Charlotte Kaye was too busy scheming to attend the funeral, even if she’d wanted to. The van was hired and Mark had been ordered to collect it after work. He wasn’t at all pleased with her plan but knew better than to refuse to indulge his volatile new wife. Sometimes he wondered what he had ever seen in Charlotte. She was definitely a beauty – well, had been. Still was when she was all done up. It was at times like these, though, that he saw beneath the surface. Her mood swings could be frightening. Then she would forget to apply the Pond’s cream and powder to her face and the crêpey skin would be visible. He had to admit the stronger attraction he’d felt hadn’t been to Charlotte anyway, he had needed a home. And some home it was too. All paid for by Brady Scott’s remarkable talent.
The fine house had come at a price, though. Charlotte Scott needed a man, and not just any man – one she could flaunt to her so-called friends. A young man, a good-looking man, a stud. So they had both got what they wanted, and now he was paying. Charlotte was a strange woman; sometimes he thought her unhinged. The best thing to do would be to fall in with her plans. He’d learned by now it was the only way to keep the peace.
Jim had written to his Aunt Jane and Uncle Jack, announcing they’d be coming for a visit at the weekend. They didn’t need an invitation, the elderly couple were always delighted to see them, and Daisy loved the time spent with her great-aunt and uncle. Their little cottage at Springvale was just a short walk from the river and in summer it was great for picnics and paddling. Daisy would help Jack to feed the chickens and spoil the many cats who were in and out all day, regardless of whether they belonged there or not.
Sally loved Aunt Jane, and when Jim and his uncle were not slaking the dust at the Britannia close by with a pint or three, they would bring out the huge compendium of games and keep Daisy occupied with Snakes and Ladders, Ludo and Happy Families. Uncle Jack was also a big fan of ITMA on the wireless. The programme had been taken off for a while the year before and its return had been a great boost to his spirits. Uncle Jack liked to make Daisy laugh by eating mixed-up things, like kippers spread with jam, and she was so enthralled by his odd habits that she usually ate everything put in front of her on these visits.
Uncle Jack’s chickens appeared to be permanently on his mind and during the night he seemed to wake up every hour to remind his wife about them. They would all hear him.
‘Jane lass, are yer awake?’
‘I am now you’ve woke me.’
‘Aye, well, don’t forget to feed them theer hens in’t morning, will yer?’
‘No, Jack, I won’t forget.’ Then after a while, just when everyone had dropped off to sleep, ‘Jane lass, are yer asleep?’
‘Aye, what now?’
‘Don’t forget to feed them theer hens, will yer?’
‘Jack, it’s two o’clock in’t morning.’
‘Aye, well, I thought I’d just remind thee.
’
‘Yer’ve already reminded me. Go to sleep.’
‘Goodneet then.’
‘Goodnight.’
Sally and Jim would be trying to stifle their laughter as the conversation penetrated the thin walls. Then, on the third reminder, ‘Jane lass, are yer waken?’ Jim could control himself no longer.
‘Jack!’ he called.
‘Aah?’ Uncle Jack asked.
‘Have yer ever thought about feeding them theer hens yerself?’
‘Aah,’ Uncle Jack answered, ‘I all’s feed ’em meself. I’m just reminding our lass, in case I forget.’
Sally and Jim by this time would be nearly in hysterics.
Sometimes they would all walk to Ingbirchworth to visit another aunt of Jim’s. Aunt Lizzie’s house was opposite a farm and the cattle would stand gazing in at the window. Daisy and the children of Jim’s cousins would be allowed the run of the farm and spent many happy hours sliding down the hay in the Dutch barn and playing rounders in the field, not that Daisy played a very active part in the ball games, preferring to watch her cousins as she picked flowers from the meadow.
Daisy always came back with a little more colour in her cheeks after those happy weekends away. This time, though, it was Sally who seemed to reap the most benefit from the change. She had recovered her spirits after the anxiety of the past few weeks.
When they left Springvale for the long trek back to Millington, Uncle Jack told Daisy she looked just like Shirley Temple. Oh, she did love Uncle Jack, and didn’t in the least mind him waking her up in the night, talking about his chickens. She ran her fingers through her hair. It did feel curly, like on the picture she had seen of Shirley Temple. She would ask Mam to buy her a Shirley Temple frock, like Una Bacon’s on Barkers Row, and a new dress for Baby Doll too.
The only one who didn’t benefit from the weekend away was Dippy the dog. He was used to the peace and quiet of number nine, and being placed in the care of Bernard and Enid meant two boisterous, giggly girls to contend with as well. He sulked the whole time and ate nothing, not even a biscuit, and if he could have talked he would have complained about Daisy taking that pampered Baby Doll with her and leaving Dippy in lodgings.
Charlotte had a key to Uncle Walter’s house; had had it since Aunt Clara was alive. She’d been able to come and go as she liked in those days. In fact, they had doted on her then, and nothing had been too good for their niece. It was only when Uncle Walter had hinted that the money was about to run out that she’d stopped visiting. After all, with only their pension left to live on there would be no more holidays forthcoming for her, no more handouts for birthdays or Christmas. Just tokens, not worth the boredom of having to sit and listen to their endless conversation about the old days. Why should Charlotte care about what her mother had got up to as a teenager? Or how her grandmother had had to walk several miles to work each day in order to keep her children fed after she was widowed? Charlotte had only been there for the money, and when that was gone, so was she.
Still, she had kept the key, there in the bottom of her handkerchief box. The only thing that would stop her now was if the lock had been changed, which would have been extremely unlikely at Uncle Walter’s age. She would keep everything she took for a while, in case there was any trouble. She didn’t envisage any, though. She had planned everything perfectly and found a secure hiding place, behind a false wall Brady had fitted to cover the alcove in their bedroom. It had been easy for Mark to remove it, and once it had been replaced nobody would detect a thing. The whole lot would be safe there until she was sure the police hadn’t been involved.
Charlotte wasn’t anticipating any trouble from that Sally woman; she had a feeling she was far too soft-hearted to cause any. She’d sounded so apologetic on the phone for ever bothering Charlotte, and judging by the way she had devoted her time to Uncle Walter, must be too obliging for her own good. She was just the type to believe all the stuff should be Charlotte’s anyway! No, that meek little woman was unlikely to cause a fuss, and if she did, there would be no sign of the stolen property anyway. It was all down to Mark now, and he had better not let her down, or else.
‘There’s a funfair down in the field at Don Farm,’ Alfie Ramsgate announced. He always struck up a conversation halfway down his second pint; if he made it last it would be time to go home by the time he’d finished it, and then he could escape without buying a round.
‘Ger away!’ Tom exclaimed. ‘I never thought they’d be allowed in wartime.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that, but anyway they turned up yesterday.’
‘Good job the nights are lighter,’ Tom said. ‘They certainly won’t be allowed to show any lights.’
‘How long are they ’ere for?’ Jim looked thoughtful.
‘Don’t know. If they’re not ’ere legally, they might be gone by tomorrer.’ Jim downed his drink and picked up his jacket. ‘Right, I’m off.’
‘ ’Ere, hang on, it’s not closing time for another quarter of an hour.’ Tom wondered if Jim had a promise on and was eager to get home to bed.
‘And it’s Saturday,’ Alfie reminded him.
‘I’m going to take our Daisy to’t fair.’
‘What, at this time of night? She’ll be fast asleep.’
‘Then she’ll just ’ave to wake up. I doubt she’ll complain. We might not see another for years.’
‘Aye, yer right, Jim. Hang on, I’ll come with yer and take our Stanley.’ Though Tom wondered what Mary would say to that.
Alfie thought he might as well go with them, seeing as he’d have to buy his own beer if he stayed.
Sally was listening to a scary play on the wireless and nearly jumped off the sofa when Jim came home so early. ‘What’s the matter, has the Sun burned down?’ she quipped.
‘No, I’m taking our Daisy to’t fair.’
‘Oh, no, you’re not, it’s nearly ten o’clock.’
‘So? It’ll make it more exciting for ’er.’
Jim went upstairs and shook his daughter gently. ‘Daisy, come on, wake up, love.’
‘Daddy, I thought you were a monster.’ She was immediately wide awake and inquisitive about what was happening. Jim lifted her out of bed, put on her slippers and carried her downstairs. He put her gabardine coat on over her nighty and lifted her up on to his shoulders. Sally thought he must be drunk.
‘Are you mad?’ She tried to lift her daughter down.
‘No, just giving me daughter summat to remember when she grows up. Are yer coming with us then?’
Sally shook her head vigorously. ‘One idiot in the family is quite enough,’ she said.
Tom and Stanley were already waiting, Stanley jumping up and down with excitement. Alfie tagged on behind.
The funfair wasn’t much of one, but to the two children it was the best fair in the whole world. They rode on the Noah’s Ark, Daisy squealing with delight as the ride went faster and faster and not once complaining about feeling sick. They dodged each other on the dodgems, and went higher and higher on the swing boats.
‘You ought to ’ave brought your Kitty,’ Jim told Alf. ‘Yer could ’ave snuggled up in’t Ghost Train.’
‘Our Kitty in’t Ghost Train? They’d think she wor one of the ghouls. Wi’ a face like hers, she’d frighten anybody to death.’
Jim and Tom laughed and enjoyed cat-calling at a group of teenage girls who were flaunting themselves at the three men. Jim won a fairing for Daisy, an ornament in the shape of a cottage.
‘It’s my favourite thing in the whole world,’ she exclaimed. She fell asleep on the way home but Jim knew she would remember this night for the rest of her life.
Stanley had won a pot dog. It was a hideous-looking thing but he carried it home carefully. He would save it till Christmas; it would make a good present for his mam.
‘It’s the best night I’ve had in my whole life,’ he told Tom.
‘Come on, little lad,’ Alfie said. ‘Jump up on my back and I’ll give yer a ride.’ Alfi
e was glad he’d mentioned the fair. Seeing the excitement on the kid’s faces had been grand. He wished he’d thought of summat like that when their Florence was little.
His face clouded as he thought about the grandchild they might have had, had it not been for that bloody wife of his letting his daughter down. Then he realised he was as much to blame as she was, for not standing up for their Florence in her time of need.
Mark Kaye drew up outside the empty house. All was quiet. Once he had made sure all the neighbouring houses were in darkness, he had driven round the back. Even if anyone had still been awake, their blackout curtains would prevent him from being seen. Charlotte had told him it was the back door key he had. He held his breath as he tried it in the lock. Yes! He fumbled for the light switch and let out a string of expletives as he realised what a fool he was. Of course the houses had no electricity – not everyone could afford a house like Brady Scott’s.
He went out to the van to look for a torch, without success. He dug in his pocket for his lighter instead. Things weren’t going to plan.
He almost fell once inside as his foot caught the edge of a box. He lifted a flap and felt inside: crockery, Charlotte hadn’t mentioned any crockery. Clocks, jewellery, pictures, yes. He could make out the shapes of some pictures still on the wall. He opened the blinds to let in the moonlight. He plucked the pictures from the wall and placed them near the door. Clocks! There was nothing resembling a wall clock, but wait … there were some vases, standing wrapped tightly in tissue paper, their shapes clearly visible. He found the stairs next and fumbled his way up, then he tried the lighter again. He could see the clocks standing in a row, covered in cloth. He lifted off one of the covers and found one of them still ticking merrily. Suddenly the tallest of them chimed, almost giving him a heart attack. He carried them, one at a time, downstairs, still trembling from the shock. Bloody hell, why had he ever agreed to do this?
Where the Heart Is Page 6
