by Pam Weaver
All at once she remembered that other letter, the one that had come this morning. What did it say?
Her eyes were beginning to fill but she dared not cry. If he heard her, he’d be angry. He hated it when she cried. She closed her eyes. Was there anything about her he liked? How she wished Aunt Bessie was still here. Right now Dottie would have given her right arm for a crumb of affection or a cuddle.
Reg began to snore and Dottie slipped her hand under her nightie. She began to stroke herself until a warm glow washed over her. She’d better stop. It was a nice feeling but not even that took away the ache she had in her heart. If anything, it only left her even more frustrated. She was only twenty-seven and the thought of all those long lonely years stretching out before her was quite frightening.
It was no good. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. Why get all maudlin and depressed? She had to make the best of it. She turned onto her side, away from him and, feeling under her pillow for her hankie, she blew her nose softly. Then she lay back down, willing herself not to think about it any more. There wasn’t much love but she could set her mind to honour and obey. That would have to do for now.
‘Oh God,’ she prayed, ‘give me strength. I don’t think I can do this on my own …’
When Sylvie got into her own room and switched on the light, her suitcase was still on the bed. She moved it onto the chair and picked up a few things scattered on the top of the chest of drawers. She was surprised to see her panties draped over her hairbrush and comb. That’s funny, she thought, as she tidied them into the drawer.
She arranged her face powder, hand cream, lipstick and talc into some semblance of order and fished around in her bag for a hairnet. Then she took out her nightdress, bed jacket, slippers and book.
It was quite a ritual getting ready for bed. Robin always laughed at her but it had to be done. First she undressed and put on her nightie. Then she removed all her make-up. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Only the cold-water tap was working. How Dottie put up with this primitive way of life she couldn’t understand. She washed herself in the freezing water, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair and put the hairnet right over the top.
Back in her room, she creamed her knees and her elbows. Then, sitting on the bed, she creamed her face, making sure to include twenty strokes across each cheek, twenty on her forehead and twenty-five across her throat in a vigorous upward motion from the base of her neck to her chin. That was to ward off a turkey neck in later life. Next she creamed her hands and put on some cotton gloves.
It was as she climbed into bed that Sylvie noticed the picture. It was on the floor, part way under the chest of drawers. She picked it up. How did that get down there? She’d left it at the back of the dressing table.
Then it dawned on her. Someone had been in here. They’d been touching the picture … her panties … She shuddered. Reg. Who else could it be? Dear God, he’d been touching her underwear.
She jumped out of bed and opened the drawer. Everything was there but she took out the French knickers, holding them between her thumb and forefinger as if they were soiled. She threw them back into the case. She couldn’t wear them. She might even destroy them. What a good job she’d brought plenty of other things. The very thought of wearing something Reg had fingered made her feel ill.
Another thought crossed her mind. If Reg had been snooping around looking at her underwear, was he really the kind of man to father a little girl? Yet she knew Dottie was counting on her help. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the picture again. Even though there was a war on, they had been much happier times. Dottie, her much younger self and Aunt Bessie smiled back at her.
‘What do you think I should do about it?’ she whispered to Aunt Bessie. But the woman behind the frame carried on smiling.
Sylvie lay down and pulled up the covers. If she did give them the money for Patsy’s fare, she would have to ensure that there were some safeguards for both Dottie and the child. Reg mustn’t be allowed to have everything his own way. She wished she could persuade Dottie to get shot of him, but that wasn’t very likely, was it?
‘I used to think it was odd that you didn’t like Reg,’ she told Aunt Bessie, as she turned out the light. ‘But now, I’m pretty sure I don’t like him either. Creepy bastard.’
Seventeen
Michael’s wedding day dawned dull and overcast. Dottie slipped out of bed almost as soon as it was light. By the time Reg came downstairs she had cleared up his dinner things from the night before and laid the table for breakfast.
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Fancy a spot of porridge?’
‘I’ll go down the garden and feed the pig first,’ he said pulling on his boots. ‘You were late coming home last night.’
‘Sylvie took me into Worthing for a meal.’
‘Our food not good enough for her then?’ he accused darkly.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Dottie. ‘We’d finished at the hall and I knew you would already be at the Jolly Farmer so when she suggested taking me out as a little treat, I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Mind? Why should I mind when my wife goes gallivanting all over the place in her friend’s flash car, leaving the house in a bloody mess? Where did she take you for this little treat? Some swanky place, no doubt.’
Dottie didn’t want a row and he was getting himself all worked up.
‘I should have asked you first, Reg. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘All I can say is thank God she’s going home today,’ he said, ‘then things can get back to normal.’
He swept past her and disappeared up the garden. Dottie poured herself a cup of tea. Her hand was trembling. He was going to be really worked up by the time they had to go the wedding. No … no, he wouldn’t. Not with Sylvie here. He wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of her. Dottie glanced at the clock. 8.15am. She couldn’t worry about Reg now, she had such a lot to do. She’d have to get on.
By the time Sylvie came downstairs, the kitchen dresser was open and the enamel table inside the drop-down drawer was covered with ingredients. Dottie was well underway with baking a couple of batches of fairy cakes and a Victoria sponge.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Dottie asked as Sylvie came yawning into the kitchen.
‘Yes, fine. Gosh, you’re busy. Where’s Reg?’
‘Outside in the garden. Fancy a bit of porridge?’
Sylvie shook her head and sat down. ‘A bit of toast and a cigarette will suit me fine.’
Dottie put some sliced bread under the grill.
‘Shall I call Reg?’ yawned Sylvie. She seemed to be struggling to wake up.
‘He’ll be busy with the pig by now,’ Dottie smiled. ‘He said he’d have a sarnie before we go.’
While Sylvie enjoyed some toast and a cigarette, Dottie started on the sandwiches for the wedding breakfast.
‘How many are you doing?’ Sylvie asked.
‘I’ve been asked to do egg and paste.’
Sylvie screwed up her nose. ‘What, together?’
‘No,’ Dottie laughed. ‘A loaf of each. We’re all sharing the cost of the reception. This is our present to him although I’ve already bought him a little something.’
‘What little something?’ Sylvie wanted to know.
‘A set of fruit bowls,’ smiled Dottie. ‘I saw it in the market about a month ago. Very reasonable. 15/6.’ She opened the cupboard under the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a small box.
‘Very pretty,’ said Sylvie, undoing the box and taking one out. ‘I’ve brought him some bed linen.’
‘You can never have enough linen,’ Dottie chirped.
Sylvie took a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Leave him,’ she said, glancing out of the window to check Reg wasn’t coming.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. Leave him. You’re worth much more than this. You deserve to be happy.’
Dottie’s eyes blazed. ‘Sylvie, don’t.’
‘You could come back with me,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘Robin and I will give you a new start until you can sell this place …’
‘I don’t even own this place,’ said Dottie.
Sylvie frowned. ‘But I thought Aunt Bessie …’
‘For some reason best known to herself,’ Dottie retorted, ‘Aunt Bessie left this cottage in trust until I’m thirty.’
Sylvie stared at her thoughtfully. ‘How very frustrating for Reg.’
‘And what do you mean by that?’ Dottie flew back.
‘Nothing,’ said Sylvie innocently. ‘A throwaway remark, that’s all.’
Dottie continued cutting the loaf of sandwiches.
‘How on earth do you get the bread so thin?’ Sylvie asked. ‘If it were down to me, I’d have bought a cut loaf.’
‘Homemade is always nicer,’ said Dottie relaxing. A little later she added, ‘You’re right. He is frustrated about Aunt Bessie’s money. Like I told you, Reg wants us to move to Brighton and take up a seaside boarding house. We can still do it of course, but it can’t be for at least another year and even then it will be difficult.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I can still spend the money and all that but I have to get the approval of the board of trustees for anything major until I’m thirty,’ said Dottie. ‘But don’t say anything, will you? Reg doesn’t know that bit yet. I didn’t want to upset him.’
Sylvie flicked some ash from her skirt. ‘I bet that’ll go down like a lead balloon.’
Dottie held her tongue. She finished the loaf and turned around looking for a tin to pack them in.
‘Look at me, just sitting here watching you,’ said Sylvie, stubbing out her cigarette. She stood up and grabbed an apron from the back of the kitchen chair. ‘Come on now. What shall I do?’
Dottie pointed to the fairy cakes cooling on the wire rack. ‘Fancy putting a bit of icing on them? Time’s getting on and we have to be at the hall by twelve.’
At quarter to two, as they walked the short distance from the car to the church, Dottie slipped her arm through Reg’s. She was determined to show Sylvie just how happy she could be.
Michael Gilbert was already waiting in the church. He looked very different in his smart double-breasted brown pinstriped suit. His unruly hair was slicked down, although a few wayward curls had worked loose and flopped attractively onto his forehead. His weather-beaten face glowed.
‘He looks incredibly handsome,’ Sylvie whispered as they sat down.
Dottie nodded. She hadn’t realised before how good-looking Michael was. ‘I’ve always thought of him like a little brother,’ she smiled. ‘But you’re right. Today he looks every inch the man.’
Tom Prior poked her in the back. ‘The bugger’s already proved that,’ he whispered with a grin.
Dottie and Sylvie giggled. Reg picked up his hymnbook and stared ahead, stony-faced.
They waited quietly until the vicar walked down the aisle and instructed them to all stand. The organ struck up.
Freda looked a picture in her long satin dress. Defiantly, she’d worn white, though her thickening waist and the roundness of her stomach was obvious. Her dress had long sleeves and the mitre-shaped cuff had a small loop to go over her long finger on each hand. The scooped neckline was edged with lace. There was lace on the bodice reaching under the bust, ending in a large bow. Matching lace circled the hem and met at another large bow. She wore her mother’s pearls, three handsome strands which no one would have guessed had come from Woolworths just before the war, if her mother hadn’t told everyone last night as they prepared the hall.
Freda’s wedding bouquet was enormous. Those who looked forward to dishing out acid remarks noted that it obscured her shape beautifully, covering her from waist to thigh in early autumn reds and golds.
The service brought tears to Dottie’s eyes.
Reg turned and whispered, ‘Remember? For better for worse, ’till death do us part?’
At the other end of the pew, Heather from the florist shop leaned forward to listen to their conversation. ‘Aaaah,’ she sighed happily; but Dottie didn’t smile. Something about the way Reg had said it chilled her very soul.
After the service, someone got out a Box Brownie and they all posed in the churchyard for photographs.
Because hers was the only car, Sylvie had offered to drive the bride and groom the short distance to the reception. At this point, several other Box Brownies appeared and people took turns to stand next to the Humber with the bride and groom inside. Michael and Freda seemed very happy.
Rose was in tears. ‘Don’t they look a picture?’ she said as Edna handed her a lace handkerchief. ‘So romantic.’
Freda’s father muttered something about Freda making sure she kept the bouquet in front of her and got a nudge in his ribs for his trouble.
‘Come on, Dot,’ said Reg. ‘Let’s pose by the car.’
He took her wrist painfully and pulled her towards the Humber. ‘Take a picture of me and my old lady with the bride and groom, will you? I want to give her something to remember the day.’
The photographer lined up his camera and Dottie and Reg stood beside Michael and Freda.
‘Smile, love,’ Reg called out.
Dottie did her best, but her heart was thumping. What was he up to? Everybody was happy and smiling, but she could sense the undercurrent more strongly than ever.
The picture was taken. ‘Thanks, mate,’ said Reg as he spotted the vicar coming out of the side door of the church. ‘You walk on up to the hall, sweetheart. I’m just going to have a word with Rev. Roberts,’ he said. ‘See if he’d like some of my chrysanthemums for the harvest festival.’
Dottie smiled nervously.
‘Are you ready?’ Sylvie asked.
Michael helped Freda into the car and then went round to the other door. Sylvie leaned out of the driver’s window and gave her a wink. ‘Don’t let them get back to the hall too quickly, Dottie. I’m taking Michael and Freda the long way round.’
The wedding party cheered as she pulled out into the road and headed towards Worthing and, presumably, the seafront.
Dottie fell into step with Edna Gilbert, offering the older woman her arm. ‘You never come up to the farm to see me these days, Dottie,’ she chided.
‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m just so busy.’
‘Things all right with you and Reg?’
‘Fine.’ I’m becoming a good liar, she thought to herself.
‘No sign of a little one yet?’
‘No,’ said Dottie, and seeing the expression on Edna’s face, she added with a smile, ‘not yet anyway.’
‘You know about Freda of course?’
‘You’ll make a wonderful granny,’ said Dottie, squeezing her arm.
Edna snorted playfully and changing the subject said, ‘Here, Dottie, I hear you’re a dab hand with that sewing machine of yours. Would you come up to the farm sometime? I’d like you to do a little something for me.’
Once they returned from their romantic drive along the seafront, the bride and groom stood by the door to receive their guests.
‘You look so beautiful,’ Dottie told the bride as she shuffled along the line.
Michael leaned forward and kissed Dottie on the cheek. It was a featherlike touch but afterwards Dottie couldn’t look him in the eye. Her heart was beating very fast. ‘I wish you all the luck in the world,’ she said quietly.
‘Thanks, Dottie.’
She glanced up at him and felt her face flame. Reg stuck his hand out in front of Michael and the two men shook hands. Dottie hoped to God Reg hadn’t seen her blushing. Why on earth had she done it? Probably because it had been so long since she’d felt such a tender touch.
The three of them were to sit together, Sylvie then Reg and Dottie, but first the women had to make sure everyone else was happy and settled. As Freda’s mother lit the four candles on the top table next to the wedding cake, Dottie and Mary whipped off the damp tea towels they’d put over
the sandwiches to keep them moist and began serving teas. Reg ate alone until they joined him, but he carried on a lively conversation with those nearby.
‘Reg is in good form,’ Sylvie remarked.
Dottie nodded. Yes, yes he was, wasn’t he? She was getting herself all in a lather over nothing. He was enjoying himself that was all. How silly she’d been.
After the meal, the speeches and the cutting of the cake, someone produced a piano accordion so the men cleared away the tables to make room for dancing. Dottie, Mary and several other women went into the kitchen to start on the clearing up.
It was highly unlikely that Reg would come into the kitchen so Dottie pulled Mary to one side. ‘Have you heard any news about Gary?’
Mary let out a long sigh. ‘It’s not good,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s come through it, but he’s lost the use of his right leg and the left one is very weak.’
Dottie put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh no.’
‘Peaches has gone to live with her mother for the time being,’ Mary went on. ‘Gary has been moved to Courtlands.’
‘That place Princess Elizabeth visited earlier this year?’
Mary nodded. ‘Apparently they do special exercises for kiddies with infantile paralysis there.’
‘What about the baby?’ asked Dottie. ‘It must be due any time now.’
