by Pam Weaver
‘Bread and cheese?’ she asked.
‘I’d rather have you all over again.’
Dottie looked at the ceiling. ‘Sylvie’s up there,’ she squeaked. ‘She might come down.’
‘I like it best when somebody’s listening. Adds more spice to it.’ He let her go, slapping her bottom. ‘Another time, eh?’
Dottie pulled down the kitchen cabinet and got out the bread. Her hands were trembling so much as she cut the slice, she didn’t get it very straight. Normally Reg didn’t like it when she messed things up but today he took it as a good omen.
‘Looks like I’ve got you all of a dither,’ he smiled.
She sat down in the armchair and put her hands around a new cup of tea.
He buttered his bread thickly. ‘Cheese?’
‘Sorry.’
She went to get up, but he raised his hand. ‘I’ll get it.’
As he bent to look in the cupboard, a head appeared at the window. The tramp, under an umbrella, his knuckles poised over the glass, peered into the room. Dottie leapt to her feet and shook her head. The tramp followed the direction of her eyes.
‘Let me find it for you, Reg,’ she said. Bending beside him, she reached into the cupboard and drew out the cheese dish. When she stood up, the tramp had gone.
‘I was looking for a piece of cheese,’ Reg snapped. ‘Not a bloody dish.’
I have kept the cheese in that dish ever since we got married, she thought crossly, but she said nothing. Instead, she went back to the chair and sat down. Please don’t let the tramp look through the window again, she thought anxiously.
They sat in silence as Reg ate his breakfast, then he stood up and reached for his coat in the nail behind the door. ‘You do the animals,’ he said, coming over to her. ‘The rain will most likely clear up soon.’
Flinching, she didn’t know what she was expecting him to do – but it certainly wasn’t to plant a kiss on the top of her head. In the minutes while he was getting his bike out of the shed, she sat very still, listening to the slow tick-tocking of the clock. She was confused. How could someone be so horrible at one time and then, a few hours later, be so nice?
Reg put his head around the door again. ‘Oh and Dottie,’ he said pleasantly.
Relaxing, she smiled up at him. ‘Yes, Reg?’
‘Make sure you get rid of that silly bitch upstairs before I come home.’
As soon as she was sure he had gone, Dottie stood up and went into the scullery. She made a third pot of tea and cut a couple of doorstep slices of bread and a hunk of cheese. It had stopped raining now but when she walked outside the tramp’s tin can wasn’t on the windowsill. Where was he? Perhaps sheltering from the rain somewhere? Then, as she turned to go back inside, she jumped a mile high. The tramp was standing right behind her.
‘Lord, you made me jump,’ she cried, clutching at her chest.
He didn’t move.
‘I’ll get your tea.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘No need.’
She’d never seen him this close up before. His face was dark and swarthy but he didn’t smell. In fact, he looked quite presentable, even smart. His features were weather-beaten and he was a lot younger than she had first thought – about fortyish, with tousled hair and watery blue grey eyes. She could see at once that his eyes were filled with sadness and she wondered what had happened to him that he should have been reduced to this. She wondered if he had been in action because he was wearing an army greatcoat. Hitler and that accursed war had damaged so many people in more ways than bombs alone could.
‘Can I get you anything else?’ Dottie asked gently.
‘The old lady in the mauve dress …’ The sound of his voice was a surprise. Quiet, with a gentle Irish lilt. She had expected something else altogether: for it perhaps to be deeper, or a voice coated with rattling phlegm.
‘What old lady? There’s only me here.’
He lifted his head towards Aunt Bessie’s room and then looked back at her. He didn’t elaborate but gradually his gaze rested somewhere behind her head.
All at once, Dottie’s blood ran cold. Reg had come back? Was he right behind her and angry because she was giving the tramp something to eat. She swung sharply around, but there was no one there.
‘Don’t do that!’ she cried. ‘You’re scaring me.’
He looked at her as if she’d whipped him and she was immediately sorry.
‘She fell,’ he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Oh, you mean my aunt?’ said Dottie. ‘Yes, you’re right. I’m afraid she died. But that was a long time ago, nearly two years.’
He touched his forehead as if trying to remember something. ‘She sent me back …’
‘She fell down the stairs,’ said Dottie.
‘She was kind,’ he said. ‘A saint.’
Dottie laughed. ‘She was a wonderful person but hardly a saint.’
‘She helped me.’
‘I know.’
‘It was my fault …’
The upstairs sash cord window rattled open and Sylvie stuck her head out. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dottie. I wondered who you were talking to.’
‘I was just talking to … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’ She turned back to introduce him, but the tramp had gone. ‘Where did he go?’
‘Who?’
‘The chap I was talking to. Didn’t you see him?’
Sylvie shook her head. ‘Is it all right to come down?’
‘Yes, of course.’
As she went indoors, Dottie felt puzzled. His fault? Whatever did the tramp mean? Was he there the day Aunt Bessie fell down the stairs? And if so, why didn’t he get help?
When Sylvie and Dottie sat down to breakfast, the atmosphere between them was a bit awkward. Dottie knew Sylvie must have heard her and Reg. It was obvious she wanted to say something but Dottie could hardly bring up the subject herself. It was too embarrassing. In the end, they both skirted around it.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t see the tramp,’ said Dottie. ‘He was right beside me.’
‘I heard voices,’ said Sylvie, ‘but it took me a couple of minutes to get to the window. Anyway, what did he want?’
‘He comes round now and again for something to drink and a sandwich.’
‘Robin says we shouldn’t encourage that sort.’
‘Reg says the same,’ said Dottie, pouring Sylvie another cup of tea. ‘But he’s not that old. He hasn’t been around for ages. I was surprised to see him looking reasonably well turned out. I keep wondering what must happen to someone, that they should have just given up on life like that.’
‘Too much drink most likely.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dottie. ‘He doesn’t smell of drink.’
Sylvie got out her cigarette case. ‘What was he talking about?’
‘He mentioned Aunt Bessie.’
Sylvie tapped her cigarette onto the case and looked Dottie straight in the eye. ‘Did he hurt you? Reg? Last night, did he hurt you?’
Dottie felt her face flame. ‘I don’t want … it’s none … no … yes …’
Sylvie covered Dottie’s hand with hers. ‘Listen, darling, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but really, I meant every word I said. If you ever change your mind, ring me. Keep four pennies handy for the phone box so that you’ve got it day or night and I’ll come. Wherever you are, I promise I’ll come.’
Dottie sat very still, conscious that a large tear had rolled down her cheek and fallen onto the plate in front of her. She felt so humiliated she wanted to curl up and die. Sylvie handed her a pretty lace-edged handkerchief. Numbly she took it and wiped her eyes. ‘Thank you.’ Her voice was very small. The sound of the clock seemed to get louder.
Sylvie took a long drag of her cigarette and put her head back. Dottie tried not to make a sound as she cleared her nose.
‘Do you have to have this child of his?’
‘How will he look after her if I go?’
�
�That’s hardly a good reason to stay,’ said Sylvie.
Dottie sighed. Sylvie was right. Why should she stay here and look after Reg’s daughter? This was her home. She wanted so much to say ‘Yes, Sylvie, I’ll go with you’ – but if she left, Reg would get the house by default.
‘This is my home,’ Dottie said desperately. ‘And besides, I can’t let him down. Not after he’s suffered so much.’
‘Dottie, you can’t spend your whole life trying to make someone else happy. It’s time you thought about what you want.’ Sylvie leaned towards her as if she was going to say something else, but then she seemed to think better of it.
‘If Reg is happy, then I’ll be happy,’ Dottie said, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, Sylvie, but I don’t see the point of going over and over the same thing and that’s that. You’re very kind to be so concerned but please, you’re not to worry about me.’
‘A very pretty speech,’ said Sylvie, ‘but don’t forget, I slept here last night.’
Dottie’s face flamed. She couldn’t talk about last night. It was … humiliating. As she rose to leave, Sylvie put up her hand up. ‘Point taken, darling. If you’d rather not talk about it, we’ll say no more. Like I said in the car, I care too much about you to quarrel.’
They finished their breakfast, making polite conversation, then Dottie helped Sylvie to pack her things. By 8.25 she was ready for the off and Dottie stood in the road to wave her goodbye.
Sylvie handed her the framed photograph of the two of them with Aunt Bessie. ‘I thought you might like to have this,’ she said. ‘I had it enlarged and framed to remind you of the happy times we had together.’
‘Oh, Sylvie!’ cried Dottie. ‘It’s lovely. I’d quite forgotten it. She looked so funny in that old cowboy hat.’
‘How did she get it?’ Sylvie asked. ‘I’ve been trying to remember …’
‘Colonel Warren gave it to her, didn’t he?’
‘Of course,’ cried Sylvie. ‘All those American Square Dances she organised.’
They looked at each other and, smiling broadly, chorused, ‘Yee-ha!’
Sylvie put her arm around Dottie’s shoulder and they leaned over the photograph again. ‘Dear Aunt Bessie. I always think of her in that dress.’
Dottie smiled. ‘She was wearing it the day she died.’ Something made her stop. She frowned thoughtfully. Something was niggling at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The tramp. He’d asked about the lady with the mauve dress. Aunt Bessie was wearing it in the photograph and she was wearing it the day she died. She shivered. The tramp must have seen her. So why didn’t he raise the alarm?
‘What is it?’ Sylvie asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, shaking the dark thoughts away. ‘You’d better get going and I’ve got to get to work. They embraced and Dottie kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re a good friend.’
As soon as she was in the car, Sylvie wound down the car windows. ‘Please think about getting away from Reg,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave it too long, and for God’s sake, don’t end up getting pregnant with his child.’
She roared away down the road, with Dottie staring after her. Don’t end up getting pregnant … The words reverberated around her head. As she turned to go back inside, Dottie found herself saying, ‘Absolutely not. I can’t get pregnant now … Not now …’
Twenty
Was her period late?
Dottie had never really bothered keeping tabs on her monthly cycle. Why should she? She had no reason to even think about it when Reg was unable to perform but she hadn’t come on at all this month.
She was handwashing her sheets in the big tin bath outside the back door. They had already been boiled in the copper and she’d staggered out with the clean sheet in a double-handled bowl to tip it into the bath of cold water to begin rinsing. It was backbreaking and exhausting work. She would wring the sheet by hand, passing it along her forearm until one end coiled itself back into the empty bowl. When both sheets were done, she would empty the bath and refill it with cold water and add a drummer blue to whiten the sheets. After a good soak and another wringing by hand, she would fold it and put it through the old mangle before it went onto the line.
The last few golden days of autumn were fading. Already there was a nip in the air. Time had hardly moved on since Michael’s wedding. He and Freda were back from honeymoon. Now at last the new Mrs Gilbert made no secret of their forthcoming happy event. Dottie had bumped into her several times in the village, her increasing girth now swathed in maternity dresses and her strained look turned into a glow. She and Michael had made a home for themselves on the farm using the old quarters used by the Land Girls during the war. Dottie hadn’t seen it but she imagined it would look a darned sight better than it did back then.
Things had taken an upward turn for Ann Pearce as well. Dottie was aware that several other householders in the village were keen to find a good daily woman. They had been trying to get Dottie to work for them for ages. Colonel Harris, who was retired, and his sister, Miss Harris, a piano teacher, were two of them. Then there was Miss Edwards. Now too elderly and infirm to leave her home, she was a mine of information and was always bang up-to-date with all the village gossip.
It had been tricky approaching Ann about the job, but Dottie’s decision to introduce her to Miss Edwards had been a master-stroke. The two of them hit it off straight away. Brian and Phyllis loved being with the twins all day and Mary was pleased to be able to buy a few things with the extra money Ann gave her.
Things were not so good for Dottie, however. For a few days after the wedding, Reg’s demands were frequent and sickening. Sometimes she tried to fight him off, but that only seemed to enflame his passion. She had a growing dread of bedtime and spent as long as she could downstairs doing odd jobs in the vain hope that he would be asleep when she came up to bed. It didn’t happen very often. Her body was so tender, she had resorted to lying to him, telling him she had her period. She’d even complained of stomach ache and that they’d gone on longer than usual, but the truth was she was late.
It was ironic that after all those years of longing for a child, even praying for one, all the years of trying to seduce Reg, now she hated the very thought of being with him. He was a brute. Dottie didn’t even want to think of the things he’d done to her. He seemed to enjoy it all the more when she was crying and pleading with him to stop. And when it was all over, he would pat her like a dog and tell her what a good girl she was. It had got to the stage when she couldn’t bear him to touch her.
Heaving the wet sheet back into the cold-water rinse, she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. He was no fool. He’d know she was lying. Once the sheet was submerged, she stood up and pressed her apron against her stomach. But she couldn’t be pregnant. She mustn’t be.
In three days, Patsy would be here. Dottie’d kept nagging him to do something about the old well, but somehow he never seemed to get round to it. It made her feel nervous. Patsy might run around the garden and …
Ever since she’d read the child’s letter, Dottie had felt different about Patsy. More than likely, Elizabeth Johns had been a loving and caring mother. Patsy had suffered the trauma of losing her mother and now she was being shipped to a place far away from all that was familiar.
Australia was hot and barren. Dottie had once seen a picture of place called Ayers Rock and it looked an empty and desolate place. By comparison, England would seem very cold, even on a summer’s day. It was true, the Worthing area was sheltered from extremes of weather by the Downs, but winters could still be very cold and sometimes they had snow. Not as deep as in the north, but enough to cause problems on the roads. How, she wondered, would a little girl used to the heat manage to cope with an English winter?
Dottie had had little time to prepare for Patsy’s arrival. She was desperate to finish Mrs Fitzgerald’s curtains and the bedspread, but she’d spent most evenings knitting for Patsy. He
r favourite was a yellow jumper with a brown kangaroo on the front.
‘Do you think she’ll like this one?’ she’d asked Reg. She’d held it up but he paid little attention.
As for the people in the village, Dottie had stuck to their agreed story and it had worked … after a fashion.
‘Why the hell adopt a kid all the way from Australia?’ Janet Cooper wanted to know. ‘There are plenty of kids in this country who need a mum and dad. Barnardo’s is bulging with them.’
‘It’s being done through an old colleague Reg knew during the war,’ Dottie had said, but she was a hopeless liar. She could already feel her face beginning to burn.
Mary may have seemed a little disapproving as well but the next time she’d seen Dottie she’d given her a bag of clothes. ‘Take what you want and give the rest back to me,’ she’d said. ‘We all help each other out and there are plenty of others I know that could do with a thing or two.’
Dottie smiled. So that would explain why she’d seen Phyllis Pearce wearing the jumper she’d knitted little Maureen Prior two Christmases ago.
The sheets were ready for the mangle. Dottie wiped the roller with a cloth and then passed the cloth through to check for any bits. She’d learned her lesson when, as a new bride, she’d put a sheet straight into the mangle and it came out the other side complete with a squashed spider and she’d had to rinse it all over again.
Dottie slowly turned the handle. The sheet was thick and it was hard work getting it through. There was a footfall behind her and Dottie spun around.
It was Vincent Dobbs, the postman.
‘Thanks, Vince,’ she said as he handed her a small pile of letters and waited while she wiped her hands on her apron.
Two bills, a letter from Sylvie (she recognised the handwriting and the Brockenhurst postmark), and a letter for Reg. She sighed. Still nothing from Peaches. Sylvie had been so sure a letter would help to heal the rift between them but Dottie had written her three letters and received not one reply. Reg didn’t mind her writing so she had put her last letter behind the clock for posting on Sunday. Reg had taken it and put it in the box first thing on Monday so she would have had it, maybe second post, but certainly on Tuesday morning. She’d told Peaches all about their plans to fetch Patsy. She’d asked about Gary and even offered to help with babysitting when he got back home, but nothing. No reply. No word … nothing. It looked as if she’d lost one of her dearest friends forever.
