by Pam Weaver
‘Tell me about Worthing, Mrs Cox.’
‘There’s not much to tell,’ she laughed softly. ‘It’s on the south coast. It’s thirteen miles from Brighton and they say it’s full of newlyweds and nearly-deads.’
Dr Landers chuckled. ‘Are you far from the sea?’
‘About three miles.’
The waiter put three plates of sandwiches in front of them. ‘Please,’ said Dr Landers, ‘help yourself.’
Their eyes met and Dottie was startled by their gentleness. ‘You know, Sandy was a remarkable woman,’ he went on. ‘She kept a diary. We’ve put it in the case. It might help you to know what the child has been through, and of course, when she’s old enough, I’m sure it will mean a lot to Patricia.’
Reg came back and ate his sandwiches in silence. Dottie and Dr Landers made small talk and eventually Reg finished the rest of his bitter. ‘Look here, Doc,’ he said. ‘No offence, but I’d sooner see my Patsy than sit down here stuffing sandwiches and having a natter. We’ve got to get back to Worthing.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said the doctor. ‘I’ll take you both up now.’
The room was on the second floor. As they walked in, a grey-haired woman wearing round, silver-rimmed glasses stood up. She was dressed in a grey skirt with a white blouse and sensible shoes. Dottie may have got it all wrong when it came to Dr Landers, but Nurse Tranter was every bit as she had imagined.
‘Where is she?’ Dr Landers asked.
‘She’s just gone across to my room to get her toy,’ the nurse said. ‘I was just going to read her a story.’
Dottie noticed she was holding a book in her hand.
‘Mr and Mrs Cox,’ said Doctor Landers, ‘Nurse Tranter. Nurse Tranter, Mr and Mrs Cox.’
All three of them shook hands. The older woman gave Dottie a warm smile but when she shook Reg’s hand Dottie noticed a strange look pass between her and Dr Landers. Something was wrong. Dottie’s stomach began to churn. Didn’t they think he was right for Patsy? Reg was hardly being Mr Polite, was he? Was his attitude going against them?
The doctor walked down the hallway into another room and they could hear low voices. Reg was a bag of nerves. He was twitching all the time and kept turning his hat around in his hands. Every now and then, he ran his fingers along the collar of his shirt or touched the knot in his tie.
Nurse Tranter slipped the book she was holding onto a chair and waited in silence. Dottie turned her head and looked out of the window. Her heart was thumping and her legs had become like jelly now that they were so close to meeting Patsy. Supposing Patsy didn’t like them? And what was that look that had passed between Dr Landers and Nurse Tranter? What would happen to Patsy if they decided she and Reg didn’t measure up?
She heard a soft footfall and the door to the room creaked open but Dottie didn’t move. Let Reg see her first, she told herself. This is his moment. She’s his child. She forced herself to watch the people on the street below, hurrying in and out of the shops, climbing on buses, crossing the road. A man with only one leg was busking on the corner. A bus pulled up and several people got off. The bus took off again and someone ran after it, catching the central pole on the back and leaping onboard just as it gathered speed.
Behind her she heard the doctor saying, ‘Here we are Patricia. This man is your daddy.’
She waited for a cry of joy, or at the very least, an acknowledgement, but there was no sound. Reg said nothing. As the ominous silence deepened, she turned her head slowly. He seemed to be transfixed. Unsmiling, he appeared to be rooted to the spot.
Dr Landers was standing in the doorway holding Patsy’s hand. Dottie looked right at her.
Her hair was very dark and there was no sign of the halo of blonde curls Dottie had imagined. Instead, it was parted on the side and very curly. It was roughly cut in a pudding-basin style and she wore a large pink and white bow, which was badly tied. Her elfin face was dainty and her brown eyes were large and soft. She was thin, like Reg, but her skin was the colour of coffee cream … and something told Dottie it was more than a decent suntan.
Reg still hadn’t moved.
‘Hello, Patsy,’ said Dottie awkwardly. ‘It’s lovely to see you. We’ve come a long way to meet you.’
The child regarded her carefully. ‘Is that my new name?’ she said looking up at Dr Landers.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dottie quickly. ‘Don’t you like it? It’s just that your father likes to call you Patsy.’
Dottie appealed to Reg with her eyes, but he continued staring.
The child looked up at John Landers. ‘I like Patsy,’ she said. ‘Will my mummy mind if I change my name?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I’m sure she won’t.’
Dottie felt a lump forming in her throat. ‘Right then,’ she said brightly as she glanced at the nurse. ‘That’s settled.’ She held out her hand. ‘How d’you do, Patsy?’
The child glanced back at the doctor for reassurance. Dr Landers smiled and nodded so Patsy let go of his hand and came towards her. The two of them shook hands formally. ‘Are you going to look after me now?’ she asked gravely.
Dottie struggled to keep her voice even. ‘I should like that very much,’ she smiled.
‘What is your name?’
‘Dottie … call me Auntie Dottie.’
‘Mr Cox,’ said the doctor, clearing his throat noisily. ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’
Reg turned his head. ‘I’m sorry, Doc …’ he began.
Dottie held her breath. Doctor Landers gave him a sympathetic look. ‘You need time to think about this.’
‘I think we’d better be making a move,’ said Reg. ‘If it’s all the same to you. Our train leaves at four.’
‘You’re taking her?’
Reg was staring at the brown suitcase with a stony expression. The doctor turned to the nurse. ‘Are her things ready?’
Nurse Tranter nodded and walked out of the room.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t got a coat for her.’
‘That’s all right,’ smiled Dottie. ‘I’ve brought one. I hope it fits.’
‘Is that for me?’ cried Patsy, her eyes dancing with excitement.
It fitted as if it had been made for her, and she looked so pretty. Reg took the brown suitcase, leaving Dottie to carry the suitcase with Patsy’s clothes. They made their way back to the foyer.
‘If it’s at all possible,’ said John Landers, ‘I should like to keep in contact.’
Reg walked out onto the street.
‘Mrs Cox,’ he added in a low voice, ‘is your husband all right? I mean …’
‘Everything’s fine,’ smiled Dottie. ‘This has all been a bit overwhelming, that’s all. My husband is not very good at letter-writing, but I promise I’ll drop you a line.’
The doctor gave her his mother’s address and they shook hands, then he bent to kiss the child. ‘Goodbye, Patricia … er, Patsy. Have a lovely time.’
‘Goodbye, Dr Landers. Thank you for looking after me.’
The doctor straightened himself up. Dottie noticed he had a tear in his eye.
‘Mrs Cox,’ he ventured, ‘if I may be permitted to give you a little advice … It will be difficult to begin with. Don’t try and solve all the problems at once.’
Dottie nodded. ‘I’ll take good care of her, I promise.’
‘And above all,’ he said, ‘love her.’
‘I will,’ Dottie said. They shook hands, the fear and suspicion they both shared remaining unspoken.
Outside on the street, Reg was leaning with one foot up against the wall, sucking hard on a cigarette. As soon as Dottie came out of the hotel he hurried ahead of her. She grabbed Patsy’s hand and the two of them began running after him. ‘Reg, Reg, slow down, will you?’
‘I just want to get home.’
‘You’ve had a bit of a shock.’
Reg rounded on her. ‘Bit of a shock?’ he said between his teeth. ‘I’ll say I’ve had a bit of a shock.’
/>
He stood in front of her, eyeball to eyeball, his face contorted with pent-up rage. Patsy had crashed into her side, so Dottie pressed her against her body, covering her one exposed ear with her hand. She pleaded with Reg with her eyes. Don’t say anything awful, please …
‘In all those letters she wrote,’ he spat in low voice, ‘and in all the ones I had from that Brenda woman, and the one that stuck-up doctor wrote …’
‘Reg … don’t …’
‘Not one of them, not one,’ he ranted on, ‘had the decency to tell me that she was a bloody half-breed. ‘
Twenty-Two
Patsy was in bed. Dottie poured herself a cup of tea and sat down by the fire. Anxious that the child might already be feeling the cold, she’d lit it as soon as they’d got home. Now it was 7.30 and already dark outside.
The journey home had been strained. She and Patsy had had to run all the way to the station to keep up with Reg and he’d hardly said one word all the way home. Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long for the train, but he’d refused to sit in the crowded carriage with them, preferring to stand in the corridor outside, chain smoking and looking out of the window.
Dottie did her best to make Patsy feel at ease but there was one heart-stopping moment when she’d asked, ‘Have I made my daddy cross?’
‘No, dear,’ Dottie lied. ‘Daddy is just thinking about important things.’
To take their minds off the situation, Dottie told Patsy all about their home. Patsy was excited to discover they had chickens and a pig.
‘My Auntie Bren has chooks,’ she said. ‘Uncle Burt used to tell everybody on the radio school whenever we had baby chooks. Do you listen to Uncle Burt’s radio school?’
Dottie shook her head. She wasn’t even sure what that was. ‘You’ll go to a new school in the village,’ she smiled. And then she told her all about Billy Prior, and Maureen and Susan and the twins. She was about to mention Peaches and Gary but then thought better of it. Best not to confuse the child; instead, they talked about the seaside and the Downs – anything to make the journey quicker.
Dr Landers had given Patsy a book: Five on a Treasure Island by Enid Blyton. Dottie read it out loud, but when they reached the bit where George was taking them all out in a boat to see the wreck on the other side of Kirrin island, Patsy fell asleep on her shoulder. Dottie remained perfectly still for some time. Outside in the corridor, Reg turned around. He stared at the sleeping child until he became aware that Dottie was watching him. As her eyes met his gaze, his face coloured and he turned away abruptly. Dottie’s stomach was churning. What a mess. Whatever were they going to do? Had Patsy come twelve thousand miles to this?
As soon as they arrived in Worthing, Reg strode on ahead, but this time Dottie made no effort to keep up with him. Patsy was too tired to hurry and so, for that matter, was she. By the time they reached the cottage, Reg had already dumped the child’s suitcase in the middle of the kitchen floor and was nowhere to be seen.
She got Patsy some tea, gave her a wash and put her to bed in Aunt Bessie’s old room. When she came back downstairs, Dottie made herself some tea and picked up the small suitcase of papers. When she tried the locks, they flew open at once.
Most of it was official stuff, including Sandy’s death certificate. She’d died of breast cancer. There were several condolence cards addressed either to Brenda Nichols or to Patricia c/o Brenda. Dottie felt her throat tightening. They made sad reading. Patsy’s mother was only thirty-four when she died.
Dottie unfolded another certificate and there was no denying the facts. Patricia June Johns was born on April 21st 1943. Her mother was Elizabeth Mary Johns. The space where the father’s name should be was blank but pinned to the certificate was a slip of paper. This is to certify that the father of my baby is Reginald Cox, signed Elizabeth Mary Johns. But it couldn’t possibly be right, could it? Dottie supposed that Elizabeth had been known to her friends as Sandy because of her fair hair. Reg had dark hair which he’d turned to black when he began to go grey, but how could two such people produce a coffee-coloured child with dark frizzy hair and big brown eyes? It wasn’t possible. Reg couldn’t possibly be Patsy’s father, and yet there it was in black and white. Surely Sandy must have known who the real father was, so why did she put Reg’s name on that slip of paper? And why send her daughter all this way to a man she must have known perfectly well was no relation at all?
Dottie kept all her important papers in the kitchen cupboard with the drop-down pastry-making table. She filed the birth and death certificates along with the rest of their things and sat back down with the other papers. All at once, she froze in her chair as a terrible realisation hit her. She jumped back up and pulled the certificate from its newly-filed place. Her hands were trembling and she unfolded it again.
When Connie and Christopher were born, Mary had showed her their birth certificates. They were much smaller, ‘squarish’ as opposed to oblong, and half the length of Patsy’s. They simply said something like, ‘Constance Prior, girl; date of birth, 13th December 1947; place of birth, Worthing; sub-district, Worthing’.
Patsy’s was a copy of her full birth certificate and most shocking of all, it was English. Patsy had been born here … in this country! The registration district was Lewisham and the sub-district Lewisham.
Her heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen and she felt dizzy and sick. Reg never said he’d been in London. She’d married him in 1942 and he’d been posted just four months after they were married. So how come he was in London in 1942 and fathering a child? It didn’t make sense.
She fingered her way through the other papers but they were just nursing certificates, a first prize award for a writing com petition and some old letters from England. Dottie re-filed the birth certificate and went back to the rest of the papers in the suitcase.
It felt a little intrusive opening them. The first one she looked at was signed ‘Matron’ who wished Sandy well in her new country. Dottie discovered that Sandy had moved to Australia at the end of 1945. Matron wrote to say she hoped Sandy would put the past behind her and make a go of this fantastic opportunity.
Dottie shook her head sympathetically. Poor Sandy. How ironic that she had gone all that way to make a new life for herself and her little girl, only to die of cancer just five years later.
There were several other letters, but Dottie could see some diaries as well. She was torn. Which should she read first, the letters or the diary? She thumbed through the letters. Looking at the envelopes, she could tell that they had been written by many different people and they were all wartime letters. She stared at one envelope for several seconds. It was addressed to Sandy at an address in London. The letter inside was signed ‘all my love, Reg’. It had been posted in 1943.
There was a loud bump on the floor upstairs and Patsy called out. ‘Auntie Dot … Auntie Dottie!’
Absentmindedly slipping the envelope into her apron pocket, Dottie hurried upstairs.
Reg hugged his pint and stared long and hard into the open fire. This was his favourite corner in the Jolly Farmer but tonight he sat with his back to the bar, hoping he wouldn’t be disturbed.
‘Bloody women,’ he thought to himself. Now Dottie knew the kid wasn’t his. How could it be? She was a bloody darkie. The father must have been one of those black Yanks. Why the hell did the silly bitch go with a darkie? Maybe the Yank got her as pissed as a newt first. Or perhaps he forced her. She was probably nothing more than a bloody bike anyway. As soon as she knew she was up the spout, she’d put his name on the birth certificate. And now he was in deep shit. How was he going to explain away this one?
He pinched the end of his cigarette and pushed it behind his ear.
‘Another pint, Reg?’
Reg belched and pushed his glass towards Terry Dore, the landlord.
‘Just going to the bog.’
There was a fly on the urinal. Reg aimed for it. He hoped it was a female. It was always the women that did for him. His mot
her had been the first. Shopping him to the ol’ bill like that. If he’d had half a chance he’d have gone back there and done her in but she beat him to it, didn’t she? Died while he was still in Borstal. His urine hit the fly and it rose up, buzzing angrily. He smiled maliciously as it crashed into the wall, then the window. Finishing, he readjusted his trousers and turned to go. It was then that the fly hit him on his face, near his lips. He hit out at it, cursing loudly.
Back at the bar, he made it clear to Terry he didn’t want conversation. He went back to his table, and brooded some more.
He’d had a pretty good scam going. The Bomb Lark, they called it. He was part of a group of newly conscripted Royal Engineers who had been brought into London to help clear the bomb damage after an air raid. Reg had been the first to spot the lead on the roofs and told the sarge he knew a scrap metal merchant over Merton way. Everyone was up for it and a deal was struck. They’d kept the thing going for more than a month before the rozzers got wind of it. As luck would have it, Reg wasn’t around the day they all got nicked. He’d had a bilious attack. Well, that’s what he told the medics. In truth he’d gone back to see Joyce. Couldn’t keep away from her. His mates wouldn’t tell but he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone put two and two together so he went AWOL, coming down to Worthing where he met Dottie. Of course, he knew she would never agree to anything dishonest, but he didn’t mind too much. She was his investment for the future so he’d spun his charm and married her. There was the promise of a nice little nest egg once she’d inherited the house from the old witch.
He never should have gone back home but he’d wanted a bit of fun with Joyce. Only they’d had a blazing row and the neighbours called the cops.
‘Six months’ hard labour, followed by three years’ penal servitude for conspiring to loot,’ that pompous ass of a judge had told him. ‘A civilised society will not tolerate consistent and considerable stealing of other people’s property. You are a disgrace to your uniform …’
