There’s Always Tomorrow

by Pam Weaver

  John was appalled. Dottie jealous? Never! How dare he? Dottie never spoke ill of her husband. The only thing she’d intimated was that Reg was the one finding it hard to adjust to being a family.

  Reg looked up at him, as if reading his thoughts. His cold stare made it difficult for John to maintain eye contact. ‘She always made out like she was the perfect little housewife but Les Dixon can vouch for me,’ Reg insisted with a slight curl in his lip. ‘Turfed out of me own home to eat in his chip shop night after night. I tell you, Doc, I’ve lived a solitary life since that child came.’

  John said nothing, aware that several heads were nodding in agreement.

  ‘That’s ’cos she never wanted me home of an evening.’

  ‘You was in here every night,’ Eric agreed. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever known you to miss.’

  ‘I loved that kid. Loved her, I did.’ Reg choked back another sob.

  John clenched and unclenched his fists. Fraud … Liar!

  The whisky arrived. Reg gulped a mouthful and then leaned forward, supporting his head with his hand.

  Kipper bent over him and said softly, ‘So where is Dottie now, Reg?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. I swear to God. I woke up this morning and she and my Patsy had gone. Look, I found this note.’ He dug in his pocket and handed a dog-eared and crumpled piece of paper to the policeman. ‘I spent the whole day looking for her. I even caught a bus up to Beachy Head. Thank God she wasn’t there but the more I think about it the more convinced I am. She’s done for her, Mr Kipling. I know she has.’

  John felt himself sway. In God’s name, what had he done? Had he hurt her? And what had he done to Patsy? Never taking his eyes from Reg for one minute, John lowered himself into a nearby chair, his heart racing.

  Kipper took his time unfolding the note, taking out his glasses and calling for a better light. Grim-faced, he read it and then handed it to John.

  John recognised Dottie’s handwriting immediately. The paper looked as if it had been screwed up and there was a large chunk torn from the top of the page. The note itself was in ink but hastily scribbled.

  Patsy seems to be happy but I can’t go on pretending everything is fine. I’m sorry to let everybody down …

  ‘Are you’re sure it’s from her?’ Kipper asked.

  Yes, John answered in his head, it’s her handwriting. It was similar to something she wrote in the letter she sent him …

  ‘The chambermaid found it when she turned down the sheets,’ Reg said.

  For the first time since Kipper arrived, John found his voice. ‘If you spent the whole time together, when did she write this note?

  ‘I dunno,’ said Reg. His tone had an edge to it now. ‘Yesterday, after we had breakfast. I went up to use the toilet and when I came down, they’d gone. I went to look for them. Like I say, I was out all day.’

  As Kipper wrote it down in his notepad, Reg blew his nose, loudly.

  ‘Did they take their things?’ John asked.

  ‘The suitcase was gone.’

  Someone handed Reg a lit cigarette. He drew on it deeply.

  ‘Did you check with reception?’

  ‘Nobody saw them leave.’

  ‘How long did you wait for them?’

  ‘All day and all night.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell anyone around here that you and your wife were going away?’

  ‘I told you, it was a surprise, spur of the moment.’

  ‘So spur of the moment, you didn’t even ask anyone to feed the chickens?’

  Reg looked up. His eyes grew dark. ‘What is this?’ he snapped. ‘I come here to tell you my wife and child are missing and all you can do is talk about bloody chickens?’ He appealed to PC Kipling. ‘Look here, Constable Kipling, I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the last two days searching the whole of Eastbourne for them. I’ve walked right along the seafront. Miles, I’ve walked, but I couldn’t find her. I couldn’t find either of them.’

  ‘Did you contact the police in Eastbourne?’ Kipper wanted to know.

  ‘I didn’t think they’d help,’ said Reg looking away again. ‘I mean, they’d have to have something to go on, wouldn’t they? A body or something …’ He choked back a sob.

  John fixed his eyes on the floor. What have you done, you bastard …

  ‘Now, now, don’t go jumping to conclusions,’ said Kipper. ‘I reckon in a day or two, she’ll turn up, right as ninepence.’

  ‘You all right, Doc?’ Terry suddenly asked. ‘Only you look a bit peaky.’

  John gave him a fleeting smile. ‘I’m fine. Just trying to work out the scenario, that’s all.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’d better go home and get some rest, Mr Cox,’ he advised. He kept his voice as even as he could but in truth he was so angry it was as much as he could do not to hit the man. ‘You’ve obviously had a shock.’

  ‘I think we all have,’ said Reg looking directly at John. ‘My wife and daughter mean a lot to a lot of people.’

  John felt a shiver run down his spine.

  ‘Michael Gilbert might still be round your place,’ said Terry as everyone began drifting back to the bar.

  ‘Michael Gilbert?’ Reg looked puzzled. ‘What for?’

  ‘To fill in the well,’ Terry explained. ‘Oh of course, you don’t know, do you? It fell in on itself Monday. We couldn’t leave it like that. Too dangerous.’

  Reg recovered himself. ‘Has it completely gone?’

  ‘And half the garden,’ said Vince. ‘One time, we thought your Dottie was in it.’

  ‘That’s right,’ piped up someone else. ‘We saw something sticking up in the rubble.’

  John noticed that Reg had gone very pale.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Eric quickly. ‘When the police finally got hold of it, t’were only a few dead chickens.’

  Reg’s eyes darted from one to another but he showed no real surprise.

  ‘You knew the chickens were in the well, did you, Mr Cox?’ said John.

  Reg looked at him coldly. ‘Of course I did,’ he snapped. ‘Bloody fox got them. Chewed all the heads off. I chucked them in the well without telling her because I didn’t want Dot getting upset.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. As he reached it, he turned back with his hand outstretched. Grasping John’s hand and shaking it vigorously he added, ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, Doctor.’

  As he let go of his hand, it was as much as John Landers could do to resist the temptation to wipe his now warm and clammy palm down the side of his trousers.

  Everything seemed really far away. Dottie struggled to make herself wake up. She could hear someone banging on the door but her body wouldn’t move.

  And that awful smell was fading but something told her something was dreadfully wrong but she couldn’t think. What did it mean? She couldn’t remember. It wasn’t as strong as it had been but it was still there. It reminded her of rotten eggs. She coughed but it clung to her throat and her head hurt. Oh, how her head hurt.

  The banging was getting more violent. She had to make herself move but her limbs felt like lead. Her mouth tasted of vomit and there was a sort of crust around her lips. What was that smell? She could remember a heavy perfume, but it wasn’t that …

  Gas!

  Her eyes flew open. Where was Patsy? They had to get out of here, but where were they? She couldn’t remember that either.

  She had to turn off the gas.

  She could hear voices but they sounded as if they were at the far end of a long tunnel. And that banging … was it never going to stop? She had to sit up but when she tried to move, it felt as if someone was sitting on her chest. She thought she was in bed but she wasn’t. She was lying on something hard and unyielding. Should she switch on the light and see?

  Turn the gas off. Turn it off! That must be why she had such an awfully bad headache and her brain wouldn’t work …

  Now it sounded like someone was kicking the door down. Someone was breaking in and she couldn’t do anyth
ing about it. She wanted to vomit again.

  Mary? Help me, Mary.

  Is that you, Sylvie … Get Patsy out …

  Are you there, Reg …

  She could hear the voices more clearly now. They were getting closer. Someone was trying to get in the room but Patsy was lying too close to the door.

  ‘Patsy … move over, darling …

  A man’s voice, one she didn’t recognise, cried out, ‘For heaven’s sake, get a move on. There’s a child in here!’

  Thirty-Nine

  As soon as the man spoke, it was so obvious, John wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  It was Tuesday. He’d motored over to Eastbourne and, having found the Sea View, he’d asked the manager and several members of staff about Dottie and Patsy but drawn a blank.

  ‘I’ve already told the police all this,’ Mrs Flint said tetchily ‘I don’t know what happened to the lady.’

  After walking along the seafront and stopping a few people to show them the photograph of Dottie and Patsy that he’d taken at his mother’s place, he was still no closer to finding out what had happened to them. The police had, they told him, already tried all the hospitals but nobody of that name had been admitted.

  By now he was almost sick with worry. People don’t just vanish into thin air, he told himself – but that wasn’t true. People went missing all the time, if they wanted to … Look what had happened after the war. Hundreds of people went ‘missing’. It was their one chance of a new life, a new start.

  Even though she had been so adamant that they couldn’t become involved with each other for the sake of his career, he couldn’t bring himself to believe she would go off somewhere without even a word. Then he thought about that kiss under the ilex oak, and those precious moments in the attic … He did mean something to her, he knew he did. The more he thought about it, the more positive he was that she would have contacted him if she had decided to leave Reg.

  As the evening drew in, he found his way to the pier, hoping against hope that she might have brought Patsy here to see the amusements. He’d planned to show the stallholders the photograph, but most of the stalls were already closed for the winter.

  He sat on the seat next to an old man. He was just about to show him the photograph when an irate woman came towards them.

  ‘Father, I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

  The old man looked slightly bemused. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘It’s Ivy, you daft bat,’ she chided. ‘Come on now. Let me take you back home.’

  ‘I was just putting the cat out,’ said the old man as she hauled him to his feet.

  ‘Course you were,’ she said, winking at John and waving her finger around in a circle next to her head.

  ‘Have we met somewhere before?’ said the old man.

  Poor old chap, John thought as they walked away. Obviously gone senile and didn’t have a clue where he was. And that’s when the idea hit him like a thunderbolt. He’d been to the hospitals asking for her by name but perhaps Dottie didn’t know who she was. Perhaps she had lost her memory.

  Sylvie sucked deeply on her cigarette holder and blew the smoke high above her head. Using the tips of her fingers in her still gloved hand, she moved a plate stained with dried egg on the top of another caked with the remains of a gravy-soaked dinner.

  She had never seen Dottie’s kitchen look like this before. In fact, it was a complete mess. The whole table was piled high with the debris of several days’ washing up, the ashtray overflowed with dog ends and there were newspapers everywhere.

  When he’d shown her in, Reg had to move a couple of very unsavoury-looking shirts from the chair on which she was now sitting. She shivered. The fire was barely alight and she could see it badly needed to be raked out and the ash pan emptied. She looked around, trying to gauge if there was some clue, something that might explain the state of her friend’s mind, but she’d drawn a blank. Dottie had been gone five days and already he had reduced her neat-as-a-pin home into a tip.

  Reg was in the scullery, preparing her some tea. She’d been surprised when he’d invited her inside. She’d arrived unannounced and, because there was no love lost between them, she’d expected a doorstep conversation, probably peppered with abuse.

  But when he’d opened the door, his expression was more of sadness than surprise and he seemed only too glad for someone to talk to.

  His first question surprised her. ‘Is Dottie with you?’

  As Sylvie shook her head, he’d turned away like a whipped dog, giving her the second surprise.

  He’d been polite, throwing the shirts onto the easy chair next to the fireplace and holding the back of the kitchen chair as she lowered herself onto it. It had been years since she’d seen him being considerate and, for a brief minute, the old Reg was back. She remembered that it was his attentive and caring manner which had impressed Dottie so much. Back in 1942, most of the other boys used to horse around and the chaps in uniform, who were usually the worse for drink, wanted a final fling before going overseas; but Reg, for all his lack of education, had been a real gentleman. Flowers for Aunt Bessie, compliments and other considerations for Dottie, they had all added up to a very attractive package.

  Sylvie had wanted to motor down to Worthing as soon as Mary telephoned but it wasn’t as easy as that. First, she and Robin had an important dinner party with the bank manager, and then she had to arrange for her three-times-weekly woman to come in daily so that Robin would be well looked after while she was away.

  When she finally got here, nobody knew what to do, but they all felt they had to do something. She had been worried herself. Dottie had promised to ring again on Sunday but she hadn’t. Had Reg attacked her again? Had something happened to Patsy? According to Mary, the police from Worthing Central had washed their hands of everything, although Kipper was doing his best to be helpful.

  The women had met at the farm, sitting around the big oak table in the big farm kitchen while Edna plied them with tea and buns. As Mary, Ann and Edna unfolded the story about the well and the dead chickens, it crossed her mind that in years to come, there would a logical explanation and they would laugh about it, but right now, it didn’t seem so funny.

  ‘I think I should go and talk to him,’ Sylvie had said.

  They’d all protested loudly.

  ‘That’s what a concerned friend would do, isn’t it?’ Sylvie insisted. ‘If we carry on as if everything was normal, he might let something slip.’

  ‘Oh, Sylvie,’ Mary gasped. ‘You know how much he hates you.’

  ‘I’ll front it out,’ said Sylvie. ‘It’s the only way.’

  ‘But supposing he gets angry?’ Ann whispered.

  ‘Even if he’s up to something he won’t do anything to me,’ Sylvie had told them. ‘He wouldn’t dare do anything,’ she added with a grin, ‘except shout a little.’

  She took a long drag of her cigarette as Reg came back with two cups of tea. The saucers didn’t match and he’d overfilled the cups, slopping tea into them. Sylvie moved some papers out of the way and onto the chair next to her so that he could put them down. Reg put a cup down in front of her and, apologising for the mess, scooped up the rest of the papers into a ragged bundle and dumped them onto the dresser. Sylvie pulled off her gloves.

  She let him talk. He was only too eager to tell his story. The trip was to be a surprise. Dottie had found it difficult to adjust to having Patsy … oh, she was a good little girl but Dottie wasn’t used to kids, and she found it hard to accept her.

  Sylvie didn’t believe a word of it but wisely she held her tongue.

  They’d gone to their honeymoon hotel. She could check it out if she wanted, he’d give her the address. He’d arranged to meet Dottie downstairs in the foyer and then they were going to go out. But first, he’d popped out to buy a paper and when he got back, there was no sign of Dottie and Patsy. He’d walked right along the seafront. He’d asked everyone, but no one had seen her. She’d simply va
nished. He hung his head and looked so dejected, Sylvie felt compelled, for the sake of appearing to be the concerned friend, to lay a comforting hand over his.

  ‘You and she were close,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘What d’you reckon? Did she have a fancy man?’

  ‘Of course not!’ cried Sylvie indignantly. ‘How can you possibly think that? You know perfectly well Dottie is utterly devoted to you.’

  Reg stared at her. What was that glint in his eye? And could she see a ghost of a smile on that cruel mouth? Sylvie was about to pick up her cup when she noticed her hand was trembling. She took a long drag on her cigarette instead.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, lowering his head again, but not before she saw something playing at the corner of his mouth. There it was again. It was only a fleeting movement, a twitch of a muscle – that was all, but all at once, Sylvie realised this was a game. What should she do? Go along with it or front it out?

  ‘You can stop play-acting, Reg,’ she said coldly.

  His head jerked up and he stared at her with a wounded expression.

  ‘You don’t fool me,’ she said, drawing on her cigarette in an attempt to look calm and in control. ‘I can tell you’re up to something.’

  ‘How can you be so cruel, Sylvie?’ he protested. His voice had a catch in it. ‘My dear wife has …’

  ‘You forget,’ she went on. ‘I stayed in your house the night of Michael’s wedding. I heard what you did to your ‘dear wife’. I wonder what the police would say if I told them you used to rape her?’ His eyes narrowed and Sylvie felt her heartbeat thumping. ‘So you needn’t come all that perfect marriage stuff with me.’

  He rose to his feet menacingly.

  ‘Be careful, Reg,’ Sylvie went on, willing her voice to stay strong. ‘At least four other people, including PC Kipling, know I’m here.’