Better Days Will Come

by Pam Weaver

  ‘And you started out from here at what time?’

  Grace looked at Charlie and shrugged.

  ‘About seven,’ said Charlie.

  The constable scribbled in his notebook. ‘And the attack happened at about eight o’clock by Station Approach?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘It’s a good job Charlie suggested changing the route. If we had gone the usual way, they’d have got a lot more.’

  Constable Higgins frowned. ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘I usually go to the end of road and walk up to Station Approach and back by Teville Gate and then I do Tarring Road,’ Grace explained. ‘Charlie persuaded me to go the other way round.’

  ‘Why did you do that, sir?’ asked Constable Higgins accusingly.

  ‘I thought she should vary the route,’ Charlie shrugged. ‘For safety’s sake.’

  ‘Good job you did,’ said Grace. ‘I heard someone shout just before the robber pushed me down.’

  ‘Mr Warren,’ said Constable Higgins. ‘He’s only just moved into the shop on the corner. He’s already made a statement.’

  ‘I think I owe my life to him,’ said Grace. ‘I’m sure that man would have kicked me senseless if Mr Warren hadn’t come running.’

  ‘How much money are we talking about?’ said the constable.

  ‘About £50,’ said Grace. ‘I only had a few houses to go to. Mrs Oakley, the Parsons, Miss Reeves, Mrs Clements and Mary Minty. Between them they had saved about £7 each through the year. I’d have to look in the books to know exactly how much.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money,’ said Constable Higgins giving her a disapproving stare.

  ‘I know,’ Grace sighed.

  The constable pursed his lips. ‘You’d be well advised to get everybody to come to you next time, Missus.’

  ‘There won’t be a next time,’ said Grace bitterly. She leaned forward on the table and laid her head onto her arms.

  ‘I think my mum needs to get to bed,’ said Rita.

  There was a shuffling of chairs and the men got up to go. By the time Uncle Charlie had left, Grace was crying.

  ‘Does it really hurt that bad, Mum?’

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ said her mother. ‘It’s the money. I’ve let all those poor people down.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll understand, Mum.’

  ‘They need that money, Rita,’ said Grace. ‘Whether they understand or not isn’t the problem. I’ll have to pay it all back. Dear Lord above, where am I going to get another £50 to replace it?’

  Eight

  Grace woke with a sore head. She lay for a while going over the events of the previous night. She should have waited and gone on the rounds in daylight but she hadn’t wanted the money in the house overnight. The post office was open on Saturday morning so why hadn’t she drawn the money first thing and done the round in the afternoon? And it would have been far more sensible to do what Constable Higgins had suggested and have everyone come to her. She could see now what a fool she had been.

  She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. It felt funny. She climbed out of bed. The room was so cold she could see her own breath. She pulled the eiderdown off the bed and around her shoulders and looked at herself in the dressing table mirror. What a sight. Her right eye was as black as the ace of spades. Her forehead was like an artist’s paint palette, a mixture of red graze and blue bruise with a hint of green and purple, although the egg-sized swelling had gone down. She had a graze at the corner of her mouth and her bottom lip, the cause of her discomfort, was slightly swollen. She looked as if she’d done ten rounds with Bruce Woodcock, the British and Empire heavyweight boxing champion. When she touched her forehead, it hurt like hell.

  Grace lowered herself onto the bed again and pulled the old eiderdown tight around her shoulders. Boy, was she stiff. She was supposed to go to the police station to make a proper statement but it was the last thing she wanted to do. Constable Higgins had been confident that they would catch the thief but they didn’t hold out much hope of getting the money back. ‘He’ll have put most of it down his neck long before we catch up with him,’ Higgins said bleakly.

  Grace sighed. She would have to go round and see everyone, explain and apologise. She’d promise that no matter how long it took, they would get their money back … not this Christmas but maybe in time for next. She shivered with cold but she wasn’t ready to face the world just yet so she climbed back into bed and tried to work out how much money she could lay her hands on.

  She had saved £6 12s 9d for herself plus the tiny bit of commission she took for running the club. She would use that, but what about the rest? She looked around the room. What could she sell? If only she hadn’t used that brooch money on a fruitless trip to London. Still, she hadn’t known it would lead to nothing when she’d set out, had she? It was worth a try, but what was left that was of any value now that she needed it? Answer: not much. Most of her furniture was years old. She’d only get pennies for it. The grandmother clock downstairs would have to go. It needed a proper professional clean but she still might get five pounds for that. There was Michael’s cup. It would be hard to part with it, because apart from a couple of faded photographs, and his battered leather chair, it was her only link with him. She felt her throat tightening and her eyes pricking. Cyril Harper the rag-and-bone man and that man selling antiques only lived at the other end of the street from each other. Perhaps she could ask him about the chair but she couldn’t let Michael’s cup go.

  But there was her piano. She might get £7 or £8 for that. Grace wiped her eyes with her hand and looked at her wedding ring. She twisted it but it wouldn’t come over the knuckle. She suppressed a sob. Oh Michael …

  There was a soft knock on the door. ‘Cup of tea, Mum?’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ said Grace, dabbing her eyes with the sheet and pulling herself up the bed.

  Rita put the tea on the bedside table. Her chin was quivering. ‘Oh Mum …’

  It was obvious from Rita’s expression that she was worried about Grace’s face. ‘It looks worse than it feels,’ she said.

  ‘They could have killed you,’ said Rita.

  ‘But they didn’t,’ said Grace softly, ‘so let’s not worry about something that didn’t happen, eh?’

  Rita headed for the door. ‘Do you want me to come to the station with you, Mum?’

  ‘That would be nice. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. You’re my mother.’

  Grace turned her head away. Rita sniffed loudly. ‘I’ve raked the fire and got it going,’ she said in a businesslike way. ‘I’ve put your clothes to warm on the clothes horse.’

  Grace managed a smile and Rita closed the door.

  Once up and dressed, Grace wasted no time in going to the police station. She kept her headscarf loose around her face and walked with her head down in an effort to hide her bruises. The statement didn’t take long.

  ‘And you are certain of the time?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Salvatore Semadini was washing the windows of the Railway Café,’ said Grace. ‘We passed the time of day.’

  The inspector narrowed his eyes. ‘You know him well?’

  ‘My daughter does a Saturday morning job there,’ said Grace. ‘At least she did until a week or two ago.’

  Salvatore had asked her when Rita was coming back but Grace had been so anxious to get the round done, she’d told him shecouldn’t stop. She remembered seeing the time on the big clock inside the café.

  ‘Tell her we miss her,’ Salvatore had called after her. ‘Tell her to come for her Christmas box.’

  ‘You and Liliana come over to our place on Christmas Day,’ she’d called over her shoulder.

  ‘Could he have followed you?’ the inspector asked.

  ‘Salvatore?’ Grace gasped. ‘I don’t know what you’re suggesting but he is as honest as the day is long. Besides I saw him go back into the shop with his bucket.’

  After a rather tetchy interview, G
race and Rita caught the bus back. They were hardly back inside the door before Grace was getting ready to go back out again.

  Rita was alarmed. ‘The doctor said you should rest, Mum.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell everyone what’s happened,’ said Grace.

  By the time afternoon came, Grace was exhausted. Despite Rita’s offer to tell her savers that their money was gone, Grace insisted that she do it herself. Rita knew how stubborn her mother could be, so rather than pick a fight, she decided to go with her.

  ‘It’s better coming from me,’ Grace insisted and she was right. Once they saw the state of her, Grace was met by a mixture of alarm, concern and understanding rather than the hostility she’d dreaded. Given time, the bruises would fade, but the humiliation Grace felt as she begged forgiveness and asked for time to repay the money would take a lot longer to heal.

  As the day wore on she leaned more heavily on Rita’s arm. She was feeling weak but as soon as they got back home and had had a bite to eat, Grace said she was going to the Clifton Arms.

  ‘Whatever do you want to go there for?’ Rita’s voice was shrill with anxiety. Her mother should be resting. All this rushing about was making her look really pale.

  Grace didn’t answer. She wanted to conserve what little energy she had for the landlord, Taffy Morgan, rather than wasting it on a futile argument. Her mind was made up. Taffy, it was rumoured, was looking for a piano.

  Built around 1863, and named after the Clifton Suspension Bridge, the public house was frequented by the people of New Town, a development of small terraced houses which had been built in Clifton Road, way back in Victorian times. The name still stuck with the old timers in the town.

  Grace had fond memories of the Clifton Arms. Before the war, in 1936, the Worthing and District Homing Pigeon Society had held their annual prize night in there and Michael, as winner for three years in a row, had won a silver cup outright.

  The piano raised a healthy £6 10s, but it was a solemn pair who returned to the cold house late in the afternoon. Even with the sale of piano, Grace still had a long way to find an awful lot more money to replace what the thief had taken, and from now on, there was little hope of raising more than pennies. She had nothing else of value.

  Apart from Michael’s cup. She looked up at the mantelpiece. It was good quality silver and the only engraving was on theplinth, which meant it could be used for something else. The cup had been her rock all through the war. Her security. How many times had she said, ‘if things get really bad, we can always sell your father’s cup’, but they never had. Somehow, they’d pull through and Michael’s pride and joy stayed where it was. She sighed. The time had come at last to let it go.

  ‘Rita, go and get Mr Harper and then Mr Warren.’

  Cyril Harper lived at the end of the street. He worked as a rag-and-bone man and kept his horse in a stable at the back of his little place and put it out to graze on a piece of waste ground between the houses. The children loved it and many a time, Bonnie and Rita had gone up there to stroke him and give him a carrot or an apple.

  People said that beneath Cyril’s shabby coat there beat the heart of a very rich man. When it came to buying, he had a reputation as a man who struck a very hard bargain.

  ‘Good God, Missus,’ said Cyril as he walked in the door. ‘Whatever happened to you?’

  Grace didn’t elaborate. ‘How much will you give me for the grandmother clock?’ she said getting straight to the point.

  Cyril umm-ed and ah-ed and scratched his head. ‘Five pounds.’

  ‘Done,’ she said. Cyril looked surprised. He’d obviously expected some haggling.

  She took the cup from the mantlepiece and put it into Cyril’s hands. He always wore Ebenezer gloves; no one had ever seen him without them, winter or summer. Cyril ran his long fingers over the silver and then took an eyeglass out of his threadbare waistcoat pocket and examined the hallmark.

  ‘Ten bob.’

  Grace frowned. ‘I want at least thirty.’

  Cyril pulled a face. ‘Twelve and six.’

  ‘Mum,’ Rita protested. They both knew it was worth far more than that.

  ‘Rita, don’t,’ said Grace firmly. ‘I have to. A pound. I can’t let it go for less than a pound.’

  Cyril turned the cup over in his hands, held it at arm’s length as if he was checking to see if it was straight, held it up to the light and then set it down on the table in front of them. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. He continued to stare at the cup in the nerve-racking silence for several minutes before saying, ‘Fifteen bob and that’s my last offer.’

  Grace held out her hand and he shook it. Rita cried silent tears. Her mother picked up the cup one last time and kissed the inscription.

  A sharp rap on the front door broke the charged atmosphere and when Rita opened the door Mr Warren came in. While Cyril left with his purchases, Grace thanked the newcomer for his help the previous evening.

  ‘I’m sure I would have been seriously hurt if you hadn’t have come along.’

  Mr Warren waved away her gratitude. ‘It was nothing. Anyone would have done it.’ But they both knew he had been the saving of her.

  When she finally got down to the business of selling Michael’s battered leather chair, she was too choked up to remember to offer Mr Warren a cup of tea.

  As he examined the chair, Grace realised she would get next to nothing for it. The stuffing was coming away under the seat. Even with all her thorough cleaning, she hadn’t noticed that, and the leather was badly cracked on the arms. It was perfectly understandable. The chair had belonged to Michael, to his father and his father before that.

  ‘I can offer you five pounds,’ he said eventually. ‘It will need a lot of work on it before I can sell it.’

  Grace nodded stiffly and they shook hands. It was a firm shake and she saw the sympathy in his eyes.

  ‘One other thing,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion, ‘that chair belonged to my husband and I don’t want to see it go. Rita and me will go upstairs and then you can take it.’

  Mr Warren’s expression didn’t change. He nodded.

  They didn’t get up the stairs. Grace and Rita began to climb but then they sat together on the third stair. The stair door automatically closed slightly and they sat in the gloom with their arms around each other.

  Rita cried softly into Grace’s shoulder. ‘Oh, Mum …’

  ‘It’s just a chair,’ said Grace, her voice tight and wavery. But of course it wasn’t just a chair. It really was their last link with Michael … Michael with his laughing eyes and his cheeky grin; Michael her lover and the father of her girls.

  ‘Has he gone yet?’

  Rita wiped her eyes and listened. They heard the sound of coins rolling on the kitchen table and someone making a neat pile. Grace closed her eyes and leaned her head back in an effort to keep control of her emotions. Then it went very quiet.

  ‘Is he still there?’ Grace whispered.

  Rita peered through the crack in the door and nodded her head.

  Grace looked through the crack and he was still standing in the middle of the kitchen stroking his chin. ‘What on earth is he doing?’ she whispered.

  All at once, the stair door opened and Mr Warren put his head round. All three of them jumped because he hadn’t expected them to be on the stair and they hadn’t expected him to open the door.

  Grace blew her nose with her hanky. She put the hanky up her sleeve, tugged at her dress, put her shoulders back and stood up with her head held high.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t take the chair right now, Mrs Rogers,’ saidMr Warren. He stepped back into the kitchen and Grace followed him. ‘You see, I’ve been thinking about it and I just don’t have enough room in the shop at the moment, so I think it best to leave it here.’

  ‘But you will be collecting it,’ said Grace uncertainly.

  ‘Oh yes.’ He walked to the front door and with his hand on the latch he paused. ‘Somet
hing’ll go right for you, Mrs Rogers,’ he said softly. ‘Better days will come. Your five pounds is on the table.’

  Nine

  The double gates of Holly Acres were shrouded in late afternoon fog. The house was almost invisible, as Lady Brayfield stepped out of the taxi which had brought her from the station. She paid the driver and told him to come back in an hour.

  Holly Acres was a two-storey building, with black and white paintwork and a wide portico entrance. In the gathering gloom, she could see the lawns stretching away to the right with a single swing and a climbing frame in the distance. She rang the doorbell and after a few minutes a young girl in a shapeless grey dress opened the door. Lady Brayfield was politely asked to wait in the hallway. The sound of children’s voices was coming from all parts of the house. Lady Brayfield played with the hair left exposed by her hat. The mist had made it damp and it clung to her forehead.

  Harriet Bennett was surprised to see her visitor. Not many of her friends called at her place of work, especially not on a Sunday and so close to Christmas.

  ‘Marion, how lovely to see you.’ The two women embraced lightly. ‘Let me take you to my living quarters.’

  Lady Brayfield followed her through what seemed like a maze of corridors until at last, just beyond the kitchen and the laundry room, they stepped outside again into a small courtyard. Here the children’s shrill voices, dulled by the closing of the back door, finally faded altogether.

  ‘We live in a cottage over what was once the stables,’ Harriet called over her shoulder. ‘It’s such a lovely setting here. Tommy and I are quite settled at last.’

  Her friend, a trained nurse, had been imprisoned by the Japanese during the war. She and her husband had been in Singapore when they had overrun the whole area in 1942. Regarded as vital to the protection of the Empire’s Commonwealth possessions in the Far East, the British military base had been upgraded in 1938. What no one had expected was that the Japanese high command would push up through the jungle and mangrove swamps of the Malay Peninsula, and with all the British defences pointing out to sea, there had been little chance of gaining the upper hand when they finally appeared.