Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle

by Pam Weaver

  The fight came to an abrupt end when Dottie managed to slap Ann across her the side of her face, which made her lose her balance. As Dottie pulled away, Ann toppled over the gate and landed in a heap in the road.

  Breathless, Dottie stepped back, her head throbbing with pain and her hair spilling all over her face and shoulders like a wild woman’s.

  To complete her surprise, instead of jumping up and coming for her again, Ann burst into tears. For a second, Dottie was tempted to leave her but something kept her rooted to the spot, although she felt it wise to keep her distance. She was nervous that if she bent over Ann she might grab her hair and start the fight all over again. She looked around helplessly.

  There was nobody was in sight. Dottie thought she saw a curtain move in the house opposite, where Vera Carter lived, but nobody came out. When she looked at Ann’s house, she was horrified to see two tearstained faces staring out of the sitting room window. Ann’s little children, Brian and Phyllis, made a pathetic sight. Dressed only in grubby and holey vests, their little shoulders heaved up and down as, racked with sobs, they stared at their mother sitting in the road.

  Dottie closed her eyes with shame. What a thing for the children to see. Their mother and her neighbour brawling in the street like a couple of tomcats.

  ‘Get up, Ann.’

  Ann hit her hand away.

  ‘Ann, your kiddies are watching you,’ said Dottie quietly. ‘Let me help you up.’

  Ann struggled to her feet and Dottie helped her.

  ‘Do you really need money that badly?’ Dottie asked.

  ‘I can’t go on much longer,’ Ann wept. Her guard was well and truly down. ‘I get virtually nothing from the welfare. I can’t get a job because there’s no one to look after the kids.’ She fumbled up her sleeve for a handkerchief and then blew her nose. ‘You haven’t a bloody clue, have you? I watch you and Mary and Peaches Smith swanning around in your pretty dresses and all you lot do is kick a dog when it’s down.’

  ‘When did I do that?’ cried Dottie.

  ‘When you reported me,’ said Ann, obviously sensing the upper hand.

  ‘But I didn’t!’ Dottie cried. She bit her lip. Obviously Ann didn’t know it was Reg who’d reported her. As far as Dottie could see, he’d done it out of spite.

  ‘When Lennie cleared off back to his wife,’ Ann went on. ‘Me and the kids was left with nothing.’

  ‘I’ll lend you some money.’

  But Ann wasn’t listening. ‘What did it matter to anybody what I was doing anyway?’ She was in full swing now. ‘The kids were fed and well looked after. Lennie and me was happy. We might have even got married if we could have saved up for the divorce.’ She covered her face with the handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Dottie. ‘I didn’t know.’

  It was getting dark. Reg would be back home in a minute. She glanced up the road anxiously. He’d go bananas if he saw them talking together.

  Ann blew her nose again and, tugging at the front of her dress, she turned towards her house, mustering what little dignity she could.

  Back in her own cottage, Dottie opened her tin of savings and took out five one-pound notes. That would keep Ann going for a bit. Damn Reg and his principles. She grabbed a couple of jars of jam from the dresser and stuffed some runner beans into a brown paper bag.

  As she scraped her hair back into an untidy bun, she thought better of the jam and beans. If she rushed next door laden with all that stuff, Ann would probably slam the door in her face. After all, she had her pride.

  A little later when she knocked on Ann’s door she heard the scampering of little feet and Brian opened the door. The grubby vest was all he was wearing.

  ‘Hello, Brian, is Mummy there?’

  Ann appeared behind him. She looked startled. ‘Go in the sitting room with Phyllis, Brian,’ she said sharply.

  His eyes grew wide with fear and he hurried off.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Ann coldly.

  ‘Look,’ said Dottie. ‘I really am sorry.’ She reached for Ann’s hand and pressed the rolled-up notes in it.

  Ann looked down and her face flamed with colour. ‘I told you, I don’t want your charity.’

  ‘It’s not charity,’ said Dottie. ‘It’s a loan. Pay me back when you can.’

  ‘What will Reg say?’

  ‘What Reg doesn’t know, can’t hurt him,’ said Dottie turning to leave.

  ‘Dottie …’ Ann called after her.

  Dottie turned. Ann’s eyes were filled with tears and her chin was quivering. ‘Thank you,’ she choked.

  Fourteen

  Late the following Friday afternoon, Dottie was drumming her fingers at the kitchen table. She’d been like a cat on a hot brick all day. She’d got up very early, swept the house, dusted everywhere, gone over all the rugs with the Bex-Bissell and then gone to work at the Fitzgeralds’. She’d arranged with Mariah to have the afternoon off because today was the day Sylvie was coming. Michael Gilbert’s wedding was tomorrow.

  Mariah had grudgingly given her the time off, but remarked that she hoped Dottie would find time over the weekend to do some more of the furnishings. Dottie couldn’t wait to show Sylvie what she was doing.

  Back home by lunchtime, Dottie got out the best tablecloth and her best china. A few late roses made the room smell nice and the table looked perfect, even if she did say so herself. After that, she’d started fiddling. There was a loose thread on the curtain that needed sewing in. The cushions on the easy chairs needed plumping up and once she’d done that, she thought it would be better if the floral cushion was on top of the plain one; but when she sat down at the table again, she decided the floral cushion looked a bit flash, and it would look better the other way around.

  Dottie had been so excited about her friend coming. She had prepared the second bedroom with great care. The sheets on the single bed were ironed with knife-edge creases. She’d given Sylvie her best patchwork counterpane, the one she’d spent two years making, and she’d polished the sideboard to distraction. It was nowhere near the standard her friend was used to but Sylvie was never one to put on airs and graces. She may have come from a well-to-do background, but she never flaunted it.

  As usual Dottie had used every spare minute she had preparing fruit and vegetables for jams and chutney. Her store cupboard boasted a large stock of plum jam, rhubarb and ginger jam, marrow and ginger jam, raspberry, blackcurrant and gooseberry jams and now she was concentrating on chutneys. She’d already prepared some marrow chutney and soon she’d be looking for the ingredients and enough jam jars to make elderberry chutney.

  Her recipes weren’t as good as her aunt’s and rationing meant it was still hard to get the other ingredients she needed, but she could often get a few extra coupons from friends with the promise of a jar of something to come. She decorated each batch with matching jam pot covers, using any oddment of material too small to use for anything else.

  She glanced at the clock. Sylvie would be here soon. The postman pushed a second-post letter through the letterbox and she jumped a mile high.

  It was another letter from Australia, addressed to Reg. It was a bit fatter than last time and although she held it up to the light it was impossible to see what was inside.

  A car horn tooted outside. Dottie jumped and took in her breath excitedly. ‘That’s Sylvie,’ she said out loud, even though she was alone in the house. ‘She’s here.’

  Dottie ran outside where Sylvie’s black Humber almost filled the narrow road. As Sylvie stepped out of the car, she looked so elegant she almost took Dottie’s breath away. She was wearing an emerald green dress with a wide collar with scalloped edges which lay on her shoulders. The bodice was tight over her still perfect figure and at the waist she wore a small belt. Her shoes were doe-coloured, as was the clutch bag she leaned into the car to retrieve from the passenger seat. Her auburn hair was topped by a small green hat covered in layers of green tulle and as she walked towards Dottie, her petticoats
rustled under her voluminous calf-length skirts.

  ‘Dottie, darling!’ The two women embraced warmly. ‘It’s so good to see you again. You’re looking well.’

  ‘And you look fantastic,’ Dottie laughed.

  Sylvie linked her arm through hers and they walked indoors. ‘I love this little house,’ Sylvie said as she walked up the path, but then she gasped as she stepped over the threshold. ‘Oh my goodness, Dottie! What have you done?’ She turned to look at her. ‘It was really sweet when your aunt was alive, but now you’ve made it look absolutely wonderful.’

  She gazed around, taking in the neat chairs with their crisp backs, the open fireplace filled with autumn flowers and the table with its embroidered tablecloth and pretty tea service. Sylvie walked over to the dresser with its jams and chutneys, and began examining the labels.

  ‘Have you done all these yourself? Wherever do you find the time?’

  Dottie was delighted that Sylvie was so impressed. ‘You must take something back with you when you go,’ she said as she absentmindedly put the letter for Reg on the table. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’m gasping.’

  Dottie put on the gas. The water was almost ready – in fact she’d already boiled it at least three times in anticipation of her friend’s arrival.

  ‘Where is Reg?’ asked Sylvie, opening her bag and taking out an elegant cigarette holder.

  ‘He’s working until six,’ Dottie called from the scullery.

  ‘Oh good,’ said Sylvie. ‘That gives us plenty of time for girl talk.’

  Dottie giggled. She re-emerged with the teapot and put in on the cork tablemat before covering it with a cosy. As she sat down opposite her friend, Sylvie reached out and touched her hand. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

  Dottie looked down at Sylvie’s long bronze-tipped fingernails and smooth hands and smiled shyly. ‘And you.’

  ‘So tell me,’ said Sylvie lighting up her Craven A, ‘How’s tricks? No sign of a family yet?’

  Dottie busied herself with the tea. ‘Not yet,’ she said quietly. ‘How are your children?’

  ‘Growing like weeds,’ said Sylvie, her face lighting up. ‘Hugh is seven now and off to prep school soon. Rosemary is five and a little pickle. Robin can’t do enough for them. There’s one thing I’ll say for him, Robin has been an amazing father.’

  ‘So you’re really happy then,’ said Dottie pushing the cup and saucer in front of her.

  ‘I think so.’

  Dottie laughed. ‘Only think so?’

  Sylvie shrugged. ‘You know how it is, darling. You long for Prince Charming and finally he comes along. You get married and settle down and have his children but you always wonder if there isn’t a bit more to life.’ She chuckled at Dottie’s confusion. ‘Don’t get me wrong, darling. I still love Robin. I get a bit bored, that’s all.’

  Dottie placed an ashtray in front of her and they sipped their tea. ‘I’ve told Michael and Mary that you’re coming.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see them,’ smiled Sylvie. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Mary is all right. Still trying to lose weight.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sylvie chuckled. ‘I’m afraid that might be a losing battle!’

  ‘And I’m afraid you won’t see Peaches,’ Dottie went on. ‘She can’t be at the wedding.’

  Sylvie seemed to pick up on Dottie’s sadness. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

  Dottie took a minute or two to explain what had happened to Gary.

  ‘How perfectly ghastly!’ cried Sylvie. ‘But I must say, I’m surprised that Reg was so concerned about you getting the disease. I never had him down as the caring type.’

  ‘Oh Sylvie, you’re not going to start saying horrible things about him, are you?’

  ‘No … no of course not.’ Sylvie hesitated. ‘So how is Gary now? I mean, is there any sign of lasting damage?’

  ‘They don’t know yet.’

  ‘And what about Peaches? I take it that by now you’ve managed to tell her you did go to see Gary?’

  Dottie shook her head. ‘I never seem to be able to catch her.’

  ‘Write to her,’ said Sylvie.

  Dottie looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I should. I’m not thinking very straight, am I? Why didn’t I think of that before?’

  ‘How’s Reg?’ Sylvie said holding up his letter. ‘Not thinking of going off to Australia, is he?’

  Dottie could feel her face burning. She hesitated. She had to ask Sylvie about the money but this seemed like neither the time or the place. She’d only just got in the door.

  ‘Let’s get your case in first, shall we?’ she said brightly. ‘I’m dying for you to see your bedroom.’

  Sylvie looked her very intently. She wasn’t stupid. Something was wrong, something Dottie wasn’t telling her, but she wouldn’t press her just yet. Instead, she stubbed out her cigarette and followed Dottie out to the Humber.

  It took longer to bring her things in than they thought. She might only have been staying for a couple of nights, but Sylvie had two suitcases. They were both very heavy and the stairs were steep.

  ‘I couldn’t make up my mind what to bring,’ Sylvie apologised as they struggled into the bedroom. ‘There’s a present for Michael in that one.’

  ‘I think he’s already got a kitchen sink,’ Dottie quipped as she heaved one case onto the bed.

  ‘This is a lovely room,’ said Sylvie looking around. ‘You’ve got a real flair for decoration.’

  ‘It was Aunt Bessie’s room,’ said Dottie. Seeing Sylvie’s anxious glance, she added, ‘but it’s OK, she didn’t die in here.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Dottie sat on the bed. ‘I found her at the bottom of the stairs.’

  It had come as a great shock to everybody when Aunt Bessie had fallen down the stairs eighteen months before. How ironic that it happened on the very day Reg had an extra duty at the station and Dottie was working in the Coopers’ shop. Although they said her death was instantaneous, Dottie still fretted that Aunt Bessie had lain there, injured and alone before she died.

  Sylvie squeezed her arm. ‘It must have been awful for you. She was such a sweet old thing.’

  ‘Not that old as it happens,’ said Dottie. ‘She was only sixty-one. They reckon she must have tripped at the top of the stairs. If only I had come home for lunch that day I might have saved her.’

  ‘She died of her injuries?’

  ‘They said she broke her neck,’ Dottie said, ‘and that it was instantaneous. I hope that’s true.’

  ‘Oh darling, I can’t imagine how awful it was for you,’ said Sylvie squeezing Dottie’s elbow. ‘Poor Aunt Bessie. Her death must have affected you dreadfully.’

  ‘Me and Reg,’ said Dottie. ‘He was ill for weeks afterwards. He still doesn’t like coming into this room. It upsets him too much. He says it makes him feel jumpy.’

  Sylvie raised her eyebrow. ‘What a pity Aunt Bessie won’t be around for Michael’s wedding,’ she said sadly. ‘We would have had some real laughs together.’

  Dottie smiled.

  Sylvie unlocked one of the suitcases. ‘What’s the bride like?’

  ‘Freda? She’s nice enough,’ said Dottie. ‘She did all the running but I think she’ll make Michael a good wife. She works in the greengrocer’s. That’s how they met really. Her father wanted the farm potatoes, Michael delivered twice a week, and the rest, as they say, is history.’

  ‘Is she pretty?’

  ‘She’s not exactly a beauty, if you know what I mean, but she looks a picture in her wedding dress.’

  ‘You made it, I suppose.’

  ‘As a matter of fact she bought it,’ said Dottie, ‘but I did a few alterations. They made their arrangements quite quickly.’

  Sylvie gave her a knowing look and Dottie pushed her arm playfully. ‘I didn’t say anything and don’t you say a word.’

  ‘As if I would …’

  ‘As if …’ Dottie smirk
ed.

  ‘You know Michael has always been a bit in love with you, don’t you?’ said Sylvie.

  ‘Don’t talk daft,’ said Dottie scornfully.

  ‘It’s true, darling,’ said Sylvie. ‘The day you got married, he was absolutely devastated. After you’d gone off on your honeymoon, we sat together in the old barn and had a long talk.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘He didn’t like Reg very much, jealousy I suppose, but he was terrified that you’d be unhappy.’

  ‘I had no idea.’ Dottie shook her head. ‘Whatever did you say?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ Sylvie shrugged, ‘but being nineteen at the time, I’m sure I gave him the benefit of all my worldly wisdom because he soon got over it.’

  They laughed.

  ‘We ended up drinking half a bottle of cider together,’ Sylvie giggled. ‘He was quite sozzled by the time he left me.’

  ‘Oh Sylvie,’ Dottie laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  Sylvie threw open her case and Dottie gasped. On top she could see a floaty evening dress in pale blue. Sylvie moved it slightly aside, revealing another in apricot satin and, underneath both of them, two day dresses. Each had matching shoes and accessories. At the bottom of the case, there was a rayon nightdress, with matching bed jacket, and a pretty pair of slippers.

  ‘Where do you manage to get all the coupons?’ Dottie gasped.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, holding up the blue gown. ‘This one came from Paris.’

  Dottie handed her some coat hangers. ‘This one is gorgeous,’ she said, hanging up the pink satin dress by its waist loops.

  ‘Try it on,’ Sylvie suggested.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you would like it. That’s why I brought it. Try it on.’

  Breathlessly, Dottie clambered out of her own clothes and slipped it on. ‘It’s amazing,’ she said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  ‘It’s yours,’ said Sylvie.