by Pam Weaver
‘But we don’t know anyone in Australia,’ said Dottie.
‘Ask Brenda. Is that her name?’ said Sylvie. ‘Or better yet, contact a missionary society or something. They often send their people home on furlough. I’m sure someone like that would help. What do you say, Reg?’
‘There’s no doubt she’s my kid, see,’ he said stubbornly. ‘And as for the other …’ He got out his wallet and took out an envelope. Dottie recognised it as the letter that had come the day before. He thrust it at Sylvie. Glancing up at Dottie, Sylvie took it out of the envelope and read it aloud.
Dear Mr Cox,
Thank you so much for your letter. Sandy told me that although you were unable to register the baby yourself, you would be delighted to acknowledge Patricia as your child. I am so glad you still feel the way you do. Sandy always made it clear that she wanted you to have everything. She never stopped loving you. Now that we have heard from you, my good friend Doc Landers has kindly offered to pay for Patricia to go to England and be with you. Accordingly, she will be travelling with him to Southampton on the Akarda leaving here in a couple of days with Nurse Tranter (retired) and the Doc. As luck would have it, he has to return to England to see his mother who is ill. He is very fond of children and Patricia is a lovely little girl. All things considered, she is quite bright for her age and always very happy. I feel sure you will be able to offer her far more than I can. My husband is in the final stages of an illness and with four healthy children of my own to look after, I couldn’t possibly give Patricia the kind of upbringing she deserves. She has suffered so much, poor lamb. She was devoted to Sandy and was quite confused when she died.
Patricia has sent you another letter of her own, which I enclose.
May I ask that you would be kind enough to let me know how well she is doing from time to time? Just a line or a postcard will do.
I remain, yours sincerely,
Brenda Nichols.
There were two other pieces of paper enclosed with the letter. One was a copy of Patricia’s birth certificate. The margin marked for the name and surname of father was blank. Sylvie said nothing. Reg handed her another piece of paper.
Dear Father,
I am loking forward to coming to England. When I stay with Auntie Brenda I sleep with Peggy. Will I have my own bed in egland? I am bringing Suzy and my best book. Your ever loving daghter
Patricia.
‘So you see,’ Reg said with a look of triumph in his eyes, as they read it together. ‘I don’t need your bloody money or your sodding advice.’
They both stared at him. Sylvie with horror, Dottie in surprise.
‘Well,’ he said passing by, ‘I’m off up to bed.’
He was waiting with the light on when Dottie walked into the bedroom. She searched his face, trying to understand his mood, but he said nothing. The bedclothes were draped around his hips and she could see at once that he was fully aroused. She undressed quickly and reached for her nightdress.
‘You don’t need that,’ he said coldly.
She hesitated. She was tired. It had been a long day. She wasn’t sure that she even wanted sex, especially not with Sylvie in the next room and the walls as thin as tissue paper, but how could she tell him? She took a deep breath and chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘Reg, if you don’t mind, I …’
He rose up in the bed and grabbed her wrist, pulling her roughly towards him.
‘Reg …’ She was desperate but she still had the presence of mind to speak quietly. ‘You’re hurting me.’
He pulled her down onto the bed and forced his hand between her legs. She tried to push him away. ‘No, Reg, I’m tired. Please …’
He lifted his head. “‘No, Reg, I’m tired. Please …” ’ he mimicked. ‘Well, I’m not. Get your legs up, woman.’
‘Sylvie will hear.’
‘Then you shouldn’t have invited her for another night, should you,’ he hissed. ‘I’m sick of her filling your head with a load of nonsense. It’s about time you did something for me for a change.’
She didn’t want this. She really didn’t want this but her struggles only excited him more. His probing fingers dug into her tender flesh, but when she tried to cry out he forced her to submit by rolling onto her and pinning her down.
‘Quiet, darling. Sylvie will hear,’ he smirked as his other hand went over her mouth.
She’d never seen him like this before. He’d become a monster. The pain he was inflicting with his fingers was almost unbearable and with his crushing weight on top of her, she could hardly breathe. The more she struggled, the harder he probed. Tears filled her eyes but still he had no pity. Then he took his hand away and, sliding both hands under her buttocks, mounted her. Then the thrusting began. It was agony and it seemed endless. She bit her lip until she tasted blood in an effort not to cry out.
‘Please … please …’ she sobbed.
Her skin stung so much it almost took her breath away and the pain got worse with each thrust. All at once he grunted aloud, pushed himself right into her and went rigid. It was over. He looked down at her, as if seeing her for the first time. A smile played across his lips. ‘That was lovely, wasn’t it, darlin’? You’ll soon be beggin’ for more. Just like old times.’
She stared at him with a look of disgust as he lifted himself from her and turned away, his face to the wall. With a contented sigh, he pulled the bedclothes up and said, ‘Turn off the light, there’s a good girl.’
Slowly and painfully, Dottie climbed out of the bed and picked up her nightdress from the floor. The material felt cool and light as it fell over her shaking shoulders. Soundlessly she walked over to the door and reached for the light switch. It clicked and she was plunged into darkness. She waited a second or two until her eyes adjusted and then she went to the bathroom to bathe her burning and bruised flesh with cold water. She was so sore she could hardly bear to pat herself dry on the rough towel.
When she came back into the bedroom, the moon was shining through the curtains and room was bathed in a cold harsh light. Dottie passed her tongue over her lips, tasting the salt of her silent tears.
She climbed into bed and lay very still. She could still feel him inside her and she hated him all the more for it. Staring up at the moonlit ceiling, Dottie willed herself not to cry. She found herself wondering about Michael and Mr Malcolm. Did they treat their wives like this? How gentle was Michael with Freda? Did Miss Josephine ever lie in her bed battered and so ill used? She didn’t think so, but then if she were to ask her friends, none of them would believe what Reg had done here tonight. A renegade tear rolled down her cheek and onto the pillow. She’d asked him not to but he’d done it anyway. In the eyes of the law he had done no wrong. He’d simply taken what was his by right; but as far as she was concerned, he had raped her.
When he began to snore softly, she relaxed, knowing he wouldn’t want her again tonight. What about the next time? Dear God, she couldn’t bear the thought of a next time. Careful not to touch him, she turned over and faced the window. He stirred in his sleep and her heart began to pound.
That was the moment she knew that she was very, very frightened.
Nineteen
Dottie woke with a start. The bright moonlight had waxed into the dull grey of early dawn. She slid out of bed quickly, anxious not to wake Reg. Grabbing a change of clothes, she tiptoed downstairs. The clock said 5.20am.
Rather than use the bathroom and risk another encounter with Reg, she washed in the bowl and dressed by the unlit fire. She curled up in the armchair and sipped her tea. She was still sore and she had a bruise on her lip. That must have been where he pressed his hand on her face. Miserably, she cupped her hands around the tea and swirled the dark liquid. Sylvie said to leave him – but how could she? If she cleared off now, with Patsy on the way, he wouldn’t be able to look after her on his own. And besides, why should she go? This was her aunt’s house. If anyone should leave, it should be him. But she knew that wouldn’t happen, not in a month
of Sundays. She reached up onto the mantelpiece and took down the letter. The postmark was dated two weeks ago. In a few weeks, by the middle of October, the girl would be here.
She looked at the child’s letter again. She had very neat handwriting, which meant she was very bright for her age. Suzy was probably the name of her dolly. Dottie wondered how she was managing onboard. She leaned back and closed her eyes. She could just picture Patsy, in her pink and white gingham dress, her blonde curls bobbing along the deck as she played hide and seek with Dr Landers. Oh dear, what if Dr Landers was too old to play hide and seek? What if poor Patsy was seasick? What if poor old Nurse Tranter fell asleep in a deckchair and Patsy climbed through the railings and fell into the sea!
Dottie opened her eyes with a start. She heard the stairs creak and glanced at the clock. 5.45. Reg was coming downstairs.
Putting her cup into the hearth, Dottie fled into the scullery intending to disappear down the garden until he’d gone. She picked up the bucket of chicken feed but when she opened the door, it was raining. Tipping it down.
‘Got the kettle on out there?’ The sound of his voice made her stomach churn.
‘Just coming,’ she called.
The teapot was only warm. She switched on the gas and poured the contents of the teapot away.
Reg appeared in the doorway. ‘Been looking at Patsy’s letter again, I see.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said wildly. Oh hell, she’d forgotten she’d still got it in her hand when she’d heard his footfall on the stairs. She must have automatically left it on the chair. ‘I didn’t mean to read your letter,’ she gabbled. ‘I’m sorry, Reg.’
She hated to sound like this but she was scared. Scared of what he might do …
‘That’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘Her new mum is bound to want to look at her picture.’
He walked towards her but mercifully the kettle began to boil, so she was able to turn away and busy herself by making a fresh pot of tea. When she walked into the kitchen he was sitting at the table. He caught her by the waist as she put the teapot onto the stand.
‘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.
