by Pam Weaver
Sylvie took a long drag of her cigarette and put her head back. Dottie tried not to make a sound as she cleared her nose.
‘Do you have to have this child of his?’
‘How will he look after her if I go?’
‘That’s hardly a good reason to stay,’ said Sylvie.
Dottie sighed. Sylvie was right. Why should she stay here and look after Reg’s daughter? This was her home. She wanted so much to say ‘Yes, Sylvie, I’ll go with you’ – but if she left, Reg would get the house by default.
‘This is my home,’ Dottie said desperately. ‘And besides, I can’t let him down. Not after he’s suffered so much.’
‘Dottie, you can’t spend your whole life trying to make someone else happy. It’s time you thought about what you want.’ Sylvie leaned towards her as if she was going to say something else, but then she seemed to think better of it.
‘If Reg is happy, then I’ll be happy,’ Dottie said, struggling to regain her composure. ‘Look, I don’t want to be rude, Sylvie, but I don’t see the point of going over and over the same thing and that’s that. You’re very kind to be so concerned but please, you’re not to worry about me.’
‘A very pretty speech,’ said Sylvie, ‘but don’t forget, I slept here last night.’
Dottie’s face flamed. She couldn’t talk about last night. It was … humiliating. As she rose to leave, Sylvie put up her hand up. ‘Point taken, darling. If you’d rather not talk about it, we’ll say no more. Like I said in the car, I care too much about you to quarrel.’
They finished their breakfast, making polite conversation, then Dottie helped Sylvie to pack her things. By 8.25 she was ready for the off and Dottie stood in the road to wave her goodbye.
Sylvie handed her the framed photograph of the two of them with Aunt Bessie. ‘I thought you might like to have this,’ she said. ‘I had it enlarged and framed to remind you of the happy times we had together.’
‘Oh, Sylvie!’ cried Dottie. ‘It’s lovely. I’d quite forgotten it. She looked so funny in that old cowboy hat.’
‘How did she get it?’ Sylvie asked. ‘I’ve been trying to remember …’
‘Colonel Warren gave it to her, didn’t he?’
‘Of course,’ cried Sylvie. ‘All those American Square Dances she organised.’
They looked at each other and, smiling broadly, chorused, ‘Yee-ha!’
Sylvie put her arm around Dottie’s shoulder and they leaned over the photograph again. ‘Dear Aunt Bessie. I always think of her in that dress.’
Dottie smiled. ‘She was wearing it the day she died.’ Something made her stop. She frowned thoughtfully. Something was niggling at the back of her mind, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The tramp. He’d asked about the lady with the mauve dress. Aunt Bessie was wearing it in the photograph and she was wearing it the day she died. She shivered. The tramp must have seen her. So why didn’t he raise the alarm?
‘What is it?’ Sylvie asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said, shaking the dark thoughts away. ‘You’d better get going and I’ve got to get to work. They embraced and Dottie kissed her on the cheek. ‘You’re a good friend.’
As soon as she was in the car, Sylvie wound down the car windows. ‘Please think about getting away from Reg,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave it too long, and for God’s sake, don’t end up getting pregnant with his child.’
She roared away down the road, with Dottie staring after her. Don’t end up getting pregnant … The words reverberated around her head. As she turned to go back inside, Dottie found herself saying, ‘Absolutely not. I can’t get pregnant now … Not now …’
Twenty
Was her period late?
Dottie had never really bothered keeping tabs on her monthly cycle. Why should she? She had no reason to even think about it when Reg was unable to perform but she hadn’t come on at all this month.
She was handwashing her sheets in the big tin bath outside the back door. They had already been boiled in the copper and she’d staggered out with the clean sheet in a double-handled bowl to tip it into the bath of cold water to begin rinsing. It was backbreaking and exhausting work. She would wring the sheet by hand, passing it along her forearm until one end coiled itself back into the empty bowl. When both sheets were done, she would empty the bath and refill it with cold water and add a drummer blue to whiten the sheets. After a good soak and another wringing by hand, she would fold it and put it through the old mangle before it went onto the line.
The last few golden days of autumn were fading. Already there was a nip in the air. Time had hardly moved on since Michael’s wedding. He and Freda were back from honeymoon. Now at last the new Mrs Gilbert made no secret of their forthcoming happy event. Dottie had bumped into her several times in the village, her increasing girth now swathed in maternity dresses and her strained look turned into a glow. She and Michael had made a home for themselves on the farm using the old quarters used by the Land Girls during the war. Dottie hadn’t seen it but she imagined it would look a darned sight better than it did back then.
Things had taken an upward turn for Ann Pearce as well. Dottie was aware that several other householders in the village were keen to find a good daily woman. They had been trying to get Dottie to work for them for ages. Colonel Harris, who was retired, and his sister, Miss Harris, a piano teacher, were two of them. Then there was Miss Edwards. Now too elderly and infirm to leave her home, she was a mine of information and was always bang up-to-date with all the village gossip.
It had been tricky approaching Ann about the job, but Dottie’s decision to introduce her to Miss Edwards had been a master-stroke. The two of them hit it off straight away. Brian and Phyllis loved being with the twins all day and Mary was pleased to be able to buy a few things with the extra money Ann gave her.
Things were not so good for Dottie, however. For a few days after the wedding, Reg’s demands were frequent and sickening. Sometimes she tried to fight him off, but that only seemed to enflame his passion. She had a growing dread of bedtime and spent as long as she could downstairs doing odd jobs in the vain hope that he would be asleep when she came up to bed. It didn’t happen very often. Her body was so tender, she had resorted to lying to him, telling him she had her period. She’d even complained of stomach ache and that they’d gone on longer than usual, but the truth was she was late.
It was ironic that after all those years of longing for a child, even praying for one, all the years of trying to seduce Reg, now she hated the very thought of being with him. He was a brute. Dottie didn’t even want to think of the things he’d done to her. He seemed to enjoy it all the more when she was crying and pleading with him to stop. And when it was all over, he would pat her like a dog and tell her what a good girl she was. It had got to the stage when she couldn’t bear him to touch her.
Heaving the wet sheet back into the cold-water rinse, she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer. He was no fool. He’d know she was lying. Once the sheet was submerged, she stood up and pressed her apron against her stomach. But she couldn’t be pregnant. She mustn’t be.
In three days, Patsy would be here. Dottie’d kept nagging him to do something about the old well, but somehow he never seemed to get round to it. It made her feel nervous. Patsy might run around the garden and …
Ever since she’d read the child’s letter, Dottie had felt different about Patsy. More than likely, Elizabeth Johns had been a loving and caring mother. Patsy had suffered the trauma of losing her mother and now she was being shipped to a place far away from all that was familiar.
Australia was hot and barren. Dottie had once seen a picture of place called Ayers Rock and it looked an empty and desolate place. By comparison, England would seem very cold, even on a summer’s day. It was true, the Worthing area was sheltered from extremes of weather by the Downs, but winters could still be very cold and sometimes they had snow. Not as deep as in the north, but enough to cause problems on the roads. How, she wondere
d, would a little girl used to the heat manage to cope with an English winter?
Dottie had had little time to prepare for Patsy’s arrival. She was desperate to finish Mrs Fitzgerald’s curtains and the bedspread, but she’d spent most evenings knitting for Patsy. Her favourite was a yellow jumper with a brown kangaroo on the front.
‘Do you think she’ll like this one?’ she’d asked Reg. She’d held it up but he paid little attention.
As for the people in the village, Dottie had stuck to their agreed story and it had worked … after a fashion.
‘Why the hell adopt a kid all the way from Australia?’ Janet Cooper wanted to know. ‘There are plenty of kids in this country who need a mum and dad. Barnardo’s is bulging with them.’
‘It’s being done through an old colleague Reg knew during the war,’ Dottie had said, but she was a hopeless liar. She could already feel her face beginning to burn.
Mary may have seemed a little disapproving as well but the next time she’d seen Dottie she’d given her a bag of clothes. ‘Take what you want and give the rest back to me,’ she’d said. ‘We all help each other out and there are plenty of others I know that could do with a thing or two.’
Dottie smiled. So that would explain why she’d seen Phyllis Pearce wearing the jumper she’d knitted little Maureen Prior two Christmases ago.
The sheets were ready for the mangle. Dottie wiped the roller with a cloth and then passed the cloth through to check for any bits. She’d learned her lesson when, as a new bride, she’d put a sheet straight into the mangle and it came out the other side complete with a squashed spider and she’d had to rinse it all over again.
Dottie slowly turned the handle. The sheet was thick and it was hard work getting it through. There was a footfall behind her and Dottie spun around.
It was Vincent Dobbs, the postman.
‘Thanks, Vince,’ she said as he handed her a small pile of letters and waited while she wiped her hands on her apron.
Two bills, a letter from Sylvie (she recognised the handwriting and the Brockenhurst postmark), and a letter for Reg. She sighed. Still nothing from Peaches. Sylvie had been so sure a letter would help to heal the rift between them but Dottie had written her three letters and received not one reply. Reg didn’t mind her writing so she had put her last letter behind the clock for posting on Sunday. Reg had taken it and put it in the box first thing on Monday so she would have had it, maybe second post, but certainly on Tuesday morning. She’d told Peaches all about their plans to fetch Patsy. She’d asked about Gary and even offered to help with babysitting when he got back home, but nothing. No reply. No word … nothing. It looked as if she’d lost one of her dearest friends forever.
Sylvie’s letter was chatty and fun. After she’d told Dottie all about the children she wrote:
Robin is as busy as ever. I have been thinking about your wonderful talent for furnishings and I was wondering if you would come here and do some work for me? I can’t invite you just yet, because I am meeting my riding friend in London for a few days …
Oh Sylvie, Dottie thought, you are naughty.
… I will be in touch with you as soon as I get back. Don’t forget, darling, if ever you are in trouble, you know where I am.
Dottie slipped Sylvie’s letter into her apron pocket as Reg came out of the house, dressed and ready for work. ‘Any post?’
Dottie handed him the bills and his letter and, after a cursory glance, he pushed them into his pocket. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve got a face like a wet weekend.’
‘I wish Peaches would write,’ she said. ‘I’ve sent her three or four letters but ever since we had that row about Gary, I haven’t heard a word.’
He was looking at her with a strange expression. She frowned. ‘What? What is it?’ Something was wrong …
‘You know something, don’t you, Reg. Is it Gary? Has something happened to him?’
He went into his shed and took down a small tin. A few seconds later, she heard him unlocking a drawer. ‘I didn’t want you to see this,’ he said coming back out. ‘I knew you’d be upset.’
His face was so serious, her mouth went dry and her chest felt tight.
‘Peaches came round.’
Dottie gasped. ‘What? When? I didn’t see her.’
‘I found this pushed through the letterbox.’ He handed her something. Tears swam in Dottie’s eyes as she recognised her own letter to Peaches. It had been torn in half.
‘I tried to protect you,’ said Reg, ‘but this makes it obvious, doesn’t it? She doesn’t want anything to do with you.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Dottie quietly. She stared down at the pieces. ‘Why didn’t she read it? If only she had opened it first, it would have explained everything.’
Reg put his arm around her shoulder. ‘She’s not bloody worth it.’
He went back into the shed and brought out his bike. ‘Well, I’m off now. See you at ten and then we’ll have some fun.’
She almost retched. She had a lump in her throat and she could feel her eyes pricking. At least she still had one friend, she thought, glancing at Sylvie’s letter again. Should she read it again already? No. It was something to look forward to when she finished the washing. Shoving the letter back into her apron pocket, she picked up the other end of a folded sheet and reached for the handle.
Twenty-One
‘People will think we’re off to another wedding,’ Dottie joked as Reg locked the front door on the morning they went to fetch Patsy.
It was Thursday October 11th and the weather was bright and clear. Dottie was happy. Determined not to think about her fears today, and dressed in her best clothes, she and Reg walked arm in arm to the station to catch the train to Southampton. Over her other arm, she carried a warm coat taken from the bag of children’s clothes Mary had given her.
The truth of the matter was, her feelings were all over the place. She still hadn’t had her period but she hadn’t been sick in the morning. Could that mean it was a false alarm? Plenty of people missed a month now and again. She’d heard Peaches and Mary talk about it often enough.
Even though Reg was still rough in bed, during the daytime he’d been really nice to her, calling her ‘my little wifey’ and kissing her on the cheek. He’d had another letter from abroad with instructions as to where to meet Patsy when she arrived in the country. It was from Dr Landers, the man who was bringing Patsy from Australia and it had been posted in Gibraltar.
I suspect Brenda has already told you that I am returning to England to spend some time with my widowed mother who has been very unwell. Nurse Tranter is in charge of Patricia but I am on hand should she need any help. Nurse Tranter is a capable woman with many years of experience. She is moving back to Wales to retire. We shall all be arriving in Southampton. The responsibility is no hardship because I have become very fond of Patricia. Despite her straitened circumstances, Sandy did an amazing job with her and we are all hoping that Patricia will settle down with you very quickly. However, I should like to keep up contact with her, and I know it will ease Brenda’s mind if every now and then she can have a first-hand report. Perhaps when we meet, we could arrange a date at our mutual convenience for me to come and see Patricia in her new home.
I remain yours sincerely,
J. Landers.
‘Bloody interfering busybodies,’ Reg had grumbled. ‘Everybody wants to sticky-beak into my business.’
But this morning, as Dottie had watched him putting the letter into his breast pocket, Reg had been very excited and she was glad for him. Perhaps this really would be the start of a new era in their lives. Perhaps with a child in the house he would restrain himself a little more. Certainly he wouldn’t be able to make her do some of the things he’d wanted with Patsy around. For a start, he’d have to stop groping her whenever he wanted. Besides, maybe if he took it a little slower, she might even get to like it … No, she would never get used to it, and she shuddered at the thought.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Just thinking about meeting Patsy,’ she said.
He patted her hand. ‘Good girl,’ he murmured.
Yes, she thought hopefully, perhaps he will change. Look what happened to Tom Prior.
‘I’ve never seen such a change in a man,’ Mary had said after the birth of the twins. ‘He became a father overnight to my kids and now that Christopher and Connie are here, he can’t do enough for us all.’
They had reached the station.
‘Off to fetch our kid today,’ Reg told Marney as they stopped by the ticket office for a rail pass. As an employee, Reg didn’t have to pay.
Marney cupped his illicit cigarette behind his hand and coughed. ‘Best of luck, mate,’ he said, once he’d recovered.
The 8.32 thundered into the station. The next time I see this platform, Dottie thought to herself, my life will be changed forever. They selected a seat and Reg took out his newspaper.
Dottie sat back and did her best to enjoy the journey. Life was so confusing at the moment. A few short weeks ago she had been dreading the thought of having a child in the house, but now it was really happening. As she gazed out of the window, she seemed to see little pockets of family life everywhere. A woman and her children waiting at the gates at Angmering to go to school, a little boy on a rope swing in a garden somewhere near Chichester, a man with a small child on his shoulders watching the trains go by at Emsworth, and a group of women with prams waiting outside a church hall for a clinic to start at Fareham.
Throughout the journey, Dottie lovingly stroked Patsy’s coat. It was a very pretty cherry red trimmed with black. None of Mary’s children had worn it, but she fancied it was the same one Freda’s little sister used to wear. It was double-breasted and made with wool. It had black buttons and a black trim on the cuffs, a Peter Pan collar and a flared skirt. There was a matching bonnet with a turned-back brim trimmed with black and a tie under the chin. It would make a perfect frame for a halo of blonde curls. Dottie had made some knitted gloves to go with it. It might be mild for the time of year, but Dottie reasoned that, coming from such a hot place, Patsy wouldn’t be used to the autumnal nip in the air.
