by Pam Weaver
Reg rounded on her. ‘Bit of a shock?’ he said between his teeth. ‘I’ll say I’ve had a bit of a shock.’
He stood in front of her, eyeball to eyeball, his face contorted with pent-up rage. Patsy had crashed into her side, so Dottie pressed her against her body, covering her one exposed ear with her hand. She pleaded with Reg with her eyes. Don’t say anything awful, please …
‘In all those letters she wrote,’ he spat in low voice, ‘and in all the ones I had from that Brenda woman, and the one that stuck-up doctor wrote …’
‘Reg … don’t …’
‘Not one of them, not one,’ he ranted on, ‘had the decency to tell me that she was a bloody half-breed. ‘
Twenty-Two
Patsy was in bed. Dottie poured herself a cup of tea and sat down by the fire. Anxious that the child might already be feeling the cold, she’d lit it as soon as they’d got home. Now it was 7.30 and already dark outside.
The journey home had been strained. She and Patsy had had to run all the way to the station to keep up with Reg and he’d hardly said one word all the way home. Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long for the train, but he’d refused to sit in the crowded carriage with them, preferring to stand in the corridor outside, chain smoking and looking out of the window.
Dottie did her best to make Patsy feel at ease but there was one heart-stopping moment when she’d asked, ‘Have I made my daddy cross?’
‘No, dear,’ Dottie lied. ‘Daddy is just thinking about important things.’
To take their minds off the situation, Dottie told Patsy all about their home. Patsy was excited to discover they had chickens and a pig.
‘My Auntie Bren has chooks,’ she said. ‘Uncle Burt used to tell everybody on the radio school whenever we had baby chooks. Do you listen to Uncle Burt’s radio school?’
Dottie shook her head. She wasn’t even sure what that was. ‘You’ll go to a new school in the village,’ she smiled. And then she told her all about Billy Prior, and Maureen and Susan and the twins. She was about to mention Peaches and Gary but then thought better of it. Best not to confuse the child; instead, they talked about the seaside and the Downs – anything to make the journey quicker.
Dr Landers had given Patsy a book: Five on a Treasure Island by Enid Blyton. Dottie read it out loud, but when they reached the bit where George was taking them all out in a boat to see the wreck on the other side of Kirrin island, Patsy fell asleep on her shoulder. Dottie remained perfectly still for some time. Outside in the corridor, Reg turned around. He stared at the sleeping child until he became aware that Dottie was watching him. As her eyes met his gaze, his face coloured and he turned away abruptly. Dottie’s stomach was churning. What a mess. Whatever were they going to do? Had Patsy come twelve thousand miles to this?
As soon as they arrived in Worthing, Reg strode on ahead, but this time Dottie made no effort to keep up with him. Patsy was too tired to hurry and so, for that matter, was she. By the time they reached the cottage, Reg had already dumped the child’s suitcase in the middle of the kitchen floor and was nowhere to be seen.
She got Patsy some tea, gave her a wash and put her to bed in Aunt Bessie’s old room. When she came back downstairs, Dottie made herself some tea and picked up the small suitcase of papers. When she tried the locks, they flew open at once.
Most of it was official stuff, including Sandy’s death certificate. She’d died of breast cancer. There were several condolence cards addressed either to Brenda Nichols or to Patricia c/o Brenda. Dottie felt her throat tightening. They made sad reading. Patsy’s mother was only thirty-four when she died.
Dottie unfolded another certificate and there was no denying the facts. Patricia June Johns was born on April 21st 1943. Her mother was Elizabeth Mary Johns. The space where the father’s name should be was blank but pinned to the certificate was a slip of paper. This is to certify that the father of my baby is Reginald Cox, signed Elizabeth Mary Johns. But it couldn’t possibly be right, could it? Dottie supposed that Elizabeth had been known to her friends as Sandy because of her fair hair. Reg had dark hair which he’d turned to black when he began to go grey, but how could two such people produce a coffee-coloured child with dark frizzy hair and big brown eyes? It wasn’t possible. Reg couldn’t possibly be Patsy’s father, and yet there it was in black and white. Surely Sandy must have known who the real father was, so why did she put Reg’s name on that slip of paper? And why send her daughter all this way to a man she must have known perfectly well was no relation at all?
Dottie kept all her important papers in the kitchen cupboard with the drop-down pastry-making table. She filed the birth and death certificates along with the rest of their things and sat back down with the other papers. All at once, she froze in her chair as a terrible realisation hit her. She jumped back up and pulled the certificate from its newly-filed place. Her hands were trembling and she unfolded it again.
When Connie and Christopher were born, Mary had showed her their birth certificates. They were much smaller, ‘squarish’ as opposed to oblong, and half the length of Patsy’s. They simply said something like, ‘Constance Prior, girl; date of birth, 13th December 1947; place of birth, Worthing; sub-district, Worthing’.
Patsy’s was a copy of her full birth certificate and most shocking of all, it was English. Patsy had been born here … in this country! The registration district was Lewisham and the sub-district Lewisham.
Her heart was pounding nineteen to the dozen and she felt dizzy and sick. Reg never said he’d been in London. She’d married him in 1942 and he’d been posted just four months after they were married. So how come he was in London in 1942 and fathering a child? It didn’t make sense.
She fingered her way through the other papers but they were just nursing certificates, a first prize award for a writing com petition and some old letters from England. Dottie re-filed the birth certificate and went back to the rest of the papers in the suitcase.
It felt a little intrusive opening them. The first one she looked at was signed ‘Matron’ who wished Sandy well in her new country. Dottie discovered that Sandy had moved to Australia at the end of 1945. Matron wrote to say she hoped Sandy would put the past behind her and make a go of this fantastic opportunity.
Dottie shook her head sympathetically. Poor Sandy. How ironic that she had gone all that way to make a new life for herself and her little girl, only to die of cancer just five years later.
There were several other letters, but Dottie could see some diaries as well. She was torn. Which should she read first, the letters or the diary? She thumbed through the letters. Looking at the envelopes, she could tell that they had been written by many different people and they were all wartime letters. She stared at one envelope for several seconds. It was addressed to Sandy at an address in London. The letter inside was signed ‘all my love, Reg’. It had been posted in 1943.
There was a loud bump on the floor upstairs and Patsy called out. ‘Auntie Dot … Auntie Dottie!’
Absentmindedly slipping the envelope into her apron pocket, Dottie hurried upstairs.
Reg hugged his pint and stared long and hard into the open fire. This was his favourite corner in the Jolly Farmer but tonight he sat with his back to the bar, hoping he wouldn’t be disturbed.
‘Bloody women,’ he thought to himself. Now Dottie knew the kid wasn’t his. How could it be? She was a bloody darkie. The father must have been one of those black Yanks. Why the hell did the silly bitch go with a darkie? Maybe the Yank got her as pissed as a newt first. Or perhaps he forced her. She was probably nothing more than a bloody bike anyway. As soon as she knew she was up the spout, she’d put his name on the birth certificate. And now he was in deep shit. How was he going to explain away this one?
He pinched the end of his cigarette and pushed it behind his ear.
‘Another pint, Reg?’
Reg belched and pushed his glass towards Terry Dore, the landlord.
‘Just going to the bog.’
There was a fly on the urinal. Reg aimed for it. He hoped it was a female. It was always the women that did for him. His mother had been the first. Shopping him to the ol’ bill like that. If he’d had half a chance he’d have gone back there and done her in but she beat him to it, didn’t she? Died while he was still in Borstal. His urine hit the fly and it rose up, buzzing angrily. He smiled maliciously as it crashed into the wall, then the window. Finishing, he readjusted his trousers and turned to go. It was then that the fly hit him on his face, near his lips. He hit out at it, cursing loudly.
Back at the bar, he made it clear to Terry he didn’t want conversation. He went back to his table, and brooded some more.
He’d had a pretty good scam going. The Bomb Lark, they called it. He was part of a group of newly conscripted Royal Engineers who had been brought into London to help clear the bomb damage after an air raid. Reg had been the first to spot the lead on the roofs and told the sarge he knew a scrap metal merchant over Merton way. Everyone was up for it and a deal was struck. They’d kept the thing going for more than a month before the rozzers got wind of it. As luck would have it, Reg wasn’t around the day they all got nicked. He’d had a bilious attack. Well, that’s what he told the medics. In truth he’d gone back to see Joyce. Couldn’t keep away from her. His mates wouldn’t tell but he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone put two and two together so he went AWOL, coming down to Worthing where he met Dottie. Of course, he knew she would never agree to anything dishonest, but he didn’t mind too much. She was his investment for the future so he’d spun his charm and married her. There was the promise of a nice little nest egg once she’d inherited the house from the old witch.
He never should have gone back home but he’d wanted a bit of fun with Joyce. Only they’d had a blazing row and the neighbours called the cops.
‘Six months’ hard labour, followed by three years’ penal servitude for conspiring to loot,’ that pompous ass of a judge had told him. ‘A civilised society will not tolerate consistent and considerable stealing of other people’s property. You are a disgrace to your uniform …’
He’d been beside himself with rage when they’d banged him up and because he never did learn to control his temper, he’d ended up spending a full five years in that stinking prison. Carelessness had put him there and now he’d been careless again. He never should have believed what that Brenda woman had told him. Sandy’d left everything to Patsy’s father. Yeah, but he could have done without the darkie. He could feel his stomach churning. Bloody women. Every which way he turned they buggered things up for him. His mother, Sandy, bloody Aunt Bessie … So far, little Mrs Perfect was the only one who was still on track. All he had to do was threaten her with his fist and that was enough to keep her in check. Good job she wasn’t the type to snoop around his things. All at once, his blood ran cold as he remembered that suitcase full of papers. Shit! The will. Supposing she was going through those papers right now …
He stood up quickly, spilling his pint. The glass fell with a clatter and rolled across the table before crashing to the floor. He turned on his heel and walked briskly through the door, the landlord’s ‘You all right, Reg?’ ringing in his ears.
Patsy had needed a little reassurance, that was all. Dottie tucked her up with her little elephant, Suzy, showed her where the jerry was under the bed and then lit a night-light and put it in a saucer before giving her a goodnight kiss. Now she was back downstairs with the suitcase in front of her.
Sandy’s diaries were right at the bottom of the case. Three volumes, begun in 1941 and ending in 1948. Sandy hadn’t written in them every day but she had jotted things down at regular intervals. The entries weren’t very detailed, but even as she flicked through the pages, Dottie had a fairly good idea as to the sort of person Elizabeth Johns had been. Armed with fresh cup of tea, Dottie curled up her feet under her and turned to 1942/43, the years Patsy had been conceived and born.
The latch on the door lifted and Reg walked in. Dottie closed the book and looked up at him.
‘Hello, Reg. Want some supper?’
‘What are you doing?’ he said coldly.
‘I was just going through some of the papers,’ she said lamely.
He snatched the book from her hand, glanced at it and then glared at her. She had never seen his eye so filled with hatred and she watched his lip curl. Her heartbeat sped up.
‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Reg,’ she whimpered, hating herself for sounding so weak.
‘Where’s the will?’
‘What will?’
‘The money, stupid. Where’s the solicitor’s letter?’
Dottie frowned, puzzled. ‘There isn’t one.’
Reg went to throw the book onto the fire.
‘No, Reg … don’t!’ she cried, grabbing it from him. ‘What are you doing? Even if you don’t want them, we should at least save them for Patsy.’
‘What have you done with it then?’
‘It’s not there,’ said Dottie. ‘Dr Landers said the solicitor would send it along later.’
‘What!’ Reg exploded. ‘But I need to know how much we’re getting.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ said Dottie, glancing anxiously up at the ceiling.
‘Keep my voice down,’ he bellowed at the ceiling. ‘The hell I will! I’m telling you, as soon as I’ve got the money, that little runt can go.’
‘Reg, please …!’ Dottie jumped to her feet, but he pushed her back down into the chair, snatching back the book again.
‘There’s no way she’s my kid,’ he said through his teeth, his spittle spraying her face. ‘Even a dimwit like you can see that.’
‘Your name is on her birth certificate,’ said Dottie, pressing her back into the chair and sliding down a little.
‘The bitch lied!’ He hit her across the face with the book, catching her cheekbone under her left eye. Then he leaned over her menacingly, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back painfully. ‘Got it?’
The pain in Dottie’s head was unbearable. ‘Yes, Reg.’
‘I want her gone,’ he said, yanking her head back again. ‘I don’t care how you do it, but get rid of her. Send her to a home, chuck her out on the street, anything you like, but she’s not stopping here.’
‘Reg, we can’t,’ Dottie sobbed. ‘She’s come all this way …’
He let go of her hair, lashing out at her again as he did. ‘And I’m telling you, I’m not living under the same roof as a darkie.’
‘If you chuck her onto the street,’ Dottie cried desperately, ‘Dr Landers will want the fare money back.’
Reg paused.
‘It cost seventy pounds to bring her over, remember?’ said Dottie. ‘Where are we going to find that sort of money?’
Reg stepped back, stumbling against the suitcase on the floor. Papers spilled everywhere. All at once he was roaring like a mad man, kicking the case around the room. He stooped down and grabbed a pile of papers, throwing them onto the fire. It took a few moments for the paper to catch alight, but all at once Sandy’s writing prize burst into a flame which greedily took her nursing certificate and a couple of letters.
Dottie couldn’t bear to watch, but with him in a mood like this, she couldn’t do anything about it. He was making such a terrible racket, Patsy must be up there listening to all this, absolutely terrified. As he stuffed yet more paper on the fire, Dottie, her own pain forgotten, slipped upstairs to make sure she was all right.
Twenty-Three
Janet Cooper climbed into the window of her tobacconist-cum-sweet-shop and took out the last of the old window display. It had been fairly quiet this morning, which was just as well, so she had taken the opportunity to change the window. Taking her inspiration from last week’s harvest festival display in the church, she’d decided to arrange the sweets as if they were a horn of plenty. Two large sweet jars were suspended from the ceiling with wire and she’d spent hours threading toffees on cotton and sticking the ends inside the jar
s with gummed tape. A doll dressed up to look like a farmer raked pile of sweets on the floor of the shop window.
The shop door jangled and she backed out of the window. Her customer was Mary Prior, and she could see Edna Gilbert, her head covered with a floral headscarf, coming along the road.
‘You’ve been busy,’ Mary smiled. ‘I can’t believe it’s that time of year already.’
‘I’ll be thinking about ordering the fireworks for Bonfire Night soon,’ said Janet.
‘Oooh, talking about fireworks,’ Mary went on, ‘that reminds me. We thought we’d all pitch in together and make a real show for the kiddies this year.’
Janet pursed her lips. That probably meant they’d all buy one of those great big boxes from Woolworths. She’d have to make sure she could get some decent-sized boxes at a good price.
‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘Twenty Craven A and a Walls brick please, Janet,’ said Mary. The shop bell jangled again and Edna came in. ‘Hello, Edna.’
‘Hello, Mary, Janet.’ Edna retied her headscarf and stood with her shopping bag clasped in front of her. ‘No Dottie today?’
‘She didn’t turn up,’ said Janet acidly.
‘Didn’t turn up? That’s not like her,’ Mary frowned.
‘She wasn’t here yesterday either.’
‘Perhaps she’s ill,’ said Edna.
‘She was well enough when she went to Southampton on Friday to fetch her little girl,’ Janet said. ‘Vanilla or strawberry?’
‘Vanilla,’ said Mary.
‘I think we should have a welcome party for the little girl,’ said Edna. ‘Help her to feel at home.’
‘We haven’t even met her yet,’ said Mary.
‘Well, I think that’s a nice idea,’ said Janet, remembering she still had a box of balloons out the back. She hadn’t managed to shift them since the VJ Day celebrations.
Mary nodded. ‘Where shall we have it, the village hall?’
‘Why not come over to the farm?’ said Edna. ‘We haven’t had a do there since the war years. There’s plenty of room in the old barn.’
