by Pam Weaver
Twenty-Eight
There had been a heart-stopping moment when Reg had looked up and thought he’d seen Dottie staring at him from the street outside. He was sitting in the fish and chip shop having a spot of tea before beginning the journey back home. He could get used to this eating-out malarky. He’d ordered a complete fry-up, two rounds of bread and butter and a mug of tea. It all went down a treat. Relaxing with a full stomach, he spread out his paper and was beginning to read when the face at the window distracted him.
At first he thought the woman outside looked straight at him. She had the same hairstyle as Dottie and wore one of those felt hats his wife favoured, but the face was different. Reg breathed a sigh of relief. The woman on the pavement had sharp features and wore bright red lipstick which was so thickly spread around her mouth it had bled onto her skin. She smiled and waved. He heard a chair scraping and, looking round, he saw a heavily-built man waving back at her. The woman hurried towards the shop door and the bell jangled as she came in. Reg turned his attention once more to his paper.
He ran his finger down the ‘To Let’ column. Pleasant mod.s.d. villa close station. Blt 1936 Artistic elevation 3 sunny bedrooms bthm. Good garden, garage. Semi-detached … Too close to the neighbours. He read on. 1st flr maisonette … modern house facing sports ground … It got worse. That one would have hundreds of prying eyes. Once again there was nothing really suitable. His eye drifted down to the Property Investments column. Bungalow for sale. Attractive property in need of some renovation. The Crumbles, an area of rustic beauty between Eastbourne and Pevensey. He knew where that was. An area of rustic beauty? It was more like the middle of nowhere. A slow smile played on his lips.
Someone on the next table dropped the pepper pot and it went everywhere. Reg sneezed. Reaching for his handkerchief, a letter flew from his pocket and landed on the floor. A woman picked it up for him. He’d forgotten that he had that. He’d shoved it in his pocket last week when he was on his way to work and he’d bumped into Vince the postman. Addressed to Mrs D. Cox, he recognised Sylvie’s sloping hand. What did she want? Bloody woman, she was always scribbling letters to Dot. He slid his finger under the seal and ripped it open.
My darling Dottie …
Reg’s lip curled. A bloody lesbian, that’s what she was. He read on. The first page began with women’s stuff. All about the kids at school and something about making curtains. He almost didn’t carry on but then he was glad he did. The second page was far more interesting.
Robin has decided to stand as the Conservative candidate for our local council elections. Sylvie wrote. Major Breams seems to think that in five years time, the party could put his name forward to stand in the next general election. Just think, Dottie, I could be an MP’s wife before I’m forty! We are so excited, I can’t tell you. Of course I shall have to say goodbye to my special friend, but we both knew it was just a fling. From now on, I shall have to live the life of celibacy. I shall be an absolute saint!
Reg lifted his eyes and stared into the far distance, with just a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips. It was time to go home. What did he always say? Belt and braces. He hadn’t been able to get anything out of Mr Knightly but if the bungalow plan didn’t work, this snobby bitch had just handed him yet another nice little prospect for the future.
The decision to look for Brenda’s address came to Dottie as she listened to Patsy’s prayers that night. She knelt beside her bed, with her hands together and her eyes closed.
‘Thank you for all my new friends and thank you for the fireworks. God bless Auntie Bren and Audrey and Wishbone. Please don’t let Wishbone bark too much and make Auntie Bren cross, and let her remember to give Wishbone a big bone for his tea. Please bless Dr Landers and make his mother better …’
Dottie stared at the back of Patsy’s head as the list went on and on. Was it right to keep her here? She’d grown to love the child, but she couldn’t bear the thought of her growing up with Reg for a father. What if he had done a runner? She didn’t look much like him, it was true, but nothing could alter the fact that Elizabeth Johns had named him as the father of her child. Patsy was his responsibility and if he had cleared off, they’d never allow Dottie to keep her.
The thought struck her that if things got really bad, Brenda might take her back. On the strength of Aunt Bessie’s inheritance, she could promise to make it worth her while. She’d promised John that she would write to Brenda, but how could she since Reg had destroyed all the papers? When he’d gone upstairs that first night Patsy came home, she’d managed to pull some of it out of the fire, giving herself a nasty blister on her thumb in the process. She’d managed to hide the charred remains in the scullery but now it was at the bottom of her wardrobe, along with her Post Office book and her savings. It wasn’t much. The remains of a diary, some photographs of the people from the homestead, she presumed, and some baby drawings belonging to Patsy. Everything else, including Brenda’s address, was gone. And then it crossed her mind that Reg might have something in that shed of his.
‘… and please bless Al and the new flying doctor, Amen.’
Patsy stood up and jumped into bed. Dottie leaned over her and tucked her in.
‘Goodnight, Auntie Dottie,’ said Patsy, deliberately turning over before Dottie could give her a kiss. Dottie felt a pang of hurt. Although they shared some really wonderful times together, Patsy still held back. Dottie had often longed for a little hug or a kiss from Patsy, but she would never force the issue.
‘Goodnight, love,’ she said, cheerily.
She ran downstairs quickly and glanced up at the clock. 8.40pm. She had no idea when Reg might turn up. She’d have to take a chance. She found a torch and went outside. It was very quiet. The only sound was a distant bell – an ambulance or a police car in a hurry somewhere.
Dottie pushed open the shed door. It smelled musty and damp. She shone the torch around in a high arch. Her heart was already in her mouth and she knew she’d have to be quick. If he caught her, or if he found out she’d been inside his beloved shed, she knew he was perfectly capable of beating her to within an inch of her life.
The beam from the torch fell on the big workbench with its three heavy drawers underneath. Dottie had never, ever looked inside and even the thought of rummaging through his personal things filled her with guilt. But it had to be done.
She rested the torch on the top of the bench next to a neat row of tools, and tugged at the top drawer. It opened easily. She picked up the torch and peered inside.
His cigarette papers, tobacco and his Rizla tin lay on the top. Carefully, Dottie lifted them up and caught sight of some photographs. The top one was of a naked woman in a provocative pose. She stared at it with horror. The woman was reclining on a sofa but she didn’t look like one of those models artists paint. More of an ageing tart with her bleached blonde hair and her bright red lips. She lay back with her legs wide apart. Nothing was hidden. She turned it over and read the inscription on the back: Come up and see me sometime. J
Dottie took in her breath quietly. She could hardly bear to touch it but she had to see what was underneath. In fact, she found a whole pile of pictures, each one more shocking the first, and one of them depicting that disgusting thing Reg had made her do the night he had raped her when Sylvie was here. The light danced over the pictures and she realised she was shaking. Dear God, who was this person she had married?
Pushing the drawer shut, she opened the next one down. At first she thought the drawer contained only seed packets and dried runner beans and peas ready for planting next spring, but at the back she found a book at the back full of gardening tips, all handwritten by Reg. Underneath that she found a small red box. She opened it and saw a beautiful filigree brooch in the shape of a butterfly. She took it out and held it up to the light. What a wonderful present. It would look perfect on her new dark blue blouse. She wondered when he was planning to give it to her. Christmas? Or perhaps on her birthday next year when, under the terms of
Aunt Bessie’s will, he thought the cottage and all Bessie’s money would be hers. Dottie closed the drawer with a sigh.
The bottom drawer was much heavier. It took a supreme effort to pull it open and it was jam-packed with all sorts of stuff. On the top she found a hammer wrapped in an old piece of cloth. Dottie laid it on the top of the work surface and shone the torch into the drawer.
The hammer had been resting on some torn pieces of envelope. Whatever had stained the cloth had seeped through onto the envelope. It looked a bit like rust. The envelope contained what turned out to be another of the letters she had written to Peaches. In the excitement of making up with her again, Dottie had forgotten to ask her about those letters. Why had she torn them up without reading them?
Dottie pulled herself together. What was past was past. She wasn’t here to have a personal pity party. She was here to find Brenda’s address. Underneath the torn envelope she found a stack of letters from Brenda. She had written more frequently that Dottie realised. Reg must have been intercepting the post on his way to work. Could he have been tampering with all her letters as well?
The pressing need to hurry pushed it to the back of her mind. She opened the first letter. Brenda’s address was in the top right-hand corner. Dottie took a piece of the torn envelope and a pencil she found on the workbench to scribble it down. She intended to put it straight back but the temptation was too great. She fanned open the letter: I can’t tell you how excited Patricia is that you are going to send for her.
Dottie had never seen this letter before.
I am so sorry that your wife has been so ill. I hope the new treatment will soon restore her to full health and strength.
Dottie frowned. For heaven’s sake, what lies had Reg been telling now?
There was a sound outside in the yard and a long thin shadow fell across the doorway. She jumped and her heart began to pound. Oh flip! He was back! He’d come back early, and she was here, in forbidden territory. She stuffed the letter back into the envelope and switched off the torch. As she waited in the dark, to her horror, the shadow grew longer.
Oh, God, help me, she panicked. He’s coming and I’m trapped!
Twenty-Nine
‘Who’s there?’ The light from the kitchen made the person casting the shadow seem very tall and Dottie’s throat was so tight, her words were strangled.
‘Auntie Dottie …’
Dottie almost fainted with relief when she realised it was only Patsy.
‘What are you doing back downstairs?’ she demanded.
‘I want to do big jobs.’
‘Then why didn’t you say so before!’ Dottie snapped.
Patsy’s eyes grew wide and her chin trembled. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Dottie, her voice softer now. ‘I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean to sound cross. You gave me a bit of a scare, that’s all.’ And while Patsy was in the toilet, she went back into the shed to push all the letters back into the drawer and replace the hammer.
Reg turned up two days later. Dottie was getting ready for bed. As he came into the room and switched on the light, her heart sank.
‘Hello, Reg.’
‘Hullo.’ He stood at the end of the bed, swaying slightly.
Don’t nag him, she told herself. Don’t ask him where the hell he’s been. The hard look in his eye chilled her. What was he planning to do? Her hand trembled on the bedclothes. Perhaps if she told him about the baby …
‘Reg, I need to talk to you …’
He looked up at her, one leg outside his trousers. His eyes were bloodshot and she could tell he had a job focusing on her. He was drunk. Too drunk for a conversation like this. What a fool she’d been. She never should have started this now. In fact, where should she start?
‘Since you’ve been away …’ she began.
‘Oh, here it comes …’ he slurred.
‘The thing is, Reg … um, that night Sylvie was here …’
His face darkened. ‘What’s that bloody woman up to now?’
‘Nothing.’
He pointed his finger at her. ‘You stay away from her, see? Bloody stuck-up bitch.’
‘Reg, this has nothing to do with Sylvie. I’m trying to tell you something.’
He put his trousers on the footboard at the end of the bed and leaned over menacingly. ‘And I’m telling you,’ he said belching beerily, ‘if I want to go up to London for a few days to see some of my old mates, it’s got nothing to do with her.’
‘I don’t mind you going away, Reg. It’s nice …’
‘What d’yer mean it’s nice!’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ Dottie protested.
They stared at each other and Dottie’s heart sank. All at once he stripped the bedclothes back and grabbed her ankles. ‘Well, she ain’t here now, is she?’ he said as he pulled her down the bed, ‘so you’ve got plenty of time to show me what’s nice.’
The next day, Dottie slept in late. It was 7.15 when she opened her eyes and 7.45 before she tumbled out of bed. Her stomach was churning. A wave of nausea swept over her. Dottie leaned out of the bed, grabbed the potty and was sick.
‘Auntie Dottie …’ Patsy called anxiously.
‘It’s all right, love,’ said Dottie before she threw up a second time.
She moved around gingerly. Halfway through the nightmare of last night she’d decided not to tell Reg about the baby. It would be hard keeping it from him now. She kept wishing, God forgive her, that what he was making her do would make her miscarry.
And now that she had spent time with someone like John, she couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of her life with Reg.
As he left for work that morning, she’d pretended to sleep, sneaking a look while he dressed with a mixture of disgust, resentment and anger. She hated herself for being so scared of him. She’d been utterly terrified when Patsy’s shadow fell across the shed doorway and she still shuddered at the thought of what he’d have done if he’d caught her pushing all those revolting photographs back into the drawer.
It had been agreed that today Patsy could play with Maureen and Susan.
‘I want to walk to Aunt Mary’s by myself,’ she announced.
‘I’ll go with you as far as the corner,’ Dottie agreed, ‘and then you can go the rest of the way.’
After she’d waved Patsy goodbye, Dottie returned home to clear up her kitchen but all the time her problems were going round and round in her head. If she left Reg, who would look after Patsy? If she and Patsy set out on their own, how were they going to survive? She would get something from Aunt Bessie’s inheritance in the middle of next year, but the little bit of money she had now wouldn’t last that long. Perhaps she should do what Sylvie suggested and give him his marching orders, but she knew he would never go. As galling as it was, she would have to let Reg stay where he was, and as soon as she could afford a solicitor, fight in the courts to get the house back. And how long would that take? It may be the fifties, but it was still hard for a woman like her to strike out on her own.
Maybe she should go round to the sweet factory and see if she could get a full-time job … but what would she do if Patsy was ill? She couldn’t keep asking for time off.
In the end she decided she would have to give up the luxury of Wednesdays at home. If she charred on Wednesdays she could bring in another ten bob a week. She’d write and ask Sylvie to find her a place to stay and as soon as she could, she’d take her meagre savings and her Post Office book. She and Patsy wouldn’t starve. Once the place was tidy and she’d stopped for a cup of tea, Dottie felt much better.
Upstairs, Dottie opened the wardrobe door. But when she lifted the loose board at the back, the cavity underneath was empty. The things she’d hidden from Patsy’s case had gone too. Her hand flew to her mouth. Oh, no … dear God no! Her moneybox was gone! Frantically she searched every drawer but it wasn’t there. Where was it? There was no sign that they been burgled. Reg must have taken it. She had always been
safe in the knowledge that he knew nothing about her little nest egg, but who else would have taken it? Her thoughts flew to the Post Office savings book. At least he couldn’t touch that. It needed her signature to draw the money out. But that was gone too. Slowly the realisation dawned. All those days off he’d had. The days he’d gone away. The overnight stays … he must have been using her money.
Her heart pounded and her knees went weak. She sat on the edge of the bed, hot tears springing into her eyes. How she hated him now. His vindictiveness and cruelty knew no bounds. How could he use her body one minute and be so calculating and devious the next?
Patsy had never said anything but it must be obvious even to her that he wanted nothing to do with her. He kept out of her way, ignoring her if they were together in the same room. Dottie had been careful not to make a sound last night in case it frightened her, but the child was no fool. Poor little girl. To lose her mother was bad enough, but to come here to this was even worse. In her heart of hearts, although Dottie knew it wasn’t her fault, she somehow felt responsible.
What was she going to do? She didn’t need to look in her handbag to know that her purse was empty bar a few coppers. She had nothing. Not a penny. The money Mariah Fitzgerald gave her for making the curtains had gone on clothes and toys for Patsy. Oh God, what was she going to do …?
She began what she was sure would be a fruitless search in every handbag and every pocket. Her coat pocket and an old jacket yielded five and eleven pence ha’penny. In a bag she hadn’t used since Aunt Bessie’s funeral, she found a ten-shilling note. There was sixpence in her apron pocket and in another apron, one she hadn’t worn for ages, she found the letter Reg had written to Sandy. She’d slipped it in there the night that Patsy had arrived. She would read it later.
