by Pam Weaver
‘Why take that?’ he asked. ‘There was nothing of value inside, was there?’
Bet shook her head. ‘Not as far as I know.’ It was real puzzle.
With regards to the furniture, Bet had given first refusal to the neighbours so by the time Lorry put everything that was left onto the tractor trailer, the rooms were almost bare. After that, he went back to the farm with the promise to come and fetch her at tea time, while Bet spent the next hour cleaning the rooms, readying them for the next tenant. Everything was fine until she opened the oven door and found a beautiful looking pastry tart waiting to be cooked. Putting it onto the draining board, Bet clamped her hands over her mouth for a few moments as her grief overwhelmed her.
Mr Knight, the landlord, turned up just before Lorry came back and told Bet her sister owed him two weeks’ rent. As they hadn’t been able to find any money put by, Lorry coughed up the ten bob as soon as he walked in the door. Before she locked the doors for the last time, Bet stood for a while by the window, looking out onto the garden where only the pegs danced on the washing line. Outside in the road, Lorry tooted the horn and for a fleeting moment, Bet thought she heard the sound of laughter – Moira’s laughter. She didn’t turn around. Bet knew the room was empty. Her sister – her fun-loving, clever, story-telling kid sister – was gone. Gone forever.
‘I promise you, darlin’,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, ‘we will do the best we can by your girl.’ Bet turned to face the empty room and took in a deep breath. ‘Bye, Moira, my dear. Rest in peace.’
Three
When Frankie had opened her eyes that first morning in North Farm, the doll was back in the chair. Closer examination revealed that she had been stitched together and she had a large bandage around her middle. When she came into her room, Aunt Bet smiled. ‘The “doctor” left a little jar of dolly mixtures which I put on the chair. His instruction is that you should eat two sweets three times a day until they are all gone,’ she said.
Once she was up and dressed, Frankie sat in the chair with the dolly in her lap. The princess doll didn’t feel quite as robust as she had done when her mother gave it to her, but it was comforting to hold her. Somehow it brought mummy closer. There were still no tears but Frankie had that empty feeling inside her tummy and the pain in her chest felt like a lead weight. It was a strange feeling and she hated it. She wanted mummy back. She wanted her to wave goodbye to the angels and Jesus and come home, but she knew in her heart of hearts it was never going to happen.
Aunt Bet filled the larder with mummy’s food and the leftover cake. The pie went into the oven for their tea and all the while she fussed over Frankie, giving her special treats. She let Frankie feed the chickens and Uncle Lorry and Alan gave her little jobs around the yard. Ronald had gone to school. He was supposed to leave at Christmas; although he would have liked the opportunity to further his education, he had to go to work.
Despite being called North Farm, the place Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry called home was really a smallholding. They kept chickens, duck and a few geese. There were a couple of glasshouses where they grew mainly tomatoes and cucumbers. The whole of this part of Sussex was still a grower’s paradise. Before the Great War it had been the main source of occupation, but the staggering losses on the battlefields of Europe meant that the workforce had been seriously depleted. Many nurseries lay derelict but quite a few plodded on and why not? Worthing was famed for its tomatoes, cucumbers and grapes. Next door, on Lyon’s Farm, they grew tomatoes and chrysanthemums. At the height of both seasons, lorry loads of produce left for the station twice a day to take it to the market in Covent Garden, London. North Farm had a much smaller yield and mostly supplied local traders.
Both Frankie’s cousins were keen bikers. They had their own machines and they spent hours breaking them down and rebuilding them. At weekends they held races on a muddy track on a piece of ground which was no longer fit for growing. Ronald asked her if she would like to come and watch but Frankie preferred to stay inside and watch from the safety of the kitchen window.
There was an inquest, of course. Aunt Bet went and came back telling the family, though not Frankie, that Moira had indeed died of natural causes. ‘It was a heart attack,’ Bet told her family at the table. ‘She’d been unwell since the weekend. The two mums who went to Frankie’s birthday picnic said she’d complained of chest pains.’
‘So why didn’t she do something about it?’ Lorry asked.
‘I suppose she thought it would pass.’
Lorry and the boys fell silent.
‘Did they say anything about the state of her place?’ Lorry wanted to know.
‘The police say it’s an ongoing investigation,’ said Bet. ‘They seem convinced she was already gone when whoever it was went through her things.’
‘How can they be sure that whoever it was hadn’t left the poor woman to die while he rifled through her stuff?’ Lorry retorted.
‘I keep wondering that too,’ said Bet, pinching the end of her nose with her handkerchief. ‘The coroner asked me if anything was missing but as far as I know, it was only that little brass box she kept on the mantelpiece.’
Lorry shook his head in disbelief. ‘So nobody saw who came to the house?’
‘Mrs Dickenson talked about a foreign-looking man knocking on the door,’ Bet went on.
‘That’d be the landlord,’ said Alan.
‘Surely Mrs Dickenson would know the difference between a foreigner and Mr Knight?’ his father said. ‘Anyway, she owed him two weeks rent.’
‘As it happens,’ Bet interrupted, ‘I don’t think she did. Mrs Dickenson said she paid regular as clockwork on a Saturday. Always did.’
Lorry pursed his lips. ‘So what you’re telling me is that cheating bastard, excuse my French, had me over?’
His wife nodded.
‘So who was the foreign-looking man?’ Ronald asked.
Bet shrugged. ‘Miss Paine saw him too. She said he was wearing a funny shirt with buttons on the side but no collar. Apparently he knocked on the door twice.’
‘Twice?’ Lorry echoed.
‘Mrs Dickenson saw him at lunch time and then a bit later on. About half past two.’
Everyone seemed puzzled.
‘I don’t think we should tell Frankie any of this.’
‘I agree,’ said Lorry, ‘but I wish I could get my hands on the lousy bugger.’ He leaned over the table and squeezed his wife’s hand. ‘Have they released the body?’
Bet nodded.
‘Good,’ said Lorry. ‘It’s time we put that poor lass in the ground.’
Bet glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Do you think we should take Frankie to the funeral?’
Lorry frowned, unsure. ‘People don’t usually take nippers to funerals, do they?’
‘She’s a bit young, Mum,’ said Alan. He was going out with his mates so he was busy combing Brylcreem through his hair as he stood in front of the mirror by the sink.
‘In that case,’ said Bet, considering the matter settled, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Mac to invite her to her cottage for a couple of hours that day.’
Her husband nodded.
‘You know, I’m worried about Frankie,’ Bet went on. ‘Have any of you ever seen her cry?’
Her husband and both sons seemed slightly bemused by her remark but they shook their heads.
‘Neither have I,’ said Bet. ‘Considering how close she and her mother were it’s not right. She shouldn’t be keeping it all in like that.’
‘Have a word with Doctor Rutherford,’ said Lorry. ‘He’ll know what to do.’
*
It was arranged that Frankie would go to school in Sompting starting from next week. Everyone agreed that it was within walking distance and it would give her a completely fresh start. As soon as Frankie had gone outside with Lorry, Bet took the opportunity to sort through the cases she’d brought back from Moira’s place. She had a small blue case of her own on the top of her wardrobe. It was one she had bough
t in Woolworth’s years before when Lorry’s mother had to go into hospital. When she died, it seemed too good to throw out so, even though it was small, she’d kept it. She got it down and put the few personal things belonging to Moira inside. They wouldn’t mean a lot to a little girl right now but when she was older, Frankie would appreciate having them. Moira’s jewellery for instance. There was nothing of value and she only had a couple of brooches and a necklace or two but because they had belonged to her mother, Bet was sure that in due time Frankie would treasure them. She also put in her mother’s diary. It was only a record of her clients but might bring back a few memories. The children’s books she’d put beside Frankie’s bed but she decided that a dark blue and gilt book called The Russian Princess looked too good for a child to play with. Bet leafed through it and would have read a few lines, but she was interrupted by the grocery boy calling up the stairs.
‘Hey-up, missus. Copeland’s delivery.’
‘Coming,’ she called. Throwing the book into the case, she heaved it onto the wardrobe and hurried down to the kitchen.
Four
Doctor Rutherford was unambiguous in his opinion. ‘If, as you say, the child was devoted to her mother, it’s imperative that you encourage her to grieve.’
‘But what can I do?’ Bet said helplessly. ‘She simply won’t cry. She just holds everything in.’
‘Talk to her,’ the doctor said curtly. ‘Tell her what a wonderful person her mother was. Reopen her memories.’
Bet nodded miserably. Did he really think she hadn’t already tried that?
‘Is she wetting the bed?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that,’ Bet said quickly.
‘Will you take her to her mother’s funeral?’
Bet shook her head. ‘We thought it best not to.’
There was a short pause then Doctor Rutherford said in a kindlier tone, ‘I understand that it will be very painful for you to talk about your sister all the time, but I can’t stress enough the importance of helping your niece to release her emotions. Is she back at school?’
‘I thought it best to keep her at home for a bit.’
‘Send her back tomorrow,’ said the doctor, picking up his pen and scribbling something onto the brown card in front of him. ‘Talk to her teacher.’
Bet felt dismissed. ‘Yes, doctor,’ she said, picking up her handbag from beside the chair. ‘Thank you.’ She rose to her feet.
He carried on scribbling. ‘Send the next patient in as you go. Good morning, Mrs Cavendish.’
Back home, Lorry was more sympathetic. ‘He’s right, I suppose.’ They were in the kitchen at lunch time. He and their son Alan had come in for a bite to eat. Ronald was at school and Frankie was outside, sitting on the old tree stump, with the chickens scratching all around.
‘She hardly ate a thing,’ said Bet, scraping Frankie’s half-eaten sandwich into the pig bin. ‘If she carries on like this she’ll be losing weight.’
‘You’re doing your best, Mum,’ said Alan. ‘She’ll come round.’
‘But she’s got no interest in anything,’ Bet said desperately. ‘It’s like she’s gone inside herself and shut the door.’
Lorry put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. ‘We’ll get there,’ he said optimistically.
When Lorry and Alan went back to work, Aunt Bet called Frankie indoors. ‘Today is my baking day,’ she began cheerfully, ‘and I could do with some help.’ She went on to say that she planned to make a couple of pies. ‘My boys have big appetites.’
She planned to make a pie for tonight’s tea time and one for the next day. She decided against mentioning that Moira’s funeral was tomorrow. On the day they buried her mother, Frankie would be at school until four and Mrs Mac had promised to meet her so she wouldn’t have to walk back on her own. When Bet dropped Frankie off in the morning it would give her a chance to speak to her teacher, Miss Smith, and put her in the picture.
While Aunt Bet made the pastry and lined the pie dish, Frankie was given the job of peeling and cutting up the carrots, onions and potatoes. As soon as they were busy, Bet began to talk about Moira. ‘We’ve got some lovely memories of your mum, haven’t we?’
No reaction.
‘Do you remember that Christmas when your Uncle Lorry came home a bit tipsy and dropped the goose on the kitchen floor? I was so cross with him but your mum laughed so much I saw the funny side of it too and it wasn’t long before we were all laughing.’
Frankie’s expression hadn’t changed.
‘What do you remember about your mum?’ Bet asked.
Frankie only shrugged.
Oh dear, this was like wading through treacle.
‘Mrs Ruddock told me she played hide and seek with you when you went up to Hillbarn for your birthday.’
Stony-faced, Frankie pushed some chopped up carrots into the saucepan.
‘She said you all picked blackberries.’
The girl was ignoring her and carried on as if she was quite alone in the room. Bet looked away. This wasn’t working. She pushed the diced lamb into the frying pan to seal in the juices before putting it into the pie dish. The meat sizzled as it hit the fat. Frankie put some chopped onion onto the work surface beside her aunt.
‘Thank you, dear.’
A delicious smell filled the kitchen.
‘Everybody loved your mum,’ said Bet, her voice growing thicker. She paused for a second or two before adding harshly, ‘but that’s because they didn’t know her like I did.’
Behind her Bet heard Frankie falter in her rhythmic chopping.
Bet took a deep breath. ‘See, I remember the stuff she did as a child. She was jealous of me. Did you know that?’ She could see Frankie’s reflection in the shaving mirror Lorry had hung next to the window to get the best light. The child had stopped working and stood stiffly to attention, her face a mask of horror. Hating herself for doing this, Bet carried on, ‘Did you know she tore my school dress? Deliberately too, but I got the blame for it. Our mother sent me to bed with no tea.’
Without looking at Frankie, Bet tipped the sealed meat and lightly fried onions into the pastry case then turned back again. ‘She just couldn’t bear it because I had pretty hair. She used to pull my plaits all the time.’
Glancing in the mirror again, Bet could see Frankie was staring at her back. ‘I bet she never told you she took the laces out of my best shoes and hid them,’ she said coldly. ‘I had to go to church with my shoes tied up with string. Imagine that. Everybody laughed at me. It was awful and she wasn’t even sorry.’
Frankie’s chin was beginning to wobble. Bet sucked in her lip anxiously. This was tearing her apart and it might not even work but Bet carried on regardless. ‘She was selfish too, your mum. She persuaded people not to talk to me and she told me our father liked her best. She said she was his favourite.’
Frankie jumped to her feet.
‘Had enough?’ said Bet turning around with an innocent smile.
‘It’s not true,’ Frankie shouted angrily. ‘My mummy wasn’t like that.’ Her eyes were bright with tears but they remained unshed.
Bet chewed the side of her mouth. Her every instinct told her to reach out and hug the child, to comfort her in her pain, but she hadn’t actually cried yet. She had the feeling Frankie still had enough strength to gulp down the need to release her grief and carry on as before so she drew herself up to her full height and said, ‘Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it, my girl. Did I ever tell you about …’
The door banged behind her as Frankie ran from the room. Lorry was coming in and stepped aside just in time to miss the little hurricane charging outside. ‘What the …?’
Bet had her eyes closed and was gripping the edge of the sink. ‘Is she crying? Is she crying?’
Her husband nodded. ‘I think so.’
They both looked out of the window. Frankie was standing by the big gate in the yard. They could see her shoulders heaving vigorously so they knew she was sobbing. It looked as if a
dam had burst. ‘I must go to her,’ Bet said brokenly.
Lorry gripped her arm. ‘Not for a minute, love,’ he said quietly. ‘Let her have a good cry first.’
His wife wiped her own eyes and blew her nose into her handkerchief. ‘I only did it by saying horrible things about her mum. I feel dreadful now.’
‘What on earth did you say?’ said Lorry.
‘I told her all the awful things I did to Moira when we were children,’ said Bet. ‘We were five years apart, you see, and I was so jealous of her when she was little. She had pretty hair and Father spoiled her something rotten. I told Frankie it was the other way round.’
Lorry gathered her into his arms. ‘You only did what you had to, love,’ he said as she wept on his shoulder.
They heard the door leading to the yard open and Alan came in. ‘You all right, Mum?’
His parents sprang apart and Bet busied herself filling the kettle. Their son sat himself down at the table.
‘Your mother’s upset because we had to make the nipper cry,’ Lorry said gruffly. ‘She was bottling everything in and the doc said it wasn’t good for her.’
Their son moved to the window and looked out. ‘Well, will you look at that!’ he exclaimed.
They both joined him. A chicken stood on the gate post beside Frankie pecking at her hair, not viciously but gently, like a kiss. She was a beautiful bird, with burnt orange coloured glossy feathers and an intelligent look. The smallholding was home to three varieties of chicken, the dark grey and white flecked Sussex, the black Australorp and a few like this one, a Rhode Island Red. Frankie’s shoulders stopped moving and she reached out to stroke its back. The chicken didn’t move away but made a soft warbling sound as she came closer.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Lorry.
Frankie had taken the bird down from the gate post and was sitting on the tree stump with it in her lap.
