The End of a Journey

by Grace Thompson

  Mabs was very glad of Greg’s help in the night café as, for some reason, the numbers of customers suddenly increased. It had been open for several years and rarely attracted more than eight people, but it was as though news had spread and others came to see if it was a place to spend a few of the lonely hours.

  She and Frank had never asked the customers not to talk about the place but she knew they rarely did. They wanted it to be their secret and didn’t want it to be so busy that the character of their night time haven would change.

  Three strangers came one night and introduced themselves to very reluctant regulars. Will, Albert and Ted all lived in a small village about three miles away and they told Mabs they had heard of it from a man called Henry. Sid whispered to her that they must have met in prison. ‘Clean hands, and typical haircuts,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Ex-prisoners they are, can’t mistake ’em.’

  The men behaved without causing problems; they seemed to know instinctively that questions would be frowned on and they sat and read the papers and played the various games, Albert making Henry growl menacingly by winning against him at draughts and then chess. He stood and seemed about to accuse them of cheating but a glance from Mabs and he sat down again.

  They left just before the café closed. One of them came to the counter and offered a hand, a neat, clean hand she noticed with a smile. ‘Thank you, Missus, we appreciate you letting us stay. Your welcome makes us all feel more hopeful of a better future. Ex-cons we are, if you haven’t guessed, but now we’re going straight.’ All three touched their foreheads in a salute and they left, calling goodnight to the others.

  The rest shuffled out soon after, calling, ‘Goodnight Frankie, Greg, see you tomorrow.’

  The three newcomers stood for a while on the corner of the street, discussing in soft tones the people they had met. Sid hid in the doorway and stared at them. He was always suspicious of any newcomer and in his opinion, three arriving at the same time certainly needed watching. He waited until the men moved off and in the chill dawn followed them.

  He didn’t notice one of them leave but suddenly there were only two. Then a voice behind him, very close to his ear said,’ Following us, are you? Why is that then? Frankie’s little watch dog, are you?’

  The others moved back and Sid felt afraid. Then the three men laughed and walked away. Sid didn’t try to follow, he scuttled around the corner and ran back home.

  Zena hadn’t heard from Jake for two weeks. The enthusiastic keeping in touch hadn’t lasted very long and the phone calls and letters gradually faded and two weeks ago had stopped altogether. She still wrote but with so little contact there seemed little to say. Doubting that there was any chance of him reading her words, but others doing so, she said nothing of any importance. There was news about the family and a few comments on her job. She told him about Nelda and her little girls; he didn’t know them but the chatter filled a page. She thought of the wives whose husbands had been away for years during the war and felt a surprising sympathy for the few who had gone astray, looking for love and comfort, while the letters from their men became more and more like those from a stranger.

  She rarely saw Janey when she went to clean the house but her mother was often there, watching and checking on everything. Then there were the notes. Almost every time there was a list of things Janey needed her to do. Frequently these were things she normally did anyway, the implication being her failure to do the jobs properly. She suspected that the notes were written, not by Janey, but by her mother.

  One day she met Janey and asked why she was so dissatisfied with what she achieved in two hours. ‘To be frank, it takes me more than half an hour to sort the kitchen, before I start on the rest,’ she explained politely.

  ‘The kitchen? But I clear up before I leave every morning. It’s the one place I do try to keep clean.’

  Politeness forgotten, Zena asked, ‘What about the spilt flour the other morning? The dishes left in the sink for me to wash? And the saucepans and the frying pan on the table, leaving pools of grease? And a week ago, there was spilt milk and broken milk bottles on the door step. I had to make sure that was cleared away in case the children hurt themselves. It all takes time.’

  Janey stared at her. ‘I left none of those things. I wouldn’t. I value your help too much.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘But who? The cats, d’you think?’

  ‘A cat is one way of describing the culprit,’ Zena muttered. ‘Your mother doesn’t like me, does she?’ she asked pointedly.

  ‘I hope you aren’t suggesting that my mother would do this? Of course it wasn’t Mammy, these are the actions of a child.’

  ‘They don’t seem like the actions of a child to me.’ She paused, but Janey said nothing. ‘Well, I’ll leave it for you to fathom but I’m giving notice. I’ll come for another week to give you a chance to find someone else, then I’m leaving.’

  She cycled home filled with a sense of relief. She had other people asking for her services and it would be easy to fill the hours she had been giving to Janey; and they would be pleased with what she did, not critical. With Janey – or her mother – she would never be able to do enough. She always did more than clients expected and Trish was the only one to complain. What a relief to say goodbye to Janey and her miserable mother.

  It was raining and a cold wind was blowing but, as she rode, her head uncovered and hands cold in soaking wet gloves, she sang at the top of her voice, ‘O-o-o-o-h, it ain’t gonner rain no more no more, it ain’t gonner rain no more—’

  Once home, warm and dry, she sat to write to Jake again, intending to tell him she had ticked Janey off her list of clients, but after writing her address and the date, she put it aside. What was the point in writing to him? He was no longer interested. Perhaps she ought to tick Jake off her list as well?

  She had the feeling deep inside her that that was she ought to do. Their romance was over. He had made a life for himself in London and he hadn’t even mentioned her joining him in his brief letters. But that dreaded emptiness opened out before her again. Marriage was what every woman wanted, husband, children and a home to build to keep them safe and secure. There was stupid pride too. She would find it hard to tell people she was no longer engaged to marry Jake. Living at home with her mother while her youth slipped by was a dreary prospect. If only she had a career, something to fill her life. That was a way to compensate for marriage, a home and children, but she wondered if that would ever be enough.

  She lay awake for hours after going to bed, tossing and turning, trying to visualize a future without the dream of marriage she had held for so long. All her childhood she had played games that prepared her for home making. In that dream there had only been Jake. At five o’clock she went down, pushed sticks in to the coals to revive the fire and made a cup of tea.

  She was hardly the age to give up on life. Hanging on to a man who no longer loved her, afraid of there being nothing to replace what they had once had, was pathetic. She simply had to re-think what she wanted for her future, a future without Jake. It was time to make up her mind to forget Jake, tell him goodbye and face a future without him, or, that small voice whispered, or, she had to see him and find out if there was still something there, some faint shadow of their love that could be revived as she had revived the fire. Then she looked at the grate and saw that apart from a few thin columns of smoke the fire was out.

  Dawn broke in a hazy silver mist and she wrapped up warmly and walked down the steep, twisting path to the lake. Beside the clear water had always been a place to sit and think. The boat in which they had regularly played imaginary journeys on the calm water, and had picnicked in favourite places on the shore, was still there. The timbers looked sound but pale, bleached by several summers. The rope which her father had attached to the raft he had made with the help of Uncle Sam, was gone and the raft was tilted to one side, the floats, made of metal barrels rusted; one was obviously leaking.

  Despite the der
eliction, this was a place holding nothing but happy memories. She smiled, listening to the sound of birdsong and the rustling of the wind in the grasses, Uncle Sam’s tractor in the distance, probably taking churns of the morning’s milk to the platform built at the edge of the road for collection. On the first warm Sunday she decided she would invite Nelda to bring the children and have a picnic there. Could Uncle Sam repair the raft, she wondered? It would be a safe introduction to the water for the girls. Sam, Neville and Greg dealt with it at once. Once mended, the raft was firmly attached to a new double rope, to each side of the lake, creating a pulley to move it across the lake.

  Lottie had repeatedly searched all the papers in Ronald’s desk and had found nothing that would explain the loss of their money. She had given the shed a cursory search too but had found nothing apart from the usual receipts from household bills. Mabs agreed to help her go through everything one more time in case at the end of one of her searches tiredness had caused her concentration to fail and she had missed something of importance.

  The shed was more of an office really, lined with board and with a shelf that acted as a desk, and a swivel chair. The garden tools and the various tins and bottles of weed-killer and plant food, bamboo canes and balls of string were in another building that had once been a chicken coop. The shelves of the fairly new shed were lined with boxes, some containing paid bills relating to work done on the house. Some were filled with business letters together with carbon copies of the replies.

  Lottie and Mabs both read these before putting them back in the relevant boxes. There was nothing to raise a curious eyebrow. Many of the papers went back to the time they had bought the house soon after they were married.

  Lottie sighed. ‘This is hopeless, Mabs. If Ronald had any secrets he hid them well.’

  Mabs didn’t answer and Lottie turned to see that Mabs was under the shelf that had served as a desk. ‘Pass me a torch,’ Mabs demanded, and when she shone a light into a space close to the wall, she paused for a moment then gave a gasp. ‘Lottie, I think I’ve found something.’

  She backed out, still holding the torch and with her hand full of small pieces of torn paper. She handed these to her sister-in-law. ‘One of the pieces is initialled RUM. Ronald Unwyn Martin.’

  Lottie took the screwed-up pieces of paper and spread them out. ‘He used to joke about his initials, didn’t he? Convinced he should have been a sailor or a drunkard.’

  Together they sat and examined the scraps of paper. ‘It looks like a bank statement of some kind.’ Lottie whispered, as though they were intruding on someone else’s privacy.

  ‘Yes,’ Mabs replied, also whispering, ‘But unfortunately, there’s no clue to which bank it is.’

  ‘There aren’t that many. It’s bound to be a local one. We’ll have to ask in them all.’

  Without looking at her, Mabs asked, ‘Lottie, are you sure you want to know?’

  ‘What d’you mean? Of course I want to know why he left me in debt.’

  ‘There’s nothing you’ve done to make Ronald give the money away?’

  With an impatient sigh, Lottie whispered, ‘Mabs, we’ll go together, you and I. If there are secrets to learn, then you will find out the moment that I do. Is that enough for you? Does that stop you mistrusting me?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  They tried without success to join some of the pieces but all they had were unconnected pieces of what must have been several pages. A few had what was obviously part-columns of money set out ready for totalling; pounds, shillings and pence, in one instance it appeared to be several hundred pounds. Ronald’s handwriting appeared on two pieces, illegible words, and his signature, written across a postage stamp which was obviously a receipt for a payment.

  ‘What can we do?’ Mabs asked, still whispering.

  ‘We can take this to the solicitor and ask him to investigate, or to the police. Or we can ask questions ourselves and hope to find out what happened.’

  ‘I think we should do nothing for a few days, just wait to see if something else turns up to add to what we know.’

  ‘We don’t know much, do we?’ Lottie said sadly.

  ‘Maybe more than we did an hour ago.’

  Roy Roberts set off for the bus stop with Doris’s son, Kevin. ‘Why don’t you let Mam do your shopping, stubborn old devil that you are?’ Kevin pleaded. ‘She could have your delivery same day as ours, she works in town and could easily bring up bits and pieces when you need them.’

  ‘I’d rather do my own, Kevin. I don’t want the neighbourhood knowing what I have for dinner,’ he joked.

  ‘Going into town is dangerous for someone as decrepit as you, Popeye.’

  Roy Roberts laughed. ‘What shift are you on today?’

  ‘Six this evening till two. I hate that shift. I can’t go out in case I’m not back in time and I sleep late the following day and waste the morning.’

  ‘It messes up your love life, no doubt.’

  ‘I manage,’ Kevin said with a chuckle. ‘I do miss Rose Conelly though. She was good company and as long as I kept off the serious things, like courting and engagement, she was happy.’

  ‘I thought she was serious about Greg Martin?’

  ‘So did he!’

  ‘She’s in London, keeping company with Jake Williams, so I hear.’

  ‘Considering how rarely you go out, you hear a lot, Popeye.’

  The bus arrived and Kevin helped Roy Roberts to board.

  Roy was relieved that Kevin hadn’t insisted on coming with him, he needed privacy to visit his solicitor.

  The appointment was for eleven o’clock and he made his way slowly to the offices and, to his dismay, Mabs saw him going in. She called to him.

  ‘What d’you want a solicitor for, Roy Roberts? Been a naughty boy, have we?’ she teased.

  ‘I’m changing my will and leaving everything to you,’ he replied, ‘and if you don’t mind your own business you’ll lose the lot.’

  Mabs waved and walked on. She was briefly curious but soon forgot seeing him.

  Roy didn’t want to discuss a will. He handed Mr Philips a file containing papers referring to some shares he owned. It was time to sell them. Time was passing and old age might prevent him doing what had to be done if he waited for too long. It took less than an hour to deal with his requests.

  Buses were difficult for him so he took a taxi and went to Mabs’s flat and sat on the outside and waited for her. She waved as she came around the corner and he stood stiffly to greet her. ‘How about a cup of tea?’ he asked.

  She patted a paper bag in her basket. ‘I must have known you were coming, Roy Roberts, I bought two custard slices.’

  ‘How far have you got with the mystery of the missing money?’ he asked, when they sat with tea and cakes before them.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘I’ve known Ronald since we were children. I’m curious to know how someone as mean and careful as Ronald could be so careless. Poor Lottie, she must be devastated.’

  ‘What d’you mean, mean? And what d’you mean careless? Ronald would never be careless with money. And he wasn’t mean! No, too generous more like.’

  ‘Gambling maybe? Gambling can get a hold of you.’

  ‘Not my brother! Someone cheated him out of it.’

  Roy shrugged, decided not to say more. ‘Are there any biscuits to go with a second cup of tea, Mabs?’ She nodded thoughtfully then went to the kitchen to bring the biscuit tin with its design of wild flowers, and opened it. They finished eating and drinking in silence, smiling at each other occasionally.

  ‘Thanks, Mabsy,’ he said, as he was leaving. ‘I’ll bring the biscuits next time.’

  ‘Was there any special reason for the visit, Roy?’

  ‘Not really, just a catch up with a friend.’

  Lottie looked at the bank statement that she had just received and gave a deep sigh. The debt had hardly changed. It was going to take a long time before it was paid. She p
ut the statement in the file where she kept the outgoings and set off for work.

  She was grateful to have the job. Selling office equipment wasn’t a very exciting way to spend her days and when things were quiet she was utterly bored, but at least it was giving her a chance of eventually clearing her debt. She avoided working out how many years it would take at her present rate of pay.

  She opened up and looked through the orders. Only three, they wouldn’t take long and then she would sit and wait for a customer either calling in or phoning their requirements. She wished she had learned to knit. At least there would have been something to do while she sat waiting.

  At lunchtime as she was closing the door, her boss Mr Lucas arrived and he gestured for her to go back inside. ‘Mrs Martin – er – Lottie. I have something to tell you and you aren’t going to like it.’

  ‘Is there a problem? How can I help?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘To come straight to the point, the business is closing. I’m very sorry.’

  The smile on Lottie’s face slowly faltered. ‘You don’t mean I’ll lose my job? But I depend on it and if it means extra hours or adding something to my duties, I’ll agree willingly, you know that.’

  ‘Sorry, but there’s nothing you can do. The business has been failing for some time and now it hardly makes enough for your wages.’

  ‘I’ll distribute some letters advertising the services we offer. There must be customers out there? Every firm needs something of what we supply. We can build it up again.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m too old to fight my way back. I think the failure is due mainly due to my lack of enthusiasm. I haven’t been calling on customers as I should; collecting monies, obtaining orders and making courtesy visits to customers when their orders are smaller than usual.’

  Lottie was staring at him, no longer hearing the words, her mind racing with the implications, in shock and disbelief.

  Seeing the distant expression on her face he coughed to make sure she was listening before saying, ‘I am going to retire. So, at the end of the month I will pay you all I owe including holidays and a little extra, and the shop will close.’