For Better For Worse

by Pam Weaver

  ‘Shut up, shut up!’

  ‘Don’t you dare raise your hand to me!’

  ‘No mother, don’t … don’t …’

  The sound effects man recreated the sound of a violent blow, followed by a terrified scream.

  ‘Your father never raised a hand to me,’ said the mother, her voice as cold as ice, unflinching in a way which Kaye hoped would both thrill and surprise her audience who hopefully wouldn’t have been expecting this turn of events, ‘and I won’t take it from you!’

  There was the sound of a fall and the audience would know the victim – not the mother but the son – was dead. Her cigarette finished, Kaye stubbed it out and reached for the packet. She listened to the rest of the play and kept the radio on until the credits had been aired. She liked to hear her name being read out just as it had at the beginning of the show. Fear in the Afternoon presents No Place for a Woman by Kaye Hambledon, starring …

  As Kaye turned the wireless off, the telephone rang. It was her agent.

  ‘Wonderful play, darling, and you certainly have the Midas touch. I’ve just had a call from the BBC. They want to meet you …’

  Kaye had begun writing seriously in 1937. She had always enjoyed putting together the odd Sunday school play and knocking up something for the local amateur dramatic society, but as Henry’s wife, she never dared to branch out any further. Henry had strong views about what women should and shouldn’t do and didn’t see the need for them to do anything else but housework. She’d given up her writing until things went sour in her marriage, after which she’d worked in secret, never even telling him when she had something accepted for publication. As war loomed and Henry deserted her, she turned her thoughts to more serious productions. Comedy was king during the war years and she’d managed to sell a whole raft of one-liners and some short comedy sketches to Charlie Chester (Studio Stand Easy), Eric Barker (Merry Go Round) and even the great Tommy Handley (ITMA). She had honed her craft and made a name for herself as Kaye Hambledon, using her maiden name, but her real love was writing crime thrillers. The radio series called The Man in Black which started way back in 1943, had brought Valentine Dyall to fame and she knew the BBC were on the lookout for new writers who could adapt some of the world’s greatest horror stories into plays. Whilst others recreated the works of Edgar Allen Poe and John Dickson Carr, Kaye’s dream had always been to create her own stories and she began to make a name for herself with producers.

  She and her agent discussed their meeting with the BBC and decided that she should come up to London on Thursday of the following week. As she put the telephone down, there was a sharp knock at the front door.

  Her neighbour, Mrs Goodall, stood on the doorstep. ‘Come in,’ said Kaye with a smile, although she had no idea why the woman would be knocking on her door. Mrs Goodall was a large, matronly woman who had a reputation for being the local high-hat and made it her job to make sure everyone in Church Road conformed to her level of acceptance. Always immaculately dressed, today she was wearing a pale blue twinset and a grey pleated skirt. Her shoes, which always seemed too small for her feet, were of the black court variety. She put her hand up as she declined Kaye’s invitation and took a deep breath. ‘As you know,’ she began, ‘I am not one to complain …’

  Inwardly, Kaye rolled her eyes. Mrs Goodall was always complaining.

  ‘… but your radio was particularly loud this afternoon. I could hear it all the way into my lounge …’

  Kaye loved the way she said lounge. It was more like ‘le-awnge’ and reminded her of the twang of the bow when she did her archery practice. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Kaye began. ‘Do forgive me, it’s just that …’

  ‘I hate to mention it,’ Mrs Goodall interrupted, as she waved the smoke from Kaye’s cigarette away from her face, ‘but loud noises lower the tone of the area, don’t you know.’ She tugged at her hand-knitted jumper and the pearls at her throat wobbled.

  ‘I do apologise,’ said Kaye pleasantly. ‘And I promise to keep the noise down.’

  Mrs Goodall gave her a triumphant nod and turned to go. As she watched her totter down the path in her all too small shoes, Kaye grinned. What a perfect character for her next play, and as a tribute to the one who inspired her, she would call the character Goody-Two-Shoes.

  Mrs Goodall was a bit of a pain, but Kaye only had one really pressing problem – looking after Aunt Charlotte. Their first meeting had been a little strained but she had warmed to the forty-seven-year-old. She looked a bit like her mother. She had the same eyes and her mannerisms were similar, but whereas her mother was confident, Aunt Charlotte, or Lottie as they called her, was timid and unsure. Kaye had talked to her about Worthing, promising that she would soon be living with her. ‘We’ll take walks along the seafront,’ she said. ‘Maybe listen to the band …’ and then realised with mounting horror that poor Lottie probably hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Kaye had left, promising to return the following week. What she needed to do was set up some sort of plan which meant that Lottie would be well looked after while she was working. She would have to employ some sort of live-in domestic. Kaye reached for The Lady magazine and turned to the agency pages. After she’d read a few advertisements, she reached for the telephone.

  * * *

  An interview! They wanted to see her next week. Sarah’s first thought was what was she going to wear? She dashed to the bedroom and began sifting through her wardrobe. In the end she dragged out her utility suit, a navy pinstriped tailored jacket with a matching straight skirt once again. The next question was, did it still fit? She had lost a lot of weight and hadn’t worn it for ages. When she put it on, it confirmed her worst fears. It was miles too big and looked baggy and shapeless. Thumbing through a Woman magazine she’d found in the ladies’ snug at the pub, she found an article about alterations. If she made a dart here and shortened the jacket, on a dark night it could pass for one of those New Look suits. It wasn’t as if she needed more material. Sarah felt a frisson of excitement. With her yellow spot blouse and a small brooch at her neck, she was sure she could impress the interview panel.

  ‘Mummy, can I play outside?’

  Jenny interrupted her thoughts, and instead of saying it was too cold, or that it was getting dark and it was almost teatime, Sarah found herself in a benevolent mood. She smiled down at her daughter.

  ‘Of course you can, darling, but come straight in when I call you.’

  She even pushed Lu-Lu’s playpen next to the open door so that she could watch her big sister pushing her dolly’s pram in the road. Then humming the Andrews sisters’ song Near You, Sarah got to work.

  Sarah’s heart sank as she walked through the door a week later. There were at least sixteen other people waiting to be interviewed. Please God, she silently prayed, please let them like me the best. As they waited to be called, Sarah scanned the competition. Some were obviously unsuitable. One woman was riddled with arthritis and looked as if she’d be better off being an inmate rather than a carer. Another woman had difficulty in breathing. She was very large and was sweating profusely. Sarah guessed that, like her, they’d been attracted to the job by the promise of free accommodation. Other women looked very capable, some with warm, homely faces, whilst others had rather sour expressions. The wait seemed interminable, but eventually she was called.

  There were five on the panel. One was a clergyman. Next to him sat a rather formidable woman with an expensive-looking felt hat and a fox fur thrown over one shoulder. At the other end of the table sat a military man with a large tobacco-stained moustache and next to him, a nurse. Surprisingly, a rather twittery man seated in the middle of them all, began the proceedings.

  ‘Mrs Royal, what qualities do you have which would make you a suitable candidate for the job?’

  Sarah answered crisply in what she hoped was an efficient, not too casual manner, listing her attributes.

  The clergyman was sifting through her references. ‘Your present employers speak very highly of you,�
�� he remarked.

  Sarah relaxed into the chair. Ah, so she had one ally on the panel, she was sure of it. They asked her about her previous experience, her capabilities and her honesty. Everything seemed to be going her way. The panel seemed impressed by her answers.

  There was a slight pause then the nurse asked, ‘What would you do if you found one of the residents in a collapsed state?’

  Sarah confessed that she had no medical knowledge before quickly adding, ‘but I am more than willing to be taught.’ She went on to tell them what she would do to get help and at the same time making sure the resident was comfortable and kept calm.

  The military man nodded and played with his moustache. ‘Excellent, very caring.’

  The woman in the fox fur leaned forward. ‘Royal … Royal,’ she mused. ‘Don’t I know that name?’

  Sarah felt herself blush as the woman held her gaze.

  ‘If you are the sole carer for your children,’ the nurse went on sniffily, ‘what would you do with them if you were suddenly called to help a resident?’

  Sarah swallowed hard. She hadn’t thought of that, but it was a reasonable question and she could see where it was leading. If she put her children first (and she would, of course), she wouldn’t be totally committed to the residents.

  ‘I would have to take them with me,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But supposing that resident was having a violent fit?’ the nurse went on. ‘Would you want your children exposed to such things?’

  ‘I can’t hide them from life.’

  ‘Your smallest child is very young. What if she was frightened and upset?’

  Sarah was stumped for an answer.

  ‘Where is your husband, Mrs Royal?’ said the woman with the fox fur, changing the subject.

  Sarah could feel her heartbeat quickening.

  ‘He’s in prison, isn’t he?’ The woman leaned back in her chair with a slight curl of disdain on her lip. ‘Isn’t he the man recently convicted for bigamy?’

  ‘Good God!’ exclaimed the military man.

  Sarah’s head flew up and her eyes flashed. ‘That may be the case, madam,’ she said politely, ‘but that is hardly my or my children’s fault. You are not interviewing my husband. You are interviewing me.’

  There was a slight pause while everyone digested what she had said. The clergyman spoke first. ‘We understand perfectly, my dear,’ he said, ‘and you most certainly are not to blame, but you must understand that even the faintest whiff of scandal …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And as we’ve just seen,’ said the nurse, ‘as sole carer for your children, it would be difficult for you to give our residents your undivided attention.’

  Sarah rose to her feet and walked from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. Outside in the fresh air, she leaned against the flint stone wall and tried to catch her breath. Everything had been going so well until that stuck-up old bag remembered where she’d heard Sarah’s name. Of all the rotten luck … She set off for home, walking briskly, and every now and then snatching a tear away from her cheek with the heel of her hand. Damn you, Henry. Damn you to hell.

  ‘Sarah!’

  Sarah was shaken from her angry thoughts by a well-cultured voice coming from a car which had drawn up beside her. It was Kaye Royale.

  ‘How lovely to see you again,’ Kaye cried. ‘Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘I don’t have far to go,’ said Sarah. She was in no mood for conversation, least of all with one of Henry’s wives.

  ‘Oh do come and have a bite of lunch with me,’ said Kaye. ‘My treat. I’ve got so much to tell you.’

  Sarah hesitated. They weren’t expecting her to turn up at the pub because she had told them about the interview and Lu-Lu was with Mrs Angel, so she really should spend the time looking for a place to live, but with Kaye looking at her so appealingly, and her own tummy rumbling, Sarah climbed into the passenger seat against her better judgement.

  *

  Annie was concentrating on a piece of knitting. She was by no means an expert, but she had to get this right. It was only a scarf in rib, but her progress was very slow. Knit one, purl one … She stuck her tongue out as she concentrated. Her head ached. The baby was almost due and she was enormous. Sitting down made her feel breathless at times. She couldn’t quite believe that women went through all this to have a child. Knit one, purl one … It was imperative that she get this finished.

  *

  It was on the Thursday after school, three days after the interview, when Sarah got back home and found the cottage all boarded up. A man in a shabby raincoat with a greasy collar was waiting to collect her keys.

  ‘Oh please,’ she began. ‘Give me just a little more time. You can’t put me and my babies on the street … please.’

  The man couldn’t look her in the face as he held his hand out and worked the fingers for the keys. Defeated, Sarah handed them over.

  ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why has this happened? I’ve always paid my rent on time.’

  ‘There’s been complaints,’ said the man.

  ‘What complaints? Who has complained?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he sniffed. ‘I’m just the bloke what collects the keys.’ And with that, he climbed back into his van and started the engine. She had expected this might happen and had just spent a precious thirty bob on getting new keys cut from the old ones. Thank God she’d been one step ahead of them, but what was he talking about … complaints.

  The board the man had put over the front door covered the keyhole, so as soon as the van was out of sight, she took the children round the back and climbed over the gate. It was low enough for her to lift the pram over and having bashed the board to uncover the back door keyhole, she let them in. She knew they would eventually find out that they were still living in the property, but at least it gave her a bit more time to look for another place.

  It was cold, so she was forced to light the fire (thank goodness for Peter Millward’s bag of coal), and apart from the windows being boarded up, she was able to pretend that everything was perfectly normal.

  ‘Why did the man do that to the window, Mummy?’ Jenny was puzzled that they could no longer see out into the street.

  ‘We have to be as quiet as pixies,’ said Sarah, putting her finger on her lips. ‘We don’t want him to hear us, do we?’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s a game,’ Sarah told her.

  When she put the children in bed, she’d kissed them fiercely. Downstairs in the kitchen she allowed herself the luxury of a cry and she prayed to God for help as she sat at the table to consider her options. If she couldn’t find somewhere to live, they’d take her kids away. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing them. She should have told Kaye what was happening that day she’d stopped her and taken her for lunch, but Kaye was so full of what had happened to her aunt in the mental institution that they hadn’t got round to talking about Sarah’s problems.

  ‘Lottie’s a sweetie,’ Kaye had told her. They were sitting in Hubbard’s restaurant eating omelettes. ‘But I’m going to have to take it one step at a time.’

  ‘I can’t imagine how awful it would be being stuck in one of those places,’ Sarah had sympathised. ‘Especially when there’s nothing wrong with you.’

  ‘I know,’ Kaye had cried. ‘And I can’t let them chuck her out on the streets, can I?’

  Sarah sighed. If only Kaye knew within a few days she would be in the same sort of predicament. She should have said something. Kaye might know of a decent landlord. She moved in those kinds of circles. As she went up to bed, she wondered again if she should marry Peter. It would certainly solve all her problems and yet she respected him too much to take advantage of him like that. If he ever found out that she’d only married him because she was homeless, it would hurt him deeply and she owed him more than that. And yet, as she toyed with the idea, she thought perhaps she could carry it off and he would never know. She closed her eyes and tried
to imagine him in bed with her. Immediately his protruding nasal hairs took on enormous proportions. The thought made her shiver. No, she really couldn’t marry Peter.

  Over the next couple of days, she spent every spare minute looking for digs, moving out of town and towards the less desirable areas on the outskirts of Worthing, but to no avail. Every Nissen hut left over from the war and all the prefabs were already occupied. At the town hall, the woman in the housing department put her particulars onto a list and promised her that she would be considered for council housing when the time came.

  ‘What does that mean? When the time comes?’

  ‘We are going to build a whole new estate in the Durrington area,’ she told her. ‘The work should start soon.’

  ‘But I need help now,’ Sarah protested.

  ‘And I’m not a magician,’ the woman snapped. ‘I can’t conjure up a house out of a hat.’

  Frustrated and upset, Sarah had left.

  She had asked around her various jobs to see if anyone knew of lodgings.

  ‘Fancy a bit of a change, do you?’ Peter Millward asked when she’d quizzed him. They were sitting in his office at the coal yard. She was so desperate, even that was beginning to look attractive.

  ‘Something like that,’ Sarah smiled. Her heart was thumping in case he asked her more detailed questions, but thankfully he took her request at face value.

  ‘I’ll let you know if I hear of anything,’ he promised.

  The landlord in the pub shook his head when she’d asked him, and Mrs Angel had promised to put a card in the window for her. Sarah was coming to the end of her options. At the end of the week, she counted the money in her purse and in the sewing machine fund, and discovered it still wasn’t quite enough for the two weeks’ rent she would have to give as a deposit on a new home. She’d have to settle for something far smaller, but that was fine so long as she and the children could be together. But the next week she came back to the cottage to find a stout padlock on both the front and back doors. Oh God, now she was truly homeless.