Tomorrow Brings Sorrow

by Mary Wood

  ‘All right.’ He felt annoyed now. Angry even. Who the bloody hell was this girl, and what was that fucking Rita up to? ‘Look, I go into Leeds on a Thursday on business matters. That’s the day after tomorrow. Can you meet me there? There’s a cafe-type place opposite the station.’ Not the type of place he or any of his acquaintances used. ‘I’ll be there at around eleven. Now are you going to tell me who the devil I’m talking to?’

  The phone went dead.

  ‘Who was that, dear? Was it Simon?’

  ‘No, though I wish he would ring. Damn!’

  ‘What is it? You seem very upset.’

  ‘The only thing I am upset about is that damn fly that keeps landing on me, and you and your infernal questions.’

  ‘Darling . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, leave me alone.’

  Grabbing his hat and scarf from the stand near the door, Terence rammed the deerstalker on his head, wrapped his scarf around his neck and stormed out, answering Louise’s hurt voice with a curt, ‘I just want to be alone. I don’t need you fussing over me.’

  The house and its confines suffocated him. Louise suffocated him. He had to get out. He’d collect his gun and a couple of boxes of ammunition. He could always think straight when out shooting, and God knows there was plenty to shoot at. Rabbits abounded, eating what was left of the crops and generally making themselves a nuisance, attracting poachers, who’d then bag a brace or two of game birds. What the gamekeeper actually did, he’d really like to know!

  It wasn’t until he’d almost reached the thicket that Terence stopped and it hit him how terribly rude and unkind he’d been to Louise. He let his body sink down onto the ground. Damn and blast that bloody Rita. What did she want? A bloody pound of flesh, if he knew her! Well, he wasn’t for giving it to her. She could do nothing; she had nothing on him. Yes, the years might have aroused her bitterness over it all, but there was nothing she or anyone else could do to him, was there? Wait a minute: that business with Theresa wanting to come to see him . . . She’d called it off, saying the problem was solved, but she wouldn’t give any further information. Had she seen Rita? She wouldn’t, would she? Theresa wouldn’t betray him, surely? But then, God only knew what she’d do these days. She acted more strangely every time he encountered her.

  He lay back. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes and ran in cold slow motion down into his ears. He did nothing to stop them or wipe them away. Suddenly his safe world felt as though it might crumble. His past sins, which he’d tried to atone for but couldn’t wipe out, piled up on the grass next to him. He couldn’t face it all. He couldn’t . . .

  With a finality that took all feeling from him, he got up and walked into the thicket. Standing looking up into the tree that he’d always considered his favourite, his memory showed him a little boy, climbing its branches, Theresa scrambling behind him, higher and higher. Happy times, without a care.

  Sitting under the tree, where its roots looked like gnarled feet, he unclipped his pen from his lapel. Taking his diary from his inside pocket, he wrote on the page for 3rd September 1958:

  I’m sorry. I want Jack Fellam to know that I regret everything I did, and I hope he can forgive me. I want Theresa to know that I loved her more than I should have done, but have no regrets, except that the law prevented us being together as we were meant to be. I want my children to know I love them dearly and what I am doing is for them, to save them from the sins I committed and that are rearing their ugly head again. And my darling, darling Louise. I want you to know that you are, and have been since the day we married, my life, my love and my world. You are the purity to my evil, the angel to my devil. I love you beyond words, but staying with you would only bring sorrow down upon you. Forgive my outburst, and think of my last words as ‘I love you to eternity.’

  Dropping the pen and the diary onto the floor, Terence stood. The loading and cocking of his gun sent the birds fleeing their afternoon rest. No fear entered him. The inside of him was a void. A warm, floaty void. The metal taste of the barrel tingled his tongue. It was over . . . over . . .

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Caller, please insert your money and press button A.’

  Patsy did as the voice told her, inserting two pennies. ‘Rita, he ain’t come.’

  ‘What? Bleedin’ hell, what’s he playing at? All right, get the next train back. I’ll sort it.’

  ‘I – I’ve just been reading the local paper. Th – there’s a report of a man from a place called Breckton. He committed suicide. He – he was a landowner.’

  ‘What? No! What were his name?’

  ‘T – Terence Crompton.’

  ‘Christ!’

  Patsy slammed the phone down. Something had told her it was her uncle. Oh God, she’d been a part of killing her own uncle. Tears streamed down her face. She leaned against the glass of the telephone box. What had she done? Loneliness and pain shrouded her. Her body folded.

  A banging on the glass pane sent reality shuddering through her. A voice penetrated the place she’d let herself go to. ‘Come on, love, I need to use the phone.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Eeh, are you alreet, lass?’

  ‘I – I had some bad news. Can you tell me how to get to Breckton?’

  ‘You’ll need to catch a train. Breckton’s quite a way from here. Take you a good three-quarters of an hour. By, there’s nowt there, lass. Only a mine. Have you family there?’

  ‘Yes. At least, I – I think I have.’

  ‘Well, take yourself over the road to the station and someone’ll put you reet. Sorry I can’t help any more. I’ve to ring the doctor for me little Aggie. She’s got a temperature.’

  Patsy nodded and left the woman to make her call. Crossing the road, she felt as if her legs wouldn’t carry her far. She was no better than her dad, whoever he was. He’d been a killer, Rita had said; and now she’d caused a man’s death. Oh, she hadn’t known what effect calling him would have, but still, she’d been willing to cause him hurt; and she hadn’t even known him, or the full reason Rita wanted to hurt him. Whatever it was, she realized it must have been bad. Something he couldn’t face. But what? What would make a man kill himself?

  ‘The next train ain’t until around five-ish – ten past, to be precise. It takes the workers back to the villages and outlying areas and calls at Breckton. If I were you, love, I’d go and have a look around the shops for an hour or two.’

  As she walked out of the station, Patsy looked at Leeds for the first time. Nothing about it had registered with her before. Just the cafe, that was all. The cafe where she was meant to meet her uncle. The tears threatened once more, but no, she’d to pull herself together. She couldn’t go crying all over the place.

  Leeds looked like it was a busy city; not like London as she was used to, but bustling all the same. The buildings looked similar: important, big, but a bit more tarnished. She supposed that was due to the factories and the mills. She’d seen a lot of them as the train had got nearer. All had tall chimneys belching out smoke. Buses pulled in and out of a lay-by across the road. On one of them she read ‘City Centre’. Without thinking, she ran across and jumped on it.

  Rita paced up and down. What to do? She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Patsy had slammed the phone down in anger. Suppose as she took herself off to Breckton and found them lot? She’d only have to ask around a bit and she’d soon know stuff. Everyone in Breckton knew about the murders, and who’d committed them. Billy was notorious. Everything would lead Patsy to the Fellams and to her half-sister; she might even meet Harriet, if she was still staying with Jack and Dorothy. Knowing that bleedin’ lot, with their family ties, they’d take her in and she’d tell them who had led her there and why. If she tells Jack Fellam that I had plans to get even with the Cromptons, Jack’s sure to ring the police. He’ll not take any chances. If they did that, Rita knew she’d be banged up again. She couldn’t face that.

  Running away was the only option, but what about There
sa? Would Theresa come with her? Leaving her behind would hurt. Rita longed to continue to rekindle what they’d had.

  Theresa had welcomed her when she’d visited last night. They’d made love and talked of them being together forever. Rita couldn’t think of giving that up. Perhaps she could persuade Theresa to move in with her somewhere near the sea . . . Brighton, yes, the very place. It was cosmopolitan enough to accept their lifestyle. She’d heard that a lot of arty types lived there, and they were always open to anything. Dallied in it all, in fact.

  With this thought, Rita dialled Theresa’s number. A quivering, shock-filled voice answered. ‘Rita . . . He – he’s dead!’

  Thinking on her feet, Rita just stopped herself from saying that she knew and asked instead, ‘Who?’

  Theresa couldn’t voice her words.

  ‘Look, love, I’ll come round.’

  The phone went dead.

  Theresa’s whole body trembled. Rita couldn’t get any sense out of her. Still playing the innocent, she shouted at Theresa, ‘Look, tell me what happened. How did Terence die?’

  ‘He – he shot himself . . . Oh, Rita, why? Why?’

  ‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Rita’s shock was genuine; she hadn’t expected that. She thought he would have taken pills or something, but to shoot himself . . . That took guts, and that was something as she’d never associated with Terence Crompton.

  There was a sadness in her, too. She hadn’t wanted him dead. She’d thought there might just come a day when they could have picked up where they’d left off, because of all the blokes she’d been with, he was the best, just as his sister had bettered all the women she’d had. Despite these feelings she had to ask, ‘Does anyone know why?’

  ‘I – I think Louise said something about a phone call. I couldn’t understand all she said, for she is distraught. She said something about a note.’

  Christ! ‘He left a note?’

  ‘Ye – yes. Something about his sins coming back to haunt him. Oh, Rita, he means me. Me! Me! I killed him . . . I killed my darling, my own brother, my love, my lover . . .’

  Her screams rose until they shattered the air around them and filled every particle of space in the room. They pierced Rita’s ears and struck terror in her, because with the screams, froth appeared around Theresa’s mouth, and her eyes glared as if made of glass, bulging from their sockets. The veins on her temple protruded, like blue, ugly, ever-growing worms.

  Without thinking, Rita slapped the distorted face as hard as she could. The screaming stopped. Theresa gasped – deep, rasping intakes of breath. Her eyes stared, her mouth leaked foaming spittle. Then her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Horror curled Rita’s insides.

  This wasn’t shock shaking Theresa’s bones. If Rita knew anything, a fit had taken her. She’d seen this in the prison, as one of the inmates was prone to fitting.

  Panic gripped Rita as Theresa’s tongue swelled and protruded from her mouth, and her torso jumped as if someone had put a thousand volts of electricity through it. Nothing had prepared her for this. She had to get help. Reaching for the phone, she dialled 999, then left.

  Tears blurred her vision. Bloody hell, Rita, girl, it ain’t like you to cry. Brushing her eyes in a determined effort, she put her foot down on the accelerator. The car responded. She’d to get some things from her flat and get out of here. There was nothing left for her. She’d phone Bugsy. She’d always called Vince Yarman – one of the heavies she employed – Bugsy, because as tough as he was, he was afraid of any creepy crawly, often screaming like a girl at the sight of a bug. But he was the only person she could trust. The daft blighter loved her.

  She’d get him to sell everything she owned while she lay low. Then, when she had all of her assets in cash, she’d take herself abroad. Australia. Yes, that’d be the best. She’d heard as you could get into that country, if you had money. They needed folk down there. She’d cruise over. Take Bugsy with her. They’d make out all right together. There must be a market for her line of work down there. It would all turn out all right.

  Though she’d never forget Theresa. But what had changed her so much? But then, she knew what. It’d be down to what the bastard Gestapo had put her through. Theresa hadn’t said anything, but last night, when she’d fallen asleep, Rita had gone downstairs for a drink and Theresa’s diary had been open. What Rita had read had made the insides of her curl in horror. Poor Theresa. Poor bleedin’ blighter.

  48

  Patsy & Hattie

  Hope of Acceptance

  The sign caught Patsy’s eye: ‘Hattie’s Emporium’. It looked like a huge Woolworths. She still had over an hour before she had to get back to the station, and she couldn’t think of a better way to spend it than looking around this shop. She wondered if they gave a free cuppa if you bought something, like they did in Woolies.

  When she opened the door of the store, the noise of a loud bell clanging made her jump. Who it was meant to alert she didn’t know, as all the counters – and there were lots of them – were built in a circular shape and had serving girls in the centre of them. Smells of all kinds tinged her nostrils: spices, perfumes and flowers. It was like she imagined Aladdin’s cave to look.

  Elvis singing ‘Love Me Tender’ blared out. The record had been out for well over a year and she’d seen the film, but with Elvis now in the army, everyone had to make do with his old stuff for a time. The music drew her to a counter with the colourful posters of current rock stars hanging from it. It was laden with boxes and boxes of records. She hadn’t bought a record for ages. It’d be fun to have a look through.

  ‘Any you want me to play, I will, love. I’ve a sales copy of each, so customers can listen before they buy.’

  ‘Thanks. Have you anything by Cliff Richard?’

  ‘I’ve got his latest, “Move It”, and I reckon as it’s his best an’ all. You a fan of him and The Shadows, then?’

  ‘Yes, love him.’

  ‘Yer not from round here, are yer?’

  ‘No, I’m from London.’

  ‘What brings you up here then?’

  A woman’s voice interrupted them. ‘Harriet, love, you didn’t tell me you were coming in. I’d have come over and picked you up.’

  Patsy turned round. A middle-aged woman with dark hair peppered with grey stood smiling at her. Small, but with a nice figure – a bit like the film stars with a big bust and a tiny waist – the woman wore a lovely blue costume. Patsy’s heart thumped. Was she related to her? ‘I – I’m not Harriet. Who are you?’

  ‘Oh! I – I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘Look, Missus, I know I look like this Harriet, and I’ve been told as I’m her half-sister. Are you related to her then?’

  The woman’s mouth dropped open. After a moment she seemed to pull herself together. ‘No . . . well, yes, in a roundabout way. She’s me adopted granddaughter. Look, love, would you come to me office to talk this through? I can’t think how you could be related to Harriet, but it’s right as you’re her double, so there’s sommat to look into here. Come on, love, I don’t bite, and I have a kettle and tea leaves in me room. You look like you could do with a drop of tea.’

  ‘Ta, a Rosie Lee would be very welcome.’

  ‘Ha, I remember the Land Girls during the war calling it that. I guess you’re from London then. They came from down south, only two didn’t go back, they married locally.’

  When they reached the office at the back of the store – an area partitioned off, but with windows giving a view of the whole shop – Patsy thought it likely she’d been spotted from there.

  ‘You knew some Land Girls? Did you know Rita?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say as I knew them, not that well. They worked on me friend’s farm – Harriet’s grandparents’ farm. But I do remember Rita. She worked on the local gentry’s farm. She did a very bad thing. Do you know her?’

  Without warning the tears welled up and swamped her.

  ‘Eeh, lass, what is it? Patsy, come on, you can tell me. I�
��m known for sorting things, even when they don’t look like they can be sorted. By, it’s uncanny how you look like our Harriet. What’s your story, lass?’

  ‘I’ve done something terrible, and it were that Rita as made me do it, only I didn’t know as it were terrible. I didn’t know as it’d cause me uncle to kill himself.’ At this, her sobbing took her over.

  ‘Eeh, I can’t make sense of anything you’re saying. Look, I’ll light me gas ring and get the kettle on. You calm yourself whilst I do so, and then you can start at the beginning. How’s that, eh? By the way, I haven’t told you me name yet. I’m Hattie.’

  All Patsy could do was nod. Taking the hanky from Hattie’s hand, she wiped her face. The whistling of the kettle seemed to fill the space around them. It was a comforting sound, one that said everything was all right. And somehow she knew this Hattie would see to that. She would put everything right.

  ‘Now take a sip and, as soon as you feel ready, you tell your tale, lass.’

  The hot liquid scalded her mouth, but soothed as it hit her stomach. It, and Hattie’s presence, calmed her. Starting from the moment she had walked into Rita’s office, Patsy told Hattie everything. The tears flowed as she explained how she thought she’d made her uncle kill himself.

  ‘Eeh, lass. Whatever Terence Crompton’s reason for taking his own life, it were nowt to do with you. It were more down to that Rita. She’s a wicked person. Mind, I’ve heard tell that she recently visited Jack, the bloke who was the victim of all the wicked things that happened at the time. Look, I can see as it’s my turn to start from the beginning. Rita . . .’

  Horror gripped her as Hattie told of what had happened all those years ago. And to think she’d trusted that Rita!

  ‘Now, if it’s right as Crompton was your uncle, then that means the only person as could have been your mam was his sister, Theresa Crompton.’

  ‘Where is she? Do you know, Hattie?’

  ‘I only know she lives down in London somewhere. It was strange, but after living a frivolous kind of life, she suddenly left the area.’