by Pam Weaver
I reached out to touch my son but he dodged my hand and thundered up the stairs. I was going to follow him but Rob said quietly, ‘Leave him, darling. Give him a bit of time to lick his wounds.’
The rest of us sat at the table and Christopher surprised me by saying, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Mum. I was just messing about.’
‘He didn’t mean anything,’ Thomas echoed.
The boys, subdued, waited while Rob hacked the pizza with the bread knife but nobody felt much like eating. After twenty minutes of chewing what felt like cardboard I left the table and made my way upstairs.
Liam wasn’t in his bedroom but the pizza cutter was. He’d been using it to make patterns on the cover of a book. My heart sank. Oh, Liam. What am I going to do with you?
So, where was he? I tried the bathroom. That was empty too. My heart skipped a beat. Surely he wasn’t in Christopher’s room? My imagination was working overtime. What damage was he doing in there? But Christopher’s room was empty, as was his brother’s. That only left our room. All the boys knew it was private, unless we said they could come in. I pushed open the door slowly.
He was under the duvet … on Rob’s side of the bed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my mind in a whirl. What on earth was I going to say to him? Dear Lord, why doesn’t child rearing come with a tailor-made manual?
I pulled back the cover and exposed him a little. He was bathed in perspiration and he had obviously been crying. I had no words so I pulled him gently towards me and he came willingly into my arms.
‘Listen, Liam,’ I told him. ‘Before we talk, I want you to know that no matter what you do, I will never, ever stop loving you.’ I held him as he cried. ‘You don’t have to be like Christopher or Thomas.’
He pulled away and looked up at me earnestly. ‘But why not, Mum?’
‘We’re all made differently,’ I said, going down the usual trite pathway. ‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t play cricket or work on a model aircraft. It doesn’t even matter about the swimming …’
‘I know all that, Mum,’ he said with an expression on his face way beyond his years.
Now I was puzzled. ‘Then what …?’
‘Why doesn’t he tell me off?’ Liam demanded. ‘Why can’t Rob be my dad too?’
The Corkscrew is on the last part of the run now. I can’t bear to watch this bit and yet I am compelled to. Upside down, spinning at a fair rate of knots … it’s making my stomach turn. I down the last of my cold coffee and stand up with the bags.
Rob didn’t tell Liam off but the following Saturday he took him back to the shop from where he’d pinched the toy car. Of course we didn’t tell him that Rob had already been to see the shopkeeper to make sure Liam would be treated fairly. Liam was embarrassed but with Rob holding his hand, he apologised and the shopkeeper agreed that, even though it would take several weeks, Liam should pay for the car out of his own pocket money. After that, no more was said and the bad behaviour stopped.
The ride is over. The Corkscrew is unloading its passengers and there’s a mêlée of bodies coming away from the entrance. When they get out of the car, Rob looks a bit unsteady on his feet but the boys are still hyper-excited.
‘That was well cool,’ Christopher shouts across to me.
‘Yeah,’ says Thomas. ‘You should’ve come too, Mum.’
‘Can we go again?’ Liam asks and I see a flicker of panic in Rob’s eye.
‘You had to wait three quarters of an hour to get on last time,’ I say quickly. ‘The queue is even longer now.’
Thankfully, Liam concedes it’s too long to wait. ‘Come on,’ he urges the others, ‘Let’s have a go on the Grand Rapids.’
The Grand Rapids looks thrilling, but it’s a lot less scary than the Corkscrew.
The Grand Rapids involves lots of dark tunnels and water. I can’t wait. It’s my turn to make up the even number. Rob can look after the coats this time. The boys race off, their energy levels unbelievably high as they horseplay their way to the entrance.
‘I was hoping I’d be too tall for The Corkscrew,’ Rob whispers as we walk past a disappointed child crying beside the height restriction gate. ‘I never was much good at fairground rides. They make me so giddy and sick.’
I gasp. ‘You never said.’
Suddenly Liam breaks free from the others and comes racing back. He flings himself at Rob, wrapping his arms around his waist and giving him a big hug.
‘Thanks for taking me on The Corkscrew, Dad,’ he beams, and then he races back to his brothers.
I slip my hand in Rob’s and our fingers entwine. All at once, I am unbelievably happy even though my pale-faced husband can only look down at me with a slightly green smile.
Better Days Will Come
Prologue
He was fingering the chain, letting it run through his fingers. Was it time to let the locket go? Would he ever need it? After all, nobody suspected a thing. Why should they in a sleepy backwater like Worthing? He might not have the heady power of previous years but that was no bad thing. When you reached the top, there were any number of people wanting to take you out. It had been a stroke of genius living here. The best place to hide was where everyone could see you. Which brought him back to the locket and the little secret inside. Keep it, or ditch it? He held it up to the light and realised that he wasn’t ready to burn all his bridges just yet. All he needed was somewhere safe.
One
Worthing 1947
‘Looks like they’re going to make a start on repairing the pier at last,’ Grace Rogers called out as she entered the house but there was no reply. She pulled her wet headscarf from her head and shook it. Water droplets splattered the back of the chair. She ran her fingers through her honey-blonde hair which curled neatly at the nape of her neck and then unbuttoned her coat and hung it on a peg behind the front door.
She was a small woman, with a neat figure, pale eyes and long artistic fingers. She’d missed the bus and had to wait for another, so she was soaked. Someone had said that the Littlehampton Road was flooded between Titnore Lane and Limbrick Lane. She wasn’t surprised. The rain hadn’t let up all week. She kicked off her boots. Her feet were wet too but that was hardly surprising either. There was a hole in the bottom of her left shoe. Grace pulled out a soggy piece of cardboard, the only thing between her foot and the pavement, and threw it into the coalscuttle.
The two reception rooms downstairs had been knocked into one and the kitchen range struggled to heat such a large area. The fire was low. Using an oven glove, Grace opened the door and put the poker in. The fire resettled and flared a little. She added some coal, not a lot, tossed in the soggy cardboard, and closed the door. Coal was still rationed and it was only November 12th. Winter had hardly started yet.
‘Bonnie?’
No response. Perhaps she was upstairs in her room. Grace opened the stair door and called up but there was no answer. She glanced up at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost three-thirty. It would be getting dark soon. Where was the girl? It was early closing in Worthing and Bonnie had the afternoon off, but she never went anywhere, not this time of year anyway, and certainly not in this weather. Rita, her youngest, would be coming back from school in less than an hour.
Grace dried her hair with a towel while the kettle boiled. Her bones ached with weariness. She’d jumped at the chance to do an extra shift because even with Bonnie’s wages, the money didn’t go far. When Michael died in the D-Day Landings, she’d never imagined bringing up two girls on her own would be so difficult. Still, she shouldn’t grumble. She was a lot better off than some. Even if the rent did keep going up, at least she had a roof over her head, and the knitwear factory, Finley International, where she worked, was doing well. They were producing more than ever, mostly for America and Canada. The war had been over for eighteen months and the country needed all the exports it could get. A year ago they had all hoped that the good times were just around the corner but if anything, things were worse tha
n ever. Even bread was rationed now, and potatoes. Three pounds per person per week, that was all, and that hadn’t happened all through the dark days of the war.
Her hair towelled dry, Grace glanced up at the clock again. Where was Bonnie? She said she’d be home to help with the tea. She screwed up some newspaper and stuffed it into the toes of her boots before putting them on the floor by the range. With a bit of luck they’d be dry in the morning.
Grace brushed her hair vigorously. She was lucky that it was naturally curly and she didn’t have any grey. The only time she went to the hairdresser was to have it cut.
The kettle boiled and Grace rinsed out the brown teapot before reaching for the caddy. Two scoops of Brooke Bond and she’d be as right as ninepence. She was looking forward to its reviving qualities. She sat at the table and reached for the knitted tea cosy.
The letter was underneath. It must have been propped against the salt and pepper and fallen over when she’d opened the door and created a draught. Grace picked it up. The envelope was unsealed. Was it meant for her or Bonnie? And who had put it there? She took out a single sheet of paper.
A glance at the bottom of the page told her it was from Bonnie. Grace sighed. That meant her daughter was either staying over with her friend from work, or she’d decided to go to the pictures with that new boy she was always going on about. Grace didn’t know his name but it was obvious Bonnie was smitten. They’d had words about it last night when Grace had seen her with a neatly wrapped present in striped paper and a red ribbon on the top. Bonnie had sat at the table and pulled out a dark green jewellery box. Grace knew at once that it had come from Whibley’s, a quality jeweller at the end of Warwick Street. Although she had never personally had anything from the shop, they advertised in every newspaper in the town and the box was instantly recognisable.
Before Bonnie had even lifted the lid, Grace had stopped her. ‘Don’t even be tempted,’ she cautioned. ‘Whatever it is, you can’t possibly keep it.’
Bonnie looked up, appalled. ‘Why ever not?’
‘You’re too young to be getting expensive presents from men,’ said Grace.
‘Oh, Mum,’ said Bonnie turning slightly to lift the lid. ‘I already know what’s inside. I just wanted to show you, that’s all.’
Grace caught a glimpse of some kind of locket on a chain before closing the box herself. ‘I mean it,’ she’d said firmly. ‘You hardly know this man and I’ve never met him. How do you know his intentions are honourable?’
Bonnie smiled mysteriously. ‘I know, Mum, and I love him.’
‘Don’t talk such rot,’ Grace had retorted angrily. ‘You’re far too young …’
Bonnie’s eyes blazed. ‘I’m the same age as you were when you met Daddy.’
‘That’s different,’ Grace had told her.
They had wrestled over the box with Bonnie eventually gaining the upper hand, and thinking about it now made Grace feel uncomfortable.
She got a cup and saucer down from the dresser and sat down. As she poured her tea Grace began to read:
Dear Mum,
I am sorry but I am going away. By the time you read this, I shall be on the London train. You are not to worry. I shall be fine. I just need to leave Worthing. I am sorry to let you down but this is for the best. I shall never forget you and Rita and I want you to know I love you both with all my heart. Please don’t think too badly of me.
All my love,
Bonnie.
As she reached the end of the page, Grace became aware that she was still pouring tea. Dark brown liquid trickled towards the page because it had filled her cup and saucer and overflowed onto her tablecloth. Her hand trembled as she put the teapot back onto the stand. Her mind struggled to focus. On the London train. It had only been a silly tiff. Why go all the way to London? She glanced up at the clock. That train would be leaving the station in less than five minutes. She leapt to her feet and grabbed her boots. It took an age to get all the newspaper out before she could stuff her feet back inside the wet leather. I just need to leave Worthing. Why? What did that mean? Surely she wasn’t going for good. Her mind struggled to make sense of it. You’re only eighteen, Bonnie. You always seemed happy enough. Grace stumbled out into the hall for her coat. The back of her left boot stubbornly refused to come back up. She had to stop and use her finger to get the heel in properly but there was no time to lace them. As she dashed out of the door she paused only to look at the grandmother clock. Four minutes before the train was due to leave. Without stopping to lock up, she ran blindly down the street, her unbuttoned coat flapping behind her like a cloak and her boots slopping on her feet. Water oozed between the stitches, forming little bubbles as she ran.
There were lights on in the little shop on the corner of Cross Street and Clifton Road and the new owner looked up from whatever he was doing to stare at her as she ran down the middle of the road towards him. The gates were already cranking across the road as she burst into Station Approach. She could feel a painful stitch coming in her side but she refused to ease up. The rain was coming down steadily and by now her hair was plastered to her face. As she raced up the steps of the entrance, the train thundered to a halt on platform 2.
Manny Hart, neat and tidy in his uniform and with his mouth organ tucked into his top pocket, stood at the entrance to the station platform with his hand out. ‘Tickets please.’ If he was surprised by the state of her, he said nothing.
‘I’ve got to get to the other side before the train leaves,’ Grace blurted out.
He glanced over his shoulder towards a group of men, all in smart suits, walking along the platform. ‘Then you’ll need a platform ticket.’ Manny seemed uncomfortable.
Grace’s heart sank. Her purse was sitting on the dresser in the kitchen. ‘I’ll pay you next time I see you.’
But Manny was in no mood to be placated. ‘You need a ticket,’ he said stubbornly. The men hovered by the entrance, while on the other side of the track the train shuddered and the steam hissed.
‘You don’t understand,’ Grace cried. ‘I’ve simply got to …’ Her hands were searching her empty pockets and she was beginning to panic. She was so angry and frustrated she could have hit him. She looked around wildly and saw a woman who lived just up the road from her. ‘Excuse me, Peggy. Could you lend me a penny for a platform ticket, only I must catch someone on the train before it goes.’
‘Of course, dear. Hang on a minute, I’m sure I’ve got a penny in here somewhere.’ Peggy Jones opened her bag, found her purse and handed Grace a penny. As it appeared in her hand, Grace almost snatched it and ran to the platform ticket machine, calling, ‘Thank you, thank you’ over her shoulder. To add to her frustration, the machine was reluctant to yield and she had to thump it a couple of times before the ticket appeared.
The passengers who were getting off at Worthing were already starting to head towards the barrier as she thrust the ticket at Manny Hart. He clipped it and went to hand it back but Grace was already at the top of the stairs leading to the underpass which came up on the other side and platform 2. Now she was hampered by the steady flow of people coming in the opposite direction.
‘Close all the doors.’
The porter’s cry echoed down the stairs and into the underpass. The train shuddered again and just as she reached the stairwell leading up she heard the powerful shunt of steam and smoke which heralded its departure. She was only halfway up the stairs leading to platform 2 when the guard blew his whistle and the lumbering giant was on the move. How she got to the top of the stairs, she never knew but as soon as she emerged onto the platform she knew it was hopeless. Through the smoke and steam, the last two carriages were all that was left. The train was gone.
Someone was walking jauntily towards her, a familiar figure, well dressed, confident and whistling as he came. He flicked his hat with his finger and pushed it back on his head and his coat, open despite the rain, flapped behind him as he walked. Norris Finley, her boss, was a lot heavier and far less
attractive than when they were younger but he still behaved like cock of the walk. What was he doing here? Usually, Grace would turn the other way if she saw him coming but her mind was on other things. Throwing aside her usual reserve, she roared out Bonnie’s name. As the train gathered speed, she burst into helpless heart-rending tears, and putting her hands on the top of her head, she fell to her knees.
‘Are you all right, love?’ She heard a woman’s voice, kind and concerned. The woman bent over her and touched her arm.
‘Grace?’ said Norris. ‘You seem a bit upset. Anything I can do?’
Grace heard him but didn’t respond. She was still staring at the disappearing train, and finally the empty track. She couldn’t speak but she felt two arms, one on either side, helping her to her feet. Where was Bonnie going? Who on earth did she know in London?
‘Do you know her, dear?’ the woman’s voice filtered through Grace’s befuddled brain.
‘Yes.’ The man was raising his hat. ‘Norris Finley of Finley’s International,’ he said.
The woman nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it then, sir,’ and patting Grace’s arm she said, ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think, dear.’
Norris tucked his hand under Grace’s elbow and led her back down the stairs into the gloomy underpass.
‘She’s gone,’ Grace said dully when they were alone. ‘My Bonnie has left home.’
‘Left home?’
She was crying again so they walked on in silence with Grace leaning heavily on his arm. Norris winked as he handed his ticket to Manny Hart and steered Grace onto the concourse.
‘Is she all right?’ said Manny, suddenly concerned. He took off his hat and scratched his slightly balding head.
‘Mrs Rogers has had a bit of an upset, that’s all,’ said Norris pleasantly.
‘If you had let me go,’ Grace said, suddenly rounding on Manny, ‘I might have been able to stop my daughter making the biggest mistake of her life.’