by Pam Weaver
‘So you’re really happy then,’ said Dottie pushing the cup and saucer in front of her.
‘I think so.’
Dottie laughed. ‘Only think so?’
Sylvie shrugged. ‘You know how it is, darling. You long for Prince Charming and finally he comes along. You get married and settle down and have his children but you always wonder if there isn’t a bit more to life.’ She chuckled at Dottie’s confusion. ‘Don’t get me wrong, darling. I still love Robin. I get a bit bored, that’s all.’
Dottie placed an ashtray in front of her and they sipped their tea. ‘I’ve told Michael and Mary that you’re coming.’
‘I can’t wait to see them,’ smiled Sylvie. ‘How are they?’
‘Mary is all right. Still trying to lose weight.’
‘Oh dear,’ Sylvie chuckled. ‘I’m afraid that might be a losing battle!’
‘And I’m afraid you won’t see Peaches,’ Dottie went on. ‘She can’t be at the wedding.’
Sylvie seemed to pick up on Dottie’s sadness. ‘Why, what’s wrong?’
Dottie took a minute or two to explain what had happened to Gary.
‘How perfectly ghastly!’ cried Sylvie. ‘But I must say, I’m surprised that Reg was so concerned about you getting the disease. I never had him down as the caring type.’
‘Oh Sylvie, you’re not going to start saying horrible things about him, are you?’
‘No … no of course not.’ Sylvie hesitated. ‘So how is Gary now? I mean, is there any sign of lasting damage?’
‘They don’t know yet.’
‘And what about Peaches? I take it that by now you’ve managed to tell her you did go to see Gary?’
Dottie shook her head. ‘I never seem to be able to catch her.’
‘Write to her,’ said Sylvie.
Dottie looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose I should. I’m not thinking very straight, am I? Why didn’t I think of that before?’
‘How’s Reg?’ Sylvie said holding up his letter. ‘Not thinking of going off to Australia, is he?’
Dottie could feel her face burning. She hesitated. She had to ask Sylvie about the money but this seemed like neither the time or the place. She’d only just got in the door.
‘Let’s get your case in first, shall we?’ she said brightly. ‘I’m dying for you to see your bedroom.’
Sylvie looked her very intently. She wasn’t stupid. Something was wrong, something Dottie wasn’t telling her, but she wouldn’t press her just yet. Instead, she stubbed out her cigarette and followed Dottie out to the Humber.
It took longer to bring her things in than they thought. She might only have been staying for a couple of nights, but Sylvie had two suitcases. They were both very heavy and the stairs were steep.
‘I couldn’t make up my mind what to bring,’ Sylvie apologised as they struggled into the bedroom. ‘There’s a present for Michael in that one.’
‘I think he’s already got a kitchen sink,’ Dottie quipped as she heaved one case onto the bed.
‘This is a lovely room,’ said Sylvie looking around. ‘You’ve got a real flair for decoration.’
‘It was Aunt Bessie’s room,’ said Dottie. Seeing Sylvie’s anxious glance, she added, ‘but it’s OK, she didn’t die in here.’
‘No, of course not.’
Dottie sat on the bed. ‘I found her at the bottom of the stairs.’
It had come as a great shock to everybody when Aunt Bessie had fallen down the stairs eighteen months before. How ironic that it happened on the very day Reg had an extra duty at the station and Dottie was working in the Coopers’ shop. Although they said her death was instantaneous, Dottie still fretted that Aunt Bessie had lain there, injured and alone before she died.
Sylvie squeezed her arm. ‘It must have been awful for you. She was such a sweet old thing.’
‘Not that old as it happens,’ said Dottie. ‘She was only sixty-one. They reckon she must have tripped at the top of the stairs. If only I had come home for lunch that day I might have saved her.’
‘She died of her injuries?’
‘They said she broke her neck,’ Dottie said, ‘and that it was instantaneous. I hope that’s true.’
‘Oh darling, I can’t imagine how awful it was for you,’ said Sylvie squeezing Dottie’s elbow. ‘Poor Aunt Bessie. Her death must have affected you dreadfully.’
‘Me and Reg,’ said Dottie. ‘He was ill for weeks afterwards. He still doesn’t like coming into this room. It upsets him too much. He says it makes him feel jumpy.’
Sylvie raised her eyebrow. ‘What a pity Aunt Bessie won’t be around for Michael’s wedding,’ she said sadly. ‘We would have had some real laughs together.’
Dottie smiled.
Sylvie unlocked one of the suitcases. ‘What’s the bride like?’
‘Freda? She’s nice enough,’ said Dottie. ‘She did all the running but I think she’ll make Michael a good wife. She works in the greengrocer’s. That’s how they met really. Her father wanted the farm potatoes, Michael delivered twice a week, and the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘She’s not exactly a beauty, if you know what I mean, but she looks a picture in her wedding dress.’
‘You made it, I suppose.’
‘As a matter of fact she bought it,’ said Dottie, ‘but I did a few alterations. They made their arrangements quite quickly.’
Sylvie gave her a knowing look and Dottie pushed her arm playfully. ‘I didn’t say anything and don’t you say a word.’
‘As if I would …’
‘As if …’ Dottie smirked.
‘You know Michael has always been a bit in love with you, don’t you?’ said Sylvie.
‘Don’t talk daft,’ said Dottie scornfully.
‘It’s true, darling,’ said Sylvie. ‘The day you got married, he was absolutely devastated. After you’d gone off on your honeymoon, we sat together in the old barn and had a long talk.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I’m not,’ Sylvie insisted. ‘He didn’t like Reg very much, jealousy I suppose, but he was terrified that you’d be unhappy.’
‘I had no idea.’ Dottie shook her head. ‘Whatever did you say?’
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Sylvie shrugged, ‘but being nineteen at the time, I’m sure I gave him the benefit of all my worldly wisdom because he soon got over it.’
They laughed.
‘We ended up drinking half a bottle of cider together,’ Sylvie giggled. ‘He was quite sozzled by the time he left me.’
‘Oh Sylvie,’ Dottie laughed. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
Sylvie threw open her case and Dottie gasped. On top she could see a floaty evening dress in pale blue. Sylvie moved it slightly aside, revealing another in apricot satin and, underneath both of them, two day dresses. Each had matching shoes and accessories. At the bottom of the case, there was a rayon nightdress, with matching bed jacket, and a pretty pair of slippers.
‘Where do you manage to get all the coupons?’ Dottie gasped.
‘I didn’t,’ she said, holding up the blue gown. ‘This one came from Paris.’
Dottie handed her some coat hangers. ‘This one is gorgeous,’ she said, hanging up the pink satin dress by its waist loops.
‘Try it on,’ Sylvie suggested.
‘Really?’
‘I was rather hoping you would like it. That’s why I brought it. Try it on.’
Breathlessly, Dottie clambered out of her own clothes and slipped it on. ‘It’s amazing,’ she said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.
‘It’s yours,’ said Sylvie.
‘Oh no, I can’t …’
‘It looks better on you than me,’ said Sylvie. ‘Really. You have it.’
Dottie flung her arms around Sylvie and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘Dottie, I want you to be honest with me,’ said Sylvie gravely. ‘Are you happy?’
Dottie turned her back
. ‘Can you undo me please?’
Sylvie unbuttoned the top of the dress and pulled down the zip. ‘There’s something wrong, isn’t there? I can tell. Is it Reg? Something to do with that letter?’
‘What’s the time?’ said Dottie glancing at the clock. ‘Good heavens, it’s almost five. I told Michael’s mum we’d pick her up at five to take her to the village hall. Look, we haven’t got time now. We really must go to the farm.’
‘But you will talk to me,’ Sylvie insisted.
‘I will, I promise.’ Dottie scrambled back into her own dress. ‘I’ve got to get Reg’s tea ready and then we really must go.’
As Dottie hurried downstairs, Sylvie laid her underwear in one of the drawers and opened her second suitcase. She couldn’t help worrying about Dottie. She seemed a little strained. Something was troubling her. Was it Reg? Sylvie had never been very sure about Reg. He always seemed as nice as pie in the village, but Sylvie wasn’t so sure he was the same person behind closed doors.
She took out Michael’s present and laid it on the chair. Then she put the picture, a special present for Dottie, on the bedside table. She’d give it to her another time. Smiling at the photograph of the three of them, she ran her finger over Aunt Bessie’s face under the glass. Even though they had all lived in the same house, Sylvie knew only too well that Aunt Bessie and Reg had barely tolerated each other.
‘You never were happy with Dottie’s marriage, were you, Aunt Bessie,’ Sylvie said to the picture. ‘You and me both. I’ll tell you what though. I’ll make you a promise to get to the bottom of what’s troubling her during this weekend.’
Draping her cardigan around her shoulders, Sylvie turned towards the stairs. The one thing she hoped above all else was that Reg wasn’t knocking Dottie about.
Fifteen
By the time Dottie, Sylvie and Michael’s mum, Edna, arrived at the village hall, Mary already had her husband Tom, along with greengrocer Cecil Hargreaves, father of the bride, and Steven Sullivan running around with trestle tables and unstacking chairs. Rose Hargreaves, Freda’s mother, had brought the cake stand for the wedding cake and some candles. Some other people from the village were there too, including Maggie, young Steven Sullivan’s wife, who worked in the old folks’ home on the edge of the green.
Everyone was thrilled to see Sylvie again but almost as soon as they all went back to work, Sylvie tottered back to her car. ‘If you’ll all excuse me, I’ve broken my nail. I’d better go and file it before I make a start.’
‘She hasn’t changed,’ Mary muttered as she walked out of earshot. ‘Still skiving.’
Dottie gave her a hefty nudge in the ribs and that started them on a fit of the giggles.
As is the case with the users of most village halls, there was a definite pecking order. Betty Cannington was in overall charge. She had been doing village ‘dos’ for the past twelve years. She’d taken over from Florrie Hanson who had taken over from Emily Pulsford in 1933.
There were no written instructions and outsiders like Mrs Belski, a Polish immigrant living in the village, found it difficult to understand the workings of the village hall kitchen. She was at a loss to know who did what, but Dottie and her friends understood perfectly. Everyone knew where everything was, and that Betty was the one who had the ultimate say in where things should go and how things should be done. ‘We’ve always done it this way,’ was her watchword.
‘All right if I put the cups and saucers here on the top, Betty?’
‘When we did old Mrs Groves’ funeral,’ Betty said, ‘we found it worked better if they were on this side of the urn.’
Mrs Groves had died in 1943.
Of course, whoever was organising the ‘do’ was allowed to put her own small stamp of change on certain things, but everyone was careful not to upset Betty, or it would be the worse for them if they wanted to hire the hall on another occasion.
Edna and Rose decided the hall should be arranged with a top table for the wedding party and two long side tables for the forty wedding guests. Sylvie, Mary and Dottie covered each of the trestles with white bedsheets decorated with bunting, while Rose and Edna worked amicably together on a small table slightly set apart from the others, on which the cake was to be cut.
‘How are the kids?’ Dottie asked Mary.
‘Back at school,’ said Mary. She put a pin in her mouth and bent down to put some of the bunting in place. ‘Billy’s doing his mock eleven plus in a few weeks.’
Dottie smiled. ‘He’s bound to pass. He’s a clever boy.’
Mary swelled with pride. They stopped talking as they concentrated on fixing another loop of bunting to the sheet. ‘That’ll give you a bit of time to yourself then,’ said Dottie, smoothing out a sheet and making sure the edges were even on both sides of the table.
‘Christopher and Connie are still at home, of course. They’re not quite four, but the others are all at school. I miss them when they’re not there. So do the twins. The place seems so quiet.’
‘I was wondering,’ Dottie ventured. ‘How would you feel about looking after somebody else’s kids while they were at work?’
Mary looked up and stuck the pin in her finger. ‘Ow! Dottie are you …? You’re not …?’
Dottie looked away embarrassed. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘Not me. I was thinking of Brian and Phyllis.’
‘Brian and Phyllis Pearce?’ gasped Mary. ‘Well, I’ll go to sea. I never had you and Ann Pearce down as friends.’
‘I just thought she could do with a hand, that’s all,’ said Dottie. ‘She needs a job.’
‘What’s brought this on, hen?’ said Mary.
‘The kids,’ said Dottie. ‘I can get her a job, easy. I know plenty of women in the village who want a cleaning lady, but she can’t work with the kids in tow, and I thought to myself, Mary loves looking after kids …’
Mary said nothing.
‘It won’t be for long,’ Dottie added. ‘Brian goes to school next year and Phyllis is already three.’
‘You can tell her I’ll do it,’ said Mary.
‘Oh Mary!’ Dottie cried. ‘You’re a star. I’ll ask her to pay you, so you’d better work out what you want to charge her.’
‘There’s no need for that, hen,’ said Mary, pinning the bunting to the sheet again.
‘Yes, there is,’ said Dottie. ‘She’s got her pride.’
‘What will she get cleaning?’ said Mary.
‘Half a crown an hour is the going rate around here. If she starts at nine and works through till four when the kids get out of school, she could earn four quid a week.’
‘Then tell her she can pay me a pound a week and I’ll give them dinner.’
Sylvie came back.
‘What took you so long?’ Mary asked.
‘I had to get them all even,’ said Sylvie, holding out her hand to admire her fingernails. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Can you pin some more bunting on those tables?’ asked Mary, trying not to smile.
‘I’m no good at sewing,’ said Sylvie.
Dottie kept her head down. If she looked at Mary again, they’d both start giggling. ‘How about giving a hand in the kitchen?’ she suggested. ‘I think they’re laying out cups and saucers.’
They were interrupted by raised voices near the top table. The mothers of the bride and groom had crossed swords with Betty. Rose wanted to place four candles on the top table.
‘We never put candles near food,’ Betty declared. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Rose. ‘This is a family tradition. We always light a candle at a wedding.’
Betty pursed her lips. She was now in fighting mood. ‘And while we’re on the subject, we never have balloons near the hatchway, Edna,’ she said sourly. ‘The children might get excited and try to pop them. We can’t have that when the teas are around.’
‘You’re determined to spoil this, aren’t you, you dried up old biddy,’ snapped Edna.
‘D
on’t you dare talk to me like that …’
Dottie stepped in to defuse the situation. In the end, Edna agreed to move the balloons, and Betty conceded to the candles, provided Rose waited until everyone was seated before lighting them.
‘As soon as the speeches are over,’ said Betty, determined to have the last word, ‘make sure they get blown out.’
‘Of course I will,’ retorted Rose, adding under her breath, ‘what does the stupid woman take me for?’
By the time the men had taken down the long ladder they’d used to hang the bunting from the rafters, Mary said she’d better get back to put the little ones to bed. Tom said he’d drive her home and give Edna a lift home as well.
‘See you at the church,’ Mary called cheerily as they left.
Maggie had set out the big plates on the tables and Cathy, the district nurse, was helping put out the cutlery. Dottie went into the kitchen to join Sylvie who was still laying out the cups and saucers.
‘That was a nice thing you did for Ann,’ said Sylvie. ‘Mary told me.’
Dottie shrugged. ‘She needed help and I know Mary loves looking after children.’
‘You’re a lovely person, Dottie,’ said Sylvie, giving her a hug. ‘Too kind for your own good.’
Dottie laughed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘People don’t like goodness,’ said Sylvie. ‘Take care it doesn’t backfire on you.’
By 7.30pm everything was ready.
‘You must be famished,’ Dottie said to Sylvie. ‘I’ll get us some tea when we get in.’
‘Will Reg be there?’ Sylvie asked.
‘I imagine he’ll be at the pub by now,’ said Dottie with a shake of her head.
‘Then I’ll take you out for a meal,’ said Sylvie. ‘My treat.’
Dottie hesitated.
‘Come on,’ Dottie cajoled. ‘Even if he hasn’t gone to the pub, I’m sure Reg can find himself something to do.’
Reg stood outside the bedroom door listening. The house was empty. He’d come home to find his tea in the oven between two enamel plates. The gravy had a skin on the top of it and the potatoes had started to brown. If he hadn’t been so hungry he’d have chucked the lot of it in the pig bin where it bloody belonged. He knew this would happen if he let that woman into his house. She’d go filling Dot’s mind with all sorts of things and she’d neglect what she was supposed to do.