There’s Always Tomorrow

by Pam Weaver

  After he’d eaten what he felt was the worst meal he’d ever had in his whole life (and he’d eaten some real slop during the war), he went upstairs to change. He found a clean shirt laid out on the bed but he didn’t like that one. He had to turf out half the wardrobe to find the one he wanted. There was a new dress on her side. A silly frilly pink thing. He supposed Sylvia must have given it to her, but where Dot would wear the darned thing, he couldn’t imagine. But then that was Sylvia McDonald all over. Always filling Dot’s head with daft ideas.

  On the way downstairs, he hesitated outside her room. Through the crack in the door he could see her open suitcase on the bed. A drawer was open too. He could see some things lying inside.

  There wasn’t a sound in the whole house, nothing except his own breathing. They must still be at the village hall getting ready for Michael Gilbert’s wedding, although why on earth it should take all this time, he hadn’t a clue. People expected too much at weddings these days. All those bloody sandwiches and cakes. He’d even heard her say that Edna was making jellies as well. He’d been satisfied with a glass of beer for himself and a sherry for Dot. Of course, there were no relatives on his side and he’d made Dottie keep the numbers down on hers. Like he’d told her, they didn’t have the time or the money to go in for all that wedding breakfast malarky.

  He reached out and pushed the door open. It creaked as it swung back and he stared into the room. Dot had made it look completely different from how it looked when that old cow Bessie was there. In fact, there wasn’t a trace of her left.

  He stepped onto the rug. His mouth was dry and his heartbeat quickened. This was the first time he’d been in the room in two years.

  He looked into the suitcase and saw a bed jacket, some silk stockings and a book. He reached into the case and picked up one stocking. It was as light as a feather, sheer, and obviously expensive. Her underwear was in the drawer. It didn’t look like anything Dot had.

  Reg walked over and ran his fingers over a pair of cream French knickers. He felt himself harden. Licking his lips, he took them out of the drawer by his fingertips and held them up to the light. He lifted them to his nose and smelled them. A sudden noise made him start. The door had clicked shut and the surprise made him brush his elbow against something on the bedside table. It fell with a clatter and a bang. Dropping the knickers, he froze in horror.

  It was a photo in a silver frame. One he’d never seen before: Sylvia and a much younger Dot, their arms around each others’ shoulders, smiled up at him – but it wasn’t their faces that disturbed him. She was sitting in front of them, on a chair. She was wearing that same violet-coloured dress and she had that daft cowboy hat on. All at once her voice filled his head.

  ‘Over my dead body, Reg Cox. Go to hell …’

  Something touched his cheek and his skin crawled. Blind panic made him rush from the room but it was only when he reached the bottom of the stairs that he realised it was his own perspiration running in a rivulet down his face.

  Sixteen

  Sylvie had taken Dottie to a hotel in the centre of Worthing. Overlooking the Steyne, it was almost the length of the road. Inside the restaurant, the tables were covered with crisp white table linen and they offered a silver service.

  ‘This must be so expensive,’ Dottie whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ smiled Sylvie. ‘Robin’s business has done really well so he can afford to treat his wife and her best pal to a meal out.’

  She linked her arm through Dottie’s and propelled her to a table.

  In the corner of the restaurant, a pianist was playing Doris Day’s song, ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’. They ordered soup with roast beef to follow. Dottie thought she had never had a better time.

  As the pianist struck up ‘Harbour Lights’, they began to reflect.

  ‘Robin and I lead very separate lives,’ Sylvie said. ‘He’s very keen to do well. Did I tell you he might get onto the board of directors before long?’

  ‘You must be so proud of him,’ Dottie said.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Sylvie grudgingly. ‘It’ll probably mean I’ll see even less of him. Oh, Dottie, I wish I could be like you.’

  ‘You wish you were like me?’ Dottie was incredulous.

  ‘You are so talented and you cram so much into your day,’ Sylvie went on. ‘I knew you were good at sewing frocks but your little house looks absolutely amazing.’

  ‘It was the Festival of Britain that got me going,’ said Dottie. ‘They had one at the Assembly Hall in Worthing. I’d never seen anything like it … all those lovely geometric patterns and bold colours. I enjoy making clothes but furnishings are so much more exciting.’ She was suddenly aware that Sylvie was staring at her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your face,’ she smiled. ‘It lights up like a beacon when you talk about it.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. I think you’re fantastic.’

  ‘It’s only copied … most of it from magazines,’ laughed Dottie. ‘And it’s all done on the cheap.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you, people would pay top dollar for a look like that,’ Sylvie said.

  Dottie smiled modestly.

  ‘All I do,’ Sylvie shrugged, ‘is play bridge, shop and go to the hairdresser’s. Quite frankly, darling, if it weren’t for a certain person, most of the time I’d go mad with boredom.’

  Dottie couldn’t imagine a day with nothing to do – and what did Sylvie mean, ‘a certain person’?

  ‘I’m going to shock you now,’ Sylvie went on, as if she had read her thoughts, ‘I’m not unhappy … because I’m having an affair.

  Dottie was dumbstruck.

  ‘He’s a wonderful man,’ said Sylvie, her eyes lighting up. ‘His name is Bruce and he owns a riding stables. I met him when I went for some riding lessons.’ She opened her bag and took out a small wallet. Inside was a picture of a rugged-looking man on a horse.

  ‘He’s very handsome,’ Dottie conceded. ‘Are you and Robin going to get a divorce?’

  ‘Heavens no!’ cried Sylvie. ‘I’m quite happy with things the way they are. Bruce already has a wife and I have Robin.’

  Dottie looked away. How could Sylvie love someone else when she was already married?

  ‘Well,’ said Sylvie. ‘I’ve told you all my secrets. What about you and Reg? I’m making a pretty shrewd guess that you are not as happy as you like to make out either.’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ Dottie laughed.

  ‘No, seriously,’ said Sylvie. ‘What about you? What do you want out of life? What are your ambitions?’

  Dottie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sylvie cajoled. ‘There must be something you’d really like to do if you had the chance.’

  Dottie stared deeply into her glass of wine. ‘It’s no good hankering after something you can’t have,’ she said dully.

  ‘You’re not going to wiggle out of it that quickly, darling,’ said Sylvie taking a long drag of her cigarette. ‘Just imagine, money no object, no ties, nothing impossible … what would you do?’

  Her answer came quickly. ‘Interior design.’

  Sylvie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Judging by the way you’ve transformed that cottage, you’d be really good at it.’

  Dottie swirled the dark liquid in her glass. ‘Daft idea.’

  ‘No it’s not.’

  Dottie laughed.

  ‘Seriously, darling. I think you should get some training,’ said Sylvie. ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity when you finally get your hands on Aunt Bessie’s money …’

  ‘Reg has other plans,’ Dottie interrupted. ‘He wants us to sell up and get a guesthouse by the seafront.’

  ‘Blow Reg,’ Sylvie retorted. ‘What about you? What do you want?’

  ‘I want him to be happy.’

  ‘Oh, Dottie, you are absolutely impossible. You’re making yourself an absolute martyr to that man.’


  Dottie felt her face colour. ‘I am not!’

  ‘Then for goodness’ sake, take the money, your money, and do something for yourself. Look at it this way: if you succeed, you’ll make the both of you rich; and if not rich you’ll make a comfortable living doing something you really enjoy.’

  ‘Sylvie, can I ask you something?’

  Sylvie laid down her knife and fork and took a sip from her wine glass. ‘Of course you can,’ she said draining the last of it.

  ‘This is very important but you’ve got to promise me you’ll never breathe a word to another living soul.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  The waiter came back to the table. ‘Is everything all right with your meal, Madam?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Sylvie. Then, leaning forward, she said to Dottie, ‘Fire away.’

  The waiter left.

  Dottie explained about the letter and Patsy and then told her about the money.

  After she’d filled Dottie’s wine glass again, Sylvie said, ‘So Reg wants me to pay the fare for this child of his to come over? The brass neck of the man! He doesn’t like me but he’d like some of my money. I suppose he didn’t dare ask me himself in case I refused.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ said Dottie. ‘At least he’s let you come and stay.’

  ‘Probably to give himself a bargaining chip,’ said Sylvie, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s let your friend come and stay, so now you have no right to refuse his child and I should dip into my purse for the privilege.’

  Dottie frowned. ‘Sylvie!’

  There was an awkward silence.

  ‘I can pay you back when I get my inheritance,’ Dottie said desperately.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ cried Sylvie, reaching out to hold Dottie’s hand, ‘It’s not that …’

  The pianist seemed to be playing a little louder. Dottie found herself humming, ‘when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes …’

  ‘If I do help …’ Sylvie said.

  ‘Oh Sylvie,’ said Dottie eagerly.

  ‘If I do help,’ Sylvie repeated. ‘It will be to help you, not Reg.’

  The look on Sylvie’s face was so serious, Dottie felt un comfortable. Had she upset her? She wished she hadn’t asked her now.

  Sylvie called the waiter over and as he cleared away their plates Sylvie asked tersely, ‘Coffee?’

  Dottie shook her head. Oh Lord, she had upset her. Oh Reg, why do you always make me do these things?

  ‘Just the bill please, waiter,’ said Sylvie.

  Once they were in the darkness of the car, Dottie said, ‘Sylvie, if you’d rather not help out, I quite understand.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ cried Sylvie. ‘Of course I’ll help you. I’d do anything for you, you know that. You can’t help it if Reg is being unfair.’

  ‘He just wants his child, that’s all.’

  ‘And what about you?’ said Sylvie. ‘Why don’t you have children of your own?’

  ‘Reg … he can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean, he can’t?’ Sylvie frowned and when Dottie refused to look at her, she gasped, ‘Good heavens! Do you mean you and Reg have never even made love? But, darling, how awful. You must leave him.’

  Dottie shook her head. ‘Remember what Aunt Bessie used to say? You make your bed and you lie in it.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Sylvie. ‘We’re living in the fifties, for heaven’s sake. You can get an annulment straightaway if the marriage has never been consummated.’

  ‘We did it when we were first married, before he went to the Far East,’ Dottie explained.

  Sylvie turned abruptly and crashed the gears as the car moved off. They motored back home in silence, Sylvie was struggling to keep her temper. Why was that wretched man so damned awkward? What sort of a life was he giving her friend? He was good-looking in a funny sort of way, which was why Dottie was attracted to him the first place, she supposed. She couldn’t bear the thought of Reg touching her, but if Dottie loved him, surely she deserved better than this. They didn’t do it …? Why not? Was he some sort of queer?

  Dottie’s thoughts had drifted back to her honeymoon. Three days. That’s all they’d had, but Reg had been all right then. He was a bit rough but she hadn’t worried too much about that. She was Mrs Reginald Cox and it was wonderful just being with him. It didn’t matter if he was in a bit of a hurry. Everybody knew they might not have much time. So many had been here one day and gone the next. He kept saying how glad he was to have her.

  ‘I never understood why you married him in the first place,’ Sylvie said suddenly.

  Dottie looked at her, horrified. ‘Because I loved him.’

  ‘Did you, darling? Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ said Dottie defensively. ‘I do …’

  Sylvie snorted and changed gear. The car sped on.

  ‘Come on, Sylvie.’ Dottie’s voice had an edge. ‘Say whatever you have to. We never keep secrets from each other, remember?’

  Another car came towards them and its headlights flooded the car with light.

  ‘Let’s not quarrel,’ said Sylvie softly, as she glanced across at Dottie’s angry look. ‘I don’t want to upset you. You’re my dearest friend.’

  Dottie looked down at her lap. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you but I feel so on edge all the time. I want things to be right between me and Reg. I want to make my marriage work but it makes things so difficult when he’s not happy. I know he’s desperate to have Patsy and that’s why I’ve agreed to try and help him get her over here. Perhaps if she comes here things might … well, you know …’

  ‘It’s an awfully big risk,’ said Sylvie. ‘And what about your life? How will you fit everything in? Your sewing, your little jobs, looking after Reg, and then Patsy …’

  ‘Patsy will be at school,’ said Dottie. ‘I can still work during the day and I can do my sewing in the evenings when she’s in bed.’

  ‘But once she’s over here,’ Sylvie went on, ‘how do you know that he won’t shut you out altogether?’

  ‘He wouldn’t. I know he wouldn’t,’ said Dottie weakly. ‘Oh Sylvie, I just keep thinking that if I do this for him, he may be able to … and then I … I just want a child of my own …’

  ‘This gets worse … sewing, Reg, your job, Patsy, and a child of your own?’

  Dottie began to cry softly.

  ‘Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it,’ said Sylvie, reaching across to squeeze her hand. ‘Look, can’t you persuade him to go to the doctor … or maybe you could have a word with the doctor?’

  At the mention of the doctor, Dottie shook her head. ‘He’d never go and I don’t think I could talk to Dr Fitzgerald about something like that,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Oh, darling,’ Sylvie chuckled, ‘you are a little prudish at times.’

  When they got back to Myrtle Cottage they were both rather surprised to find it in darkness.

  ‘Does Reg usually go to bed this early?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘He must be on an early shift tomorrow,’ said Dottie, hanging her coat on the nail behind the door and collecting the dirty dishes.

  ‘What, on the day of the wedding?’

  Dottie shook her head. ‘Oh no, of course not. He’s got the day off. I forgot.’ A chill ran through her body. She shouldn’t have stayed out so late.

  They said goodnight to each other and climbed the steep stairs, Sylvie in front clinging onto the rope banister for dear life, and Dottie right behind her to give her a sense of security. They parted with a hug on the landing.

  Reg had the light off and his back to the door. Not wishing to disturb him, Dottie undressed quickly by the light of the moon filtering through the curtains and put her clothes on the chair. As she climbed into bed beside him, Reg pulled at the bedclothes and moved away.

  She lay on her back staring up at the moonlight on the ceiling. Sylvie’s remarks had given her a lot of food for thoug
ht. Everyone in the village thought of Reg as a pretty good egg. He often gave some of the older folk something from his allotment and of course there were his flowers at the station. He might be a bit of a loner, but people around here liked and respected him.

  Dottie saw something different. The Reg she was married to was more complex. He kept her on tenterhooks all the time. She never knew what mood he’d be in. If he wanted sex, it had to be here and now or he didn’t come near her for months on end. He would make remarks, small ones, but sometimes they’d hurt her very much. She always did her best for him, but somehow it was never enough. She’d always thought the way she’d been taught. Wives should be loyal to their husbands no matter what. Wives should spend their lives making their spouse’s life as comfortable as possible. They should be faithful. Love, honour and obey, so the promise went. Well she’d done all that and it still wasn’t enough. Just recently she’d started to think of herself as a person in her own right. Like Sylvie said, this was the fifties. Aunt Bessie may have been satisfied with that kind of life, but, for her, it was getting harder and harder to feel the same way. Surely there was more to life than this?

  They’d been married since 1942, but in point of fact, they’d had very little time together. He’d gone almost as soon as the honeymoon was over and because he was doing something so top secret, she hadn’t even been allowed to write to him. She hadn’t heard from him for years and then all of a sudden, just before Christmas 1948, he’d turned up out of the blue. He wouldn’t talk about his wartime experiences, or where he’d been since the war ended. Too upsetting, he’d said. Aunt Bessie didn’t like it but there it was. Reg was a changed man, who had changed even more since Aunt Bessie died.

  She turned and stared at the back of his head. This wasn’t what she had thought marriage would be like. Was this to be the sum total of her life? In some ways she knew him like the back of her hand. He’d gone to bed early to show her how annoyed he was that she’d stayed out late. If Sylvie hadn’t been staying in the same house, there would have been a row. He’d have called her names, and perhaps even hit her. She’d have cried and then he’d have made her feel guilty, like it was all her fault. He’d have told her she wasn’t good enough. She wasn’t even a proper woman. She’d never be a mother because she was nothing more than a cold fish. Dottie swallowed hard as her throat tightened. If only he’d show her a little tenderness now and again. Yet even when he was nice to her, it was always for a reason. Sylvie was probably right. The only reason he’d let her stay for the weekend was because he wanted the money to get Patsy over here. She’d never know for sure, of course. Reg was deep. He never told her what he was really thinking.