There’s Always Tomorrow

by Pam Weaver

  He’d been beside himself with rage when they’d banged him up and because he never did learn to control his temper, he’d ended up spending a full five years in that stinking prison. Carelessness had put him there and now he’d been careless again. He never should have believed what that Brenda woman had told him. Sandy’d left everything to Patsy’s father. Yeah, but he could have done without the darkie. He could feel his stomach churning. Bloody women. Every which way he turned they buggered things up for him. His mother, Sandy, bloody Aunt Bessie … So far, little Mrs Perfect was the only one who was still on track. All he had to do was threaten her with his fist and that was enough to keep her in check. Good job she wasn’t the type to snoop around his things. All at once, his blood ran cold as he remembered that suitcase full of papers. Shit! The will. Supposing she was going through those papers right now …

  He stood up quickly, spilling his pint. The glass fell with a clatter and rolled across the table before crashing to the floor. He turned on his heel and walked briskly through the door, the landlord’s ‘You all right, Reg?’ ringing in his ears.

  Patsy had needed a little reassurance, that was all. Dottie tucked her up with her little elephant, Suzy, showed her where the jerry was under the bed and then lit a night-light and put it in a saucer before giving her a goodnight kiss. Now she was back downstairs with the suitcase in front of her.

  Sandy’s diaries were right at the bottom of the case. Three volumes, begun in 1941 and ending in 1948. Sandy hadn’t written in them every day but she had jotted things down at regular intervals. The entries weren’t very detailed, but even as she flicked through the pages, Dottie had a fairly good idea as to the sort of person Elizabeth Johns had been. Armed with fresh cup of tea, Dottie curled up her feet under her and turned to 1942/43, the years Patsy had been conceived and born.

  The latch on the door lifted and Reg walked in. Dottie closed the book and looked up at him.

  ‘Hello, Reg. Want some supper?’

  ‘What are you doing?’ he said coldly.

  ‘I was just going through some of the papers,’ she said lamely.

  He snatched the book from her hand, glanced at it and then glared at her. She had never seen his eye so filled with hatred and she watched his lip curl. Her heartbeat sped up.

  ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Reg,’ she whimpered, hating herself for sounding so weak.

  ‘Where’s the will?’

  ‘What will?’

  ‘The money, stupid. Where’s the solicitor’s letter?’

  Dottie frowned, puzzled. ‘There isn’t one.’

  Reg went to throw the book onto the fire.

  ‘No, Reg … don’t!’ she cried, grabbing it from him. ‘What are you doing? Even if you don’t want them, we should at least save them for Patsy.’

  ‘What have you done with it then?’

  ‘It’s not there,’ said Dottie. ‘Dr Landers said the solicitor would send it along later.’

  ‘What!’ Reg exploded. ‘But I need to know how much we’re getting.’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ said Dottie, glancing anxiously up at the ceiling.

  ‘Keep my voice down,’ he bellowed at the ceiling. ‘The hell I will! I’m telling you, as soon as I’ve got the money, that little runt can go.’

  ‘Reg, please …!’ Dottie jumped to her feet, but he pushed her back down into the chair, snatching back the book again.

  ‘There’s no way she’s my kid,’ he said through his teeth, his spittle spraying her face. ‘Even a dimwit like you can see that.’

  ‘Your name is on her birth certificate,’ said Dottie, pressing her back into the chair and sliding down a little.

  ‘The bitch lied!’ He hit her across the face with the book, catching her cheekbone under her left eye. Then he leaned over her menacingly, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back painfully. ‘Got it?’

  The pain in Dottie’s head was unbearable. ‘Yes, Reg.’

  ‘I want her gone,’ he said, yanking her head back again. ‘I don’t care how you do it, but get rid of her. Send her to a home, chuck her out on the street, anything you like, but she’s not stopping here.’

  ‘Reg, we can’t,’ Dottie sobbed. ‘She’s come all this way …’

  He let go of her hair, lashing out at her again as he did. ‘And I’m telling you, I’m not living under the same roof as a darkie.’

  ‘If you chuck her onto the street,’ Dottie cried desperately, ‘Dr Landers will want the fare money back.’

  Reg paused.

  ‘It cost seventy pounds to bring her over, remember?’ said Dottie. ‘Where are we going to find that sort of money?’

  Reg stepped back, stumbling against the suitcase on the floor. Papers spilled everywhere. All at once he was roaring like a mad man, kicking the case around the room. He stooped down and grabbed a pile of papers, throwing them onto the fire. It took a few moments for the paper to catch alight, but all at once Sandy’s writing prize burst into a flame which greedily took her nursing certificate and a couple of letters.

  Dottie couldn’t bear to watch, but with him in a mood like this, she couldn’t do anything about it. He was making such a terrible racket, Patsy must be up there listening to all this, absolutely terrified. As he stuffed yet more paper on the fire, Dottie, her own pain forgotten, slipped upstairs to make sure she was all right.

  Twenty-Three

  Janet Cooper climbed into the window of her tobacconist-cum-sweet-shop and took out the last of the old window display. It had been fairly quiet this morning, which was just as well, so she had taken the opportunity to change the window. Taking her inspiration from last week’s harvest festival display in the church, she’d decided to arrange the sweets as if they were a horn of plenty. Two large sweet jars were suspended from the ceiling with wire and she’d spent hours threading toffees on cotton and sticking the ends inside the jars with gummed tape. A doll dressed up to look like a farmer raked pile of sweets on the floor of the shop window.

  The shop door jangled and she backed out of the window. Her customer was Mary Prior, and she could see Edna Gilbert, her head covered with a floral headscarf, coming along the road.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Mary smiled. ‘I can’t believe it’s that time of year already.’

  ‘I’ll be thinking about ordering the fireworks for Bonfire Night soon,’ said Janet.

  ‘Oooh, talking about fireworks,’ Mary went on, ‘that reminds me. We thought we’d all pitch in together and make a real show for the kiddies this year.’

  Janet pursed her lips. That probably meant they’d all buy one of those great big boxes from Woolworths. She’d have to make sure she could get some decent-sized boxes at a good price.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.

  ‘Twenty Craven A and a Walls brick please, Janet,’ said Mary. The shop bell jangled again and Edna came in. ‘Hello, Edna.’

  ‘Hello, Mary, Janet.’ Edna retied her headscarf and stood with her shopping bag clasped in front of her. ‘No Dottie today?’

  ‘She didn’t turn up,’ said Janet acidly.

  ‘Didn’t turn up? That’s not like her,’ Mary frowned.

  ‘She wasn’t here yesterday either.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s ill,’ said Edna.

  ‘She was well enough when she went to Southampton on Friday to fetch her little girl,’ Janet said. ‘Vanilla or strawberry?’

  ‘Vanilla,’ said Mary.

  ‘I think we should have a welcome party for the little girl,’ said Edna. ‘Help her to feel at home.’

  ‘We haven’t even met her yet,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, I think that’s a nice idea,’ said Janet, remembering she still had a box of balloons out the back. She hadn’t managed to shift them since the VJ Day celebrations.

  Mary nodded. ‘Where shall we have it, the village hall?’

  ‘Why not come over to the farm?’ said Edna. ‘We haven’t had a do there since the war years. There’s plenty of room in the old b
arn.’

  ‘Oh I say, what about a barn dance?’ Janet suggested.

  ‘We’d need a caller,’ said Mary. ‘Do you know anyone?’

  The other two shook their heads.

  ‘What about Vincent Dobbs, the postman?’ said Edna. ‘He knows just about everyone around here. Maybe he knows a caller.’

  ‘If we had it on the farm, there’d be no problem with baby sitters,’ said Mary. ‘All the kids could come with us.’

  Edna beamed. ‘Pass the word around, but don’t tell Reg just yet. You know what men are. He’s bound to let the cat out of the bag. Leave it until nearer the time.’

  Janet began wrapping the ice cream in layers of newspaper. ‘I can’t understand it myself,’ she went on. ‘Adopting a child is a lovely idea, but why get one all the way from Australia?’

  ‘That’s just what I said, hen,’ said Mary, ‘but Dottie reckoned they were doing it through a friend of Reg’s.’

  ‘It’s probably a lot quicker than going through the welfare,’ Edna nodded. ‘I knew a girl who waited a good six months before anyone even came out to see her.’

  ‘Let’s hope that it all works out then,’ said Janet, pushing the brick towards Mary. ‘That should stay nice and firm for a couple of hours. That’ll be one and eleven please.’

  Mary handed Janet a ten-bob note. ‘How’s your Michael?’ she asked Edna.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And Freda?’ interjected Janet. ‘When’s it due?’

  Edna’s face coloured. ‘Next year sometime.’

  Janet handed Mary her change and gave her a knowing look. ‘Now, what can I do for you, Edna?’

  ‘A Basildon Bond pad, please.’

  ‘Bye, Mary. And if you see Dottie on your travels,’ Janet called as she opened the shop door, ‘tell her she’d better turn up on Monday if she wants to keep her job.’

  It was a bit of a struggle pushing the big pram. In addition to Connie and Christopher at one end and Phyllis at the other, Mary Prior had shoved a box of toys between them and a bag of clothes on the tray underneath. Maureen and Susan walked on either side of the pram, each holding onto the handle and Maureen was holding Brian’s hand. Billy brought up the rear, carting another bag of clothes.

  ‘Come on, son,’ Mary puffed good-naturedly. ‘We haven’t got all day.’

  ‘The ’andles have broke, Mum,’ Billy complained. ‘You got too much stuff in it.’

  The pram went over a pothole, startling Mary and the twins into thinking it would topple over. She grabbed at Christopher’s arm and wrestled to keep the pram upright.

  ‘You’d better get out, Christopher, love,’ said Mary once she’d got it on an even keel. ‘It’s not too far to Auntie Dottie’s now.’

  She pulled him out and set him down on the pavement. Maureen caught hold of his harness and the little procession trudged on.

  ‘It’s a bit like bringing gifts to the baby Jesus, isn’t it, Mum?’ said Maureen.

  Mary laughed heartily, her big belly wobbling up and down. ‘Well, if I’m the Virgin Mary,’ she laughed, ‘who do you think you are? The seven kings or a load of smelly shepherds?’

  ‘There were only three kings, Mum,’ Maureen corrected and Mary laughed again.

  ‘So there was, m’duck.’

  There was no sign of life at the cottage.

  ‘Don’t tell me they’re still in bed,’ Mary muttered as she pushed open the gate and Maureen and Susan ran ahead of her. ‘You kids keep away from that old well.’

  She felt a little awkward turning up uninvited but she knew she wouldn’t rest another moment until she’d checked up on Dottie. Since she’d asked around, it was apparent that nobody had seen her for days.

  Billy put down his bag and rattled the doorknocker.

  ‘I wanted to do that,’ Susan complained. She pushed her brother away and, standing on tiptoe, she banged it herself.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Mary scolded. ‘Auntie Dottie will be wondering where the fire is.’

  The door opened and Dottie stared at them in mild surprise. Mary made no reference to her black and swollen eye but Dottie stepped back, and kept half of her face behind the door in a vain attempt to hide it. Her shock at seeing them was tinged with both relief and embarrassment.

  ‘We brought Patsy a present like the baby Jesus,’ Maureen announced.

  For a second, Dottie hesitated and drew back. She had spent the past couple of days licking her wounds. After smashing up the kitchen, Reg had followed her upstairs. She’d expected him to force her again but instead, he’d given her such a beating, insisting that he’d only stop if she kept quiet. He was in such a mood, the night had seemed endless. It was so difficult having to endure everything silently, but she had to. She was so afraid of frightening Patsy.

  Since that Thursday, she and Patsy had stayed indoors. Dottie told herself it would be good for them to spend some time together, to get to know each other, but the truth of the matter was, she couldn’t bear to go out. When she’d got up that Friday morning, her left eye was completely closed and the bruise on her cheek made it look as if she’d gone three rounds with Freddie Mills. Her body ached and she had been violently sick as well. She really couldn’t face Mariah Fitzgerald so she posted a letter promising to be round with the finished curtains next week. She and Patsy had played games, done jigsaw puzzles and talked Neither of them made any reference to her face, and thankfully Reg had carried on as normal so she hardly saw him.

  Now, uninvited and unannounced, Mary and her brood had turned up on the doorstep. Dottie glanced at the pram behind her. Connie held out her arms, appealing to be picked up. Dottie’s heart melted. This was no time for pride. Mary was a good friend. Stepping back, she opened the door a little further. ‘You’d better come in.’

  She ushered them into the kitchen where Patsy was trying to master the rubber buttons on her liberty bodice. The family piled in behind their mother and Dottie introduced them.

  ‘Patsy, this is Connie and Susan and Maureen and Christopher. This is Billy and this is Auntie Mary.’

  ‘Hello, love,’ said Mary. ‘Shall I help you with that?’

  Patsy shook her head. ‘I can manage, thank you,’ she said politely. They watched her as she pulled her dress over her head.

  Dottie was suddenly aware of how untidy the room was. Not even her friends had ever seen it looking like this. She began gathering various items of clothing from the back of the chair, the table and the top of the dresser.

  ‘Bicket?’ Connie had misinterpreted her move towards the dresser. She stood in front with her hand in the air.

  ‘Connie, that’s naughty,’ Maureen scolded. ‘You shouldn’t ask.’ But Dottie had already pulled down the biscuit box. The twins sat on the floor as if they were obedient dogs waiting to beg, and Dottie offered around the broken biscuits.

  Mary reappeared, staggering back through the door with the bag of toys. ‘Shall I put this lot in the front room?’ she asked. ‘The kids can play with them while you and I have a nice quiet cup of tea in here.’

  Dottie nodded. With a silent sigh she went outside in the scullery to put the kettle on. What was she going to say to Mary? She couldn’t think straight. Her brain refused to function, but she’d have to say something, wouldn’t she?

  Ten minutes later, all the kids, including Patsy, were together in the front room, leaving Mary and Dottie alone in the kitchen. They pulled up two chairs and sat down at the table. Dottie pulled a cosy over the teapot and picked up the milk jug.

  ‘About Patsy …’ Mary began uncertainly.

  Dottie looked away.

  ‘She’s very dark,’ Mary went on.

  Dottie shrugged. The two women sipped their tea, an awkward silence between them.

  ‘Somebody sent you this,’ said Mary reaching into her pocket and pulling out a letter. A bold sloping hand had addressed the envelope to ‘Mrs D. Cox, c/o Mrs M. Prior’.

  ‘It’s from Sylvie!’ Dottie frowned. ‘Why did she address it to y
ou?’

  Mary shrugged.

  Dottie reached for a knife and slit the envelope.

  Darling Dottie,

  I hope you are well. I have written you two letters but you haven’t replied. I first I thought you might be too busy with the little girl, but you are always so good at letter-writing and I feel sure you would have written to me and told me all about her so I suppose my letters have gone astray.

  ‘She says she’s written but I haven’t received her letters,’ Dottie explained to Mary.

  ‘There’s been talk in the village about missing letters,’ Mary nodded. ‘Some light-fingered postman I suppose.’

  ‘Not Vincent Dobbs surely?’ Dottie gasped.

  ‘No, of course not. Somebody at the sorting office I expect.’

  ‘I’ll read the rest later,’ Dottie murmured. She pushed the letter back in its envelope and put it in her apron pocket.

  ‘So,’ Mary asked, ‘are you going to tell me how you got that shiner?’

  Dottie kept her head down. ‘Does it look really awful?’

  ‘It looks obvious, if that’s what you mean, hen.’

  ‘Somebody opened the train door too quickly,’ Dottie lied. She pushed a cup of the dark brown tea in front of Mary.

  ‘He did it, didn’t he? Reg,’ said Mary, picking up a spoon and stirring the tea furiously. ‘I thought so. The blighter.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to do it,’ said Dottie defensively. ‘He was a bit cross, that’s all.’

  ‘No man has a right to hit a woman,’ Mary sniffed, ‘so don’t insult me by making excuses for him, hen.’ She threw her spoon into the saucer with a clatter but Dottie said nothing. ‘Anyway, why was he angry with you?’

  Dottie shrugged. This was so embarrassing. She wanted to curl up and die. She was tired, she felt ill … not ill, sick. She rested her hand across her stomach. Was there a baby in there? She didn’t want to be pregnant. Perhaps she ought to tell Mary. She could feel the backs of her eyes pricking.

  ‘He’s saying that he only went along with the idea of having a kid because you wanted it so bad.’