Better Days Will Come

by Pam Weaver

  As if on cue, the door opened and a fresh-faced constable came in with two cups of tea. He put them silently onto the table and Oswald watched the cup in front of him wobble slightly, spilling some tea in the saucer. His mind was in a fog. He would never see his son again. How was he going to tell Mildred? What the devil was the boy doing here in the first place?

  As the constable left the room, Oswald cleared his throat again. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Coming up for two years ago, sir.’

  Oswald looked up sharply. ‘Two years? Two bloody years. My boy has been dead all that time and you didn’t tell me?’

  For the first time, Nyman heard the soft South African lilt in his voice.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It took us some time to locate you and I’m afraid the South African police were more than a little slow in replying. We wanted to make completely sure of the facts before we asked you to come all this way.’

  Oswald nodded sagely.

  ‘Do you want me to tell you everything, sir?’ Nyman began again. ‘It’s not exactly pleasant.’

  Oswald nodded. ‘I’d appreciate your candour.’

  ‘It took some while to find out who he was,’ Nyman explained. ‘The body was in an advanced state of decomposition so he had to be formally identified by dental records. That photograph comes from the local paper. They did a feature on the new factory and your son was pictured working the machine.’ He paused, anxious that the man in front of him had no colour in his face. ‘Do you want me to go on, sir?’

  Oswald took a gulp of the scalding tea and nodded. ‘I want to know everything, Detective, er …’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Nyman. I was the DC on the case when we found the body. Detective Inspector Chester was in charge.’

  The name was meaningless to Oswald. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Your son was working in a knitwear factory,’ said Nyman.

  ‘Not very exciting.’ Oswald sucked his bottom lip. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was found in the cold room of a disused factory. There was an inquest but because of lack of evidence …’ he opened his hands as a gesture of incomprehension, ‘as to how he got locked in there and why, and the state of the body … the coroner returned an open verdict.’

  Silence drifted between them as Oswald picked up the photograph again. It was definitely his son. He was side on to the camera and concentrating on the machine he was working. Oswald rubbed his thumb over the boy’s face and his chest grew tight. He was only twenty-six, he thought. That’s no life, no life at all.

  ‘Do you want me to carry on, sir?’

  Oswald cleared his throat again. He liked this man. He was kind, sensitive, and respectful. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We carried out extensive enquiries. Your son was seeing a local girl but no one is sure who she is. She’s never come forward and anyway we have no reason to believe she is in any way implicated in your son’s death.’

  ‘What about the other people in the factory?’

  Nyman consulted his notes. He had been part of the investigation for the first two days, that was all. Inspector Chester had bumped him off the case for some reason he couldn’t quite remember now, but they didn’t get on anyway. ‘We interviewed the owner,’ he said, ‘but he was unable to shed any light on the subject.’ Smarmy-looking bastard, he remembered.

  ‘I should like to talk to him myself,’ said Oswald.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained,’ said Nyman, but seeing Oswald’s determined face, added, ‘Having said that, I’m sure Mr Finley would be happy to help in any way he could.’

  ‘What sort of chap is he?’

  Nyman shrugged. ‘He’s a well-respected employer and property owner in the town. What you might call the very model of an Englishman.’

  Oswald stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I’m staying at the Chatsworth Hotel for a few days. Now that I am certain that it really is George, I must go back and fetch my wife from South Africa. She’s an invalid. She can’t travel alone.’ He paused. ‘You said my son was buried. Where?’

  ‘Offington cemetery,’ said Nyman. ‘I’m afraid he has an unmarked grave.’

  ‘I intend to alter that as soon as my wife gets here. Where was he living?’

  ‘109 Pavilion Road. He was lodging with a Mrs Kerr.’

  ‘And what happened to his things?’

  Nyman consulted his notes again. After much flicking through papers, he was none the wiser. ‘I’ll check on that for you, sir.’ He hoped Mr Matthews hadn’t noticed that his face was flushed with embarrassment.

  The two men stood up and shook hands. ‘Can I keep this photograph?’

  ‘I’m afraid this one is police property, sir, but I am sure the Worthing Herald would be pleased to accommodate you with a copy.’

  Oswald looked at it for one last time. The boy looked more at peace with himself after his dreadful experiences during the war. His hair was pushed back and tidy. Oswald longed to make it flop in the same way as it had when he was a lad. He sighed. The last time he’d seen his son was in 1945, soon after the war ended, when he’d travelled with them to Southampton to see them off. Mildred needed to be in a warmer climate and they had seized the opportunity to go to South Africa. They had begged their son to go with them but he’d said he had some unfinished business to attend to, something to do with that damned war, Oswald supposed. But it wasn’t that memory which filled his mind. All he could see was a tousle-haired little boy with a dirty face and a runny nose. He was holding up a jam jar full of tiddlers by a piece of string. ‘Look, Dad. Look what I’ve got.’

  Oswald swayed and Nyman grabbed his arm.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Oswald said huskily as he steadied himself.

  ‘Tell you what, sir,’ said Nyman. ‘I’ll see if I can get you a copy.’

  Oswald nodded and walked out of the room. After a year of fruitless searching, he’d found his only son. What irony. George had made it all though that damned war only to end up on the floor of a cold room in this god-forsaken seaside town. And for what? Nyman had been kind enough but Oswald needed to know what had happened. Until he did, he could never rest. They had rung for a taxi and as soon as it arrived, he thanked the police officers and went outside. As soon as he felt able to, he would find as many people as possible who knew George. But there was no need to rush for now. He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t finish before his wife came over. He felt in no fit state to ask questions and besides, he couldn’t trust his emotions. For the sake of George’s memory, he didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of strangers. First of all, he’d have to tell Mildred. She’d be devastated. God, what a bloody thing to happen. He’d have to travel back to South Africa and fetch her of course. Then they’d come back and bury their dear boy with dignity.

  Twenty-Six

  Norris was bored. What he wanted was a bit of excitement. He picked up a letter left on his drinks table. It had a Worthing postmark and the address was typed. He tore it open but then the two phone calls came one after the other and right out of the blue. The first was from Major Freeman, chairman of the cricket club.

  ‘Been thinking, Finley,’ he told Norris. ‘Your family has been in Worthing for donkey’s years. Fine, upstanding, useful members of the community. Remember your father. Bloody fine officer. Could have done with more of his ilk in the last bloody show. Damned shame he died so young. Anyway, got to thinking. Have you ever thought of running for office?’

  Norris stared blankly out of his office window.

  ‘Thing is, old boy,’ the major went on, ‘the council could do with some new blood. Someone to get things done. Popular man like you could rustle up a few votes quite easily. Anyway, think about it and get back to me, will you? I’m sure I could drum up some support to get you on the borough council. Who knows where that might lead in a few years, eh, what?’

  By the time he had put the receiver down, Norris’s imagination was already working overtime. He’d been thinki
ng about running for office for some time. Just never got around to it, that was all. He could just picture himself in mayoral robes. He’d have his portrait painted and hung in the town hall. Of course he’d have no problem in getting votes. He was still young. Women liked him and he could call in a few favours when the time came. He wished his father were still alive. How he would have loved to say, ‘Look at me, Pa. You never thought I’d amount to much but I’m a really important man in this town now. How wrong can you be? You always favoured my brother over me. You never gave me a sports car for my twenty-first.’ Norris gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white. Bloody unfair, that’s what it was. But perhaps it was just as well after all. He might have gone and got himself killed too. Right now, he was very much alive and on his way at last. Mayor of Worthing … It had a nice ring to it. Cllr Norris Finley, Mayor of Worthing. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. His only problem was that public office inevitably led to public scrutiny.

  He’d successfully buried much of his past. In the thirties, when Mosley came to the Pavilion for his meetings, he’d spent many an evening writing Fascist slogans all over Worthing. He’d signed them ‘P.J.’ and there had been speculation for years as to who P.J. was. Nobody guessed it was him. It was the one time all those gruelling Latin lessons had come in useful. Perficio justicia – perfect justice, that’s what it meant.

  He’d never actually joined the Blackshirts because he found crowds of people intimidating, but he had attended the rallies,usually slipping in at the back and moving on at the first sign of trouble.

  The only thorn in his flesh at the moment was this blasted Fair Rents panel. They had insisted that all of his tenants have a proper rent book and he had to agree to a much reduced rate for some properties. He’d been furious, vowing to fight them all the way. He would have done too, but this changed everything. Now he needed to impress people with his generosity. Damn and blast it. He’d have to get onto his collectors and tell them to issue the books. The panel hadn’t offered to buy the books, so that would be another expense.

  Of course, he’d have to get rid of Grace once and for all. He hadn’t bothered to use her lately; he had another dainty little morsel on the go, but he had planned to get back to her later on when the new girl began to bore him. Pity he had to let Grace go. He hadn’t meant for it to happen but he liked being with her. She’d been unwilling at first but he’d soon sorted that. Now she wanted it as much as he did, gagging for it, he was sure of that.

  He stood in front of his desk and admired his reflection in the office door. He was still an attractive man and women flocked to men in power. They said Il Duce used to wave to the crowds on the balcony, step back into his office and take one of his secretaries on the floor, and then go back out and enjoy the adulation of the crowds again. There were three little balconies on the front of Worthing Town Hall, but he’d never seen them in use, more’s the pity. Perhaps he could get them opened up when he was mayor. When he was mayor – he liked the sound of that.

  The second telephone call came as the most appalling shock. It was from Detective Sergeant Nyman.

  ‘You’ll be relieved to hear that we have had a relative come forward to claim the body of George Matthews.’

  Norris hardly dared to breathe.

  ‘It’s his father,’ the DS went on.

  ‘Why on earth didn’t he come forward before?’ demanded Norris. He cleared his throat. His voice was high with panic.

  ‘It’s taken us all this time to trace him,’ said the DS. ‘It turns out that he lives in South Africa.’

  Norris lowered himself into a chair. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Apparently the boy’s mother is an invalid,’ Nyman continued. ‘Mr Matthews has gone back to South Africa so that he can accompany his wife back here. They must have more money than sense if you ask me.’

  ‘Why would they want to come back again?’ said Norris. ‘Matthews is dead and buried.’

  ‘They want him re-interred after a Christian funeral,’ said Nyman. ‘Give him a proper send off, if you like. I just thought I’d inform you because the father may want to come and ask you a few questions about his son. And perhaps you might like to be there when the time comes to re-inter the body?’

  Norris hesitated. The man must be joking! This was the last thing he wanted.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Norris, ‘I’m about to leave the country on business. I would have been there but my hands are tied.’

  ‘Well, it’ll take a while to organise anyway,’ said Nyman. ‘I told him he’ll have to jump through a few official hoops, so to speak. You may be back home again by that time.’

  ‘Probably,’ Norris conceded, although he was thinking, not bloody likely.

  ‘Shall I set up a meeting then, sir?’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ said Norris. ‘Contact my secretary. She has my diary.’ As he replaced the receiver, he became aware of the letter still in his hand. It came from his father’s solicitors. Norris read it twice before he fully digested the contents. Everything had just gone from bad to worse.

  The solicitor was reminding him that John was about to come into his inheritance from his grandfather. The letter concluded by saying:

  As a result of the agreement, the accumulated funds will pass into the Finley estate when John reaches his twenty-fifth birthday. I cannot help wonder why, even though she was in communication with your late father (the late Mr Edward Finley wrote a letter dictated and sent from this firm), Grace Follett has never contacted this office.

  Norris lowered himself into his chair. His father had written to Grace? Good God, what on earth did he say to her? And why the hell hadn’t Grace ever told him?

  His dreams of a balcony conquest suddenly evaporated. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’

  The soles of her shoes squeaked noisily as Grace walked alongthe hospital corridors and every step seemed a mile long. She met a few people coming in the opposite direction, but she made no eye contact. She was beginning to feel slightly ridiculous with a wilting bunch of flowers in her hand. They were from her mother’s garden. The last couple of roses and some Michaelmas daisies. She had thought her mother would enjoy them but now the garden posy seemed inadequate. Her mother deserved better.

  These past few months had been cathartic for both of them. They started a little awkwardly but as time went on and Freda became more dependent, they found a friendship together that they both enjoyed.

  She reached Room 6 and pushed the door open slowly. Her mother was lying flat in the bed with her eyes closed. Her hair was down. It lay like silver clouds all over the pillow. Grace had never seen it like that before. Her mother always wore it scraped back in a tight bun, but it was beautiful. If it wasn’t for the colour, it could have been the hair of a young woman. She looked so small, so fragile. Her skin was like parchment, her hands limp by her side.

  ‘Mum,’ Grace said quietly. ‘Mum, it’s me.’

  Freda Follett opened her eyes and her face lit up. ‘I knew you would come one last time. I just knew it …’ Her voice trailed and Grace saw her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum,’ she said quietly. She sat in the chair beside the bed and reached for her hand. Her mother tried to pull herself up but the effort was too much.

  ‘Rest, Mum. Don’t get up.’

  ‘I’ve never been much for talking,’ Freda said, ‘but I’ve enjoyed our time together.’

  Grace was cut to the quick. She had never heard her mother say anything even remotely like that before. Her whole life, Grace had always felt as if she could never please her mother.

  Freda reached up and touched her daughter’s face then let her hand drop to the bed. Grace reached for it and held it firmly. ‘Are you in pain?’

  Freda shook her head. ‘I think I don’t have much time,’ she said, squeezing Grace’s fingers lightly. ‘Our secret is still safe?’

  Grace nodded. ‘It’s still safe, Mum.’ G
race fumbled for a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  ‘He left you some money, you know.’

  Grace was puzzled, but she let her go on talking. She’s rambling, she thought. Old people do that.

  ‘The solicitor told me.’

  ‘Who left me some money?’

  ‘Old man Finley.’

  Grace stared at her mother in shocked surprise. John’s grandfather had died just days after he was born.

  ‘He left you money so that you could keep your baby.’

  The shock made Grace rise to her feet. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Her mother closed her eyes and pursed her lips together in anguish. ‘Now you’re angry with me.’

  Too right she was angry, but Grace realised that her mother had something important to say and if she didn’t listen now, she would never hear it. The hospital was very strict with visiting hours. They had told her to come even though it was way past eight o’clock, so Freda’s life must be coming to an end. Before the morning came, she would probably be meeting her maker. This was no time for playing games. Grace sat back down and took the old lady’s hand again. ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ she said gently. ‘It was a surprise, that’s all. Tell me. Whatever you want to tell me I won’t be angry. I promise.’

  ‘The solicitor wrote to you, Grace, but I thought when John went to Mr Finley it was better to let things lie. The boy needed a mother and a father.’ Freda became agitated. ‘They said if you asked for the money, he would have you declared unfit and the baby would be sent to an orphanage.’

  Grace was appalled. ‘Who said that?’

  ‘Mr Norris.’ Freda’s voice became a whisper. ‘I was scared, Grace, and you were so full of grief, that if I let them take you, I might never have seen you again.’

  ‘Oh Mum …’ Grace began.

  Freda put her bony finger to her lips and shook her head. ‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t be upset. It’s all right. It was for the best, wasn’t it? The baby went to a good home, didn’t he? No one knows. Our secret is safe.’