by Pam Weaver
‘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.
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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 thought. 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.
All at once she remembered that other letter, the one that had come this morning. What did it say?
Her eyes were beginning to fill but she dared not cry. If he heard her, he’d be angry. He hated it when she cried. She closed her eyes. Was there anything about her he liked? How she wished Aunt Bessie was still here. Right now Dottie would have given her right arm for a crumb of affection or a cuddle.
Reg began to snore and Dottie slipped her hand under her nightie. She began to stroke herself until a warm glow washed over her. She’d better stop. It was a nice feeling but not even that took away the ache she had in her heart. If anything, it only left her even more frustrated. She was only twenty-seven and the thought of all those long lonely years stretching out before her was quite frightening.
It was no good. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. Why get all maudlin and depressed? She had to make the best of it. She turned onto her side, away from him and, feeling under her pillow for her hankie, she blew her nose softly. Then she lay back down, willing herself not to think about it any more. There wasn’t much love but she could set her mind to honour and obey. That would have to do for now.
‘Oh God,’ she prayed, ‘give me strength. I don’t think I can do this on my own …’
When Sylvie got into her own room and switched on the light, her suitcase was still on the bed. She moved it onto the chair and picked up a few things scattered on the top of the chest of drawers. She was surprised to see her panties draped over her hairbrush and comb. That’s funny, she thought, as she tidied them into the drawer.
She arranged her face powder, hand cream, lipstick and talc into some semblance of order and fished around in her bag for a hairnet. Then she took out her nightdress, bed jacket, slippers and book.
It was quite a ritual getting ready for bed. Robin always laughed at her but it had to be done. First she undressed and put on her nightie. Then she removed all her make-up. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Only the cold-water tap was working. How Dottie put up with this primitive way of life she couldn’t understand. She washed herself in the freezing water, cleaned her teeth, brushed her hair and put the hairnet right over the top.
Back in her room, she creamed her knees and her elbows. Then, sitting on the bed, she creamed her face, making sure to include twenty strokes across each cheek, twenty on her forehead and twenty-five across her throat in a vigorous upward motion from the base of her neck to her chin. That was to ward off a turkey neck in later life. Next she creamed her hands and put on some cotton gloves.
It was as she climbed into bed that Sylvie noticed the picture. It was on the floor, part way under the chest of drawers. She picked it up. How did that get down there? She’d left it at the back of the dressing table.
Then it dawned on her. Someone had been in here. They’d been touching the picture … her panties … She shuddered. Reg. Who else could it be? Dear God, he’d been touching her underwear.
She jumped out of bed and opened the drawer. Everything was there but she took out the French knickers, holding them between her thumb and forefinger as if they were soiled. She threw them back into the case. She couldn’t wear them. She might even destroy them. What a good job she’d brought plenty of other things. The very thought of wearing something Reg had fingered made her feel ill.
Another thought crossed her mind. If Reg had been snooping around looking at her underwear, was he really the kind of man to father a little girl? Yet she knew Dottie was counting on her help. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the picture again. Even though there was a war on, they had been much happier times. Dottie, her much younger self and Aunt Bessie smiled back at her.
‘What do you think I should do about it?’ she whispered to Aunt Bessie. But the woman behind the frame carried on smiling.
Sylvie lay down and pulled up the covers. If she did give them the money for Patsy’s fare, she would have to ensure that there were some safeguards for both Dottie and the child. Reg mustn’t be allowed to have everything his own way. She wished she could persuade Dottie to get shot of him, but that wasn’t very likely, was it?
‘I used to think it was odd that you didn’t like Reg,’ she told Aunt Bessie, as she turned out the light. ‘But now, I’m pretty sure I don’t like him either. Creepy bastard.’
Seventeen
Michael’s wedding day dawned dull and overcast. Dottie slipped out of bed almost as soon as it was light. By the time Reg came downstairs she had cleared up his dinner things from the night before and laid the table for breakfast.
‘Hello, Reg,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Fancy a spot of porridge?’
‘I’ll go down the garden and feed the pig first,’ he said pulling on his b
oots. ‘You were late coming home last night.’
‘Sylvie took me into Worthing for a meal.’
‘Our food not good enough for her then?’ he accused darkly.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Dottie. ‘We’d finished at the hall and I knew you would already be at the Jolly Farmer so when she suggested taking me out as a little treat, I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Mind? Why should I mind when my wife goes gallivanting all over the place in her friend’s flash car, leaving the house in a bloody mess? Where did she take you for this little treat? Some swanky place, no doubt.’
Dottie didn’t want a row and he was getting himself all worked up.
‘I should have asked you first, Reg. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.’
‘All I can say is thank God she’s going home today,’ he said, ‘then things can get back to normal.’
He swept past her and disappeared up the garden. Dottie poured herself a cup of tea. Her hand was trembling. He was going to be really worked up by the time they had to go the wedding. No … no, he wouldn’t. Not with Sylvie here. He wouldn’t want to make a scene in front of her. Dottie glanced at the clock. 8.15am. She couldn’t worry about Reg now, she had such a lot to do. She’d have to get on.
By the time Sylvie came downstairs, the kitchen dresser was open and the enamel table inside the drop-down drawer was covered with ingredients. Dottie was well underway with baking a couple of batches of fairy cakes and a Victoria sponge.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Dottie asked as Sylvie came yawning into the kitchen.
‘Yes, fine. Gosh, you’re busy. Where’s Reg?’
‘Outside in the garden. Fancy a bit of porridge?’
Sylvie shook her head and sat down. ‘A bit of toast and a cigarette will suit me fine.’
Dottie put some sliced bread under the grill.
‘Shall I call Reg?’ yawned Sylvie. She seemed to be struggling to wake up.
‘He’ll be busy with the pig by now,’ Dottie smiled. ‘He said he’d have a sarnie before we go.’