by Pam Weaver
‘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 you?’<
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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.’
Dottie looked up sharply, searching her friend’s face with a mixture of horror and disbelief. ‘I thought as much,’ her friend said in a softer tone. ‘What is it then? What’s your version? He pushed you into it and then changed his mind?’
That beaten feeling crept over her again. Dottie looked down at her teacup and blinked away the tears that threatened. ‘Something like that,’ she conceded.
‘I don’t understand why you don’t just kick him out.’
She looked up again, this time with a frown. ‘Oh, Mary! Don’t you start. Have you been talking to Sylvie?’
‘Why should I talk to Sylvie?’ said Mary. ‘Listen, hen, this is a small place. If you don’t turn up for work for two days and your old man sits in the pub with a face as black as thunder, what do you expect? People love a bit of gossip and I’ll tell you right now, Janet Cooper is having a field day.’
Dottie picked up a glove belonging to Phyllis. ‘And I suppose Ann Pearce has been round to your place spreading rumours as well,’ she said bitterly.
‘Now don’t you go thinking bad things about Ann,’ Mary said firmly. ‘Right now she’s the one friend you’ve got, hen. Yes, she told me, but she only came to see me because she was so worried about you. She heard him crashing around, didn’t she? Shouting the odds and everything. She wanted to come round but she knows he’d do his nut if he saw her.’
Dottie’s chin began to quiver and she was having difficulty in seeing.
‘It’s all right, hen,’ said Mary gently. She patted the back of Dottie’s hand.
‘It’s such a mess, Mary. Reg says he doesn’t even want to be under the same roof as her,’ Dottie said quietly, ‘but I can’t send her back, can I?’
‘What? Because she’s coloured? The stupid man.’
‘She’s a lovely little girl,’ said Dottie fiercely.
‘What on earth made you choose a kid all the way from Australia in the first place?’ said Mary, pouring herself some more tea.
‘I didn’t …’ Dottie protested but then thought better of it. How could she tell Mary the whole story? What if Mary let slip that Patsy was supposed to be Reg’s child with someone else? It would be all over the village in no time. Of course, they’d never be able to explain why Patsy had coloured blood, but then, she didn’t know the whole story herself. If only Reg hadn’t burned what was in that suitcase. ‘I want to tell you, but I can’t,’ she said brokenly.
Mary moved her great bulk from the chair opposite Dottie to the one next to her and put her arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s all right, hen. You tell me as much or as little as you want. I won’t ask any more.’
Dottie’s eyes met hers with mild surprise.
‘And don’t look at me like that,’ Mary went on. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends don’t need to pry. They just need to be there for you.’
Dottie blinked back her tears. ‘Oh, Mary,’ she blurted out. ‘I think I’m pregnant.’
Billy burst into the kitchen. ‘Can I have a drink, Mum?’
‘No you can’t,’ said Mary irritably.
She shushed him away but Dottie stood up. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, manufacturing cheerfulness. ‘I’ve got some cherryade out the back.’
‘Cherryade!’ cried Billy.
‘Get the enamel mugs out of the cupboard,’ she said, blowing her nose and being very careful to keep her back to him, ‘then you can go back in and make everyone sit down, Billy.’
Billy gathered the mugs and clattered his way back into the front room shouting excitedly, ‘Hey, sit down, you lot. We’re having cherryade.’
Dottie came out of the scullery carrying a large, bright red bottle.
‘Pregnant?’ said Mary. ‘Oh my dear …’
Dottie stopped to squeeze her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion, ‘let’s see what they’re up to.’
When they reached the front room, all the kids were sitting in a circle and Patsy was teaching them some kind of clapping game. Dottie and Mary stood in the doorway, Mary restraining her excited son, lest he break the game up too soon.
Patsy looked up.
‘Go on, dear,’ said Dottie.
‘Who stole the cookie from the cookie pot,’ Patsy chanted rhythmically. At the same time, she clapped her hands together once, then slapped her knees. She looked around at the children, and started a second chant, ‘Maureen stole the cookie from the cookie pot.’
Maureen giggled and when she’d finished she beat out, ‘I didn’t steal the cookie from the cookie pot.’
‘Then who stole the cookie from the cookie pot?’ Patsy went on.
Dottie smiled. All of Mary’s kids were having a great time, even the little ones, even though they couldn’t possibly understand what a cookie was. They did it for some time until eventually Patsy turned around again.
‘Cherryade!’ Billy announced at the top of his voice and they all cheered.
He and Patsy organised the mugs and poured the drinks. Dottie and Mary returned to the kitchen.
‘How far gone are you?’ asked Mary as soon as they were alone again.
‘A couple of months.’
‘So there’s still time to get rid of it.’
‘I don’t think I can do that,’ said Dottie.
‘I know a woman in East Worthing …’
‘No, Mary.’
Mary curled her lip with distain. ‘You mean you’d really have his child?’
Dottie rolled her eyes heavenward and pressed her lips together. ‘It’s my baby as well.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘I just want a child,’ Dottie whispered.
Mary sat down in the chair heavily. ‘I don’t know what to say, hen. You’ve been to the doctor of course.’
Dottie shook her head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Then,’ Mary began brightly, ‘it may not be …’
‘I’m nine
ty-five percent sure,’ Dottie insisted. ‘It happened the day of Michael’s wedding.’
‘You know actually when it happened?’ Mary gasped.
Dottie felt her face redden. ‘I can’t go to the doctor, not yet. I need all the money I can get and the minute she knows I’m pregnant, Mariah Fitzgerald will ask me to go. Don’t you understand, Mary? I’ve already got one child to provide for. I’m all she’s got. Don’t say anything, please.’
‘All right, hen,’ sighed Mary. ‘But just remember I’m here for you. We both are. Tom and me.’
‘Thanks for everything,’ said Dottie blowing her nose again.
‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ said Mary.
‘You have,’ said Dottie giving her a squeeze around her ample waist. ‘You’ve done more than you can ever know.’
‘A few toys and some hand-me-down clothes,’ said Mary with a shrug.
‘And a pram full of courage,’ said Dottie quietly. She blew her nose again and stood up to look at herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. ‘Lord, I look a sight!’ Reaching into the drawer for a comb, Dottie pulled the pins out of her hair and let it down.
‘You may not realise it but your coming here has helped me make a decision,’ she went on with a loud sniff. ‘Patsy’s been here almost a week and I’m determined she’s not going anywhere else. She’s my little girl now.’
‘But she’s not yours, is she?’ Mary observed.
‘I’ll adopt her,’ said Dottie vehemently. ‘As soon as I’ve got enough money put by, I’m going to a solicitor.’
‘But if Reg refuses to let you have her, how can you?’ cried Mary. ‘Besides, a woman on her own, adopting a child? It’s impossible.’
‘Well, she’s certainly not going to be put in a children’s home,’ said Dottie, pulling her hair into French plait. ‘This is her home. Aunt Bessie did it for me, remember?’
Mary nodded. An only child, Dottie’s mother had died when she was sixteen. Rose Thornton had taken the identity of Dottie’s father to the grave and so Dottie had been sent to live with her maiden aunt who owned the cottage. Dottie had told Mary many a time how alone she’d felt as she rode up the road from the station. Aunt Bessie had met her with the pony and trap, which was enough to excite any little girl, but Dottie had hardly noticed. She was terrified that Aunt Bessie wouldn’t like her so she’d made up her mind to work as her skivvy if necessary. But she needn’t have worried. Aunt Bessie may have been a little eccentric, but she was a sweetheart and, despite never having had children of her own, the whole village knew she had given Dottie a really happy life.