by Pam Weaver
In the meantime, the crowd was moved away. Mary went back to Ann’s place.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ann.
Mary shrugged. ‘Perhaps it’s like Kipper says. She and Reg have gone away for a holiday.’
‘Since when did Reg take Dottie on holiday?’ said Ann.
Mary sighed. ‘You’re right, hen. We had to practically bully him to come with us to Littlehampton for the Carnival.’
Halfway through the morning, John Landers had a builder on site. Whoever or whatever was in that well had to be got out with care because the ground all around was so unstable.
‘I told Reg he should have filled that thing in years ago,’ said Terry Dore from the Jolly Farmer when he came up to have a look.
By the time Michael Gilbert brought his mother to the house at eleven o’clock, Mary was sitting in Ann’s kitchen drinking tea. They left the children playing in the front room while they told Michael and Edna what had happened.
‘You really think she’s down that well?’ gasped Michael.
‘Whatever it is, something bad has happened,’ said Mary.
Edna began wringing her hands. ‘I can’t believe it. Poor Dottie.’
Michael picked up his cap.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To help,’ cried Michael. ‘I can’t sit here drinking tea if Dottie’s down that well.’
As soon as they heard the front door slam, the three women went upstairs to watch the goings-on out of Ann’s bathroom window. Michael joined the other men, adjusting and holding onto planks. By the time the builder was able to reach the brown coat, nobody could bear to watch.
‘I don’t want to look,’ said Ann suddenly.
‘Me neither, hen,’ said Mary. She was already in tears. Edna followed them downstairs.
Ann was restless. Since they’d settled their differences, she and Dottie had become real friends. She now had a good job, her children were well fed and happy and she had smartened herself up no end – all thanks to Dottie. When Vincent Dobbs had put a comforting arm around her, it felt wonderful. It was good to know she was still attractive to men, especially a decent bloke like Vince. He’d lived with his mother until she’d died a year or two back and now he lived alone. A quiet man, he was a real gentleman.
Connie came into the kitchen where the women sat in silent thought.
‘Bicket?’ she asked.
Ann reached up for the biscuit tin, and all at once she had four little hands reaching out to her. ‘Off you go now,’ she smiled as she doled them out.
They heard a collective yell outside and Ann’s blood ran cold. She glanced at Edna and Mary. They must have found her … Oh Dottie. She turned her head away lest the children see her tears.
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ Brian’s anxious little voice forced her to pull herself together. Wiping her eyes with the edge of her cardigan sleeve, she bent to kiss him. ‘It’s all right. Mummy’s being silly, that’s all. Now off you go and play with your friends.’
‘But, Mummy, what are they doing in Aunt Dottie’s garden?’
‘Filling up the old well,’ said Ann briskly. ‘Now run along.’
The children went back into the front room and the three friends looked from one to the other.
‘Shall I go back upstairs?’ asked Ann.
Mary chewed her bottom lip anxiously. ‘If you want to, hen.’
‘I don’t think I can bear to look.’
All at once they heard the sound of running feet along the path outside followed by frantic knocking on her door. A lone tear rolled unchecked down Edna’s cheek. Ann straightened herself up and took a deep breath. Phyllis came back out into the hallway.
‘Stay there a minute, darling. Mummy’s going to answer the door.’ Tucking a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, Ann tugged at the front of her apron. Edna and Mary stood in the kitchen doorway.
It was Vince. His face was flushed and his eyes were bright. ‘It wasn’t her,’ he blurted out.
Ann blinked, not fully comprehending what he was saying. Behind her, she heard Mary’s cry of relief.
‘Thank God,’ Edna breathed. ‘Oh thank God …’
‘Then who …?’ Mary began.
Ann put her trembling hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Vince, no. Please don’t tell me it was Patsy?’
‘It wasn’t either of them,’ said Vince breathlessly. ‘It was chickens. A sack full of dead chickens!’
Mary, Ann and Edna looked from one to the other.
‘I don’t understand it,’ said Edna. ‘Who would kill perfectly good chickens and chuck them down a well?’
Michael Gilbert came up behind Vince. ‘A bloody mad man, if you ask me.’
Thirty-Five
After a full English breakfast, Reg suggested that Patsy and Dottie meet him at the other end of the seafront.
‘I’ve got a bit of business to do,’ he explained. ‘I’ll catch up with you later.’
The weather was chilly but at least it was dry. They wrapped up warm and walked to the Lower Parade towards the pier, ‘One day,’ Dottie promised Patsy, ‘we’ll come back when it’s summertime.’
They’d had a pleasant day on Sunday. They hadn’t done a lot but it was nice walking along the seafront and eating egg and chips in warm cafés with steamed-up windows. She liked the thought of coming again next year. Patsy would be that much older and able to enjoy ‘girlie things’. The baby would be born by then too. As she’d lain in bed last night, she began thinking about this change of heart Reg was having.
Dottie didn’t feel comfortable about it. It was too quick, too impulsive and yet she couldn’t fault his behaviour. Had he guessed she was pregnant, or was he up to something?
Whatever it was, she was still going to leave him. When she got back home later today, she’d do what she’d planned: she’d phone Sylvie. She wished she hadn’t written to John asking to meet one more time, but he probably wouldn’t get the letter until today anyway. She had missed the last post on Thursday night, so it wouldn’t have gone until Friday and she would already have been at the hotel on Saturday by the time it arrived at his mother’s place. She would always treasure those lovely days with John but from now on she’d have to make the best of what she had. Patsy must be given time to settle down. But, oh, how miserable it was going to be if she could never see John again …
Wiping a renegade tear from the end of her nose, Dottie took a deep breath. She mustn’t give way to this. For Patsy’s sake. For the sake of the baby. As she watched Patsy roller skating ahead of her, Dottie realised that she’d never seen the little girl looking so happy before.
When Reg met them at the end of the road, he surprised her again, this time by pulling up in a car.
‘Where on earth did you get that?’
‘I’ve hired it for the day. Hop in and we’ll go for a drive.’
He drove them out of Eastbourne.
Dottie frowned. ‘But I thought we were going home?’
‘We are, but first I’ve got something to show you.’
Dottie studied his profile as he drove. He’d been so different yesterday and today. What made him so unpredictable? The night of Michael’s wedding had been the first time he’d forced her to have sex with him, and ever since then she’d hated the thought of him touching her. Yet since they’d been there he’d let her share a room with Patsy. The way he was behaving right now he was more like the old Reg, the man she’d promised to love, honour and obey all those years ago.
‘I want us to buy a new place,’ he went on. ‘It’s not much to look at now but I reckon you’d make a better landlady than old mother Flint.’
‘She is a bit formidable, isn’t she,’ Dottie laughed. ‘No food and drink in the bedrooms …’
‘No running in the corridor,’ cried Patsy, mimicking her perfectly.
Dottie laughed but Reg’s expression didn’t change. She felt the old nervousness came creeping back.
‘Are we going to look at a guesthouse?’ Do
ttie asked.
‘Bungalow.’
‘A bungalow!’
‘It needs a bit of doing up, but I reckon it would suit us just fine.’
Dottie decided to say nothing, but she couldn’t help thinking that you couldn’t get many paying guests in a bungalow.
Ann Pearce was surprised to see Kipper’s Austin 7 waiting outside her gate. She began to walk a little quicker. Something was up. Had he discovered something about Dottie?
As she reached the gate, Kipper stepped out of the car. ‘Hello, Ann. I wonder if I could have a word?’
She nodded. Although he sounded cheerful enough, her heart was thumping and it felt like the bottom had fallen out of her stomach. She could sense that the whole road was full of twitching net curtains. ‘Would you like to come inside?’ she asked pleasantly. She hoped her voice didn’t give away how nervous she felt.
The short walk up the path seemed like the last mile home. It was cold indoors. She hadn’t been home since first thing this morning and the fire had gone out. Apologising for the temperature, she mustered what little dignity she could with a nervous smile. Kipper was business-like.
‘Do you know an Ernest Franks?’
Puzzled, Ann shook her head.
‘Pity,’ Kipper went on. ‘Apparently Dottie and her late aunt were kind to him. They left him tea on the windowsill.’
Ann frowned. ‘Tea on the windowsill …? Oh, you mean the tramp? Oh yes, I remember him. Haven’t seen him for a while though. He would put the tin on the windowsill and Aunt Bessie would fill it for him. Sometimes she gave him a bit of bread and jam. I never knew his name. Ernest Franks, is it?’ She was conscious that she was babbling but she couldn’t help herself. ‘Why do you ask? Has something happened to him?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Kipper. ‘At the moment he’s in Worthing hospital.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Ann. ‘But at least he’ll get three square meals a day.’
‘He was found a few days ago,’ Kipper went on. ‘In a hedge. He’d been badly beaten and left for dead. It was touch and go. He’s made some improvement but he’s still not out of the woods yet.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘I wonder if you would come with me and identify him as the tramp you remember,’ said Kipper. ‘I need to make sure he’s on the level.’
‘Me?’ cried Ann. ‘But I hardly know the man.’
‘I would have asked Dottie,’ said Kipper, ‘but she’s not here. I’ve come round in my off-duty because I’d rather not make it official unless I have to.’
She realised for the first time that he wasn’t in his uniform. How silly of her not to notice. Normally he rode a bicycle around the village, not the Austin 7.
‘If we could go to the hospital now,’ he went on, ‘we could clear this up very quickly. The poor old fellow took quite a licking. Most likely he’s had his brains scrambled but I need to check on a few things.’
Ann glanced at the clock. ‘It just so happens that my children are with Mary Prior,’ she began. ‘I’d have to be back here before six.’
‘It shouldn’t take that long,’ said Kipper.
The bungalow turned out to be one of several in a row standing behind a four-foot wall on the edge of The Crumbles, an area of wild, undeveloped and lonely land between Eastbourne and Pevensey. The only thing that marked it out from the others of a similar ilk was a windswept rambling rose clinging to the whitewashed walls. As they walked up the path, Dottie looked up as the net curtain in the next door bungalow was lifted and an old woman peered out. At the same time, an old man looked out of the downstairs window. Despite Reg’s enthusiasm, Dottie could never imagine the area becoming a magnet for visitors. It was too bleak.
Although it was furnished, the bungalow was musty and damp inside. Patsy ran from room to room exploring every cupboard drawer.
‘It needs a bit of work,’ said Reg, ‘but nothing that a lick of paint won’t cure.’
‘How much do they want for it, Reg?’
‘Nine hundred pounds.’
Dottie was flabbergasted; yet he’d made it sound as if it were just a few quid. ‘Where are we going to get that sort of money?’
He turned to her with that dark look in his eye. ‘There you go again,’ he hissed. ‘Always trying to spoil everything.’
‘No, no,’ she protested. ‘Believe me I wasn’t, but nine hundred pounds … it’s a lot of money.’
‘We’ll get a tidy sum from selling the cottage,’ he said. ‘Add it to your trust fund, we’ll do it easy.’
Dottie gasped. ‘But I don’t want to sell the cottage,’ she cried. A wave of anger swept over her and she spun round to face him. ‘I won’t do it, Reg. It’s my cottage and I won’t do it!’
Immediately, he raised his arm to hit her.
‘Auntie Dottie … Auntie Dottie, there’s a funny old pump over the sink,’ said Patsy, running back into the room. ‘Come and see.’
Reg snapped his arm back to his side. ‘Let’s not talk about money now, love,’ he said, giving Dottie a deliberate smile. ‘Go and see what the kid wants … and when you come back, I’ve got another surprise for you.’
Ann and Kipper pulled up in the car park outside the hospital in Lyndhurst Road. They walked in silence under the clock tower and into the long tiled corridors that smelled of disinfectant.
Ernest Franks was in a room on his own next to the men’s ward. He lay on his back, with his head slightly propped up. The snow-white sheet was folded neatly over his chest and beneath his unshaven chin. He looked very different. One eye was badly bruised and the eyebrow had been stitched back together again. Ann guessed from the look of him that his nose had been broken.
As they walked into the room, he appeared to be asleep but as she drew nearer, he opened his one eye and began to cough painfully.
She sat down on the chair beside the bed. ‘I’m sorry to see you like this,’ she said.
‘I remember you,’ he said softly. ‘You lived next door …’ Ann could feel Kipper leaning over her shoulder trying to catch what the man was saying ‘… to the old one.’
‘You mean Elizabeth Thornton?’ she said. ‘Everyone knew her as Aunt Bessie.’
He nodded his head painfully. ‘She helped me.’
‘She was a lovely woman.’ Ann agreed.
‘I was going to end it all,’ he said. ‘I’d come to the end of my tether. If it wasn’t for her …’ He coughed. ‘I went back and left her a note. I wanted her to know it was because of her I did it.’
Kipper frowned. ‘Did what?’
‘Got my life back together again.’
Ernest coughed again. Ann offered him some water. He took a small sip and then sank back onto the pillow, apparently overcome by emotion.
‘When I saw a newspaper cutting …’ he choked.
Ann glanced anxiously at Kipper. The poor man wasn’t making much sense, but he was clearly overwrought about something. When he’d recovered a little, he indicated that he wanted his knapsack. They found it stuffed in the bottom of the locker; the sister had wrapped it in a brown paper bag. When Kipper pulled it out, it still stank of ditchwater. They laid it on the bed beside him.
Ernest had precious few possessions but they included a tattered photograph of a young woman with a small child on her knee, some dog-eared letters, a few items of clothing, his trilby hat and a black tie. At the bottom of the bag they found a faded blue rabbit with floppy ears. He seized the rabbit, pressing it to his cheek. ‘My poor little Bobbie …’
Ann felt uncomfortable. After the war, there were plenty of people with similarly pathetic little collections of bits and pieces left over from a bombed house. Rubbish to one person, but a treasure collected from the darkness for another.
‘Shall we play with bunny? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Bobbie?’ He began to hum.
Ann couldn’t bear it. Swallowing hard, she bit back her own tears and turned over a few of the other things spread out
on the bedcovers. ‘Are you looking for something, Mr Franks?’ she said gently.
Eventually, Ernest pushed most of the things aside and picked up a page of folded newspaper. Kipper opened it out and they scanned each side of the page. On one side was an article about canal boats, on the other a small article headlined ‘Tragic Fall’.
Ann recognised it at once as the report on Aunt Bessie’s death. She didn’t need to re-read it to know it said that Elizabeth Thornton had been found dead at the foot of the stairs in Myrtle Cottage, High Street, on February 15th 1949; that Dr Fitzgerald had attended the scene and had pronounced life extinct. The police and the coroner had been informed and at the inquest her niece, Dorothy Cox, had said that her aunt had been in good health when she had left for work that morning. The report went on to say that Mr Reginald Cox had come home to find the doctor and an ambulance in attendance, his wife distraught and his wife’s aunt dead. The newspaper report noted that he was deeply moved as he spoke of Aunt Bessie, describing her as angel in disguise who, since his return from the war, had given him both a welcome and a home. He had last seen his wife’s aunt at 8.30 that morning as he left for work.
As Kipper refreshed his memory by reading the report aloud, the man became agitated.
‘The bloody liar,’ he hissed. He gripped the edge of his sheet and screwed it as he tried to sit up. ‘He didn’t go to work at 8.30. He was there, I tell you. The bastard was there!’
Thirty-Six
The whole bungalow smelled musty and damp. The windows were boarded up and the only light came from between the open cracks. There was no electricity and the wind made an eerie sound as it whistled between the back door and the fence.
‘The owner is in a nursing home,’ said Reg. ‘I know it doesn’t look a lot right now but it’ll be really nice once we’ve done it up.’
His eyes shone with excitement and he was animated in a way Dottie’d never seen before. Patsy ran from room to room, keeping up a running commentary as she went. ‘There’s some old saucepans on the cooker. Ugh, there’s something in this one, it’s all mouldy.’