by Pam Weaver
Michael and Freda had a bouncing baby boy, birth weight nine pounds, and Dottie had been asked to be godmother.
‘Imagine that,’ Mary gasped. ‘None of mine were more than seven pounds and that little slip of a girl gives birth to an elephant!’
In the same month, King George VI died of lung cancer. Like thousands of others, Dottie, Peaches, Ann and Mary huddled together around the wireless and wept.
In March, Dottie put Myrtle Cottage up for sale. By the time the May blossom was out, Ann and Vince were married. ‘I’m Mrs Vincent Dobbs,’ Ann sighed as Dottie, Peaches and Mary helped her change into her going-away outfit. She held out her left hand and the gold band on her finger glistened in the light. ‘It so good to have a man to lean on.’
‘There’s nothing like a good wedding,’ said Peaches, digging Dottie in the ribs.
Dottie felt her face colour. She and John were very close, but ever since Reg died, he hadn’t even mentioned marriage. ‘I want to stand on my own two feet,’ said Dottie, keen to put a stop to her friends’ speculation. ‘I’ve decided I don’t need a man to be happy.’
Peaches shook her head. ‘Oh, Dottie …’
But Mary had surprised them all by saying, ‘Good for you, hen.’
Dottie said nothing. Even if she had the chance to marry John, perhaps the stigma of her once living with a murderer might damage his career.
With the five hundred pounds she got for the sale of the cottage, Dottie had bought a small shop in the centre of Worthing and set up her own furnishing business. Sylvie had recommended her to all her friends and Dottie had a full order book before Fabulous Furnishings had even opened its doors. Mariah Fitzgerald couldn’t wait to tell all her friends that she had been the one who discovered Dottie. Her beautifully decorated bedroom became the talk of the Golf Club. By Whitsun, the requests were coming in so fast, Dottie was forced to close for a week to teach Ann how to measure up accurately. Mary said Dottie was kindness itself, but Dottie felt Ann simply needed a leg up. After all, she was a quick-witted and intelligent woman.
Patsy was really settled now. She and Billy had both passed their eleven plus and were doing well at school.
By the end of the summer, despite her best efforts to convince herself that he was just a friend, Dottie was still hopelessly in love with John. She deeply regretted holding him at arm’s length now, but he seemed happy to leave things as they were.
As she and John drove out of town to fetch his mother, Dottie’s mind drifted back to the night before when she and Mary had been filling their hot water bottles. She and Patsy had left their little flat over the shop and come to stay with the Priors for Christmas.
‘John wants to help me adopt Patsy officially.’ Dottie had told her.
‘Oh? I didn’t think it was possible for a single woman to adopt a child.’
‘Apparently, because I’m a woman of independent means, I may be able to do it if I get the backing of a professional.’
‘But if you and John got married,’ said Mary pointedly, ‘there would be no problem at all.’ Dottie looked away. Mary pressed the filled bottle to her chest until the water drew level with the top and then she screwed in the stopper. ‘You love him, don’t you?’
‘You know I do,’ said Dottie.
‘Well then?’ said Mary.
‘I think he’s changed his mind,’ said Dottie. She sighed. ‘Maybe it’s just as well. I may have been exonerated from the goings-on in Eastbourne, but in the kind of circles where he mixes, you know what they’re like. They’ll say there’s no smoke without fire.’
‘Now you’re being silly,’ scoffed Mary. ‘Why should he care what people think? And besides, you’re a rich woman, Dottie Cox. You can afford to move away and start all over again.’
‘I couldn’t bear to be parted from all of you!’ Dottie cried. ‘Where would I find such wonderful friends? Anyway, it’s nothing to do with money. It’s class. John has a position to keep up. He’ll choose a wife who’ll play the hostess and stay at home. Now that I’ve had a taste of running my own business, I’m not sure I could go back to all that.’
Mary had plonked herself on the edge of the kitchen table. ‘Sometimes you do talk utter rot, Dottie. You’re just putting up obstacles. What does it matter when two people love each other?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘My Tom had his own Post Office when I met him.’
‘So?’
‘I worried that he was just looking for a post mistress to help him,’ Mary went on. ‘I mean, I’m hardly Joan Crawford, am I? Just look at me.’ She was dressed for bed in her nightie and plaid dressing gown; her moth-eaten slippers peeped out from underneath and her hair was in curlers.
Dottie laughed and gave her a cuddle.
‘When my Tom married me,’ Mary went on, ‘I was a fat widow with three kids. Now I’m an even fatter wife with five kids.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Dottie laughed. ‘Tom doesn’t care a stuff about any of that. He’s crazy about you. He just wanted to be with you … to love you …’ Her voice trailed and Mary lifted one eyebrow.
‘Precisely. And your John feels the same about you.’
‘I’m not so sure …’
‘Dottie, the man loves you,’ said Mary in a slightly exasperated tone. ‘For heaven’s sake, relax a little. Encourage him when he’s being loving towards you. You’re a warm person. It’s about time you knew what real love is. Give him a chance. Just let him love you …’
Just let him love you. The words had played over and over in her mind ever since and now that she was in his car, heading towards Yapton, she couldn’t think of anything else. Mary was right. He was so gentle, so caring. All through those dark and terrible days, the thought that he was still there had kept her going. They’d had some wonderful times during the past year, but did he really love her enough to want to be together for the rest of their lives? She glanced at his profile as he drove and her whole being lurched with desire. Mary had said it was about time she knew what real love was, and now at last, she knew Mary was right. But was it too late? Oh, John … John … have I been a complete idiot?
‘Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas,’ he said, suddenly turning to look at her.
Dottie’s face coloured and she looked away quickly. She was glad the inside of the car was dark. ‘I hope we don’t get snowed in,’ she remarked light-heartedly.
‘I hope we do,’ he said and they both laughed.
Encourage him, Mary said. Dottie took a deep breath and her heart was in her mouth but she took a chance. She reached out and put her hand on his leg. She felt him stiffen. Oh God, she shouldn’t have done it. What would he think of her? She began to take her hand away but he reached out, caught it and put it back on his leg. Neither of them spoke but they drove for several miles with his hand pressed over hers.
His mother’s cottage looked as pretty as a picture postcard as they stepped out into the road. They hurried up the path. Dottie reached out for the doorbell but John caught her hand. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I’ve left something in the car.’
He took a few minutes to find whatever it was but eventually he ran back up the path. Although she was standing under the porch, the dormant rambling rose hanging over the roof afforded little protection from the prevailing wind. ‘Hurry up,’ she laughed, as she stamped her feet to keep warm. ‘It’s perishing cold here.’
He stopped short of the doorway and knelt on the ground.
‘What are you doing?’ she said; ever practical, added, ‘John, you’ll ruin your trousers.’
‘I love you, Dottie, darling,’ he said gravely. ‘Will you marry me?’
She caught her breath. The sight of him, kneeling on the freezing cold pathway, the snow falling steadily onto his upturned face was almost too much. He loved her … he loved her …
‘Oh, John, you’re beginning to look like a snowman,’ she laughed, afraid of the trembling passion rising in her veins.
&
nbsp; ‘Then put me out of my misery,’ he said, opening a small red box and holding it up to her. ‘Please say yes. It doesn’t have to be right away if you don’t want it. I’ll wait for as long as it takes, but please, please say you’ll marry me.’
She glanced down at the diamond ring, twinkling in the moonlight. The sighing of the wind through the bare rose bush seemed to echo Mary’s words. Just let him love you …
Shivering furiously, she looked into his dear, dear face. ‘Oh, yes, John, yes.’
With a broad grin, he slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand. It fitted perfectly. Then he stood up and opened out his coat. She went into his arms, the warmth of his body and his gentle kiss chasing away all the bitterness and sorrow of her cold and loveless yesterdays.
Acknowledgements
To Eve Blizzard, ever there with an encouraging word, my amazing editor, Kate Bradley, and my agent Juliet Burton – Juliet, you’re the best!
Read an Extract from Pack Up Your Troubles
Pack Up Your Troubles
Pam Weaver
VE Day 1945
One
By the time they reached Trafalgar Square, the sheer weight of the crowd forced the bus to a standstill. As the passengers turned around, the conductor gave them an exaggerated shrug and rang the bell three times. ‘Sorry folks, but this bus ain’t going no fuver.’
Irene Thompson and Connie Dixon had planned to go on to Buckingham Palace but they had to get off with the rest of the passengers. The bus couldn’t even get anywhere near the pavement but nobody minded. Today, everybody was happy; everyone that is except Connie who couldn’t hide her disappointment.
She had planned to be here with Emmett but he had written a hurried note, which she had stuffed into her shoulder bag as she left the billet. It was terse. ‘Can’t make the celebrations. Mother unwell and she needs me.’ She knew she shouldn’t be annoyed. Emmett was always keen to help others, and he was devoted to his aged mother but it was very galling that he should pick this moment to be noble, just when the celebrations were about to begin. He had said he would telephone her that evening but even if she got back to the barracks in time, she had made up her mind to be ‘out’ when he called. She frowned crossly. Why couldn’t he be like the others? Betty Tanner’s boyfriend brought her flowers all the time and Gloria’s man friend had given her a brand new lipstick. Emmett never did anything like that. It really was too bad.
‘Cheer up, Connie,’ Rene chided as she took her arm. ‘We’re making history. Don’t let Emmett spoil it for you. Be happy.’
As they stepped onto the road, Connie had never seen so many people all in one place. Soldiers, sailors and airmen, from what seemed like every country in the world, had been drawn here to join the people of London to welcome this much longed for day. After five years of war and hardship, peace had come at last. It was rumoured that Churchill and the King had wanted Monday, 7 May to be called VE Day, but the Yanks had insisted that it should be today, Tuesday, 8 May. Connie supposed it was because they were cautious enough to make sure that everything was signed and sealed before enjoying the victory. The German troops had capitulated and signed an unconditional surrender at Eisenhower’s headquarters at 2.41 a.m. Whatever the reason, the grey war-wearied faces had gone and Connie was met with smiles and handshakes from complete strangers. Ever since the news had broken that Adolf Hitler and his mistress had committed suicide, the whole nation finally believed what they had not dared to, that the war in Europe was over at last. The war in the Far East was still raging but the smell of victory was in the air.
The bus had come to a halt because an Aussie soldier, waving the Australian flag, his arm linked with a merchant seaman, was leading a group of revellers down the middle of the street. They were being watched by a couple of eagle-eyed Red Caps but there would be no trouble today. No one was in a fighting mood. The military police were in for a lean time. Even the US MPs – ‘Snowdrops’ as they were known because of their white caps, white Sam Browne belts and white gloves – were redundant. The joyful crowd following in the Aussie soldier’s wake was made up of American GIs, WAAFs, ATS girls and civilians all singing at the tops of their voices.
‘Bless ’em all, the long and the short …’
‘Come on,’ cried Rene as Connie held back, ‘let’s join in.’
An American GI caught Rene’s arm and pulled her into the body of moving people. ‘… this side of the ocean, so cheer up my lads bless ’em all.’
‘Oh Rene,’ cried Connie, ‘it’s really, really over.’
Picking up the lyrics, they lurched with the crowd towards Nelson’s column, the base of which was still covered in hoarding to protect it from bomb blasts even though the last air raid warning had been sounded on 19 March. Someone had stuck a poster on it with ‘Victory over Germany 1945’ on one side and ‘Give thanks by saving.’
Connie nudged Rene in the ribs and jerking her head, shouted over the noise, ‘Give thanks by saving? I should cocoa!’ and they both laughed.
After so much hardship and sacrifice, did the government really think everyone was going to keep on being frugal and sensible with their money? Some might, but not her. She was twenty-one and she’d already spent the best years of her life scrimping and making do, first in the munitions factory and then, after a spell of sick leave, in the WAAFs. Now that the war was over, Connie had no idea what she wanted to do but she was sure of one thing. She was in no mood to save for the future. Hadn’t she just blown all her coupons on her new outfit, a lovely pale lemon sweater and some grey pinstriped slacks? And then there was Emmett. She had hoped he would have asked her to marry him by now, but he hadn’t, presumably because he was anxious about his mother’s health. He’d asked her a few times to go further but Connie had told him she wasn’t that sort of a girl. Still, Rene was right. This was no time to nurse her disappointments. Today was the day to enjoy herself.
In the press of the crowd, Rene was standing on tiptoe to see if anything was happening. ‘We should have got away earlier,’ she grumbled good-naturedly. ‘There’s too many people here.’ Despite the noise all around her, Connie heard a distinct tap-tapping sound just behind her and froze. Someone was tapping his cigarette on a cigarette case. Her blood ran cold and her heartbeat quickened. A surge in the crowd made the woman beside push her and she apologised. ‘Sorry, luv.’
‘Has Churchill given his speech yet?’ Rene asked.
Connie listened hard. The person behind her clicked a cigarette case closed. It couldn’t be … could it? No, it was impossible. It would be far too much of a coincidence.
‘It was supposed to be at nine o’clock this morning,’ the woman went on, ‘but we’re still waiting.’ She rolled her eyes towards the lions. ‘They’ve been putting up speakers so that we can hear him but as for when that happens, your guess is as good as mine.’
‘You all right, Connie?’ said Rene. ‘You look a bit peaky.’
‘Three o’clock,’ said a man’s voice behind them. Connie turned sharply to look at him. Sure enough, he was putting his cigarette case into his inside jacket pocket and was reaching for a lighter. He lit the fag between his lips and took a long drag. ‘That’s what the copper on the steps told me,’ he went on. ‘Three o’clock.’
A wave of relief flooded over her. The man was old, forty or maybe fifty with greying hair and a tobacco-stained moustache. It was all right. It wasn’t him. Connie relaxed and looked at her watch. It was quarter past ten. A group of Girl Guides gathered together at the base of Nelson’s column and were turning around to face the crowd. If the authorities were planning to entertain them, the man must be right. Churchill wouldn’t be giving his speech for ages yet.
‘Rene!’ A girl’s voice rang out above the noise. ‘Rene Thompson, it’s me, Barbara.’
Rene searched the sea of faces and eventually spotted her friend waving as she came towards her. ‘Barbara Hopkins. Well, as I live and breathe. Fancy seeing you here!’
Laughing,
the two girls hugged each other. Barbara, dressed in her WAAF uniform, was thickset with very dark curly hair. The girl with her was dressed in civvies and hung back shyly.
‘I haven’t set eyes on you since our training,’ Rene cried happily and Barbara hugged her again. ‘Oooh, it’s so good to see you.’
They stepped apart and introduced everybody.
‘This is Eva O’Hara,’ said Barbara. Eva was tall but with an almost elfin-like face, and a lot of laughter lines around her eyes. She wore dark slacks and a pale blue hand-knitted jumper.
‘And this is Connie,’ said Rene. ‘We share the same billet.’ The hand shaking was soon over and somehow or other the girls had reached one of the fountains in the middle of the square. The day was warm and the water inviting and while Rene and Barbara caught up with old times, Connie, unable to resist, began to roll up the legs of her slacks. ‘Come on,’ she laughed. ‘Which one of you is game for a paddle?’
After a feeble protest from the others, Eva rolled up the legs of her slacks as well. As she climbed in, a sailor gave her a hand and then he rolled up his trouser legs and stepped in. The water was cold, but not unbearable, and it came just above their knees. The sailor and his mate, who joined them, were taller than Connie and Eva so there was less chance of them getting their clothes wet. The sailors were nice looking lads. One had brown Brylcreemed hair and a ready smile and the other one had fairer hair and slightly bucked teeth. He plonked his cap on Connie’s head as they stood together. The blond one carried a knobbly walking stick and Connie wondered if he had some sort of injury, but she didn’t like to ask. They all had to hold on to each other because the bottom of the fountain was covered in algae and a bit slippery. If they weren’t careful, they’d all be under the water and soaked. The singing grew louder.