by Pam Weaver
On her third evening at the Red Cross, Frankie was hailed as she pushed her bicycle out of the hospital grounds. It was Doreen Toms.
‘What are you doing here?’ Frankie asked as the two girls embraced.
‘Visiting my mother,’ said Doreen. ‘She’s on ward three.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ said Frankie.
Doreen gave her awkward smile. ‘Actually she has cancer. She’s dying.’
Frankie gasped. ‘Oh, Doreen, I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth.’
Doreen shook her head. ‘You weren’t to know. She’s been ill since May and in hospital since the beginning of the month. They tell me it won’t be long now.’
Frankie didn’t know what to say. She’d never really liked Mrs Toms but, for Doreen’s sake, it was upsetting to think of her as being so ill.
‘I wonder,’ said Doreen, ‘if you would come round to my place sometime. There’s something I’d like to show you.’
‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Frankie. ‘Do you want me to come now?’
‘Come Sunday,’ said Doreen. ‘About ten.’
They parted and Frankie biked home. Poor Mrs Toms. And poor old Doreen. Whatever would she do now? Presumably she’d have to move when her mother died. She’d never manage to pay the rent by herself. Besides, no landlord worth his salt would leave a young unmarried girl in two rooms on her own. Frankie hoped one of the church people would take her in. After all, isn’t that what was in the Bible? She frowned. Come at ten, Doreen had said. Wouldn’t she be going to church at that time? Her heart sank. Oh no, she wasn’t going to ask Frankie to go with her, was she?
*
Frankie felt a little nervous when Sunday morning came. She’d dressed with care. It probably wasn’t a good idea to go round to Doreen’s place dressed in old togs – not if there was a chance her friend would ask her to come to church. She didn’t exactly put on her best clothes but she did have a freshly ironed long-sleeved blouse, her Fair Isle cardigan and a box pleat skirt. Aunt Bet had baked some Sussex Plum Heavies and she sent a jar of blackberry and apple jelly to go with them. Frankie arrived just after ten. When she opened the door, Doreen looked very tired. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was very pale. She seemed surprised to see Frankie but quickly recovered. ‘Come in, come in.’
Immediately behind the front door was the sitting room. It was a rather stark room with an old-fashioned brown sofa and one easy chair. The walls were dark and badly in need of a make-over. There were no pictures and the fireplace contained a vase of dried flowers which were clearly years old and rather tatty. Frankie shivered.
‘This way,’ said Doreen. Frankie followed her across the threadbare mat and into the kitchen. A wall of heat met them. The kitchen was clinically clean but very old-fashioned. Doreen had the oven on and the door open to warm the room. ‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said bumping the oven door shut with her knee.
Frankie put her basket onto the kitchen table and took out Aunt Bet’s cake tin. ‘My aunt sent me with a gift,’ she said, sitting down at the table.
Doreen looked inside the tin. ‘How lovely!’ she cried. ‘I’ll get us some plates.’
While she busied herself laying the table, Frankie said, ‘How is your mother?’
Without faltering, Doreen said, ‘She died early this morning.’
Frankie was horrified. ‘Oh, Doreen, I’m so sorry. You should have said. I’ll go if you like?’
‘No!’ cried Doreen, her exclamation making them both jump. ‘Please don’t. I want you to stay. I’ve never been allowed to have a friend in my house before.’
Frankie blinked in surprise.
The tea made, Doreen sat at the table. ‘This looks lovely,’ she said helping herself from the tin. ‘I’m starving.’
Frankie couldn’t help looking around. Compared to Aunt Bet’s, the kitchen did seem awfully empty. There was nothing on the shelves but a door at the other end of the room made her think everything was in the pantry. Doreen was already eating. ‘This is delicious. Come on, tuck in.’
Frankie had already had a hearty breakfast and wasn’t particularly hungry so she took the smallest plum heavy and cut it in half. It crossed her mind that Doreen might suddenly break down, but so far there was no sign of it.
‘I haven’t seen you since Mum made me leave the florist,’ she said, spitting a few crumbs. ‘Are you still there?’
Frankie nodded. Despite her intention to stay for a year and then move on, she still worked at the shop. She was one of the chief florists now, sometimes taking charge of the really big occasions such as a wedding or a civic dinner.
‘And Mrs Waite? Is she still there?’
Frankie nodded again. ‘Still there.’
‘I don’t think she liked me much,’ said Doreen. ‘Although thinking about it, it was probably because of my mother. She always did rub people up the wrong way.’ She stopped eating and, lifting her head up to the ceiling, added, ‘I hope it was worth it, Mum.’
Frankie reached across the table for Doreen’s hand and gave her a little squeeze.
‘You know, when she died,’ Doreen said matter-of-factly, ‘I felt a sense of relief. Do you think that is wicked?’
‘No, of course not,’ Frankie said gently.
‘Well, I don’t care if it is,’ Doreen said defiantly as she reached for another plum heavy. ‘It was a happy release for Mum when it came and as for me, for the first time in my life, I can do what I want, when I want.’
Frankie watched her as she slapped the jelly onto the two halves then bit into the crumbly cake. ‘Is there anyone you can stay with, Doreen?’
‘Like who?’ Doreen challenged. ‘My mother fell out with my whole family and the neighbours stopped speaking to us years ago.’
Frankie sipped her tea. ‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Apparently I have to register the death,’ said Doreen, catching a stray crumb from the corner of her mouth, ‘but I can’t do that until tomorrow.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Frankie asked. ‘I can get the time off work.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Doreen said brightly. She blew out her cheeks and leaned back in her chair. ‘That was scrummy. Thank you and please say thank you to your aunt.’
Frankie waved her hand dismissively. They sat in silence until Frankie became very aware of the ticking clock. ‘What will you do afterwards? Once everything is settled, that is.’
Doreen blew out her cheeks again. ‘Well, I can’t stay here. My job won’t cover the rent and everything else. I guess I’ll have to look for a live-in job somewhere.’
It all sounded very bleak to Frankie.
‘You know, there is one thing,’ said Doreen. ‘You remember the last time we met, I told you that my mother took something from your house the day she died?’
‘You said it was some tarot cards,’ said Frankie.
‘That’s right,’ said Doreen.
‘Did you actually see them?’ Frankie asked. ‘Only, my aunt was very surprised when I told her. She said my mother would never have something like that.’
Doreen shrugged and pulled the corners of her mouth down. ‘My mother was convinced that was what was inside. I only saw the box itself. It was gold with a little yellow star on it.’
‘That’s right,’ Frankie cried. Now she remembered the little box in question. She’d never seen her mother open it but it had stood on the mantelpiece next to the candle in a stick, kept there in case of a power cut.
‘My mother wouldn’t have the box in the house,’ Doreen went on. ‘So she buried it.’
‘Buried it?’ Frankie squeaked.
Doreen nodded. ‘She did it that night when I was in bed. She never realised I was watching her from behind the bedroom curtains. I know exactly where it is.’
Frankie felt her jaw drop.
Doreen rose to her feet. ‘Come on. One good turn deserves another. Let’s go out and dig it up.’
Twenty minutes la
ter, they found it. It was a little further along the flower bed than Doreen remembered, which was hardly surprising considering six years had passed since she’d watched her mother bury it. She handed it to Frankie. ‘There you are,’ she said triumphantly. ‘At least I can put one wrong right. Your mother was very kind to me.’
Frankie gripped the tin and brushed off the excess dirt. The lid came off easily but there were no cards inside. As soon as she saw what was there, a tear sprang to Frankie’s eye. She was looking at two buttons, the same size and colour as the ones on the bodice on the princess doll.
‘Oh!’ cried Doreen. ‘I remember your mum made you that beautiful dolly for your birthday. Those buttons were on her jacket, weren’t they?’
Frankie nodded.
‘Do you still have it?’ Doreen asked.
‘Yes,’ said Frankie, but she didn’t have the heart to tell Doreen that when she’d started feeling so angry with her mother for pretending the princess story was true, she had shoved it in a bottom drawer.
Fourteen
Frankie couldn’t stop thinking about her friend Barbara. They had parted on bad terms and apart from a couple of times at the end of the summer when she’d seen her walking around the town on Conrad’s arm, she hadn’t seen her since. When she had called at Barbara’s house a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to get an answer, so Frankie wondered if she and her mother had moved somewhere safer. The summer season was over. Conrad had moved on. Had Barbara gone with him? Frankie had written to her a couple of times but she’d never had a reply so she decided to go back to her house once more.
Barbara lived with her mother in a small terraced house in Kingsland Road. It had a tiny front garden and a striped curtain in front of the front door to protect the paintwork from the sun. When Frankie knocked this time, Mrs Vickers opened the door. She was wearing a cross-over apron but Frankie could see that she’d put on a bit of weight since she last saw her. She was friendly enough when Frankie asked after Barbara but she didn’t invite her in.
‘Sorry, dear, Barbara isn’t here,’ said Mrs Vickers. ‘She’s gone to Lewisham to look after my sister.’
‘Oh,’ said Frankie, surprised. ‘When will she be back?’
‘She’ll be gone a while, I’m afraid,’ said Mrs Vickers. She began to close the door. ‘I’ll tell her you called.’
Puzzled, Frankie turned to go. As she shut the little gate, a movement at the upstairs window made her look up. There was no one there but the net curtain was moving. How odd.
*
Doreen was still in her old home. Her mother’s funeral, held in the meeting hall where they had worshipped, was a cold affair in more ways than one. For a start there was no heating at all so everyone shivered in the damp atmosphere even though they still wore their outdoor coats. The room itself was cheerless with bare walls and very little light; the windows so high up it was impossible to see out. When Frankie mentioned it to Doreen, her friend told her it had been built that way so that the worshippers wouldn’t be distracted by the outside world while they said their prayers.
Frankie was made to sit with a small group of other people who were strangers to the assembly; people who were made up of Doreen’s neighbours and the lady from the grocery shop. They were bunched together as ‘unbelievers’ which was hardly welcoming and made Frankie feel awkward and uncomfortable.
Nobody spoke to them. So apart from a limp lettuce handshake from a big woman with a sour expression at the door, she had no contact with the mourners. There was no eulogy and the sermon was sprinkled with liberal doses of hell, judgement and damnation. Doreen sat on the front row sandwiched between the leader and the big woman who turned out to be his wife. After the burial, they ate a few meagre sandwiches in the same hall, which by now had all the chairs pushed against the wall.
Doreen had been given notice to vacate the rooms she and her mother had shared and although she planned to join the armed forces, she hadn’t done so yet. She was also under immense pressure from the deaconate and the leaders of her mother’s church not to join up. War, they told her, was sin, and killing the enemy was the same as murder. It was common knowledge that women weren’t to be sent to fight so although Doreen listened, she hadn’t the strength to argue.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe,’ she told Frankie later, ‘it’s just that I want to have a life of my own.’
‘And why shouldn’t you?’ Frankie said stoutly.
Now that she had nowhere to live, the members of the group wanted her to stay with the church leader and his wife but much to their disapproval, Aunt Bet had said she would take her in on a temporary basis.
‘That girl,’ the leader’s wife had said to Doreen in ringing tones, ‘is very worldly. She uses a man’s name.’ She curled her lip in disdain. ‘Frankie. What sort of a name is that for a young girl? She wears lipstick and I’ve seen her in man’s apparel.’ She curled her lip and added disapprovingly, ‘Trousers! You mark my words. That girl will lead you astray.’
When they’d gone, it was obvious from the look on her face that Doreen dreaded having to be with them.
*
Sidney Knight had had an answer to his prayer. Not that he ever actually prayed, but if he had done, this would have been a miracle. Another postal order had dropped onto the mat and with it a short note to apologise for the delay. It was much larger than usual; three figures, no less. With no race meetings in the foreseeable future, it would certainly come in handy, but then some do-gooder turned up at the door and asked him to take in lodgers. ‘Part of the war effort,’ she said, ticking his name off a list on her clipboard.
‘I can’t have anybody until the repairs are done,’ he said.
The busy-body remained at the bottom of the stairs. By the expression on her face, he knew she could smell the stink so it came as no surprise when she said she’d come back when the guttering was fixed.
That weekend Sid blew the lot on the dog track.
*
When she moved in at the farm, Doreen had a camp bed in Frankie’s room, but it was far from ideal. The room was far too small for two people. They were constantly stepping over one another’s things, but Doreen assured everyone that it was sheer heaven.
In the end, it was Frankie who saved the day. They were having their tea break at her Red Cross class, when her partner Margery happened to mention that her evacuees were going back home to London.
‘Their mother misses them,’ she explained. ‘And seeing as how Hitler hasn’t bombed us yet, she thinks she may as well have her children with her.’
Mrs Kerridge called everybody back to the practice and Frankie put their empty teacups into the hatch. ‘You’ll miss them,’ she said as she lay on the floor to begin their practising.
‘I most certainly will,’ Margery went on. ‘It sounds silly but since they came it’s made me realise just how lonely I’ve been.’
They were taking it in turns to practise the prone-pressure method of trying to rescue a person who had been involved in a drowning accident. Frankie lay on her tummy with her head on her forearms and closed her eyes while Margery applied pressure to the small of her back and counted up to eight. When she reached eight, Margery ran her fingers down Frankie’s arms and pulled them forward as she continued counting to twelve. After that, she started all over again.
‘Will you take another lodger?’ Frankie asked as they swapped places.
Margery pulled a face. ‘If I could find the right person I might.’
‘How about a seventeen-year-old girl who has just lost her mum?’ said Frankie, and noting the look of horror on Margery’s face she added quickly, ‘No, not me, my friend Doreen. She’s trustworthy and honest and she’d be no trouble.’
‘Come on, you two,’ Mrs Kerridge interrupted. ‘Stop chatting. You’ve got a drowning woman to save.’
As their instructor moved on to check up on the other students, Margery and Frankie exchanged a naughty grin.
‘Tell her to come and see me,
’ Margery whispered.
And it didn’t end there. Once Mrs Waite knew she was looking for work, she was only too pleased to offer Doreen her old job back. One of her florists had joined the WAAFs and another had moved to Scotland in the hope that it would be safer, so there was a vacant position for Doreen at the shop.
*
The one thing Frankie had never addressed during all those weeks was how she’d felt when Doreen returned her mother’s box. She’d thanked her friend, but wouldn’t be drawn into a conversation about it. She didn’t even mention it to Aunt Bet when she got home, although she did take it to the bathroom with her and clean it off. Seeing the buttons again made her want to get the doll out of the bottom drawer but somehow she never found the courage to pull it open. She guessed that the buttons must have come from a card of six. Four were on the doll’s bodice-cum-waistcoat and the two had been saved in the box as spares.
Frankie put the box into her underwear drawer and covered it over. She went to sleep watching the drawer but her emotions were completely shut down. She wasn’t angry with her mother any more, but she still didn’t like what she’d done. It felt too much like telling lies to just forget about it. She told herself she wouldn’t have been so upset if it had been made clear that the princess story was made-up, but the fact that her mother let her go on believing it was true until she was ten years old was insulting. It was as bad as insisting that there really is a Father Christmas. She sighed. Perhaps she was still angry with her mother after all.