Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  Barbara shook her head. ‘Not too well, I’m afraid.’ She paused then added, ‘I may have to look after Derek if she gets any worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Frankie.

  Barbara sighed and laid her hand across her stomach. ‘Oh Frankie,’ she said her eyes glistening with excitement, ‘I want you to be the first to know. I think I’m having another baby.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Frankie cried. ‘What does Norman think of that?’

  ‘He doesn’t know yet,’ Barbara said. ‘I’ve only missed my country cousins twice but I’m already beginning to feel queasy in the morning.’

  Frankie leaned over and squeezed Barbara’s clasped hands resting on her lap. ‘I’m so thrilled for you.’

  They fell silent for a moment.

  ‘How is Lillian?’

  ‘Doing well,’ said Frankie her smile warming again. ‘She’s already five, would you believe?’

  ‘And what about Ed? Has he asked you to marry him yet?’

  Frankie nodded. ‘Quite a few times.’

  ‘Oh Frankie,’ said Barbara squeezing her hand, ‘You can’t keep putting him off forever.’

  ‘I know,’ Frankie said miserably, ‘I love him and I know he’s wonderful but something holds me back.’

  ‘It’s Romare, isn’t it?’ said Barbara. ‘Don’t be silly, darling. He would have wanted you and Lillian to be happy.’

  Frankie nodded.

  They looked up as a woman wearing a dark brown coat who sat further along the row was called into a room and they watched her go until the door was shut.

  ‘I wonder what this is all about?’ Frankie mused. ‘They told me they’ve found a letter of mine. I’m hoping it’s from Romare. Apparently he wrote one to be sent to me in the event of his death but I never got it.’

  ‘Someone told me it’s something to do with that robbery in 1944,’ said Barbara. ‘I read about it in the paper. Some men clearing a house found some mail bags in the attic.’

  ‘Basement,’ the woman sitting next to them corrected. ‘They found the mail bags in the coal hole down in the basement.’ She frowned. ‘My neighbour says they found something else in the attic.’

  ‘Have they arrested the robber?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘He died years ago,’ said the woman. ‘The house was derelict for ages and then somebody bought it. That’s when they found the mail bags. Been there for years, so I’m told.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just post them on?’ said Frankie.

  ‘Search me,’ said the woman.

  The door opened and the woman in the dark brown coat came out. The colour in her cheeks was high but she was dry-eyed. They watched her as she stood in the corridor for a few seconds and then she tore an envelope into several pieces before dropping it into a waste paper basket and walked away. Barbara could feel that sense of foreboding descending again.

  The door to the same room opened again and Barbara’s name was called.

  She stood up shakily. ‘Frankie, there’s a kiosk at the end of Sea Lane. I’ll meet you there afterwards, okay?’

  Frankie nodded and Barbara walked towards the door. At the same time, a policeman came out of another room further along the corridor and called Frankie’s name. Barbara turned and gave her friend an anxious look.

  The kiosk at the end of Sea Lane was little more than a wooden hut with some public toilets attached. As Frankie crossed the road she spotted Barbara a little further along sitting on a wooden seat overlooking the sea. She was leaning forward and her shoulders were shaking so Frankie guessed she was crying.

  A moment later she was sitting beside her old friend. ‘All right?’

  It was obvious Barbara wasn’t all right but it announced her arrival. Frankie’s old friend lifted her tear-stained face and blew her nose. Frankie tried to work out what had happened. Had Conrad sent a letter asking her to marry him? If he had Barbara would be in an absolute spin. She’d married Norman on the rebound, that was true, but would she divorce him? Would he even let her go now she was pregnant? Frankie moved closer and put her arm around Barbara’s shoulders.

  ‘Was the letter from Conrad?’ she asked gently.

  Barbara nodded.

  Frankie struggled to find the right words. ‘I …’

  ‘It was awful,’ Barbara blurted out. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been such an idiot.’

  Frankie frowned. ‘So he didn’t want to marry you?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘He never did,’ said Barbara. ‘Look.’

  Frankie stared at the screwed up piece of paper in Barbara’s hand as she held it out to her. ‘Are you sure you want me to read it?’ she began. ‘After all, it’s very personal.’

  Barbara scoffed. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, her voice brittle. ‘It’s personal all right but you can read it. I want you to.’

  Reluctantly Frankie took it from her.

  For God’s sake Barbara stop sending me these bloody letters. What we had was nothing more than a bit of fun, that’s all. I never promised you anything and if you’ve got yourself in the family way, that’s your look out. You’re nothing more than a silly little tart with stars in your eyes. I’ve told my agent if you send any more letters he’s to put them in the bin. Now leave me alone and grow up! Conrad

  Frankie handed it back to her. What a nasty piece of work Conrad Merriman had been. She knew he was selfish and unthinking but to write a letter like that when a young girl had written to tell him she’d had his baby was nauseatingly nasty, spiteful and cruel. ‘Barbara, Norman is worth ten thousand of him.’

  ‘I know,’ Barbara wept. ‘Oh Frankie, I’ve been an utter chump, haven’t I?’

  Frankie resisted the temptation to agree. ‘You were young,’ she said. ‘He filled your head with dreams of Hollywood and all that. You’re not to blame.’

  ‘Well, I think I am,’ Barbara said firmly. ‘I’ve been an absolute idiot.’ She blew her nose again. ‘Well, I’m a changed woman. From now on, I shall live my life as a devoted wife.’

  ‘I never liked to mention it,’ Frankie confessed, ‘but I saw an article in Picturegoer not so long ago saying that Conrad had got married just after the war. Apparently they kept it secret because he didn’t want his fans to know. I should have told you; sorry. I wasn’t sure whether it was true.’

  Barbara sighed. ‘That explains a lot.’

  They both fell silent, each lost for a moment in her own thoughts. ‘What did they mean when they said your letter had been seen by a third party?’ Frankie asked.

  Barbara shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I forgot to ask them. When they gave it to me it had been opened. The police think the thief was looking for money, but perhaps someone else read it before they told the police but I’m only guessing. What about you?’

  ‘I knew him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The thief. He was my old landlord and he was living in my mother’s place,’ said Frankie. ‘And it doesn’t end there. That woman was right. When the police searched the whole house, they found a body in the attic.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ cried Barbara. ‘Whose?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Was it one of his lodgers?’

  ‘He never had any,’ said Frankie. ‘Not since my mother died anyway. Perhaps because he didn’t want anyone finding the body.’

  ‘But that’s awful,’ said Barbara.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Frankie, leaning forward and putting her head in her hands. ‘You don’t think he had something to do with my mum’s death, do you?’

  ‘He could have done, I suppose,’ said Barbara putting her arm around Frankie. ‘You always said he was a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘I know,’ said Frankie with a nod. ‘It seems he’d been stealing money that rightfully belonged to my mother for years.’

  ‘Oh Frankie.’

  ‘The thing that puzzles me,’ said Frankie, ‘is that I haven’t the vaguest clue where that money was coming from.’

  *


  In the church of St Mary of the Angels, a lone priest knelt before the high altar. He was deep in prayer. No one could hear the words he said, but he said them from a heart overflowing with gratitude. A prayer he had prayed every week since 1946 when he’d heard the confession of a dying man in Worthing hospital had been answered at last. The body had been found.

  Forty-Five

  Frankie had to wait until Lillian was in bed before she could share what had happened that day. She still lived at North Farm. A couple of years ago, when she was at last in a position to buy a place of her own, Aunt Bet began having trouble with her arthritis. Sometimes her fingers were so stiff she could hardly move them, especially when the weather was damp. Frankie didn’t say anything to her because she was such a dear she would have insisted Frankie go, but she’d made up her mind to stay at the farm and take on some of the heavier work. Uncle Lorry was slowing up as well so he had let the big greenhouse go and they had fewer chickens and geese than they’d had in the old days. He was happy to potter about the camp site making sure the visitors had everything they needed and chatting to anyone who had a moment to stop and listen.

  Frankie had three other camps dotted around the area now and they brought in a good income. She’d got hold of a few more 1930s caravans and done them up so that people who didn’t fancy camping in tents could have a few more home comforts instead. She knew this frugal type of holiday experience wouldn’t last. The good times were just around the corner, so they said, and with that in mind she had scrimped and scraped to buy a couple of parcels of land in the area. Housing was a top priority now that the war had ended so there was talk of large scale building in and around Worthing, Durrington and Broadwater. If she didn’t have the wherewithal to build houses, she could sell her land to the highest bidder when the time came. Frankie was determined to provide as best she could for her daughter.

  Ed usually came round most evenings and today was no exception. After she’d read Lillian a bedtime story, Frankie joined everyone at the kitchen table over a cup of tea and they listened wide-eyed as she told them about Sidney Knight, the body in the attic and the stolen money.

  ‘Have you any idea who that person might be?’ Frankie asked Aunt Bet.

  ‘None at all, my dear. Your mother had no men friends as far as I know and she certainly had no time for Sidney Knight.’

  ‘I never liked him either,’ Frankie observed. ‘I’ve no idea who the person in the attic is but I remember when Romare was alive we walked round to see my old home. Sidney came up behind us and he said something really weird.’

  Aunt Bet frowned. ‘What was that, lovey?

  ‘It’s a long time ago,’ said Frankie trying to recall his exact words, ‘but it was something like, “I put a stop to that Russian.”’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’ Ed wanted to know and Frankie nodded.

  ‘Never liked that Sidney Knight,’ said Uncle Lorry. ‘He was a lazy sod and a terrible gambler. Ended up in prison more than once.’

  ‘The thing that puzzles me is the money,’ said Frankie. ‘Everybody told me my mother lived hand to mouth.’

  ‘So she did,’ Aunt Bet said stoutly.

  ‘Then what was all this about?’ She took some things from a buff coloured envelope and handed them around. The police had kept most of the evidence (as they called it) but they had let Frankie keep a couple of envelopes and her mother’s old Post Office Savings book. A cheque for fifty pounds had been paid into it in 1932. The family looked over the entry in bewilderment. ‘There were other cheques,’ Frankie went on. ‘They did get less over the years but they were still coming.’

  ‘So what happened to them?’ Ed asked.

  ‘It looks like Sidney created a false name and had them paid into his own account,’ Frankie went on. ‘He called himself Mr Sherwood-Knight and altered the name on the cheques.’

  ‘Good God!’ Uncle Lorry exclaimed.

  ‘I seem to remember that when old Mr Knight died, Sidney was quite well off,’ said Aunt Bet.

  ‘He was,’ said Frankie. ‘There was another house and money in his father’s bank account but the police reckon that over the years he gambled it all away.’

  ‘Frankie,’ said Ed. ‘Did your mother have anything of value? Anything at all?’

  Frankie shook her head. ‘All she left me was the doll she made for my birthday.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Frankie looked puzzled. ‘Why? What could that have to do with all this?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ed, ‘but she obviously had something which was still bringing in money. Perhaps I’m barking up the wrong tree but I wonder if that doll might give us some sort of clue.’

  Frankie rose to her feet with a sigh. ‘I put it in the loft years ago,’ she said, ‘when Lillian was born. I thought she might damage it so I put it up there to give to her when she’s older. It might take me a while to find.’

  ‘Do you want me to help?’ Ed suggested.

  Frankie nodded. ‘It might be quicker with two of us.’

  They found torches and pulled the loft ladder down. It was hot and musty up there but once they’d switched on the electric light bulb Uncle Lorry had put up there just after the war, it was a lot easier to see what they were doing. Frankie soon found the box with the doll inside but before she went back down, Ed took the opportunity to take her in his arms and kiss her. Frankie yielded herself but it didn’t take long for the old feelings of disquiet to crowd in. ‘We’d better not keep them waiting too long,’ she quipped light-heartedly, ‘or they’ll both be up here wondering what we’re doing.’

  They made their way downstairs. Back at the kitchen table, Frankie got the doll out of the box. Despite the fact that she was wrapped in blue tissue paper, her petticoat had little brown spots on it and Frankie’s heart lurched with disappointment as she saw it.

  ‘I’d forgotten how pretty she was,’ said Aunt Bet.

  ‘But look at all those horrible brown spots,’ Frankie wailed.

  ‘A drop of lemon juice or some white vinegar will soon cure that,’ said Aunt Bet.

  Frankie smoothed the crumpled dress down and stroked the doll’s hair. Ed was looking in the box again and lifting the last of the tissue paper out, he picked up a small book. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘My mother used to tell me stories,’ said Frankie. ‘I thought they were real but then I found that book and realised they were all made up.’

  Ed was thumbing through the pages. ‘Have you ever read it?’

  Frankie shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘You should have done,’ he said. ‘I think your mother wrote it.’

  Frankie frowned. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she said good naturedly. ‘It says on the front by Daisy Alexander.’

  Ed held the book open on a page near the front where the publisher’s name and other information was listed. He pointed to a line in minuscule print which said ‘Daisy Alexander is the pseudonym of Moira Sherwood’. Frankie’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘That’s where the money was coming from, Frankie!’ he said. ‘Your mother was a children’s author.’

  ‘What!’ cried Aunt Bet, taking the book from them and looking for herself. ‘I don’t believe it. She always told a good story, but I had no idea she’d actually got a story published. Well, I never.’

  Frankie gasped and her eyes filled with tears. ‘I was so upset when I found this book,’ she said, her voice thick with emotion. ‘In my heart I called her a cheat and a liar.’ Her lip trembled. ‘I didn’t know. I didn’t understand.’

  Aunt Bet rubbed her niece’s forearm. ‘Don’t take on so, lovey,’ she said gently. ‘She had us all fooled and it’s all water under the bridge now.’

  ‘But I feel so terrible,’ Frankie said. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’

  ‘It’s all right, my dear,’ said Aunt Bet. ‘It’s just between ourselves. Your mother never knew what you were thinking and it was only natural.’

  Ed, who had been lookin
g closely at the doll, suddenly got up from the table and went to his jacket hanging on the hook by the door. He came back with his jeweller’s loupe and picked up the doll again.

  ‘What is it?’ Frankie asked.

  Ed held up the doll and examined the buttons on the bodice. ‘You won’t believe this,’ he said with a smile, ‘but these aren’t glass buttons. They’ve got diamond chips around the edge and the little red stone in the middle is a ruby. They’re not worth a fortune but they will bring you a tidy sum. Have you got any more?’

  When he looked up, all three of them were staring at him open-mouthed. Eventually Frankie jumped up. ‘There are two more,’ she said. ‘I put them in an old trinket box on my dressing table.’ She left the table and ran upstairs. A couple of minutes later, she reappeared with two tiny and very dusty buttons.

  Ed examined them. ‘Would you like me to get them properly valued?’

  Frankie nodded vigorously and then she put her hand over her mouth and burst out laughing. A moment later, they were all laughing.

  ‘I’ll make some more tea,’ said Aunt Bet getting to her feet.

  ‘Tea?’ Uncle Lorry scornfully. ‘This calls for a celebration.’ And he reached into the bottom of the kitchen cupboard for the whiskey bottle and some sherry.

  *

  Frankie felt slightly mellow as she climbed into bed and pulled up the bedclothes but she didn’t turn off the light. Not just yet. The one thing she hadn’t told any of them, not Aunt Bet, Uncle Lorry, Ed or Barbara was that she had been given something else that day. As soon as she saw it, her heart had leapt in her chest and it had been hard not to cry out or indicate how much it meant to her. She had recognised the handwriting instantly even after all these years. It was Romare’s letter and she wanted to read and savour it privately. She leaned back against her propped pillows and slipped a paper knife under the opening at the back. Her eyes were already filled with tears and she could almost hear his voice. Her thoughts went back to the first time she’d seen him when he’d run into the ward as Mr Hills was doing his rounds. She had loved him from that moment.