Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  The paper was thin. Air mail paper.

  My darling

  The fact that you are reading these words can only mean one thing – that I am no longer on God’s earth. It is what it is. I can only imagine the heartache you must be feeling right now and my only comfort is that it will not be long, even if you live to be a hundred, before we shall be together for all eternity. I write this because I want you to know how wonderful it has been to have your love and later on today to be your husband and lover, your friend and confidant. You have enriched my life in so many ways and my heart is full. My lovely English Rose, you mean more to me than life itself and although right now you are grieving I don’t want you stay in that sad place. It pleases me to think of you being happy with someone else. You are not a person to stay alone, to grow old in widow’s weeds. Promise me that you will embrace life in all its fullness. Find a new love. Be happy. Whatever has become of me, I am not unhappy. I have had the greatest gift of all. I have been loved unconditionally by a wonderful person – and that person is you my darling. Put this sadness behind you and go out into a new morning, a new beginning with a new love.

  Thank you my precious girl and may God bless you always. Goodnight sweetheart.

  All my love,

  Romare

  Frankie read and re-read the letter several times before she was ready to lay down. She had always known Romare was someone special and now she had it in writing. As she pushed the letter back into the envelope something stopped it going back in. She looked inside. There was a small photograph blocking the way. She pulled it out and the tears flowed. There he was; her lovely husband of just one day, smiling up at her. He looked so young, so handsome. She turned the photograph over and through her tears she could just pick out an address. At the top he had written, My mother’s address. If you have a moment please write to her.

  Forty-Six

  Worthing hospital, August 1950

  Barbara had been called to the hospital. Her mother was dying. Mrs Vickers lay on her pillows, pale and sickly looking, her eyes hollow and dark rimmed. Incapable of speech now, she breathed noisily through her mouth. Barbara held her mother’s hand, the most intimate thing she had done in many a long year. As she waited for the inevitable, Barbara reflected on the course of her life and what her mother had done. Since receiving Conrad’s letter she was finally able to look at the whole thing with different eyes. For years, she hadn’t been sure that Mrs Vickers pretending to be the one who was pregnant was done out of love. Knowing how paranoid her mother was about scandal, it seemed more like an act of self-preservation, but having said that, it had given Barbara a chance to find the security of marriage and a life of her own. Perhaps Norman would never have asked her to marry him, had he known the truth about Derek. Without her mother she would have been labelled at best ‘easy’ and at worse a ‘tart’, and Derek would have been consigned to a children’s home with only a vague hope of adoption.

  When the nurse came around the screen to check her mother’s condition, Mrs Vickers let out a long sigh. The nurse waited a moment or two, and then looked at Barbara with a sad expression and said, ‘I’m afraid she’s gone.’

  Derek was all alone in the waiting room. Barbara’s heart constricted as he lifted his tear-stained face towards her. He was ten years old, a bright child with his father’s good looks. Barbara’s own father had walked out on her mother soon after the war. Barbara guessed he must have realised Derek wasn’t his child and the fact that her mother had no time for anyone else other than the child probably drove the final nail in the coffin of their marriage. Barbara hadn’t seen him from that day until this but she had heard on the grapevine that he had a new wife and family.

  Barbara sidled up to her son and put his arm around his shoulders.

  ‘Is Mummy going to die?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s already gone,’ Barbara said gently, even though when he called his grandmother mummy it had cut her like a knife.

  They sat together for some time and then he said, ‘Will I come and live with you now?’

  She hadn’t asked Norman and the birth of their own baby was only a couple of months away but Barbara was confident enough to say, ‘Of course you will.’ And she felt the boy relax in her arms.

  ‘You keep looking at me in a funny way.’

  Ed had taken Frankie and Lillian to Devil’s Dyke for the day. Although late in the year, it was gloriously sunny. They had loaded his car with a picnic hamper and a rug. Lillian had brought her little friend Susan along so while the girls ran around or played with a bat and ball, the adults had time to relax and enjoy some peace and quiet.

  Frankie grinned. ‘I was thinking just how lucky I am.’

  When Ed had picked them up he had told her that the little buttons were in fact melee diamonds. ‘They’re very small,’ he had said, ‘maybe only two or two point five carats but the clarity is good with very little natural colour showing through.’

  ‘So what does that mean?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘I shall have to put them through a diamond sifter to be really accurate,’ he went on, ‘but I think I can safely say you could get several hundred pounds should you want to sell them.’

  Frankie’s eyes had grown large. ‘Would I have enough to travel a long way?’

  Ed had looked a little puzzled but he said, ‘Yes. Would Australia and back be far enough?’

  ‘I don’t think I want to go that far but I might like to go to America.’ She watched his face fall then added, ‘I never told you but I was given something else that day I went to the Post Office.’ She reached into her handbag and drew out Romare’s letter. ‘It’s the very last letter my husband ever wrote. I’d like you to read it because it directly affects you as well.’

  As he took it, she rose to her feet and called the girls. ‘Who wants an ice cream?’

  Ten minutes later, Frankie rejoined Ed on the picnic rug. The girls were sitting on a bench next to the ice cream van with their sixpenny wafers. Ed handed the letter back.

  ‘I’ve been a bit of an idiot,’ Frankie began.

  ‘No, not at all,’ Ed interrupted.

  ‘Oh I have,’ Frankie insisted. ‘Let me tell you, please.’

  He nodded.

  Frankie was staring at the blanket as she spoke. ‘I realised after I’d read his letter that I was scared,’ she went on. ‘I adored my mother and she died. I adored my husband and he died. There was always a finger of suspicion over my mother’s death and I know for sure that poor Romare was murdered. I think I’ve always been terrified that if I fell in love again history would repeat itself.’ She looked up at him. ‘I tried very hard not to love you. That’s why I always pushed you away.’

  ‘Oh Frankie,’ he said softly.

  ‘I don’t know why you’ve hung around all this time,’ she continued, ‘but if the offer is still there, I should love to be your wife, Ed. Apart from my daughter, you mean more to me than anyone else in the world.’

  The next moment she was in his arms and he was kissing her tenderly, lovingly, hungrily. He only stopped when they heard a little voice say, ‘Ugh, what are you doing?’ and they looked up to see Lillian, her face covered in ice cream, standing above them. Frankie and Ed burst out laughing. Frankie sat up and reached in her handbag for a handkerchief to clean her daughter up. ‘I was telling Uncle Ed how much I love him.’

  ‘Your mummy and I are going to get married,’ said Ed.

  Lillian stared at him steadily and for a moment Frankie’s heart sank.

  ‘Uncle Ed will be your daddy,’ she ventured.

  Lillian looked from one to the other, her expression unchanged. ‘Does that mean I can be your bridesmaid?’

  Frankie laughed again and said, ‘We’d love you to be our bridesmaid.’

  After a service in Broadwater parish church, they buried Mrs Vickers in the cemetery at Durrington. It was a dull day with drizzly patches. After the burial they met in Barbara’s beautiful home in Ardsheal Road for the wake.
There were only a few mourners: Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry, Frankie and Ed, Barbara herself, and Norman. Alice, Barbara’s daily woman, waited on them and they spent a pleasant hour eating dainty sandwiches in the sitting room overlooking the rain-swept garden. They shared their memories of Mrs Vickers but the sad thoughts soon passed as they talked about the future and especially Frankie’s forthcoming marriage. Barbara was very excited for them. ‘Wait until I’ve had the baby, won’t you,’ she teased. ‘I don’t want to look like a beached whale in the wedding photographs.’

  ‘It won’t be until after Christmas,’ said Frankie. ‘Ed has business in Germany.’

  ‘Weird, isn’t it,’ Aunt Bet remarked. ‘Five minutes ago we were at war with them and now you’re doing business with them.’ And everyone nodded sagely.

  As they parted, Frankie and Barbara were alone in the hallway.

  ‘Will you tell Derek that you’re his mother now that his grandmother has gone?’ Frankie whispered when she and Barbara were out of earshot of everyone.

  Barbara shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she said. ‘And anyway, Norman has suggested that we might adopt him.’

  ‘Oh Barbara,’ said Frankie, grasping her hands in delight.

  ‘I told Norman everything after I got that awful letter. It was such a weight off my shoulders.’

  ‘And was he all right about it?’

  Barbara smiled. ‘He said he’d guessed Derek was my child.’

  Frankie took in her breath. ‘Never!’

  Barbara nodded. ‘Apparently it was the way I looked at him that gave me away.’

  ‘And now he’s willing to adopt him,’ said Frankie. Barbara nodded again. ‘Oh how wonderful,’ Frankie went on. ‘What a lovely man he is. What does Derek think? Have you asked him?’

  ‘Actually he’s very excited about it.’

  Frankie gave her friend a hug and whispered into her hair, ‘See? You’ve got your boy back after all,’ and they parted after giving each other a knowing smile.

  *

  About a week later, Frankie was over at the caravan site near Highdown Hill when a police car pulled up outside her office. She had been cleaning out the static caravans ready for a new influx of visitors due to arrive later in the afternoon. It always amazed her how different people were. Some visitors left their caravan looking like a pig sty whilst others had obviously taken a lot of trouble to make sure their accommodation was left as they had found it. She had a ‘full house’ this weekend but this would probably be the last lot. It was already late October and the weather was definitely much cooler, especially in the evenings. Rather than lazing in deck chairs in the sun, the few visitors she had now enjoyed brisk walks on the hill to admire the autumn colours.

  ‘Your aunt told us you’d be here,’ said the man, who had introduced himself as Detective Inspector Wallis, a thick-set man with a mass of untidy hair and wearing a raincoat. He and his colleague, Sergeant Heaton, tall and very thin, shook hands with her.

  Frankie invited them into the office. ‘It’s about the body in the attic of Sidney Knight’s house,’ DI Wallis began as they all sat. ‘We have identified the man in question. His name was Ivan Yelchin. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  Frankie shook her head thoughtfully.

  ‘He’s not a relative of yours?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Frankie.

  Sergeant Heaton leaned forward in his chair. ‘Perhaps he was a friend of your mother’s?’

  Again Frankie shook her head. ‘Don’t forget I was only ten when my mother died, but I think I would have remembered someone with a name like that. Have you any idea why he was there?’

  DI Wallis shook his head. ‘We can only hazard a guess. Why he died is a mystery but we believe that Sidney Knight had something to do with it.’

  ‘Is that because of what I told you?’

  DI Wallis nodded.

  ‘According to the neighbours he never invited people in,’ said Sergeant Heaton, counting out the reasons on his fingers, ‘he refused to get the guttering repaired even though it was obvious it was damaging the property and, considering he was always short of money, even though he could have rented rooms out, he never did. In short, we believe he was hiding something.’

  ‘Like a dead body,’ said Frankie.

  ‘Exactly,’ said DI Wallis. ‘We’ve also had a report from a cleaner in Worthing hospital. She overheard a dying man saying his confession to the priest. There’s no-one to corroborate her story and of course the priest is bound by the rules of the confessional but it seems that she heard Mr Knight confessed to killing a Russian.’

  Frankie was puzzled. ‘But why?’

  ‘The cleaner said he told his priest he attacked the man out of jealousy.’

  Frankie took in a breath. ‘Did Sidney Knight murder my mother as well?’

  ‘We don’t think so,’ said DI Wallis. ‘According to what the cleaner overheard, Mr Yelchin had been to your mother’s house earlier that day and left his hat. When he came back, your mother had had a heart attack and Mr Knight was rummaging through her things. There was a fight and it appears that Mr Yelchin was killed.’

  ‘How come nobody reported Mr Yelchin missing?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘They may well have done,’ said the DI. ‘We know that he came from London and, from what we can gather, he was a bit of a loner so perhaps he didn’t tell anyone he was coming to Worthing. If that was the case, when he went missing it would be a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ He paused for a moment before adding. ‘We have no reason to suspect anyone else was involved, so we are closing the case.’

  ‘The same goes for the Post Office robbery,’ said Sergeant Heaton. ‘We are aware that you and several other people have lost a considerable amount of money, but with no one to prosecute, there is little point in continuing our investigations.’

  ‘I can only suggest that you make a claim against the Post Office,’ the DI went on, ‘but I imagine that with the passage of time and the lack of any real evidence, it will be hard to get any reparation for your loss.’

  Frankie told them she was grateful that they had taken the trouble to come and tell her and they left. It was only as she was booking in one of the weekenders that something occurred to her and she couldn’t wait to get home and check it out.

  That evening, alone in her bedroom, Frankie got her mother’s book out and fitted the final piece of the jigsaw into place. Opening the book to the same page where Ed had found her mother’s name, she found two things she’d never noticed in the small print before. One line said, ‘an autobiographic tale’ and at the very top she read, ‘Yelchin publications’, followed by a London address. So her mother had been telling the truth – and Ivan Yelchin had been her publisher.

  Forty-Seven

  Broadwater, North Farm, April 1951

  Frankie and Ed’s wedding was scheduled for early April. Easter Sunday was March 25th, and Lillian would be starting school next term so it seemed the ideal time. About a week before, Barbara came up to the farm and asked to speak to Frankie on her own and they went for a walk. The weather was cold and crisp but dry. Already small signs of spring were appearing. Catkins danced on the trees and the occasional primrose nestling under the roots of larger trees looked almost ready to flower.

  ‘I need to ask you a favour,’ Barbara began. She looked upset and Frankie noticed there were dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept. She had a scarf around her chin but her face was deathly pale.

  ‘Yes, of course. What is it?’

  ‘Promise me you won’t breathe a word of what I told you about Derek,’ she said urgently.

  ‘Barbara, you know I never would do that,’ said Frankie. ‘You look really worried. What on earth has happened?’

  Her friend’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’ve had a letter from Conrad’s lawyer. It seems that he and his wife can’t have children and he wants his son back.’

  Frankie’s jaw dropped. ‘Can
he do that?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Barbara said helplessly. ‘He says he’ll take me to court. Oh Frankie, we don’t have the money for lawyers and all that. I don’t know what to do. How can we compete with a big Hollywood star who has all the money in the world? Like he says, our son would lack nothing in life.’ She put her hand over her face and wept into her glove.

  ‘Bloody cheek!’ Frankie cried.

  Barbara fished in her pocket for a handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I just get my boy back and now it looks as if I shall lose him again.’

  ‘What does Norman say?’

  Barbara looked uncomfortable.

  ‘You haven’t told him, have you?’ said Frankie.

  ‘What’s the point? What can he do?’

  ‘Barbara, you can’t keep something like this away from him,’ said Frankie. ‘He’ll be terribly hurt.’

  Barbara nodded miserably and the pair linked arms and walked on.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Frankie. ‘Didn’t you once tell me that your mother made a false declaration on Derek’s birth certificate?’

  Barbara nodded miserably.

  ‘Then where’s the proof?’ Frankie demanded.

  They stopped walking and Barbara gave her a quizzical look. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If your mum registered her name and your dad’s on his birth certificate, where’s the proof that Derek is your baby?’

  Barbara’s eyes grew wide.

  ‘Did you see a doctor when you were pregnant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A midwife?’

  ‘No. You know I was in hiding for six months,’ said Barbara.

  ‘What about your mum?’

  ‘Well, of course not!’ said Barbara.

  ‘But she went about her daily life, shopping, meeting friends, going to church?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara.

  ‘And everyone thought she was pregnant.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara. ‘That was the whole idea.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask you again, where’s the proof Derek is your child?’