Better Days Will Come (24 page)

Her breathing had become very fast. Her head was spinning and her chest was so tight, it felt like a lead weight was pressing down on it. Where could she put it?

The coalhole. She could bury it. One thing was absolutely sure: she’d never wear it, so what did it matter? She went back into the scullery and opened the coalhole door. Throwing the dress right to the back, she shovelled half a dozen shovels full of coal on the top of it until it was completely buried. Mr Hudson was bringing her a half hundredweight next week. Once it was buried under that lot, nobody would find it.

She shut the coalhole door and gulped back a sob. Did he really think he could pay her with a dress? What good would a dress do? It wouldn’t pay the bills, would it? Not that she would ever touch a shilling of that man’s money, ever again. What was it Rita had said only this week? ‘He was buying a dress for his fancy woman … midnight blue …’

That’s what she was, wasn’t it? Norris Finley’s fancy woman. Of course she was. The dress she had just buried in the coalhole had a Hubbard’s label tied to the zip and it was a beautiful midnight blue.

Bonnie had been at the nursery for six months already. She had settled in quite quickly and she and Shirley were very happy. On her days off (she had one a week), Bonnie would take Shirley out and about. Sometimes they would walk in Richmond Park, sometimes she would make the trek down the hill into Kingston itself. On summer days she would stroll along the riverbanks or look around the shops. There was a Bentalls in Kingston and Bonnie would wander around, remembering the Bentalls in Worthing. She seldom bought anything because she tried to save every penny she had. One day, Shirley would need things like school uniforms or new shoes and books and pencils. Bonnie also harboured the faint hope that one day she might find a little flat of their own. She had to carry on working and so for the moment it was better to stay where she was, but she longed for the freedom of being able to do what she wanted to do when she wanted to do it.

The only thing she didn’t like was having to lie about George. Because it was still fresh in everybody’s mind, she’d told them he’d been killed in the awful train crash at South Croydon in October last year. Thirty-two people had lost their lives and she was sure no one would remember all their names nearly a year on. The papers had made much of the fact that the accident happened in the rush hour and with 800 people on one train and 1,000 on the other, George’s death could easily be swallowed up by the enormity of the event. When Shirley was two months old, it was her mother’s birthday. Bonnie sent a card but of course she made no mention of her first grandchild.

The nursery had a very strict routine. Bonnie worked a twelve-hour stretch with two hours off during the day. Off duty was either 9.30 till 11.30, 2 till 4 or, best of all, 5 till 7. Because tea was at 4.30, when she had a 5 to 7 off duty that gave her an extra half hour and a lovely long evening to herself. Having that afternoon break was a definite advantage in the summer, because she could spend more time with Shirley, but the girls preferred the evening too especially if they were going out. They were only allowed to stay out until 10pm, or if they had a ‘Late Pass’ they could stay out until 10.45pm. By the time they’d come off duty at 7 and got ready, they were lucky to have two hours away from the home. Everybody knew that if they rang the doorbell after 10.45pm to get in, they would forfeit some of their precious off duty another time.

Anyone out after 10.45pm, was, according to Matron, ‘up to one thing and one thing only.’ Bonnie mused that she was probably right. They would be running like mad up Kingston Hill because they’d missed the bus!

Everyone did ‘lates’ two evenings a week and everybody had to take turns to do ten nights of night duty, which lasted from 9pm until 7am. In between her rounds of the nursery, Bonnie would sit in the nursery watching her child sleep. After the ten nights on duty, the bonus was that she got two days off together. Normally they had one day off a week but they could never guarantee when it would be. She might get Monday off one week and then Saturday the following week which meant she’d work eleven days on the trot.

The nursery was kept scrupulously clean. The floors were like mirrors. Every day it was part of the routine to sweep, wash and polish them. The sweeping and washing was done by hand as was the application of the polish. Then Bonnie used the polisher to get a decent shine, a back-breaking and thankless task because the next day you had to do it all over again.

Another of her jobs was nappy washing. The laundry itself was outside the main building and cold. When she’d arrived the others told her it was the worst job in the world in the winter. They taught Bonnie how to make an art form out of washing nappies. First they were sluiced, and then rinsed in the huge sinks. After they had been boiled for what seemed like forever in huge boiler-like vats, they were pulled scalding hot over to the sinks with a pair of wooden tongs. There they were rinsed by hand and finally spun in an industrial spin-dryer. Soap powder was strictly rationed and Matron watched the girls in the laundry like a hawk. She constantly suspected everyone of thieving but, poor as they were, nobody wanted to wash their personal clothes in council soapsuds. They smelled like Jeyes Fluid and stale lavender all rolled into one.

The handknitted baby cardigans and other delicates were washed in soap flakes which were the devil to get to melt in the water. If the weather was too damp or wet to dry the clothes Bonnie had to hang them in industrial driers which were lit by gas. The one blessing of being on laundry duty was that it gave a homesick nineteen-year-old single mum a few moments to cry alone without being castigated or ridiculed.

Bonnie’s best friend turned out to be Nancy, the girl in charge of the baby room, and she loved Shirley as if she were her own.

A month ago, Matron had called Bonnie into her office. Bonnie liked Harriet and Tommy Bennett. She never called them that – Matron and Mr Bennett were the correct forms of address to use – but she had plenty of reasons to be grateful for their pioneering spirits.

‘You seem to have settled in really well, Bonnie,’ said Matron. ‘Even the members of the council are impressed by your progress.’

Bonnie blushed. Matron rarely went out of her way to give a compliment so this was high praise indeed.

‘I wonder if you are up for another challenge?’

‘It depends on what it is,’ Bonnie said cautiously.

‘Do you think you could get your NNEB?’ The NNEB stood for the National Nursery Examination Board. It was a relatively new course the government offered which led to a recognised qualification in childcare. ‘It takes two years,’ Matron went on. ‘You will have to study at college, but Kingston County Council will fund it for you with a grant.’

Bonnie took in her breath. ‘Oh, Matron …’

‘It won’t be easy, Bonnie. You’ll have to do everything you do now, look after Shirley
and
do the course.’

‘I would love the chance,’ Bonnie cried.

Matron smiled. ‘And I’m sure you can rise to the challenge,’ she said. ‘That being the case, you’re to go to County Hall next Thursday to talk to the nursery supervisor, a Miss Brown, about what’s entailed in it.’ She rose to her feet and extended her hand. ‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you, Matron,’ said Bonnie shaking her hand politely.

Outside in the corridor, Bonnie punched the air with both fists and said a loud ‘Yes!’

‘You all right, Mum?’ Rita was sitting at the kitchen table writing a letter.

Grace had seemed preoccupied for weeks. Rita had noticed how quiet she had become and was worried. Was she ill? Had she found out about Bonnie and George? The inquest on George had recorded an open verdict. Rita had asked Dinah what that meant.

‘It means that there is not enough evidence to say how he died,’ she said. ‘Apparently there wasn’t a mark on him and nobody can work out why he was in there in the first place.’

It was obvious to Rita that someone must have locked the door behind him. He was supposed to be tidying the place up, but according to what the estate agent said in the papers, the factory was a tip. Rita had never discussed the matter with her mother, but something was clearly troubling her.

‘Mum?’

Grace was miles away. She still hadn’t answered her but she had put her knitting in her lap and was staring into space. Archie had come round with a big bunch of flowers and the petition earlier in the week but she hadn’t signed it. Grace couldn’t help noticing there were few names on the list. She had taken the opportunity to remind Archie not to keep writing notes and she made him take back his flowers. It cut her to ribbons to do it but she had to make him understand that it was over.

‘I wish you would explain why, Gracie,’ he’d said. ‘Was it something I said?’ Rita got up from the table where she was writing a letter and touched her mother’s shoulder. ‘Mum, I’ve been talking to you and you’re crying. Are you all right?’

Grace jumped and smiled. ‘Yes, I’m fine, love. Shall I put the kettle on?’

Rita wasn’t in the mood to be fobbed off tonight. They’d had this conversation, or lack of conversation, before. ‘Something is worrying you, Mum. What is it? Can I help?’

Grace looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. Rita was growing up fast. That job at Hubbard’s had been a good idea after all. Dinah was a good friend to her and Emilio was harmless enough. She patted her daughter’s hand. ‘Who are you writing to?’

‘Mum, don’t change the subject,’ said Rita. ‘Tell me.’

Grace got up to make the tea. How could she tell her? Where could she find the words to say that she’d been cleaning Norris’s houses for weeks? That every time she went out she felt no better than a prostitute. How could she explain that it was only the fear that Bonnie might be in serious trouble if she refused to go that made her do it? She should never have got herself in this mess in the first place, and now that she had, her only hope of getting out of it was when he got tired of her. Yet, if anything, he wanted her more and more. She’d buried the dress but he gave her other things, sometimes money, sometimes luxuries. Her drawers were lined with perfume, delicate soaps, pretty handkerchiefs and silk stockings. How could she tell her sweet innocent daughter that her mother was no better than a tramp?

As Grace struggled to control herself, Rita put her arms around her mother’s shoulders. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispered. ‘I miss her too.’

Her words had an amazing effect on them both. For the first time since Bonnie left home, they wept together, hard gut-wrenching sobs that engulfed them both. It was simpler to let Rita believe she was only crying for her lost daughter, but for Grace it was much, much more. Grace grieved for her lost chance of happiness with Archie, for the loss of her good name and her self-respect … all gone. She wept for every lie she’d told, every deceit, and for the false impression she had to maintain if she was to get away with it.

Their emotions spent, the two of them sat red-eyed at the table and drank tasteless tea.

‘Who’s the letter for?’ Grace asked again.

‘Emilio.’

Grace looked puzzled. ‘Has he gone back to Italy then?’

Rita shook her head. ‘His friend Jeremy has been called up to do his National Service. He’s doing his basic training first. Oswestry. Emilio has gone up there for the weekend to keep him company.’

‘I bet he has,’ said Grace with a smile and her daughter grinned.

‘He’s ever so fond of Jeremy.’

So Rita did understand about that boy. That was a relief. It was one less thing to worry about. But then the thought of Rita finding out about Norris came swirling back into her mind. She was being very careful, but the pessimistic streak in her told her it was only a matter of time …

‘I should have listened to you, Mum,’ said Rita flexing her fingers. ‘If I had learned to type, I could write this letter a whole lot quicker.’

Grace looked up sharply. ‘You could still do it, love.’ Little did she know but Rita had just thrown her a lifeline. If she could get the girl away from Worthing, it would make dealing with Norris a lot easier. The dread of being found out was clouding her judgement. Without Rita to worry about, she could concentrate on getting that locket … break into the safe if necessary.

‘Do what?’

‘The secretarial course we talked about,’ said Grace. She willed herself to keep the suggestion low key. If she came over as too keen, Rita would dig her heels in and refuse to go, or worse still, know she wanted her out of the way.

‘I’m quite happy at Hubbard’s, Mum.’

‘I was thinking of writing to Aunt Rene,’ Grace ploughed on. ‘They have some good courses over in Brighton. The sort of courses the London people like girls to have. Aunt Rene could put you up I’m sure.’

Rita hesitated. Emilio had said he might try the fishing further along the coast in Rye or Hastings. Both places were half a world away from Worthing. Brighton was a lot closer. Aunt Rene wasn’t a real aunt but she had been a close friend of her mother’s and children were never allowed to call adults by their first name. She looked at her mother and saw for the first time in ages how tired she looked. She never had anything nice. Her clothes were threadbare and she even cut her own hair rather than go to the hairdresser.

‘Mum, these places cost money,’ she said. ‘Where are we going to find enough for the college fees? And I’d have to have my own typewriter for practice.’

‘I’ve got a bit saved up,’ said Grace.

Rita gave her a sceptical look.

‘You know I’ve been saving money to repay the person who helped me out with the Christmas club money,’ said Grace. ‘You said yourself I didn’t need to pay it back. It’s only stubbornness on my part. You can use that.’

‘Oh Mum …’

‘I can send Aunt Rene something out of my wages each week for your board and lodging.’ Grace was on a roll now. ‘We can work something out.’

‘I don’t like the idea of leaving you on your own, Mum.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ said Grace. ‘You’ll be leaving me to get married one day, won’t you? It’s not like Bonnie. I shall know where you are and we can write.’